#but he was young and probably Very scared and it's just so sad how he clings to the cuirass bc. he believes madmartigan died for it.

[perryabbott]

WILLOW | 1.06 “Prisoners of Skellin”

[atrwriting]

trust me -- billy the kid x barowner!reader

hi everyone :) sorry I've been MIA — law school has been kicking my #ass but it's ok. I saw the new thg movie and while IAMNOTACORIOSNOWSTAN but I am a t*m bl*th and the man was so fine in this show. so fine. I've only seen like three fics for this man (maybe I just don't know how to search correctly thats probably my fault) but I was SEARCHING FOREVER and then I just got pissed because I couldn't find any so I wrote almost eight thousand words for this man that is how down bad I was

informal warnings: me. 1) I should be put on a leash 2) I use italics way too much 3) and whatever the fuck this "—" is 4) will i ever give up the female bar owner trope 5) will I ever stop tho? [vanilla ice voice] no, I don't know

as always, the actual warnings: smutty smut smut SMUT!, unprotected sex (1880's bby but you still gotta wrap it before you tap it), violence, guns, bit of gore but like the tiniest bit, virgin!reader, p in v sex, oral sex, bit of a dom!billy, bit of a bratty!sub!reader, overstimulation what can I say I should be put on a leash

anyway.... here's trust me:

when your father died… it was hard to be sad. he wasn’t very kind and he never seemed to like you very much… but in his will, being his only surviving kin, he left you money.

a lot of it.

and an old building.

the town it resided in was convenient in the way that many people that were passing through had to stop there. so what did you do? well, the only thing you could do — turn it into a restaurant and boarding house.

the money he left behind was used to fix up the place and pay your employees.

within a few weeks time, your place was up and running with very little vacancy. families and important people were always in your bar or comfortably in their rooms. never had you ever thought someone could be as lucky as you.

until one day. that day.

you worked alongside your employees but flipped between positions. sometimes you were a hostess, ran the front desk, a bartender, or anything else that needed tending to. in response, many people did not know you were the owner — and, therefore, some people treated you like you weren’t.

mainly gross old men, which you could handle. however, when a young, strong, and tall man challenged you?

that was dangerous. too dangerous.

even a fake wedding ring didn’t steer them away.

on that day, a young blacksmith had found his way into your bar. he was handsy with you much of the night, and you tried your best to steer him away. it wasn’t until you pulled a knife on him that he finally let up. it didn’t look like anyone saw, but still — you were scared and worried. would people think you classless, for pulling a knife on a patron? would they see you as weak? would they notice that the alcohol you served brought in too rowdy of a crowd? would they stop venturing in?

you thought no one noticed, and tried to convince yourself of that fact — but you were wrong.

when you were closing for the night, mostly everyone had left. a small group of men usually stayed until close — and you didn’t mind. they drank well, paid their tab, and were mostly quiet and polite. you didn’t know any of their names — but it was usually bad when you did know a patron’s name, so you liked them.

you had your back turned to the front of the bar, stacking bottles, when someone cleared their throat from behind you.

“ma’am?”

you turned around.

a tall, fair skinned man with a hat stood before you. his clothes were old and worn, and his fingernails reflected that he was a hard worker during the day. that type of exhaustion was also reflected in his eyes.

but, damn... his face? no one could deny that that man was handsome.

you smiled. “another drink, sir?”

“no. thank you.” he paused for a moment, keeping your gaze. “i wanted to check if you were alright.”

you immediately knew what he was talking about, but kept your face stoic. “yes, sir, thank you.”

he looked like he wanted to say something, but struggled with how to word it. “he usually a problem?”

you clenched your jaw. “he’s… he’s fine. too much drink, ‘s’all. gets the best of working men. can’t blame ‘em.” you swallowed, trying to keep your anxiety at bay. who was this man and why did he care? was he a friend of the man? “you sure there’s nothing i can’t get for you?”

“some wouldn't blame ‘em.” he ignored your question. his bright blue eyes held your gaze. “i would.”

you forced a tight lipped smile. with a laugh, you joked, “i’ll… be fine, sir. thank you. thought a fake wedding ring would do the trick… gotta think of something else now.”

he smiled, but in a sad way. “i was going to ask if your husband ever checked in on the place.”

“no husband,” you affirmed with a sigh. you introduced yourself, and then asked, “what’s your name?”

“william h. bonney, ma’am… but you can call me billy.”

“nice to meet you, billy,” you smiled. “and, please — don’t call me ma’am.”

“alright.” he returned your smile. “the men behind me… we run a sort of — security detail for part time work. if you ever wanted to hire us, we could have a man here when we can spare.”

you nodded, contemplating your offer. he explained the per diem, and you immediately agreed.

“if your man can keep this place safe with little bloodshed, i’ll even throw in a free bottle a day,” you countered.

and that was how your business with billy the kid and his men began.

the men that came along were usually polite and quiet, and mostly stayed at the edge of the bar. they watched for problems, and slowly but surely your fear had begun to subside. there was a minor scuffle one day, where a man had cracked a glass and cut you with it… but billy’s man had stopped him before he could do anything else. you didn’t hold it against billy’s guy — you cared about your business and if the business got bloody, not so much yourself.

billy, on the other hand… did not agree.

one day, bright and early, he parked himself at the middle of the bar where you stood behind the counter.

“rarely see you for detail,” you smiled, wiping down a glass. “much less this early. breakfast, mr. bonney?”

“billy, ma’am,” he responded. “breakfast does sound fine.”

you laughed. “i hate when you call me ma’am.”

“don’t much like it when you call me mister,” he quirked an eyebrow. billy was a rather emotionless and hard man, but you could tell he was joking.

you laughed again. “steak and eggs for billy, coming right up.”

the rest of the day went on peacefully, and you kept billy’s glass full. he was quiet and didn’t talk much, which you weren’t too keen about. he was mysterious, tall, dark and handsome — which was usually a bad combination. you knew it was, and you should’ve cared — but you didn’t.

as you were filling billy’s glass into the later hours of the afternoon, you finally bucked up the courage to ask him a question.

“so why did you stop in today?” you asked. “not that i mind. i just have only seen you when you come in at night.”

“we made a deal, sweetheart,” he responded. your eyes perked up at the nickname. you didn’t hate the nickname — but you hated yourself a wee bit for how much you liked hearing billy call you it. “the man i sent here was supposed to make sure he kept you from harm — he didn’t hold up his end on the deal.”

“it was kept quiet from the other patrons,” you responded. “that’s all i really care about. i’m a woman in the restaurant and boardinghouse business — stuff like that is bound to happen. no need to be hard on him.”

“you keep my men’s glasses too full for them to let slip ups like that happen,” he replied. “he knew better. should've acted better.”

“you’re the boss, billy,” you sighed with a smile. “i’m just the bartender.”

“damn good bartender at that,” he spoke. “too good.”

you giggled, and grew ashamed rather quickly at how much you enjoyed his company. you didn’t know him well, no… but damn, was it nice to have him around.

the rest of the night was rather quiet. a few families had stepped in and out, and a few meetings were being held where the tables sat. that was until the blacksmith that started this whole thing came in and sat himself only a stool away from billy.

you threw a look at billy, but he didn’t meet your eyes. his peripheral vision was already on the man. billy remembered him, and you couldn’t say fondly.

“whiskey, sweetheart,” he grunted. “leave the bottle.”

you sighed. a quiet day was going to turn into a rough night in a matter of a few moments.

“mr. martin, i can’t leave the bottle unless you settle your tab from the nights prior,” you answered. “i can get you a double and add it on, though, if that’s alright with you?”

“that’s not alright with me, girl,” he grunted again, glaring you down. “leave the damn bottle!”

you stood your ground. “there’s a bar across the street, mr. martin.”

“you don’t want my business, that it, sweetheart?”

“not much business if you don’t pay," you quipped.

through gritted teeth, he spat, “leave. the damn. bottle.”

“pay. the. tab.”

he went to catch you by the arm, but you were too quick. you anticipated his antics this time. you snatched an empty bottle, and broke the base of it in the sink. you put the broken, jagged edge of the neck of the bottle in between the two of you. your eyes were wild — you could feel it, and both men could definitely see it. startled, he drew back.

“this is the only bottle you’re getting with that attitude.”

that was when billy stood up and walked towards the man. the thuds of his boots, though few considering the short distance, were deafening in the mostly silent bar. you may have had a makeshift weapon, but billy? billy the kid? everyone knew what he had on him.

“time for you to leave, friend.”

the man laughed. “friend? who’s my friend to tell me when i need to leave?”

“the one who’s a quicker draw than you, that's who." his answer was slow and cool — too calm, which only made the shiver of a threat run up and down your spine faster.

the man, all talk, clenched his jaw as he stared at billy. he slapped the tab money on the top of the bar, and walked out.

you didn’t let out a sigh of relief until the man left.

but billy was the one that spoke first. “was going to step in immediately… but you held your own. they need to respect you before they’re scared of me.”

you laughed. “little does he know i’m all talk as well.”

“with that bottle?” he chuckled. “sweetheart, even i was scared.”

“you threatened him with a gun… i don’t think anything scares you, billy,” you asked. “thank you for stepping in.”

“‘s my job.”

“i know… but still,” you spoke.

you were continuing to close before he spoke again.

“what made you want to start this place?” he asked.

“my father passed a few moons before i opened this place,” you responded. “no parents, no husband — thought i might try this out.”

“my ma wanted to start a place like this,” he replied. “never got the chance.”

you nodded with a sad smile. “didn’t know her… but i think she’d be proud of how you handled that. don’t think he’ll be much trouble anymore.”

“she’d think i’m trouble with how full the lovely bartender keeps my glass,” he spoke, but looked like he instantly regretted it. “my apologies, i shouldn’t’ve — the whiskey —“

“you’re fine,” you laughed, your blush pinching your cheeks. as you walked away, you threw over your shoulder, “hopefully your ma wouldn’t mind that i keep her son’s glass full for his good work… nor that i think her son’s handsome.”

from that day forward, billy was always the man who sat at your bar.

he always greeted and made pleasant conversation with you, and glared at any man that got too aggressive with you. if looks could kill… billy would never need what he held in his holster.

you’d giggle to yourself after the creepy men would walk away. you’d never know… but when billy would hear your giggle afterwards, he’d smile, too.

but he kept that to himself.

however, slowly… he was becoming more comfortable with your company.

“so why didn’t you marry?” he one day asked randomly.

you were wiping down a glass when you got lost in the thought. “when there’s a nice one that’s interested… maybe. haven’t already because there aren’t very many nice ones. it was very convenient when you started keeping the bad ones away.”

to your dismay, he didn’t say anything in response.

but you had gotten comfortable with his company, too. too comfortable.

“and why isn’t there a mrs. bonney, billy?”

“she’d get jealous about how much time i spend with you,” he responded.

there was very little emotion in his voice, and you were afraid of reading into what he was saying. was he returning your flirtations? was he telling you that you were a drag? to answer your own question, you jokingly said, “well if i’m too much trouble, mr. bonney, you are more than welcome to have another one of your men step in.”

“well, ma’am —“ he began. “then i’d get jealous of how much time they were spending with you.”

you couldn’t hide the blush that rose into your cheeks. billy looked upon your face with a small smile tugging at his lips, and his gaze didn’t waver.

“keep talking like that, billy, and i’ll become trouble for you,” you raised an eyebrow at him.

“can’t say i’d mind much,” he responded, taking a sip of his glass, but holding eye contact with you.

if you weren’t frozen, you would’ve pulled yourself over the bar right then and then and planted yourself in his lap. you would’ve flung his glass to the floor, and wouldn’t have cleaned it up until you had kissed every inch of that man. you would’ve responded, but you couldn’t...

that was when billy’s men had stepped into the bar.

the air immediately darkened. the blonde one, named jesse, had led the pack as they stalked in. billy immediately flipped around to see what the problem was.

“sweetheart, give us a minute,” billy asked, calling over his shoulder.

billy never gave you orders, let alone in your own bar. however, if he was asking you to… you figured you should probably listen. you left the bar and went into the back. most of your employees had left for the night, so you helped the remaining ones clean up. it would be a few minutes or so before billy had come back into the kitchen to find you. you went back into the bar with him.

