#might colour it in later idk we will see!!

[ineffably-leech-art]

aceee !

[ratbastarddotfuck]

am I wrong? genuinely, I'm asking. would it not come off extremely condescending?

[bronzebtch]

i think what's most agitating for me about the whole franchise (and i might be wrong cause im frankly no expert and i need someone to guide me if i am getting this wrong) is like... there is no distinguishable fashion trend from whatever we have in hotd to whatever we received in GoT, even tho fashion style actually rotates quite quickly when you look back in history. similarly, while i can see that there are some outstanding hairstyles distinguishing the south and the north, as well as the increasing use of fur and leather (for northerners vs the southerners) but liek .... thats about it ? [brain explodes]

[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.

[faeriichaii]

hiii i have a request only if you're up for it! a legolas x reader and reader teases legolas and his sensitive ears during an important event and he takes it out on you (spicy? smut if you're up for it :)

love your fics sm <333

Keep Quiet ~ Legolas x F!Elf!Reader

A/N: OMG!! I kinda have been waiting for a smut request haha!! It's just I rarely write any smut so it is always nice to see someone request it cause this also makes me uhh idk get used to writing it?? But yeah I finally finished the request and I really hope you like it <33 I also might edit it later cause rn it is very late and I am very tired but I still wanna publish smth so... ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Warnings: Smut (MDNI), Unprotected sex, Fingering, bj, ass slapping ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Words: 2.0 k ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Request: Yes (thank you <33) ࿐ྂ ⇢ ˗ˏˋ Meleth Nin ~ My Love ࿐ྂ

Summary: You seem to have teased your husband Legolas a little too long during one important meeting, so he teaches you a lesson.

Bored. You felt utterly bored, as you listened in on Lord Elronds conversation with Legolas father about some trading contract each of them approved. Being Legolas wife has it perks but you definitely despise the lengthy business meetings you have to attend. And your attendance is required regularly. As Thranduil once said, you are not just part of their family now, but also have to shoulder the burden of being the queen at some time in your lengthy life. Back then you smiled at the elven king and nodded. You didn’t expect to become queen anytime soon either. But neither did you expect him to get Legolas to drag you to every official meeting in Mirkwood. “It is good for you to learn all about our relationships with the several leaders of the various different lands.” Thranduil once said to you, after he caught you yawn after several hours of listening about potential war strategies.

A hand on your thigh justled you out of your memories. Legolas gave you a smile, as he leaned closer to you. “We are almost through Meleth Nin. Only an hour more and they should sign the papers.” Another hour? Sighing at his words you gave him a pained smile. Your eyes wandered from the elven king of Mirkwood towards Lord Elrond. You knew this would take even longer than that. How could you sit around and do nothing for another hour or two? “Legolas, would it be alright for your father if I could leave for a few minutes? Just to take a quick breather.” You whispered in his ear. His grip on your leg tightened and he began to shift around in his seat beside you. “Are you alright Meleth Nin?” “Of course I just-“ You raised an eyebrow at him. He definitely did not look quite alright. He looked rather… uncomfortable. “I don’t think my father would approve.”

Tilting your head to the side, you continued to study his side profile. A soft rosy colour dusted the tips of his ears, as well as his cheeks. Suddenly, realization dawned upon you. “Are you sure that is the reason behind you being so… skittish right now?” Your warm breath fanned over his pointy ear and you felt his body shiver, as you let your hand gently rest on his leg. Drawing circles on his thigh, you leaned closer towards him. “I don’t need a break anymore, so don’t worry about it my love.” The elven prince noticed the flirtatious undertone in your voice and gave you a warning glance. “(Y/N) please. You can’t do this to me right now. This is an important meeting and-“ A shuddered sigh left his lips, as your finger traced his ear with a feather light touch. “Hmm? Is everything alright darling?” You asked him sweetly, trying to scoot closer to your husband.