“i’ll be back before you close,” he spoke. “lock the doors.”

a second order. something he never did in the first place. something was wrong. you didn’t pry… you just scrunched your eyebrows in response.

“something’s up,” he spoke. he pressed a quick kiss to your cheek before he turned to leave. “i’m takin’ care of it.”

there you stood, absolutely stunned. billy and his men left the bar with haste and didn’t look back. you, on the other hand, stood frozen… unable to leave the spot where you had billy the kid, known for his deadly skills, kiss you on the cheek.

you finally moved, reluctantly, but only to close up.

it would be close to an hour before billy finally came back. a few of his friends came with him, and they dragged in a man on their shoulder who was grunting in pain. blood was pouring from his leg, and you immediately went for the medical supplies you kept hidden under the counter. you grabbed two bottles of whiskey for good measure, arguably also a part of your makeshift kit.

“put him down on the table,” you gushed. his men were stunned to see you hustling, but they didn’t hesitate to rest their friend. you immediately took a look at the man’s leg, and were thankful to see that there would be no permanent damage. you shoved a bottle at jesse, and stated, “make him drink this.”

jesse had unscrewed the bottle and helped his friend drink before you fished out the bullet. thankfully no arteries were punctured, but it would be some time before he was good again. you cleaned up the man the best you could, and asked if any of the men needed anything.

“no, ma’am…” jesse responded. “we were going to bring him here and do it ourselves, your place was closest… so thank you.”

you smiled at him. “take the bottles. need it more than me.”

he tipped his hat to you.

“jesse,” billy began. “you and the boys head home.”

without question, jesse nodded. they helped their friend to his feet and left with a goodbye. even though they left, the unsettling feeling of the room hadn’t changed. billy seemed… different. heavier. he wasn’t the same man that had kissed you on the cheek before he had left.

you turned to him. “i won’t pry, but —“

“good,” he spat, turning to you. billy’s eyes bore into yours like you were one of the problem men at your bar. “don’t.”

a look of hurt flashed across your face. you could feel it. “you’re looking at me like i did something.”

“i told you to lock the door,” he spat again, his look of anger unwavering.

you had only seen billy's eyes that wide and that angry when there was someone being cruel to you. the thought made you shiver.

“how would you have gotten back in?” you asked.

“knocked,” he bit.

you narrowed your eyes at his curt response. “i had a feeling something was wrong. if i had waited to unlock, i couldn’t have gotten that bullet out as fast as i did.”

“doesn’t matter,” he bit. “how am i supposed to keep you safe if you won’t listen to me?”

you scrunched your brows together in confusion. “billy… whatever happened where you were, it wasn’t here. i could’ve gone to bed… but i stayed up. waiting for you.”

“and what if someone came in, huh? what then?” he hollered. “what would you have done then?! what would i have done if you had gotten hurt?”

you shook your head in disbelief. you couldn’t believe billy was speaking to you with such disdain. “with the way you’re talking to me, billy — sounds like you’re used to women who don’t pull knives on creepy men, hold broke bottles to their necks — or fish bullets out of legs when i don’t know why he was shot in the first place. you’re used to those kind of women, and have a problem with me? maybe you should go back to them.”

you immediately turned away from him, beginning to walk towards the bar. billy was hot on your heels when he reached out to grab your wrist and turned you around.

he grabbed both sides of your face and pressed his lips to yours.

you wanted to scream at him, throw fists at his chest, push him away — anything to let you know how he hurt you, how he wronged you... but you couldn't.

no. you couldn't.

you were so stunned you stood frozen in place as his lips moved against yours. you loosely held his wrists in your hands, and kissed him back.

“don’t want those girls, darlin’,” he spoke, breathless, in between kisses. “knew you were a real woman the first time i saw you. the kind that puts the fear of god into you, but looks at you with such a sweetness in her eyes that you can’t look away.”

“better believe it, bonney,” you spat, half joking. “you’ve seen how quick i am.”

“i know, darlin’, i know,” he whispered, kissing you once more. “i also know i was wrong to speak to you the way i did.”

“shut your damn mouth and kiss me,” you replied, pulling him closer to you.

“yes, ma’am,” he playfully responded, and you slapped his shoulder.

billy had backed you up against the wall and pressed his body towards yours. you stood on your toes to reach him, and even then he had to lean down a foot or two.

“billy…” you began, pulling away. “i’ve never… but if you wouldn’t think less of me, we could go upstairs. to my room.”

“i’d never think less of you,” he spoke, shaking off your comment. “but… what’d’ya mean, ‘never?’”

“i’ve never been with a man, billy,” you responded, suddenly embarrassed.

he was quiet for a moment, before stating, “you sure you want it to be with me?”

you nodded. “if… if you want to, that is.”

he didn’t respond to your statement, he just kissed you. he kissed you with every emotion you didn’t think he ever possessed — raw, hot, desperate emotion that held you close and tight to him. the heat and the intensity made your brain swim, but you could only care so much when billy the fucking kid wanted you.

he slipped an arm around your shoulders and then underneath your knees before he picked you up. you bit back a squeal before you threw your arms around his neck.

“light as a feather, sweetheart, don’t you worry,” he spoke.

“all that steak i been feeding you?” you joked.

“my belt can’t help it if my woman feeds me well,” he replied, almost at the top of the stairs.

“you’re a flirt,” you giggled.

you pointed him towards your room. once in, he laid you down on the bed and laid on top of you. his body was warm and sturdy over yours, and you couldn’t help but feel warm. his hips were pressed against yours, but you couldn’t feel him through your dress. you grew frustrated at the thought.

you made quick work to undue his shirt, and billy was quick to catch on. he pulled away to take off his shirt, and you tried to take off your corset with his help.

“damn death trap,” he spat, fussing.

you giggled. he was cute when he was flustered, but nothing compared to the way he was looking hungrily down at you. you were completely bare before him, and you should’ve been embarrassed… but shame wasn’t present in this moment. the only thing you registered was how billy looked down at you — with adoration in his eyes as they raked down your naked form.

“will you…” you began. “will you show me… how to please… you?”

“another time, sweetheart,” he spoke, stealing a quick kiss from you. “i need my head between those legs of yours.”

“you-you don’t have to —“ you spoke. “i know that’s not something — that boys —“

“yeah — boys.” billy snapped, glaring at you. “real men want to taste their women.”

that shut you right up.

billy wedged himself in between your thighs and spread your folds. it caused a sharp intake of breath on your part, but you didn’t realize what you were in for. billy flattened his tongue, and licked a long stripe up your slit. your teeth sank into your lip at the foreign feeling that cause so much warmth to make your veins twitch.

…but when billy’s nose had nudged a specific spot at the top of your slit — your legs jerked.

“what — what —“ you stammered.

“shh,” billy cooed, slightly laughing. “i forgot how sensitive you were. my apologies, sweetheart.”

you trusted billy, sure, but you had never felt anything like that before in your life. the jerking motion of your legs was involuntary and made you fearful. billy could see the fear written on your face.

“that spot that i touched, that you felt?” he asked.

his eyes were so wide and meaningful you felt like you could melt in them. you brought yourself up to your elbows and hummed in acknowledgement.

“that is the most sensitive part of a woman, and if i play it just right —“ ever so lightly, you felt his middle finger and ring finger touch the spot. you shivered at the feeling, but you didn’t flinch like last time. you held his gaze as the warmth began to spread inside you. “i can make you feel better than you’ve ever felt.”

billy bent over your body and held himself up with extended arm planted firmly by your side. he swiped the two fingers over his tongue to lubricate them, and brought them right back to where they were. you both watched his fingers play at the most sensitive part of you, and your lip began to quiver.

“look at me, sweetheart.”

your eyes glanced back up to him.

like you thought before, if angry looks could kill… anyone would die by just a look from billy the kid. however, what would they say about the way he’s looking at you now? with his plump lips parted, and his eyes wild and hungry? you didn't know... but you knew you would find out.

“y’trust me?” he asked.

you hummed in agreement, nodding.

“say it.”

you sharply inhaled, caught off guard by his order. “yes, billy — i trust you.”

instead of leaning back down to plunge his face in between your thighs, he kissed you. his lips connected with yours in one of the most dominating ways you ever thought a man could. with his hand playing between your thighs, he swallowed every moan and cry you struggled to keep hidden inside of you. billy was breathing hard against you — relishing in how it felt to have you so vulnerable and close to him.

that was when his fingers picked up speed.

and, god… did it feel damn good.

“b-billy,” you whimpered. “feels…”

“still trust me?”

“yes,” you cried, screwing your eyes shut. “yes, it’s just…”

he leaned his head down so his mouth was right by your ear. his breaths were hot against your ear, and you hummed at the feeling. your hand played with the curls at the nape of his neck, tugging at the roots.

“fuck — you takin’ what i’m givin’ to you, darlin’,” he rasped, then continued, “drives me insane.”

you could barely hear what he was saying, nor could you respond. your head was swimming with the weight of billy so close to your naked body, holding you down and safe, with those skilled fingers of his working you like you were a damn trigger. you were a whimpering, crying mess — and billy loved every second of it.

“something — feels —“

“d’ya want me to stop?” he asked, breathless.

“no,” you whimpered, confused how the warmth inside you felt like it was going, going, going. you didn’t know where it started, where it was going, and definitely didn’t know where it ended. you were worried that you were going to explode — but you didn’t understand. “something feels — like i’m — i’m going —“

“let it happen, sweetheart.” his kisses were wet and sloppy along the skin of your throat. he nipped at the skin, and that only sent you into more of a frenzy. “that’s right, darlin’. that’s it. trust me. i’ve got you.”

and that was it.

the thing — billy’s words, that sent you toppling over whatever metaphorical edge you could think of to describe it. it felt like white, hot sparks went off behind your closed eyelids and were going off on every nerve ending in your body. whimpers left your bitten lips like you were a babe, and your back arched off the bed. distantly, you could hear billy cooing with excitement, laughter… and praise.

a light sheen of sweat was on both of you, and billy had never looked better. his musk was wafting through the air and had completely taken over your senses. you felt like the only thing in the room was billy and the only thing in the world that mattered was billy. men got drunk off whiskey, but you? you got drunk off of that pure, unfiltered scent and look of a masculine man who showed you how to experience the pleasure of a woman you had never known.

“fuck…” you whimpered as you came down from your high. you tried pushing billy’s hand away, but you were so weak you didn’t think you could.

“sorry, darlin’,” he laughed, kissing your throat again. “got selfish. wanted to keep seeing that pretty look on your face.”

it was difficult for you to find words, let alone enough for an adequate response. “billy… that… that felt…”

“i’m gonna be trouble for you now.” he stole a kiss. “nothing better than seeing you below me, like that…”

“i want you to feel good, too,” you began. “please, billy? i wanna see you, too.”

his lips formed a tight line. “i don’t want it to hurt you.”

“first time doesn’t always hurt,” you spoke. “no one says the second time hurts.”

he smiled at that, and began to roll on top of you. you stopped him, and gestured for him to sit up against the headboard. he was hesitant at first, but he did it anyway. you hovered your hips above his before licking one of your palms and gliding it over the tip of his length. you stroked him a few times, and a soft moan left his lips at the feeling.

“i can keep going,” you spoke, throwing a sultry look up at him. “i want to make you feel good.”

“no, doll,” he rasped. “too selfish. need to see that pretty face of yours do what it does again.”

you pouted for a short moment before you lifted your hips above his length and began to sink down. you could feel a slick leaking from your folds, which made you feel better about actually getting him inside you.

“go slow,” he ordered suddenly. “you stop if it hurts, got it?”

you nodded, half ignoring him.

but it didn’t hurt.

the first inch didn’t hurt. the second didn’t. the third, the fourth, the fifth, sixth, — you lost count. billy was so big and filled you so nicely that you were so greedy with how you sank down into him. you couldn’t have cared less about what he said before about going slow — all you needed was to feel all of him completely.

“you didn’t listen —“ he grunted, slightly mad. “you’re so lucky you feel good, fuck — you’re so tight —“

“so what if i didn’t listen, mr. bonney?” you smiled coyly at him, a sudden bout of confidence coming over you. maybe it was the post orgasm glow, maybe it was the new feeling of having the most perfect man inside of you — you weren’t sure. “you feel — so good.”

“don’t get bold on me, sweetheart,” he smirked.

you didn’t listen. you picked up your pace, rocking your hips back and forth to what felt good inside of you.

billy’s cock liked that, sure — but he didn’t. you could see the mental turmoil on his face as his neglected cock was finally getting the attention it deserved, but his hothead person didn’t like that his girl was getting smart on him.

that was when billy flipped you over onto your back, much to your dismay. you liked putting on a show for him and doing all the work for a change.

“you wanna act like that, darlin’, huh?” he asked in your ear with a raspy, lust filled voice. “not gonna listen to me?”

“it just felt so good, billy, please —“ you were whining at this point, pissed he had taken away that feeling.

“oh, you’re a greedy thing, that right?” he taunted. “gets one fuckin’ taste, and now she can’t get enough?”

you shook your head, desperate for something — anything. “so greedy, baby. please, billy — please just fuck me.”

his hips snapped against you. hard.

maybe it should’ve hurt — but fucking christ, it didn’t. it felt so good to have his strong, forceful hips thrust against yours and hit that spot so deep inside of you.

“you like that?” he asked, taunting you. “that’s what my greedy girl wanted? — needed?”

his hips were relentlessly snapping against yours now as he hovered above you by holding himself up on his elbows. the sight of his broad and strong chest and shoulders… enough to make any woman weak. a firm crease was in his brow, signaling he was struggling to keep up his mean persona.

“yes — yes —“ you cried. “billy, you’re so deep — it feels — fuck, you can’t stop billy. please —“

“sweetest fuckin’ pussy,” he grunted. “squeezing me so tight.”

“right there — that’s the spot, baby,” you bit your lip to keep your voice down.

billy leaned his forehead against yours, and his exhales fanned against your face. little moans were escaping his lips as well, but nothing like yours. instead, he spat, “couldn’t let me be nice to you and fuck you sweet, huh? had to get smart on me?”

you could barely hear him. billy’s usual raspy, and commanding voice was enough to make anyone stand at attention — but now? now you were some cockdrunk whore who didn’t care how she got what she wanted, only that she did. his thrust were hard and fast, hitting a deep spot in you that was making that warmth swell up in you again.

“didn’t want sweet, billy,” you whimpered. “wanted you to use me just like this.”

you weren’t sure what came over you — and billy wasn’t sure either. his thrusts didn’t falter, but he couldn’t understand how the pretty, innocent looking bartender could be so fucking naughty — but only for him. a sense of pride had never welled up inside him like that before, knowing that he was the only one who got to see the prettiest girl in town keen for someone’s touch like this.

his touch. only his touch.

“gonna be the fuckin’ death of me,” he spat against your ear. “should’ve known you’d be such a good girl for me — taking my cock like this. can you cum around my cock like this? gonna be the best girl — and show me how that pussy tightens around me?”

the curse words billy drew from you were not your sunday best, but they made billy’s guttural groans against your throat and ear that much more enticing. you were both covered in sweat, spit, and slick — and nothing had ever felt better. you were close, so close — and all you wanted was to see him finish so you could see it for yourself.

“billy, i’m so close —“ you cried. “but i wanna —i wanna see you —“

“shhh,” he cooed. “gonna take what i give you, sweet girl.”

he sent a hand in between your bodies, and started playing with that spot that had made you explode the last time. you almost protested, but there was nothing like having a man buried so deep inside you do whatever he could to make sure you felt the best you could. you whined, you cried, you screamed, fuck — you did everything to let him know that you were close, billy, i’m so close, please, i’m begging, please don’t stop, and billy refused to look away from your beautiful face as you came undone below him once more.

with your beautiful hair fanned out around you, billy thought you looked ethereal as your second orgasm overtook you. there was something about the way your eyes fluttered softly closed, but broken gasps left your lips like you were so far gone in pleasure that you were lost in it. here, beneath him, before him, was a woman he had spent so much time protecting, so worried about her safety… all he wanted to do was make her feel good. when your limbs began to quiver, knowing you were so deep in your orgasm that you were at the peak, billy couldn’t help himself. he knew you were sensitive, he knew how it would be too much, he knew he shouldn't — but he had to. he was so, so selfish with his greedy girl.

his fingers kept spinning circles on your pink rosebud, and it was like the white light behind your eyes couldn’t stop. you were gasping for air — begging, pleading, hoping, wishing. it was so much. it was too much. it was everything and anything all at once, and you didn’t realize how far you were falling until tears leaked from your eyes.

he should've hated himself for making you feel so lost, but he didn't. not one bit.

“billy —“ you cried, shaking. “i’m so — so sensitive —“

he engulfed you into a long kiss, smiling smugly against your lips. you would’ve laughed with him, but you were so weak. so, so weak. he knew how sensitive you were, and stopped his movements completely. you didn’t realize he hadn’t finished with you until he began to pull out of you.

“billy — you didn’t —“

“s’alright, darlin’—“

“no, it’s not,” you said firmly. “teach me how to do — that thing.”

“that... thing?”

“with my mouth.”

he hesitated before shaking his head. “i don’t… tonight was a lot — for you.”

you narrowed your eyes at him. “boys don’t taste their women, right? men do?”

he scrunched his eyebrows together, confused, but nodded anyway.

“and what about real women, billy?” you asked. “you think they like leaving their men unsatisfied?”

his lips parted at a loss. he couldn’t argue with that, could he?

“sit on the edge of the bed,” you spoke, sliding out from under him and finding a place on the floor.

he hesitated, but he didn’t argue with that, either.

you tried to hide your smirk from him.

he'd never tell you he saw it. he also would never tell you he loved it.

"you gonna tell me what to do, or what, cowboy?" you smirked up at him, taunting.

he shook his head, and pursed his lips in a way that he knew you were in over your head. "you're acting bold. let's see if you got a reason to."

you narrowed your eyes at him, but smiled anyway.

you returned your attention to the muscle you were holding in yours hands. it was long and thick — you weren't sure how it fit inside you before, and you definitely weren't sure how you were going to fit it in your mouth.

"too much for you, darlin'?" he quipped.

you shot him a look. "wasn't too much a minute ago, was it?"

you didn't let him respond. you licked the palm of your hand — throwing manners to the wind — and wrapped your hand around the tip and the top of the shaft. you made circular, stroking motions at the top and licked a stripe, like he did to you, up his shaft.

that shut him up.

a long and drawn out fuuuck had left his lips.

you shouldn't've — you knew you shouldn't've.

but you did anyway.

you started to kitten lick at his balls, and you could feel him shift from above you. hot and heavy groans were leaving his lips, to the point where he was incoherent. now that you had found his sweet spot, you'd never let go. just like he didn't.

"fuck, you are naughty," he rasped, voice dry and cracked. "my naughty girl. so good f'me."

you hummed as you wrapped your lips around the skin of his balls. they were warm and salty, and you relished in the taste. billy placed a heavy palm on the back of your head. you realized then and there he was foreign to giving up control — usually you'd give in, but not now. not when he was teasing you before.

you replaced your hand with your lips, and brought him down as far as you could.

from the corner of your eye, you spotted him beginning to fist the sheets.

tears were springing to your eyes, but you didn't care. you wanted to — had to keep going. you wanted this so badly — to take care of him. you needed this, and if he wanted it, too — he was going to give it to you.

you began to bob your head up and down, taking care to mind your gag reflex and teeth. the slurping sounds from your mouth were obscene — as was the drool falling from your lips, down your cheek, and along the skin of your raw neck.

both of billy's hands were on the back of your head now, giving you slightest — almost ghost like — push down. you welcomed it, hoping to show him you could take him far, farther than he thought you could handle.

above, he was going crazy. fucking nuts. his entire body was hot and on fire, and it took every ounce of him to not drag you back up into his lap and impale you on his cock. however... his muscles were tired, and his sweet girl looked so perfect on her knees before him, and who was he to deny her what she wanted so badly — what she earned?

he'd never tell you — but he wanted you to have it more than you wanted it yourself. he wanted you to know that he only felt comfortable enough with you to be in such a vulnerable position like this — pretty woman, teeth so close to his jewels. he wanted you to know that you were setting every nerve, vein, blood vessel on absolute fucking fire with the way your silky tongue slid down the length of his shaft, and the way your tight, warm throat enclosed around his sensitive cock... he wanted you to know how much he adored you, and how much he wanted to give you everything you had ever wanted.

"fuck, sweetheart —" he bit. "I'm so close — you better — pull off —"

"too much for you, cowboy?" she only pulled off for a second, before she put him into the deepest parts of her throat.

the way you teased him set a raw set of anger and adoration through this veins, and he didn't know what to do with it. he was so weak, tired, spent, and fucking horny — he couldn't move, think, or fight back. all he wanted was to cum down this sweet girl's throat and make her his.

"that's it, baby, fuck —" he spat through gritted teeth, the hands on the back of your head encouraging your movements. "right there, right there — fuck."

you held your place, keeping a few inches of him in your mouth. his thick cock throbbed a few times before ropes of white decorated the walls of your throat, and you swallowed every last drop. you pumped him a few more times, for good measure — and also to get back at him for earlier.

"don't be mean to me, baby —" he whined. "come up and lay with me."

you giggled, crawling up the bed to lay next to him.

"gonna tell me how that was?" you asked. "or too proud?"

he chuckled then. his post orgasm glow was so beautiful... for the first time, william h. bonney didn't have a permanent from embedded in his brow. he looked so... peaceful.

"not too proud to admit that was the best I've ever had in my life," he laughed, letting his eyes close. you trailed a hand up and down the soft skin of his chest and stomach before curling up next to him. "going to be proud after i take you to the courthouse tomorrow and make you my wife."

you scoffed at that. "i didn't think cowboys were the settling down type."

"they're not — but i'm no cowboy, sweetheart," he rasped, turning to look at you. "you're it for me — if you'll have me, that is."

you smiled then. a real smile. the type of smile that gave billy hope.

"on one condition," you spoke.

his eyebrows furrowed, but he nodded his head anyway.

"you'll ask me for real in the morning, mr. bonney."

"i'll give you anything you want, mrs. bonney — as long as you're mine."

---

what did we think?? xox

-L

[fatesundress]

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tomes and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless. 

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you��re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end. 

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —” 

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “You seen the shite the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a bloody Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? How about you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He brings you to his bed after and you let him, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

[the-dumpster-fire-of-life]

Hiii, loved to see that you a writing for arcane again. Tbh I just loved Isha and Jinx, so could could you make headcanons for how Jinx, Vi and Cait would be like taking care of or rising a kid with a girlfriend or s/o?

Sure I can! I don’t want he post to be huge though so I’ll break it up into three separate ones! Enjoy!

Family Bound

Raising or looking after a kid was not easy by any means, but taking care of one with Jinx was even harder

Jinx does not know how to be a paternal figure, or an older sibling kind of figure

She has really bad experiences with the only ones she’s ever known, so how was she supposed to fix that with some kid she’s not even related to?