“Lord Elrond and your father are still discussing about the best travel route in order for the goods to arrive safely. The same topic since hours so why don’t you just lean back and let me have some fun hmm?” Legolas face turned towards you, his glare igniting a fire deep inside your core. He was mad. And you just got turned on. His hand grabbed your wrist and pulled it away from his ear. “You don’t want to continue playing this game (Y/N). Trust me.” A smirk graced your lips. “Is this a challenge Meleth Nin?”

Suddenly Legolas jumped up from his place at the table. Both of the lords turned their attention from the map at the table to the elven prince, confusion written upon both their faces. Even you were surprised. “Father, I must apologies, but I just remembered that me and my wife have another important event to attend to.” Thranduil looked his son up and down, before letting his gaze wander over you. You expected him to decline (probably due to the tension between you), but instead he approved. “Both of you shall leave, but make sure this… accident doesn’t happen a second time.” And with those parting words you were dragged out of the room by Legolas.

His grip on your wrist tightened as he sped across the hall towards your shared bedroom. “Legolas slow down I-“ “You want me to slow down? I bet you won’t say that again anytime soon.” Heat kissed your cheeks at the insinuation of his words. God you just wanted to tease him a bit but you definitely did not expect this outcome. Legolas stopped walking, just to open the door, drag you inside and lock it afterwards. His back was turned towards you. Watching his shoulders rise up and down you slowly approached him. “I told you to listen, didn’t I?” “Legolas I-“ Suddenly he spun around. “You didn’t listen though, did you now?” A shiver went down your spine at his deep voice. His gaze travelled from your face all over your body which made heat pool in your lower region. “You acted very poorly and improper for the future queen you know?” You nodded your head at his words. “I apologize my prince.” “You think that is enough to satisfy me?” He said, slowly approaching you. Legolas eyed you like a predator about to devour his pray. Oh, and how you would indulge in him devouring you. You need him. You want him.

“What can I do to make up for my mistakes?” “For one, how about I fill your pretty mouth.” Legolas stood in front of you, his finger grazing along your jaw. The touch alone set you ablaze like oil touching a flame. He tilted your face up towards him. “Does that sound good to you?” You nodded your head once more in approval. “Good.” And with that his mouth was upon yours. His mouth was hot and needy upon your own, tongues dancing with each other. A moan escaped your lips at the sweet relieve of the built-up tension. Legolas hand moved from your face to the back of your head to gather your hair in his fist. Pain spread from your scalp as he yanked your head bag by your strands, his mouth immediately trailing kisses along your exposed neck. Your hands racked over his upper body, unbuttoning his shirts and letting them fall off over his shoulders. Fingers trailing over his exposed skin, you followed every line and ridge of his body, until you stopped at his waistband.

“Get on your knees.” Legolas voice had a needy edge to it, as he began to gently shove you down, his hand never letting loose of your hair. Getting comfortable on the ground, you bit your lip at the obvious tent in his pants. Instantly you grabbed for his belt, loosened it and got rid of his trousers for him. “Open up.” Your mouth did as he ordered you to and in just a mere second his cock was between your lips. Sucking on it you watched his reaction through your eyelashes. His head was thrown back as soft pants escaped him. You let your tongue glide over his veins before pulling back and letting it slide over his slit. A hiss came from Legolas parted lips. His grip around your hair tightened. Suddenly, he pushed his cock deeper into your mouth, making you gag around him. Spit spilled out of the side of your mouth, as you tried to relax your throat in order to deepthroat his cock as much as possible. Your fingers moved from his hips towards your pussy, craving your own relieve. “Don’t you dare touch yourself.” Legolas said in-between pants. He moaned as a whine left your lips and sent a vibrating sensation through his lower region.

Pulling out, he grabbed your arms and lifted you from the ground. His hands found your chin, tilted your face towards his and gave you a kiss. His tongue fought with your own while he began to strip you out of the dress you wore for the meeting. Your nipples hardened under the cold air and he wasted no time in rolling them between his fingers. Your back arched at the pleasant feeling of finally feeling his touch upon you. His mouth moved from your lips down to your left tit. Your hands twisted in his long blonde hair, playing with the braids you did earlier today. Heat radiated from both of your bodies, as he let go of your nipple with a pop and stood up to his full height once more. “Now I want you to keep your mouth shut, okay?” An approval couldn’t even pass your lips, before you found yourself upon your bed, face down and ass up. “Show me how long you can keep your dirty lips sealed.”

A pleasant shiver went down your spine, as you felt his finger glide through your lips. Gripping the bedsheet, you turned your head to the side. “Legolas I need you please.” You whispered while glancing behind you. His finger brushed over your clit, making you bite your lip in order to keep quiet. You tried to scoot towards his hand, but his other hand kept your body down by your neck. “You already failed to keep quiet but you still want to get rewarded?” He slowly entered one of his fingers into your pussy but almost immediately retracted it. A needy whine passed your lips. “So greedy.” Legolas said, before entering two of his fingers and slowly pumping them at a steady pace. Your grip on the sheets tightened, as you tried to wriggle around his fingers. You want more. You need more. But you were in luck, because just after a few pumps, you could already feel the head of his cock at your entrance. “I want to see your pussy suck in my cock exactly how they greedily took in my fingers.”

And with that he pushed inside you. Your mouth opened to let out a silent moan, as you felt the stretch of his cock inside you. His hands gripped your hips harshly, before he began to move in a steady rhythm. It was hard to keep quite while his cock filled you to the brim, but neither would you want to lose his warmth inside of you. Pants mixed with the sound of skin slapping filled the quietness of the room. A moan escaped through your parted lips and was soon replaced with a surprised yelp, as you felt the harsh sting of a slap on your ass. “Your misbehaviour can’t stay unpunished now, can it?” You nodded in agreement with him. God how you loved getting punished by him. Meeting his hips halfway through each thrust, you felt the knot inside of you tighten, as well as the twitch of your husband’s cock inside of you.

“You take it so well Meleth Nin.” A sudden harsh thrust forced another moan out of your mouth, followed by another pleasant sting on your ass cheek. His hand gently traced over the red handprint. “I have a feeling that you almost like getting punished.” He let his finger trail down to your clit and drew gentle circles over it. Heat washed over your entire body, as you felt your climax approach faster and faster. Your walls clenched more tightly around his cock while the pressure of his finger on your clit increased. “Oh my god Legolas I-“ Another slap echoed through the room, followed by a whine from your lips, as the sweet relieve of your climax washed over you. Your walls clenching around his cock was all he needed, before filling you up with his cum. His release was followed by a few sloppy thrusts, before he pulled out, got onto the bed beside you and circled his arms around you in a warm embrace. A few minutes of purse silence passed between the both of you.

“Was it too much?” Legolas suddenly asked you. “No, of course not Meleth Nin. I might even consider teasing you more often during the meetings.” You reassured him, wrapping your own arms around him and falling asleep in his arms.

[dunmeshistash]

Fav detail about elves I didn't fully register until I saw that one summer colour page - elves look rosy when they're light-skinned, but get slightly greyer as their skin darkens.

It looks like a creative decision that was made a little later, though, around the time of introducing the black-skinned elves, which makes sense - in order for them to be pure black, something other than melanin had to be happening there.

Idk if that's really an active choice or just bad coloring on Kui's part ngl.... unfortunately making darker skin ashy is a common mistake by artists, especially if they tend to draw light skinned characters more often, they might pick a light skin tone and just make it darker which turns them ashy. Dark skin is often neglected when people study painting skin color (you know how it is with racism and colorism being ingrained in society and the reflections of it showing up where you wouldn't expect)

Kui also wildly changes the colors she uses so it's hard to take any of it meaningfully in small details, If you look at art of Thistle or Kabru you can see their skin colors change both hue and darkness between art. Even his hair keeps changing how intense the yellow is and sometimes is fully white.