But, for your sake, I feel like jinx loves you enough to try

If the kid was your sibling, I feel like she would be more reserved and distant from the child

In some way you and your little sibling remind her of herself and Vi when they were young and it’s not a good thing

She’s only able to take care of the kid once she separated those two things and finally able to bond with the kid

It takes a lot of time and patience from you for Jinx to be able to bond with the kid

If y’all found the kiddo, I feel like it would be easier for her to take care of it more than it being your sibling

When she does come around, Jinx can be very protective of the kid

She’s more the parent that doesn’t discipline and lets the kid get away with stuff, which causes some behavioral issues and arguments between you two cause that’s not really a good thing

So she has to learn from you how to take care of the child

She teaches the kid lots of things like how to invent gadgets, to make sure they work, how to protect yourself, and lots of other things like that

On more positive notes:

You’re the main bridge between the two so when they’re left alone together, they have no clue what to do or how to bond

But you do find little bits and pieces of a genuine bond forming between the two

You see the little smile Jinx wears when she finds genuine joy in taking care of them

She wonders how anyone could abandon their child or harm them when the one she takes care of with you is so beautifully innocent and childlike

In a way the kid heals the inner child and the Powder still inside of Jinx

She takes care of them in the way she wished Silco or Vi was

And she understands them in a way not even you can, especially if they show signs that Powder and Jinx did when she was young

She likes goofing off with the kid, and she likes playing around with them

You’ve found them roughhousing and giggling more times than you could count

and you’ve found them testing out bombs, which only happens when it’s in a safe place and a safe distance away

Jinx would never intentionally harm your guys’ child

She loves them so much that sometimes it’s scary to see how attached she has become

She doesn’t know what she would do if anything happened to you or the kid

She doesn’t ever wanna scare them, which has only happpened once

Jinx was having a freak out after everything has happened, probably after Vi was found to be an enforcer or after their fight

She was going through it, yelling, breaking things and crying and screaming

She didn’t notice how scared your guys’ child was until they started crying

Jinx felt her heart break, and even if she was ashamed of doing it, she ran out

She didn’t know how to handle the gaf she scare them so much

She was gone for a while and when she came back she was visibly distant

It took a lot of patience and reassurance for her to come back around the kid without being hesitant about every move

But the kid loved her, and when she saw your child was more sad about the fact she was gone, it broke her heart and almost healed it at the same time

She doesn’t know what she would do if they feared her badly

She loves coloring with the little girl or boy, and she likes helping them figure out outfits

She likes running around the lanes with them, or going to the old hideout

The two also love messing with Sevika as the woman has now joined your little mini family

Jinx and the kid often pass out together, both on the ground or wherever and limbs tangled and snoring with drool on the corners of their lips

Which means you have to carry both to bed a lot of the time

Jinx loves. Showing he kid to invent, and how to fight and everything

She loves seeing the sparkle in the kids eye when she shows them fireworks and anything Jinx

She and the kid have a bond you don’t know how to describe

She also doesn’t try to keep the fact of who she is and the things she’s done a secret from the child

Sometimes she can be harsh, but it’s from a space of love even if the kid gets hurt feelings

She always makes up for it though

[wand3rlustm3]

TAEHYUN - MAGIC TRICK

Warnings: smut, fingering, sub fem!reader, childhood friends to lovers, slight size kink

Taehyun was already mesmerizing enough, simply because of the way he carried himself. Even without mentioning his perfectly crafted face, his elegant features, or the way his hair sprawled across his face each time it moved when it wasn't gelled out of the way. The way his eyes sparkled as they looked into yours even though you were both just friends, the way they looked like they were only meant to look into yours.

You and Taehyun had met each other as kids when your mom had forgotten to pick you up at school, and as tears rolled down your face, he was the only one to wipe them away despite being just as young as you. He always seemed to just know the right things to say, and growing up whenever you felt any emotion, he stuck by you and chose to make you feel better regardless of how you felt. As he grew older, his features matured, and you couldn't help but accept that what the things you felt towards him weren't as simple as platonic emotions. Was it something more? No, it couldn't be, right?

As you walked underneath the multicolored sky, with grey clouds shrouding the setting sun. You figured it would rain, and your house was farther than Taehyun's from the café you worked at. So here you found yourself once more, at the doorstep of his house. However, it started raining long before you could reach there and you ended up soaking wet as you rang the doorbell. Even though the both of you grew older, you couldn't help but want him beside you. As the lightning strikes behind you, Taehyun opens the door.

"Hey y/n, please come in! I was going to call you over, are you okay? Why are you standing outside in this storm?" said Taehyun with concern. But in your head, all you could think is how he looked at you with his sparkly eyes again. No! Don't look at me with those eyes...

"Hey...I just wanted to stop by, but it started storming before I could get here. I'm sorry for showing up randomly." You frowned and spoke with a slight pout on your face.

"Well, you gonna come in or not?" Taehyun smiled at you, wrapping his beautiful fingers around your wrist and his other around your waist. You could feel the contrast of his warm touch through your now cold and wet clothes. Of course, he was wearing one of those tight black compression tees with no sleeves. You could see each and every single vein of his. You could see his muscles bulging each time he swayed his arm while leading you in. You wondered what else he could do with those hands of his....

—

Ever since the day he saw you crying at school, he never wanted you to shed another tear. He never wanted a sad expression to cover your delicate eyes that blinked a little too much when they were confused or tearing up, he never wanted your lips to shake when those very tears fell, or even the corners to droop a little. After Taehyun wrapped you in a towel and led you to his room to give you some of his spare clothes to wear, which were already oversized on him, so they fit you even looser. Taehyun couldn't explain how that made him feel. He wanted to take care of you, but a part of him wanted to ruin you. He wanted to ruin you so that no one else could have you. Just him, you'd be just his forever, but he's too scared to mess up what he has already.

"Y/n, why don't you come here? You wanna drink a little bit to warm up from how chilly it's gotten outside? Plus, we can loosen up a little and just relax. You can even sleep over since the storm probably won't subside till tomorrow morning. I have magic tricks to show you!" said Taehyun enthusiastically. "Sure Tyun, I'm up for it if you are." You say as you show him the sweetest smile. He poured both you and him a shot each, and you decided to quickly go sit on the couch he was on.

As you downed the shot and plopped down onto the couch next to him. You could see a bunch of different things laid out on his coffee table, ranging from a stack of cards to small items like a coin. "What's all this for Tyun? Learning more magic tricks?" You questioned. Inside your head, you questioned if he could make your complicated feelings for him disappear instead of any of the objects. "Yeah y/n! There's some really cool ones I have to show you." said Taehyun. When he told you that he had new tricks to show you, you didn't think it would involve so many lingering touches. You were burning up, and unfortunately, Taehyun caught onto it as usual.

You usually did tend to get hot after a shot, which was originally the reason why the both of you took a shot together. But, now you felt your blood rushing to your core because Taehyun and you were both tipsy, and you knew how clingy he got after drinking a little bit. This is exactly how you got to the position of him hovering above you on the couch as you laid down, as he pulled out yet another coin from behind your ear as you looked for where it disappeared to. "Tyun, can you show me how to do a trick?" You knew that curiosity killed the cat, so why did you ask the question you just did?

Taehyun smirked. Why is he smirking? You were going to explode, and you swore this man would be the death of you. "You know a magician never reveals his tricks....but this time I'll show you exactly how to do it." said Taehyun as he moved his face just centimeters away from yours, a hint of mischief in his voice—he continued on to say, "but you have to sit back and really relax, ok y/n? You can tell me to stop any time you want. We don't even have to do this if you don't want to."

His eyes sparkled just as much they did each time he looked at you, and you could see he meant every word he was saying. "Tyun, you know I trust you with my life, right?" Your eyes reflected his as you looked into them with just as much admiration as he did. You wanted to tell him you love him horribly in this moment, but something held you back. What if he didn't want you in that way? What if—

Suddenly, you felt his warm hand on your cheek as he pulled you into a searing, passionate, and long kiss. You felt every emotion of his, every second that he longed for you, you felt every ounce of love that he held back all these years. Everything was poured into that one kiss. You tasted the shot on his lips, but you didn't want to pull away. Your feelings for him washed over you in the most dramatic waves, and you kept kissing him until you felt each atom of oxygen leave your lungs. "Tyun, I love you. Please..."

You were so needy that you could only squeeze your thighs together and whimper. "I love you more, darling. You wanna know what my magic trick is, baby? I can make my fingers disappear." said Taehyun with that smirk of his plastered onto his perfect face once again. "W- what do you mean Tyun? Please don't tease me." You blushed and hid your face to the side of the sofa, but Taehyun just put his hand on your jaw and made you look at him.

"Baby, to learn the trick, you're going to have to watch me, right?" said Taehyun. You could have came just from him being so suggestive with you. You couldn't take him being on top of you like this any longer if he didn't do anything. He made quick work of your top and bottoms and slipped your panties off of your legs slowly. "You're so beautiful for me, all for me....only for me y/n." Taehyun breathed out in a whisper.

A moan escapes your lips as soon as you see his lips latch on to your clit, he licks a stripe up your cunt and proceeds to keep eye contact just so he can make sure you're watching how dirty he's being. "T- Tyun! Mmmh—" you whimpered pathetically, and Taehyun moaned out simply because of how beautiful you sounded as you dripped onto his faux leather couch. "Baby, I'm going to show you the main part of the trick, keep watching closely okay? You're doing amazing. You'll be great at this trick darling."

He took his ring and middle finger and played around with your slick until they coated his long and slender fingers, and he slowly slipped into you inch by inch. "Tyuuun! I can't—'s too much!" You moaned out and and teared up, it's not that it hurt, but it's that it felt too good that you felt like you'd lose your mind.

"Baby, you can take it. Take your time, I'm right here." said Taehyun as he brought his face back up to you, placed the hand gripping your hips on to your cheek, and left another long kiss with his plush and swollen lips onto yours. You tasted yourself on him, and you felt even more intoxicated and dizzy than you did after getting tipsy from that shot. "a- ahhh please Tyun...please move. Do something, please!" You begged him. After all, he couldn't ever reject a request from his princess. "At your command, darling" Taehyun said in a raspy manner.

Taehyun managed to brush against your most sensitive spot each time he moved his fingers, and it felt so good that it didn't even take him many strokes until you were screaming his name. "Tyun!! Please, I- I mmmh— cumming!!!" You mewled as tears rolled down your pretty face. Taehyun looked up at you like you were his world as you came down from your high, because you were his world.

"Told you I'd make my fingers disappear baby, think you can show me if you can make something else disappear next?" Taehyun whispered into your ear, as he proceeded to leave marks onto your neck.

The only thing he couldn't make disappear even if he could.

[tobicup]

Idea.

Jason actually kills tim in titans tower. It's not on purpose. He was so angry and his vision swirled green. He couldn't see or think straight. Everything was just hate and anger and bright green haze.

He cuts too deep. Deeper then he meant, it was just supposed to be a warning but his mind is gone in a whirlwind of negative emotions.

He comes to with red on his hands, to tims shallow burbling breaths. Wet and gasping and agonized. And no. No. He didn't mean to. He tries to stem the bleeding but it's too late. Tims teary eyes looking up at him, and theyre not filled with anger (like his were) or hate (how could he hate a child so much) or even fear. He just looks sad as they meet his. He tries to speak but he cant, he should already be dead, instead he mouths slowly, carefully *go home*.

Lips bloody, unable to speak or breathe and probably hurting so badly... hes telling his murderer to go back to his family. And regret fills him so deeply because this could have been his brother. This loving, self-sacrificial idiot child couldve been someone he loved. Maybe already loves a little. He never wanted to end him, just robin. He didnt want Tim to die. He didnt.

Now he has to go home. He'll honor the kids last wishes even if it means getting thrown right into arkham next to the clown. He deserves as much. Hes just as bad. Killed a little bird too young. Before he could even truly fly. Relished in his pain.

A hand tugging his pants weakly, snapping him out of his dark thoughts. tims eyes pleading and exhausted. Holding onto life by a thread, "... okay kid. You win. Ill go home... im so- " voice breaking as grief wells up "-im so goddamn sorry. You didnt deserve this"

Tim just smiles, hand gripping his pants letting go to oat his knee as if to say he forgives jason he can never be forgiven for this and then his hand goes limp. His goal of saving the bat family finally fulfilled. The accomplishment bittersweet.

.

Jason picking up tim body, blood on his hands, on his knees where he had kneeled next to tim. On his chest where tim is pressed against it. And he carries him to the nearest zeta. Carries him home. Hes scared. He wants his dad but he doesnt think he'll have one ever again after this.

.

Bruce silent when he sees them. Grim and broken and grief stricken. Trying to push all the emotions down. Another dead robin..another child son. In the arms of the one he lost before..he cant feel anything right now. It all hurts so much. Jasons apologizing even as hes saying he knows he cant be forgiven. He sounds so young and scared. Hes sorry. He didnt mean to.

Bruce doesnt know what to say. He wants more then anything to be happy his son is home but- but his son has killed a child. Killed tim. The only light left in bruces life since jays death.

Dick screaming when he enters the cave. Ignoring Jason entirely. Sobbing over tims tiny broken body. Hed been to late. Again. Hadnt even known his baby brother was in trouble. Hadnt known he was needed.

He hadnt known for jason either. Hadnt even been able to see his body. Just gone.

He doesnt know which is worse.

.

.

.

Tim.

Tim is... was robin and robin was...? Is? Magic. He knows this. Somehow he thinks hes heard it before. A bright laugh, cheeky grin. The words distorted like a broken record but still there. Imprinting into his fading mind. Imprinting on his soul.

Robin is magic.

Hes somewhere cold but familiar. Comforting. But also not here at all. Theres crying. Voices wet. He should find them. Those voices should never be so sad. Thay was his job. To make sure those people were not sad, or angry, or suicidal.

His purpose.

He is Robin.

(Ghost tim following the batfam as they grieve him. And jason trying to reintegrate. He follows jason the most. His shame and guilt. The others treat him coldly. His self hatred tearing him down which is not allowed. Jason should be happy. He is family)

.

Tim one of very few ghosts in gotham. The only *positive* ghost in gotham. Following the bats and trying to bring joy to them any ways he can he cant do much

[gatorbites-imagines]

Dick grayson x male reader (preferably YJ verse)

Reader is Clark's bio son and their both hopelessly in love but reader is scared of dicks dating history and how close he's with all his exes and he doesn't want to get burned in the process

Dick Grayson x kryptonian male reader

Headcanons

Featuring some of my kryptonian headcanons.

You and Dick would be close even before the young justice team was made, since Bruce and Clark worked side by side so much as you were growing up. That results in you two knowing each other pretty well.

You would both be crushing on one another, but neither of you would confess or think the other feels the same way. Dick would the one to go off and date other people whilst you just stayed single and nursed what you thought was your one-sided crush.

Clark would have realized very early on how you were feeling for Dick, and he would tease you good naturedly about how you keep purring when your around him, saying its good he cant hear those frequencies or dick would have known immediately too.

You bring kryptonian makes you one of the team’s power houses, since you pack a major punch and other very strong powers. This results in you also looking out for a lot of the other team members just in case.

You’ve taken many hits for Dick over the years, since you on instinct keep a closer eye on him than everyone else. It’s not on purpose, you just do.

When Conner shows up, you don’t turn him away like others and treat him like a fellow kryptonian even if your dad is having some issues with being cloned. You don’t blame Conner for being created, and you just want to help out.

This leads to you and Conner getting close, and you teaching him about the weird quirks that come with being part Kryptonian. He almost exposes you when he asks why you purr so much around Dick, but you quickly shut him up.

Pretty much everyone can tell Dick is just as head over heels for you in return, it’s probably why some of his past relationships ended. I could imagine his partners realizing he was pining hard for you, which lead to a breakup for the most part.

Dick would think you don’t want a relationship in general since you’ve never been in a relationship with anyone, but everyone knows its because you pine after him too.

You two circling eachother like a pair of peacocks has been the cause of many tired conversations between your dads or your teammates. Bruce and Clark have known for years that you two like each other, but they also don’t want to push either of you to confess if you arent ready.

Your teammates have bets on how long its gonna take, Roy is the winner right now, since the bet was made years ago and he bet it would take you guys years, whilst the others said months or a year max.

You guys “hang out” all the time, but its very much just dates without you guys admitting it is. Like going out to eat together, going to the movies, or you flying around with him in your arms just for fun.

You guys end up kissing when you’ve been hit with a pretty strong dose of kryptonite, and you were loopy and weak. You weren’t sure you would make it out, so you kiss him.

Of course, you survive, and try to ignore that anything actually happened since you still think he doesn’t like you in return, and you fear you might have ruined your friendship.

It doesn’t help that all his exes are so attractive and skilled that it makes you insecure. Dick isn’t doing well with you avoiding him, as you go as far as using your super hearing to avoid him.

It ends up being Wally or Conner who explains to Dick that you feel insecure and like you won’t be able to meet his standards, which Dick doesn’t understand because he thinks your so far out of his league.

He would want to talk to you, but again, you’re avoiding him. Dick ends up getting the help from teammates and probably even Clark as you can’t outfly your dad like you can some of the others.

Finally, you two get to talk it all through, tears or shed, both sad tears and happy tears. You both feel so stupid cuz you’ve liked each other for years, but neither of you realized or confessed.

It takes a while after you start dating for you not to feel insecure or like you can’t meet some invisible standard, but Dick being so insanely smitten as he is helps quite a lot.

Your teammates have definitely joked that Dick would kiss the very ground you walk on if you asked, not that you wouldn’t do the same though.

You two are so cute together its almost sickening honestly. Always near eachother, holding hands, cuddling, kissing. The amount of flirting you do over comms now that you are together is unbelievable.

You’re very happy, though the insecurity does pop up at times. Your families and friends are happy you two finally confessed too. And Roy won the bet and became a richer man.

[attic-club-sandwich]

How they are Handling your Disappearance Pt. 2

Side Characters edition!

Okay you guys wanted more angst, so here you go! lol A part 2 with the side characters was requested, so I wrote for Diavolo, Simeon, Luke (purely platonic), and Solomon. I left Barb out because i'm very unsure of his role as of right now in Nightbringer. I hope you guys enjoy, please let me know what you think! You'll probably need some tissues again so prepare yourself! lol

Read Part 1: Brothers

Part 3: MC Returns

Genre: Angst, Hurt.

Taglist: @delphi-dreamin @bite-sized-devil @sassykattery @amberrskiies @a-hidden-gem @obey-me-posts @otomefoxystar @siofrantic @flemmingbamse i'm also going to tag @yourboyhack @ihatecorns @cherrybakewelltea and @exrellian too since you liked the first part! MC's return will be next! :3

But if you want to be tagged in my future work please fill out this form!

rose divider by @/firefly-graphics

The brothers were the first to be aware of your disappearance, but the news traveled fast between all of the people who were closest and dearest to you. No one knew where you went, but they knew one thing for sure: they were doing anything possible to bring you back home. After weeks of searching every inch of the Devildom, it was becoming apparent that you were no longer in the same realm. This of course sent a new wave of panic through everyone. Where did you go, MC? Why didn’t you tell anyone you were leaving?

❤️Diavolo❤️

If anyone should feel responsible for your disappearance, it’s The Demon Prince. 

He is incredibly perplexed and disturbed by the fact that his human exchange student disappeared right out from under his watchful eye. 

Diavolo usually has a very outgoing and joyous attitude, but it’s not the same since you left.

Instead, he becomes numb. Sad. Determined to do everything he can to find you.

Lucifer had come running to him in a state of panic, informing him that they couldn’t find you.

He rarely saw Lucifer act that way, so he knew it had to be serious.

He joined in on the search for you too. 

Barbatos tried convincing him to stay at the castle, but he couldn't just sit and do nothing. The peace between the human world and the Devildom is at risk.

After days and weeks of searching with no results, he becomes depressed.

He uses every connection, every resource he has to find you.

But he can’t.

Not even the most powerful being in all the Devildom can locate one human.

To disgrace not only the Devildom, but his Father… It's too much to bear. 

I’m such a poor excuse for a demon, how could I lose them so easily?

He sits at his office desk, staring down at the paperwork he’s supposed to be finishing. He's severely behind.

But instead of picking up the pen, his hands are clutching at his auburn hair as tears stream down his cheeks. 

Barbatos walks on him in this state several times.

The sight of the dark, heavy bags under the Prince’s eyes causes a pang of sadness in his heart. He longs to comfort him. 

But the Prince has become distant from him. 

He doesn’t understand why Barbatos doesn’t use his powers to find you in such desperate times. 

He’s confused. Angry. 

He orders Barbatos away, and rests his head into his folded arms, wishing you were wrapped up in them instead. 

Wherever you are, MC, I promise we will find you. We’ll bring you home.

💛Simeon💛

When Simeon learns of your disappearance, he almost doesn’t believe it. 

But when he’s forced to face the reality of your absence, he feels it deep within his heart.

His usual calm demeanor starts to crack, but he wants to stay brave for Luke.

He doesn’t want to scare the young angel. 

At first, he’s restless, pacing through the corridors of Purgatory Hall, trying to think of any way to contribute to your search.

But it’s been weeks. And still no sign of you. 

Now he sits in one of the arm chairs in his bedroom, gazing out the window. 

My little lamb, where have you disappeared to?

A book that he’s given up reading rests on his lap, his fingertips ghosting over the corners of the pages. 

He wishes you were here with him, sitting comfortably in his lap while he whispers sweet nothings into your ear.

His eyes well up with tears at the thought. 

Luke checks in with him often, bringing him updates when he can and suggesting they get out of his room for a while. 

He sits with Luke in a cafe for a while, nursing a cup of coffee while Luke chatters about all of the things he’s going to do with you when you return. 

This should cheer him up, but instead it sends a wave of indescribable sadness washing over him. 

It’s not Luke’s fault, of course. 

He appears to be handling it better than he is. 

Simeon, who normally thrives on the joy he brings others through conversation and gentle smiles, requests to be alone. 

He shuts himself away in his room, finally letting the tears fall. 

His heart burns with grief as his body trembles. 

As a writer, he figures the only thing he can do is compose a letter of his feelings for you.

MC, My love, please return home as soon as you can. Are you safe? I think of you constantly. Your absence brings a great sadness over me that I haven’t felt in quite some time. Even as a well known author, my words alone cannot express how deeply I miss and care for you. I love you, MC. I long to feel the warmth of you by my side once more. -Simeon

💙Luke💙

They try to go easy on telling Luke the news of your disappearance. 

The young angel knew something was wrong when Simeon sat him down, a serious expression painted across his face. 

“W-What?! MC is gone?!” 

His heart is full of sadness and confusion, worried about where you could have possibly ran off to.

You wouldn’t just leave him without telling him where you were going, right?

He tries not to think about that. 

So he puts all his energy into baking. 

Desserts and pastries of all kinds line the kitchen tables and counters of Purgatory Hall. 

Barbatos walks into the kitchen to see flour and a variety of different colored icing all over. 

But there is Luke, frosting on his nose and tears in his eyes, baking away. 

“I-I have to make sure there’s plenty of desserts for them to eat when they return!”

Luke offers several pastries for Barbatos to take to the brothers. 

He doesn’t usually take kindly to them, but he knows they are working hard to find you.

He eventually slows down, growing tired from his baking frenzy. 

Simeon goes to check on him, and finds the little angel asleep at the table, his head cradled in his arms and surrounded by a mountain of cookies he just got done baking. 

He stirs a little when Simeon carries him to bed. 

“M-MC…” he whimpers. “They’ll come back, right?”

He’s half awake now, aware of Simeon tucking him into bed. 

The older angel gives him a sad smile. “Of course Luke, they love you so much. I know they’ll return home soon.”

Luke sniffs, a tear falling down his cheek as he begins to drift back to sleep. 

“I-I miss them…I want them to try all of my desserts…”

Simeon wipes away his tears, attempting to hold back his own.

Luke begins to snore softly, dreaming of baked goods and picnics where you are there to share them with.

🖤Solomon🖤

When you first go missing, Solomon is confused. 

You were just with him, where did you go? Is this some sort of joke?

His worry causes the demon brothers to panic. 

Solomon is never too bothered by anything. He’s seen a lot of things in his lifetime. 

But when you go missing suddenly with no explanation?

That’s something that terrifies him. 

He hears the news from the brothers that your pact is no longer active with them. 

That worries him even more. 

He immediately jumps into action.

He searches the location of where you were last seen and picks up on lingering traces of magic.

That's odd, he thinks. He was proud of how far you've come with your abilities as his apprentice, but he knew this magic was way too strong to be yours.

This was the work of someone much more powerful.

Nonetheless, a flutter of hope rises in his chest. He's one step closer to finding you.

He analyzes the magic, and comes to the conclusion that you were transported through time to a past version of the Devildom.

Once he connects all the dots, he uses Barbatos' power to find you.

Of course, it takes a few tries, but he finds you. 

He let's out a breath of relief as he gathers you into his arms, squeezing you tight.

You sob into his chest as he holds you.

His poor, adorable apprentice. Lost and confused.

"There there, MC. It's going to be alright. We'll get you home soon."

But now he’s stuck there too, with no way to contact the brothers or Diavolo to tell them of your location. 

He could, theoretically return but he wouldn't dare go back to the present without you by his side.

Lucifer about murdered him already, and you desperately needed his help.

He secretly couldn't bear the thought of leaving you alone.

But this will be interesting, he thought.

Let's see how this plays out.