In this case there's also the scan differences but you can see how much Cithis skin changes art to art too

It really doesn't have much consistency in undertones, I imagine some of it might be traditional art (copic markers or watercolor?) but even between her digital art the undertones keep changing, sometimes she's greyish sometimes yellowish sometimes more redish and in the swimsuit one she even looks kinda purple to me

Kui is a great artist but based on how she has also painted Kabru and the twins greyish (the worst one under this paragraph) I can't say the greyish tone of the darker elves is any sort of intentional choice but rather mistakes.

She does it to some extent to her lighter skinned characters too, but I think it's especially obvious in the darker skinned ones (here's Senshi getting slightly paler/grayer between different art)

At least now we have the anime with more set on stone colors/darkness, and I'm overall happy that the dark skinned characters got officially darker overall (although some of the skin tones still look a little off to me)

Anyway, other than the obsidian skin elves I don't think there's any indication the greyish tone was intentional.

Sorry for the long winded response, it's just something I wanted to acknowledge since sometimes I see people discussing skin colors in my notes

[ssa-atlas-alvez]

Hi so this is my first ever request idk if I’m supposed to ask from somewhere else but I was wondering if you could do a Bau find out reader has a criminal past that got expunged or something please?

Hiya, I feel like this absolutely ages to do, I'm so sorry but hope you enjoy it nonetheless!

Description: Reader has a slightly colourful history

Warnings: discussions of previous criminal activity when reader was a minor (theft/burglary, drugs hinted at if you squint, beating up individuals), guns mentioned, death of someone reader knows, child abuse mentioned (nothing 'on screen')

You look at the photos in front of you. A John Doe, about ten years older than you. Swallowing slightly, you try to build up the courage to tell the team you know him. That you know exactly who this man was.

"You okay, kid?" Morgan asks, you look up, giving a quick nod.

"Oh, er, yeah. Yeah, I just, I know him." You know they're going to ask questions, but that's the last thing you want right now. You don't want to explain. You don't want to tell them. They'd look at you differently. Part of you worried they'd no longer even want you on the team.

Hotch frowns, studying your expression. "You know him?"

"Yeah." You clear your throat slightly. "Er, his name's Ryan Williams."

"How did you know him?"

You look away from Hotch, back to the photo. "We... worked together,"

You watch the team raise an eyebrow. "Worked together?" Prentiss asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yep."

"And what was this job?" Rossi chimed in.

"Um..." You pause, trying to figure out how to word it. "It, er..."

You try to ignore the team furrowing their eyebrows and frowning at you. "It...?" Morgan said, looking at you expectantly.

"It might have something to do with a man named Chris Miller," You said, trying to change the topic as much as you could.

"And this Chris Miller, what's he like?"

"Oh, an absolute dickhead." You paused, clearing your throat when you remembered you were supposed to be professional. "I mean, we had our differences."

The team exchanged a concerned glance. "(Y/N), you're going to need to be transparent with us."

"What- about what?"

"How you know Williams."

"I told you, I know him from work."

"And the truth?"

You look at the team, debating whether or not this was a good idea. It probably wasn't, but you knew Hotch wasn't exactly going to drop the topic. "We did work together. Sort of."

"Sort of?"

"It's a little complicated." You said, giving a small shrug. "We worked for a man, Chris Miller. We'd also work closely with his son, Danny."

"What sort of work?"

"Odd jobs. Whatever needed doing." You said, swallowing slightly. "Delivering packages, picking things up."

"And?"

"And, what?"

"There was clearly more." Hotch stated. "And don't think we don't know what what sort of 'packages' you're talking about."

"Look, we did some shitty stuff." You gave a small shrug. You try to act nonchalant about it. You weren't proud of your past. You focus your attention on the table in front, finding it easier to look at that, rather than the disappointed gazes of your team. You didn't want to see them look at you differently.

"Like what?"

"We stole stuff, bikes, cars, broke into a house once or twice." You admitted, a light blush tinting your cheeks in shame. "You got a cut of whatever the total of what you took."