[dandelions-143]

In Love

Masterlist

Pairing: Seungmin (non idol) x f!reader

Genre: cheesy fluff, very little angst, FWB

Wk: 1543k

Warnings: None

{I was listening to Taylor Swift while writing this so the cheese is cheesing so hard but it’s still cute, enjoy}

You were sitting on your bed, the blankets a skewed mess all over the place. The afternoon setting sun cast an orange light that leaked into your window casting a hazy glow on the side of the mans face that was leaned down concentrating on drawing a puppy on your upper thigh. You two had just spent the entire day together, tangled up in your sheets, loving, fucking, talking, and laughing. Your eyes lingered on his profile, the curve of his nose, the soft edges of his full lips. "Beautiful" you mumbled out loud. Usually you two didn't open up about your romantic feelings. It was more playful jokes and affection, you two just were not the best at expressing how you felt.

Seungmin looks up at you with his sweet smile, "well it's not as good as what Hyunjin Hyung would do but, you can tell it's a dog... I think." You giggled and watched him finish the cute little dog with a crooked tail that was drawn right at the top of your inner thigh. He then leaned in and kissed it softly causing you to shiver just a little. You ran your fingers through his thick hair, scratching his scalp gently causing him to moan a little bit. "That feels so good, babe." In the midst of all of this happiness you couldn't help but feel a small pang of sadness in your chest. You and Seungmin were not officially dating but, you had been doing this for months now and you were falling hard. You wouldn't dare tell him, you were afraid that you would scare him off. You felt as if you needed him even if it was in secret rendezvous and only talked about in hushed whispers.  It was worth it.. right?

He happily went back to kissing up your inner thigh, inching his way towards your panties when he was interrupted by his phone ringing. "Ignore that." Seungmin mumbled between nips and bites of your delicate skin. You began to tug gently at his hair the closer he moved towards your still sensitive pussy but, his phone just kept ringing. "You should probably get that." You said as you moved to sit back up. Seungmin groaned in frustration and rolled off of you to grab his phone from the night stand beside your bed. When he looked at the screen he instantly got up and walked over to your attached bathroom. He gave you an apologetic look before disappearing behind the bathroom door. The pain in your chest grew into more of a panic at the realization that you may not be the only girl in his life. 

He is a young single man and you two are not dating. He has never eluded to the fact that you two are exclusive what so ever. It still stung, it still hurt horribly and all you could do was clench your teeth, slide down into your bed more, pull the covers up and hide.  It took maybe fifteen minutes and Seungmin came out in a little bit of a rush. You sat up instantly asking, "Is everything okay?"  You watched as he began to grab his clothes and put them on, then his shoes. "Yeah, uh a friend just needs me."

"Oh, right." Is all you could say because if you said anything else he would definitely be able to tell you were on the verge of tears. He grabbed the rest of his things and headed for your door. Just before he rushed away from you Seungmin turns around with a soft smile as his brown eyes met yours, "Don't forget about tonight, okay? The park, our bench at 9." You simply nodded and gave him a reassuring smile that didn't quite meet your eyes. Then he was gone and all that lingered was a mix of his cologne, the love making you two had, and the salty tears that began to stain your cheeks.

——————————————————————————————————————————————————————

It took you the entire three hours to drag yourself out of bed, get showered, and clothed.  You wanted to go to the park to see him but, you also wanted to lay in your bed and sulk while you listened to your sad playlist.  You left your apartment heading in the direction of the park, which was only a block away.  This park was very significant to you and to Seungmin. It's where you two met, he was playing catch ball with a few of his friends and the ball rolled onto your blanket that you were laying on while you were reading a book. He ran up to grab the ball and apologize to you. After that you two met every chance you could at this one bench in that very same park.. until friendly laughs turned into gentle touches and soft kisses.. and the rest is history.

You were trying to get the way he had left you in your bed out of your head so you could just enjoy your time with Seungmin tonight when you turned the corner and there he stood next to that same bench you both had claimed. The closer you got the more you realized that he was not just standing there alone. "I know it's kind of cheesy." Seungmin began as you grew closer to him. You were slightly confused at first, wondering what he was talking about but just behind him was an entire display of white roses and flickering candles. He moved aside so you could get a better look at it. "It's beautiful..." at first it just seemed like a scattering of roses and every so often a white or red candle would be there.

He was watching intently, anticipation in his eyes and a worried set of his brow that deepened the longer you took to say anything. Then it hit you.. the roses and candles spelled out, "Can I be your puppy?" Your eyes grew wide with shock and you turned to him.. "you...what?" You knew what he was asking but it came as such a big surprise you didn't know how to make the words come out of your mouth.

Seungmin stepped forward and placed his hands on your shoulders, "I've been a coward. I have wanted you since the moment I laid eyes on you that day you were reading on your strawberry pink blanket. From that day forward I was hooked. I looked for your texts every morning and then every 20 minutes throughout the day. I made sure to see you every single chance I could. But I was scared of these feelings. Even when you reciprocated my physical advances I still couldn't tell you how you made my heart race, my palms sweaty, you made me smile so much my cheeks would hurt. But all of that was not enough to push me to tell you how I felt until the other night..."

You were mesmerized by him, in this moment.. he had never spilled his heart out to you like this... about anything. So you gripped his hands and waited patiently for him to continue. The air was growing chilly and you could see his breath as he spoke nervously, "that first night I stayed a full night with you. We had made love twice that night and you fell a sleep faster than I did. I couldn't sleep because all I could think about was you. How you smelled, your taste, your sounds.. even the way you gently moaned in your sleep was the best thing I had ever heard. My chest was tight as fuck the moment I realized I'm in love with you and I needed to tell you."  Seungmin looked over at all the cliche roasts and candles with a soft chuckle, "I know you've always told me you find these showy gestures of affection very annoying and insincere but, you know  I had to prove you wrong. This is very sincere and I'm very serious.. I want to be yours and I want you to be mine. Cheesy fucking roses and all." He paused, "Also this was Binnies idea.. you know I would never come up with this on my own." You giggled, realizing that's who it must have been on the phone earlier when Seungmin had to leave in such a rush.

All you could do for a moment was stare. Stare at his handsome face, his bright puppy dog eyes. Feel the way his warm hands engulfed yours as he stood there watching you.  You felt breathless..happy but unsure if you could even form the words you wanted to. You could see the light in his eyes fading the longer it took you. Seungmins hands began to slip from yours but, at the last minute you gripped his hands and tugged him to you. Your lips collided with his, kissing him slow and sweet. His lips were a warm home in the cold night air. "I love you too, idiot." You mumbled between kisses. He smiled against your lips and picked you up swinging you around. You had never seen Seungmin like this but you wanted more of it and this felt like a new beginning for the both of you.

[garpond]

happy birthday to neil young here are some of my favorite things about him

-by the age of 20 he had owned 3 different used hearses, all of which experienced some form of extreme mechanical failure that caused him to have to get rid of them

-in buffalo springfield whenever he had to go out on a date with a girl he'd tell his friends about it beforehand so that they could interrupt the date to tell him he needed to be somewhere and was late so that he could be allowed to leave

-hated going in grocery stores because he would get overstimulated and have to leave

-didn't like how the first pressing of Comes A Time sounded so he bought 200,000 of the first copies of it and used them as shingles for a barn roof

-when one of his tour buses was destroyed (i forget how) he had it brought to his ranch and buried on the property like a beloved family pet

-his early ambition before music was to be a chicken farmer

-when he and carrie snodgress where dating she'd have a ton of people over sometimes and it gave him anxiety so one evening he decided to open the living room window and crawl out of it to get away from people instead of walking through the room to get to the door because apparently he couldn't wait that long and everyone saw it

-another time he randomly showed up at a neighbors' house and they didn't really know why he dropped in all of the sudden because he wasn't very social and it turns out it was because his manager had set up a meeting for him with the band America and he didn't want to do it so he was hiding

-during buffalo springfield he would hide in peoples closets a lot

-once he was guitar shopping with stephen stills and when he was offering on a guitar stephen offered more money on it to try and get it and it pissed him off so he started bidding higher to kick off a bidding war between then and once it was up to a ridiculous amount of money he just dropped it and was like ok you win lol ! and stephen had to pay an insane amount of money for it

-during one filmed interview with MTV or something he decided to fuck with them by adjusting the position of his hat super slightly every couple seconds so that when they cut the footage together and shifted things out of order it would look confusingly different every time

-during the recording of deja vu he lived by himself in a motel but he brought his 2 pet bush babies (named Harriet and Speedy) and they scared the shit out of Graham Nash

-gave a stranger he met like a week ago unrestricted access to his finances because the guy claimed he was going to help him buy a boat and the guy ended up stealing a couple thousand dollars

-during last buffalo springfield concert he was the only person who was not even remotely sad and on the way home jim messina was literally crying and neil was just like :] the whole way

-one year on his birthday at the ranch there was going to be a party and it was a tradition to have a bonfire at it so he went out into the woods to get sticks for it but somehow managed to grab a bunch of poison oak and it was used at the fire and after that he was not allowed to gather bonfire sticks anymore

-while filming the lincvolt documentary he met a trans woman and when he was interviewing her to ask for her opinion about the car she told him that what he was doing with it was a big change and he should probably ask for the car's permission to do it and he actually did do this later

-"everybodys rockin" originated as an r/maliciouscompliance type of project because while he was on geffen records Old Ways was rejected and the label asked for a "rock and roll album" and this was his response to that

-the infamous Eat A Peach incident

-there is much more but this is all i can come up with rn

[piratecaptainscaptainpirates]

Today was hard. It was really scary, and the future feels uncertain. I had a hard talk with my sister, who had been planning to try for a baby with her husband this year, and who has decided to wait even though she's ready and excited to be a mom because even a wanted pregnancy is too risky right now. Our youngest sister was just old enough to vote for the first time in this election, and is terrified of the world she's coming into as a young Black Jewish woman. I'm scared for them, and for me, and for all of us who are in danger right now. It's scary to know that, no matter how hard today was, we're probably going to be in a much worse place as a nation a year from now. Things are going to get much worse.

But you know what else?

Today, my sister and I still laughed a lot.

When I remember the absolute fear at knowing that I need to get my passport with a correct gender marker before January, I'll also remember the people who helped me when I asked for help.

Both of the classes I taught today (I'm a phd student and mostly teach incoming Freshmen) became "what happens now?" conversations. There was a lot of sadness today, but I was also very impressed by how many of my students essentially told me they're not willing to go down without a fight. Lots of hope, too.

I was able to work on the next chapter of my fic, even though I didn't really feel like it, and making art still made me feel better. I made plans with friends who have been too busy for a while. I took my dog on a long walk, and he was still happy and soft when I petted him and still needs me around.

It feels somehow like this day has lasted forever. And I'm scared for the future. I can't help but see the world differently today, just knowing how many people voted for this, who either were in favor of or just didn't care about the rampant racism and hatred. But I'm still here, and so are you, and this is going to be fucking hard but it won't all be hard. Take your joy where you can, and do it out of spite if you have to, but do it. Stay alive to see the other side of this, yes, but also don't let it keep you from living.

[hwnglx]

he had so much to say, and has such self-degrading tendencies that even his green flags came out tainted in this negative light.. so the lines were a little blurred ㅜ

wonbin's real personality behind the scenes

based on tarot. i do not know these idols personally. energies are always changing. what i say is NOT straight fact. pls take it with a grain of salt!

+ so, very early into the reading, i got this vibe of a “protected child” who's been thrown out into the real world, and is trying his best to find his way and place. wonbin has quite pure energy, he's someone who's kinda obsessed about constantly doing what people expect of him, or want him to do. he's so incredibly focused on always meeting people's expectations, that he's still not entirely sure of who he is beyond that; his “true” self persé. his personality is basically the result of what others want him to be, need him to be or see him as. (his energy somewhat reminds me of a more emotional young jk) he sees his own self in the eyes of others, meaning people's opinions have a huge effect on his self-image, which can become a little unhealthy for someone in the public eye, who's out there left vulnerable to be criticized by the audience left and right. he has so so much pisces and libra energy in him, it's crazy. if you asked wonbin “what are your strengths?” it's likely he'd ask what you think his strengths are, and nod his head saying “yeah, that's probably right.”

interesting thing is, he has an abundance of drive and determination. a lot of achievements he's aiming for, so much ambition. but he's very worried about coming off too strong to people. his own “selfish” desires, which basically everyone has, can weigh on him because of this. he doesn't wanna overwhelm anyone, or have anyone think he's too greedy.

wonbin is honestly, one of the few energies i've read for now, who seems to genuinely care for the people around him, which is why he has the tendency to adjust his behavior according to other people's needs. i remember in the reading i did about riize's feelings towards seunghan, wonbin was one of the members who felt sincerely sad about the situation, and it made him look back on himself a lot. this seems to be a pretty good depiction of the type of person he is. i could see the members in this reading here as well, i just think he bases so much of himself on what he can do for the people that depend on him. he wants to be this figure of generosity and kindness, but he's still so.. scared of doing too much, people being bothered by him. i'm in his energy, and he's just nervous.

i'm also getting a lot of voices telling him how he should behave, how he has to be this star and main character in the group, how he has to be the stan attractor, and wonbin just suffers under that pressure, because it doesn't exactly suit his personality. he's very charming and attracts people easily, but he isn't boisterous, or someone who loves being the center of attention all the time. he wants to be comfortable giving others the spotlight sometimes. however, he doesn't wanna disappoint anyone, and truly thrives off of public validation, so.. it's just difficult for him to navigate it, i can feel him being caught up in a dilemma here.

he just seems like this young and clueless guy not even sure of who he is yet, being thrown out into an industry that basically forces a certain image on him, so now he's just running with that. he's like “oh, you want me to be the attractive and flirty guy? okay, i'll act like him then. oh, you want me to be the mysterious and quiet guy? okay, i'll become him then.” that's the energy he seems to be in right now. but, i can truthfully see this changing as he matures. his energy is very young still.

- he's just walking emotion. soooo so emotional. he can give off the impression of being emotionless, but there's an actual turmoil in his head. he takes things personally a lot, even constructive criticism can hurt his heart, which can make him insecure. he deals with a lot of insecurities behind the scenes, many thoughts and concerns about not being enough for people, not meeting expectations. he's an overthinker who's stuck in his head a lot, and can, as a result, make things worse for himself. create problems out of trivial things and dramatize situations in his mind, when from an outsider's perspective, it isn't nearly as bad. very anxious energy.

he can blame himself for many things, especially not living up to the person he himself wishes he was. he has this exact idea of the man he'd like to be (emotionally mature and intelligent, stable and dependable, grown up) and he has problems accepting his journey for what it is. like he wants himself to be at level 100 already, when it's a process, and only natural for him to be at like.. 20, considering he's still so young.

this seems to be a common trait of libra placements, but wonbin also has a habit of pushing down his thoughts and emotions a lot, avoiding negative situations. he doesn't always enjoy expressing himself. he's worried of it coming off wrong and people misunderstanding him. he is the type of person who can sound way more forceful than he actually wants to, just because he keeps bottling everything up and keeps trying to approach every situation peacefully, up until his emotions just come bubbling out of him in this aggressive manner. he doesn't have any bad intentions, but can give a wrong impression to others in this way.

i can also sense a certain struggle with fame he could be experiencing at this moment. it feels like the rose-colored glasses are fading, and fame is starting to become less appealing and “glamorous” as before, the harsh realities of it are making him a little uneasy. he might've expected and imagined it to be different, and is beginning to realize the shallowness behind the concept of fame. it can feel fake and superficial to him, not as fulfilling as its made out to be.

[glader13]

Playing Dangerous

Leon Kennedy x Female Reader

Warnings: Language, smut, p in v (18 and up)

Inspiration

“Fucking dick!” you shouted, staring at the video, “Fucking asshole!”

You were lounging in your lace (very see-through) nightgown at your boyfriend’s, ex-boyfriend’s, mansion when you saw the secretive video. He was away on a business trip and you were finally off the road from touring. The two of you haven’t seen each other in months, due to your music career and his company being the CEO. 

But that didn’t get in the way of your love, at least that’s what you thought. The long phone calls where you would talk for hours and then the calls where you did more than talk, meant nothing to him. All the flowers he sent before each show were there, filling your dressing room with its sickly sweet scent. You should’ve known it was going downhill when he brought his assistant to your lunch date, and you should’ve known something was off from the way she lazily regarded you, how she sat next to him. She walked in a manner as if he were hers. Perhaps at that time, he probably was. Every time you called him from halfway across the country, she was there in bed with him, or sucking him off as he called you his “little singer”. 

You throw your phone, staring at the ceiling through blurred eyes, angry that you’re hurting after ignoring the signs. He’s supposed to be coming home late tonight, going to the office to look over some paperwork, but you knew that he was with that bitch. Or, she was with him at the office, being in your bent-over position on his desk. “Fuck,” you say again, thinking of the dinner that you cooked, the cake that you’re baking. Hell, you’re even wearing a new lingerie set, a pretty dark red against your skin. Despite the hurt, you continued watching, seeing him sit her down, and plunge his face in between her legs. 

The video ended shortly after, leaving you trying to rationalize why. She was definitely more attractive than you, much happier to lean on him. She definitely tried to see everything from his perspective, but the most damning thing was that she was always there and you weren’t. That alone was all he needed to cheat. Finally, your sadness gave way to anger, eating you like a fire. Slashing tires, and breaking items can only do so much, so you decide to hit him where it hurts. Since he loves her so much, he can live with her. 

So, you fell asleep as your cake was baking, causing you to forget about it. As you were sleeping, you felt incredibly warm, waking up to nothing but smoke. You barely made it out, but thank goodness you were there alone. That’s the story you would tell, you decided staring at the flames. Watching them claw at the night sky as if trying to reach for the stars. The sound of sirens made you jump from your seat on the ground. An officer, a young one, jumped out of the car, his eyes widening seeing the flames. He spoke into his radio as he ran over to you, taking you by the waist to lead you away from the fire. From this angle, he looked akin to a puppy, with bright and big ocean eyes, and lips that gave you the softest smile, reassuring you that everything will be fine. His tenderness almost scared you, it felt so foreign, and then you realized why, his features were never that soft with you.

He opened the car door, seating you inside. He placed his jacket over you, “You okay, Miss?”

“Just a little shaken,” you say looking at the fire.

“Okay good,” he gave you a smile that weakened your heart, “Better to be shaken than burned.”

“I’ll be right back,” he began to walk toward the fire, causing you to take his hand.

“Officer ..,” you saw his badge, “Officer Kennedy, it’s dangerous, and no one else was inside, just me.”

He nodded, walking off again to talk on his radio. He then returned to you, his eyes taking your body briefly before he pulled out a small notebook. “Thank you for being concerned,” he says.

“What are you talking about Officer Kennedy?” you asked, pulling his jacket up, it was just so comforting, feeling right on you.

“About the fire,” he smiled, still making you weak, “But danger is my job, I keep people safe. Also, please call me Leon.”

“Okay Leon, I’m y/n l/n,” you say, and when he repeated your name it was heaven itself. Another sure sign that your desires were reaching for the stars like the flames. 

He then asked you questions about the fire, when did it start and how? You kept your story, though you felt bad whenever you would meet his angel eyes. He asked you why you were here and if you lived here. You told him that you were cooking for your partner, and seeing his face drop with slouched shoulders wanted you to make it clear that he is now your ex. After the questioning, he leaned against the cop car, staring at the fire, his fingers constantly moving. 

The silence allowed you to get another good look at him, noticing his slim yet muscular frame. Blonde-brown hair that was blowing in the wind. You mumbled how you felt so much safer with him and he dropped his head, running his hand through his hair as he mumbled thanks. So cute, you thought feeling your emotions run ahead of you. 

You two continued to sit in a comfortable silence, as you played with the ends of your nightgown. As you were doing that, you noticed Leon stealing glances, which you let slide at first, feeling a dangerous spark from those eyes. Then you felt the states become longer and bolder, Leon finally noticing that the nightgown is see-through, revealing the lingerie. 

“Is everything okay Leon?” you say, “Oh! My nightgown, I’ll cover it.”

“You don’t have to,” his eyes widened, becoming visibly ill, “I mean it’s up to you. Shit,” he sighs, “It looks nice.

“The nightgown or the lingerie?” you laugh, causing his face to match the flames. Then you got an idea, “Let’s switch places.”

“What do you mean?” he asks. 

“My turn to be the officer,” was all you said as you forced him on the seat. 

“So, Mr. Kennedy,” you pulled out your phone as if you were an interviewer, “Why did you join the RPD?”

He stared at you smiling as he playfully shook his head, “I knew that I wanted to protect people ever since I was young. I mean in my school years, I always stood up to bullies who were huge compared to me.”

“Quite the hero,” you say, thinking that he’s perfect, “But why this city, this department?”

“I love Raccoon City,” he began, his eyes finally resting on yours, confidence in his voice, “But this city needs work, and I want to help it, and all communities in it,” he chuckled, “I just want to protect innocent people.”

“Including poor damsels like me?” you tease.

At that Leon looked at your body again, now having a better view of you. He swallowed hard, before mumbling yes miss. You could feel him mentally removing the nightgown revealing the lacey lingerie material that shows off your chest. The underwear was just as equally thin, with straps that connected to a lace piece wrapped around your thighs. This was supposed to be for your ex, but maybe Leon will enjoy it instead. 

“Do you usually work so late and alone?” you asked, ignoring how his hands were resting over his crotch though your smile was light. 

“Um … no. I just started,” he struggled for words, “First night alone .. Fresh from training.”

“Your girl must be worried then,” you say, smile now gone with the realization, that you’ll be no better than your ex, “Sorry for keeping you so late,” you managed to laugh pointing at the fire. 

“There’s no girl,” he blurts out, “At least … there isn’t now. Been like that for two years.”

His desire is evident now in those stormy eyes. Giving you the confidence to get closer to him, inches from his face. His lips were so soft up close, and you fought the urge to kiss him right there, “Have you ever thought about dating a singer?” you were closer now, scarcely feeling his breathing, “Would you date a singer officer?”

“I’m guessing you don’t have a partner,” he says and you nod. The air between the two of you is finally clear.  

He pulls you onto his lap, shamelessly taking off the nightgown. His stare gave you goosebumps in the fire’s heat and his light kiss on your neck nearly caused you to come undone. “You’re beautiful,” he breathes against your neck.

You shakily breathe his name as he continues to kiss your neck, nipping as he goes lower to your chest. His hands weren’t idle, both finding your chest and kneading your chest, squeezing your nipples, rolling them between his fingers. His lips finally found yours, crashing into you like a hurricane. The feel of his tongue against yours was powerful as you began to become aware of, only concerning yourself with all things Leon. The fire, your ex, everything all faded away by Leon’s hands, by his kiss. It was just him and you, and all you wanted was to fade into him wholly.

You let your hands palm at his pants, clenching around nothing as you felt him getting hard under your fingers. Feeling impatient, you undid the buckles and pulled his boxers down. His cock came out, angry and already leaking, causing your heart to tumble at the sight seeing how large he was. 

“Please,” Leon croaked out, and you knew what he wanted, what he needed. 

You nodded, causing Leon to move your underwear to the side, exposing your dripping pussy. You then got over him, sinking down. He groaned feeling you around him, his hands digging into your sides. He then smirked, touching the side of your face, and tracing his fingers over your lips, “Are you just going to sit there and look pretty? Or are you going to move that body of yours?”

So, you did as he said causing a beautiful sound to fall from his mouth. As you grind your hips against him, chasing your high by crashing down on him. You threw your head back, feeling him come up and meet you as you crashed down. He hit all the right places, filling you just right by hitting your sweet spot. Your mouth was only able to form his name, repeating it like a sacred prayer. You then looked down at him, causing impossibly more butterflies in your stomach. His eyes were squeezed shut and his mouth was slightly open, whispering jumbled words of praise. 

You touched your clit, rubbing desperate circles and feeling the pleasure build up like a bomb. The extra sensation caused you to clench around him even tighter, your name dripping in honey coming from his mouth. 

“Le … Leon,” you whined feeling him move your finger. 

 He placed your finger in his mouth, his tongue swirling over it. He was drunk on your taste, on you, hazy eyes filled with desire. His eyes were dark with it, giving the impression that they did not belong to him. But they focused on you, saw you, and you can swear that you think you’re falling in love. He held you down, rubbing new circles on that same sensitive area, all the while thrusting up. Your moans filled the police car as you grind on his dick, against his finger. 

“Leon … Leon more,” you begged, fucking yourself against him, “More please,” the bomb was getting ready to explode. The knot in your stomach coming undone. 

He obliged, making the circles on your clit harder, thrusting up into you harder and faster. You became sloppy at first, losing somewhat of a rhythm of grinding into him as your body began to shake, your legs jello. Next thing you knew, a white-hot pleasure erupted in you, engulfing you like a flame as you came on his dick. But he wasn’t done with you. He kept on slamming into your abused hole, the overstimulation causing you to try to get out of his grip but he was too strong. Or, maybe you just didn’t want to leave. Now he was chasing his high, thanking you for being good, for still being tight. You couldn’t think, you couldn’t talk. Your mind was in a haze, dumb off of his cock. You came again, another cry coming from your mouth, which Leon called beautiful. 

Leon’s movements began to falter and stutter, signaling that he was close. He sat up, pulling you into a deep kiss as he came, some of it spilling out of you. The two of you finally pulled apart, your pants filling the comfortable silence. You moved some hair that was sticking to his forehead, and he gave another tender kiss, full of promise. He wraps a jacket around you, holding you against him. You don’t know why, or what convicted you to talk. It could’ve been the intimate moment that you shared or his calming heartbeat, but you did. “Do you ever think about her?” you asked, “Do you miss her?”

You felt him shift and tense, but he still held you. “I did think about her a lot. I mean, I saw her as mine, despite us being on and off, I knew that I loved her. So when she left, I was blindsided and angry,” he sighed, “I tried to hate her, but I couldn’t. I did miss her, but … I think I found something better.”

“I was angry,” you confessed, “I lied, Leon. He cheated and I couldn’t think,” you felt tears, “I was so angry, I started the fire. I just wanted him to feel my pain, especially because I did nothing but love him.”

“But this fire didn’t stop my anger,” you say, finally looking at him, “Leon, I don’t want to be angry.”

“Well,” he squeezed your hand, “It’s a good thing that you don’t have to.”

You smiled, feeling safety in his gaze, “But I lied to a cop and committed arson. You can arrest me.”

He caressed the side of your face again, “But you fell asleep, remember?” he says, “You forgot the cake.”

Your eyes widened as you giggled, kissing him, “Of course officer, I was just so sleepy.”

Soon the two of you were standing side by side watching the firefighters put out the remaining flames. They didn’t notice how his hand held yours, how he pulled you close. “I would like to do this again, I mean,” he facepalmed, “I would like to ask you on a date, make it an all-day thing, breakfast, lunch, and dinner,” he smiled, “I want to know my singer more, then after all that we can do this again.”

You kissed his cheek, “I would love that Leon.”

[weepingtalecowboy]

“I will go fix my issues”,he lied truthfully

Fanfic prompt : Or legend using the harp of ages to go help his past self after his uncle just died

By pretending he is his mom or something… but a very self hating and salty one who traumatizes his past self more than anything else ever did.

"You ever notice how your ‘uncle’ doesn’t look a thing like you? Wonder why he’s been so… generous? That’s because he bought you. Yes, you, little one, came into his life for the very humble price of a single green rupee and a bag of seeds . Feel special? You should. Those were probably stale seeds at that.”

Cue the young boy’s confused, horrified expression.

“Oh, don't worry, he’s been a decent guardian. Way better than if I’d kept you. I wouldn’t have paid for you at all. Would’ve sold you for even less. But hey, be grateful! Fate did you a kindness.”

Legend is living the dream that everyone had shared at some point to terrorize his past self.

As they trek through the wilds,Legend gives his younger self the kind of guidance you'd expect from someone who didn’t take parenting classes but aced "being a jerk" 101 , so basically just Legend as a person. “Alright, you little whiner, stop crying. People are going to think you’re weak. I mean, you already are, but it’d be nice to pretend. You have to learn to just… deal with it.”

Baby self, who’s just learned to talk: “I hate you.”

Legend, without missing a beat, grins darkly: “Yeah, I figured. That’s what makes you so special. You’re already a natural.”

Legend gives many advice ,that he thought he was teaching important lessons with.

Because he is a good mother.

He ruined his child self's life before the little guy even got beaten up by a guard.

Seeing his baby self—this pathetic, sad, scared little creature—is like looking at a version of himself that he desperately wants to erase from his memory. The fact that the baby version is so utterly harmless, so completely incapable of being a threat, makes Legend reach levels of contempt for the world never encountered before What world worth saving would ever consider this—this tiny, weak, helpless thing—a target for execution. His own actions, his whole history, his entire existence as a hero... they pale in comparison to how much he despises the weakness of his own past.

When he eventually encountered one he had to watch the gruesome scene of Legend incinerating one , it was fucking personal , the sheer amount of blood was making him feel… not good to say the least.

He did not want the other to follow him but he was very much baby and pretty sure that he would rather stand behind the one who was brutally beating up people then in front of him.

Legend really tries to be nice … but he is Legend and saltier than the namesake salt itself.

“Oh, you’re hungry? Yeah, well, get used to it. You’ll figure out how to go without food soon enough. It builds character. Or you could cry about it like you always do. See how far that gets you.” He offers a piece of dry bread, throwing it on the ground in front of him, just out of reach.

He is too salty for child rearing, no wonder his baby self is continuously crying behind him , and very much wincing internally when Link flinches from him.

The dark world section was even worse.

[kibbles-bits]

How does main trio view Douma and via verse. Especially Inosuke.

Zenitsu is terrified of him. His heart sounds off and his voice is too perfect and he almost killed his friend. Now he's just hanging around a hashira??? What the heck is wrong with everyone??? Why aren't they doing anything???

Tanjiro does not like him because after Gyokko and Hantengu died, Douma had tried to finish the mission himself which meant he ended up fighting him, Genya and Nezuko (and leaving Muichiro to die to Gyokko's poison). The only reason they survived was because Douma found them interesting and dragged the fight out until Mitsuri arrived and they fought instead. Tanjiro would very much like to headbutt Douma a few times before he considers them even. He still has reservations about having Douma anywhere near humans.

Inosuke recognizes him as a strong person to fight - but Douma is uninterested in fighting him. He also doesn't like him for the state he left Tanjiro and the others in. Doesn't see a point to him being there and when he remembers his existence he thinks they should kill him. He's super annoying and makes his fur stand on end when he catches him staring at him sometimes.

Douma wants to poke at Zenitsu because he's so scared of him. He just wants to be friends and Zenitsu's reactions to him are what he thinks most people would find hilarious.

Douma is interested in Tanjiro because Muzan was interested in him. Other than that, he finds him unremarkable. If Tanjiro asked, he would let him headbutt him. For now he just dodges cause he's not sure why Tanjiro does it.

Douma doesn't recognize Inosuke at first and when he does, he remembers Kotoha. He remains interested in Inosuke and how different he is from his mother. Inosuke's desire to fight him kinda drives him off though since he promised Mitsuri he wouldn't get into any scuffles. This also means he doesn't tell anyone he killed his mom - that would definitely cause a scuffle.

You didn't ask but since he did meet them...

Douma thinks Genya is super cool! He's never seen his ability before. He's offered Genya a bite of himself but Genya always yells at him to leave him alone. The big stupid rock man also drives him off a lot. So rude.

Nezuko is also very interesting to him! She's pretty strong for never eating a human. Maybe he can get some tips from her? It'd make being friends with Mitsuri way easier. If only she'd stop growling at him.

He's very surprised Muichiro survived being poisoned. He's also impressed with how strong he is for his age. So sad that being a demon slayer means he's probably gonna die young. Boy does he have a mouth on him though.

Read the rest of the AU HERE

[itoshiexx]

pretty

synopsis: when your insecurities get the best of you, rin comes to the rescue to make sure you know you're so much more than pretty.

pairing: itoshi rin x gn!reader | words: 845 | warnings: established relationship, slight hurt/comfort, insecurities, i tried to make this as gender neutral as possible but reader is implied to wear makeup, suggestive at the end!!, aged up characters

notes: it’s me, hi, i'm the problem it's me! i'm back with this idea i had while i was trying some clothes. kinda hate how this turned out but whatever, i'm sad

masterlist part 2 (nsfw)

you never really took long to get ready. it was one of the reasons rin loved you so much: you were practical with your outfit and your makeup, and very good at managing your time. for someone as the young itoshi, who screamed practicality, you were a perfect match.

it is why rin is standing up from his place on the living room’s couch, sprinting towards your shared bedroom — to understand why you are taking so long. if you don’t leave soon, you might be late for your dinner reservations. 

entering the bedroom door, rin spots you easily. you are standing in front of the mirror, with nothing but your underwear on, staring at your reflection with a lost gaze.

he decides he doesn’t like this gaze on you.

“what’s wrong?” his question seems to break you from whatever stupor you were in; his bluntness catching you off guard in an unusual manner, since you were used to your boyfriend’s direct nature.

rin is met with silence. your lips part and close several times, but nothing comes out. his brows furrow, and he takes a few steps inside to take a closer look to you. 

your hands are wandering through your skin — from the plush of your thighs, your hips, the curve of your waist, stopping at your tummy. then, they move further to your ribs, chest, shoulders, up until your neck. 

it’s like you’re analyzing something, although rin can’t quite pinpoint what it is. he could almost say you’re admiring yourself, if not for the slight furrow of your brows and the crisp on your lips.

“do you… do you think i’m pretty, rin?” 

your voice is so small it scares him for a moment. he wasn’t expecting such a question. nevertheless, rin takes a few more steps until he’s right behind you in the mirror, and his arms find home in your waist in a tight embrace. you shiver feeling the material of his white button up shirt against your bare skin. 

you feel his scrutinizing gaze from over your shoulder, and you have to fight the urge to hide. it’s silly, and you know; because you never have to hide from rin. he has seen you, all of you, way too many times. 

but there’s just something about this moment that makes you feel so little and so insecure, because the stupid voices in your head keep telling you bad things about yourself. and you also know that they are just intrusive thoughts, and that you shouldn’t listen to them, but right now it’s really fucking hard. 

“pretty?” he repeats, a little breathless. his eyes wander through every bit of you, like he’s trying to commit to memory. “you’re asking me if i think you’re pretty?”

you shake your head. “forget it, i shouldn’t have asked—”

“love,” rin interrupts your rambling, “you are so much more than pretty.”

you blink a few times, unsure you heard him right. rin’s hold on you tightens. 

“you are beautiful.” he rests his chin on your shoulder, still staring intently at your figure. “you are… god. you’re breathtaking.”

he leaves a featherlight kiss on your neck, and you can’t help but feel incredibly shy under his strong gaze. rin stares at you as if you are the most beautiful creature that has ever landed on earth, like some sort of divine being that came from the heavens to bless every human lucky enough to deserve to cross your path. probably because, to him, that was exactly what you were.

and rin was the luckiest of them all, for he was the one who you chose to call “lover”, the one that could spend every minute of his existence by your side, bathing in your glow, basking in the warmth of every one of your smiles. 

he was the one that could feel the texture of your skin beneath his fingertips and worship your body like some kind of temple, giving all the love it deserved. and if you were asking him that question, well… then maybe he wasn’t worshiping you enough. 

“baby,” his right hand leaves your waist and trails all the way to your shoulder, where he leaves another kiss. “look at me.”

you shake your head no. you miss the way his expression turns pained. “please?”

you sigh. you’re such a goner for itoshi rin. and he knows that anything he asks in that tone will be granted. so, albeit hesitantly, you do what he says, and meet his gaze in the mirror. 

the small smile he gives you is enough to send your heart into a frenzy, giving you those stupid butterflies in your stomach that always appear when it comes to him.

“you are everything good in this world,” he says, like it’s the truth, like it’s all he’s ever known.

then, gently turning you around to face him, he grips your waist tightly and brings his face impossibly close to yours, until your noses are touching and his lips are hovering above yours.

“and i will show you just how much.”

© 2023 itoshiexx. do not plagarise, translate, or repost any of my work on here or other sites.