"You burgled."

"Technically, yes." You answered, voice hesitant. Hotch frowned, eyebrows drawing in.

"Anything else?"

"We were told to rough some guys up a few times." You admitted. You hear Garcia draw in a sharp breath.

"And this Chris, how did you know him?"

"He was the ring leader." You answered, "You did what he told you, no questions asked."

"And Ryan?"

"He also worked for Chris."

Two days later, it was revealed that the unsub was in fact Danny Miller. Once it was established that he was the one doing the killing, finding him was fairly easy. And the next afternoon you had him surrounded in a warehouse, trying to talk him down.

"Danny." You say, walking into the room. Danny's attention is immediately on you, as is his gun. "Danny, you need to put the gun down."

"Don't act like you're any better than me, (Y/N)." Danny snapped.

"Danny, just- come on, man. Just put the gun down." You give a sigh, watching the older man's slightly shaking hand.

"You're not better than me." Danny growls.

Knowing Hotch and Morgan weren't exactly going to put their weapons down, you lowered yours. "Come on, Danny. Don't be an idiot. Just put it down."

"You don't know what he was like." Danny glared, hand still trembling. "He was a son of a bitch."

"I know, Danny. I know."

"No you don't!" Danny exclaimed, gun now pointing at you. Morgan's finger itched near the trigger, just in case.

"Then tell me."

"You know how your dad was?" You feel Hotch and Morgan's eyes flick to you for a split second. You swallow.

"Yeah."

"Yeah, well he was worse."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not. You got out." Danny jabbed the gun towards you as he snarled.

"If you do this, you let him win." You state, "If you pull that trigger and my team mates shoot you, he's won. He's won and you won't get to look him in the eye and tell him how much of a bastard he is."

It takes a few more minutes, but it's the thought of spiting his father that gets Danny to lower the gun and Morgan immediately pounces, cuffing him.

Hotch wait until you're all flying back on the jet before he approaches you about the topic, with the team all trying their best to look like they're not listening. But for profilers, they can't act for shit.

"We need to talk about your previous record." Hotch stated, placing a file in front you you. "I had Garcia unseal the records."

"That's not fair."

"During the interviewing process you were specifically asked if you had a criminal record."

"It was all expunged-"

"(Y/N), that's irrelevant, I still should have been told,"

"Except it doesn't exist anymore, Hotch." You rub a hand over your face, wishing that you had just stayed home.

"It still matters,"

"No, it doesn't, I was a kid." You say, "I was fifteen, I made some stupid decisions to try and survive,"

"(Y/N)-"

"No, Hotch, it doesn't matter. It doesn't exist anymore."

"It was still important for me to know."

"Why? Why was it so important? I was- I was fifteen,"

"It's important because it still happened."

"I was just trying to survive." You looked at him. "I was just trying to survive. I went about it the wrong way, yes. And I'm not proud of it by any means, but I was fifteen and I didn't know what else to do."

"You still should have declared it."

"Do I still have this job?"

"Excuse me?" Hotch asked, frowning in confusion.

"Am I fired?"

"No."

"Then, respectfully sir, it was expunged. It doesn't exist anymore, my slate is clean. And you getting Garcia to unseal the records was unfair, unnecessary, and hurtful." You state, pausing for a short breath. "To me, that means that everything I've worked hard for - proving myself in this job - immediately went out the window the second you learnt something negative about my past."

And with that, you turn your head, deciding to look out of the window instead, signaling to your boss that the conversation was over.

[roobiedo]

Happy Solarpunk Aesthetic Week and Winter Solstice! ❄️

While we do celebrate here, we don't actually experience winter in my region, or any of the classic four seasons! The weather here is basically a coin toss between searing heat and torrential rain lol. So while I was musing over how to adapt a solarpunk aesthetic to a tropical lifestyle, I came up with this!

Lengthy explanations and chaotic ideas below:

Disclaimer: I am not a science-y person, so I'm not sure how any of these would technically work or what materials would go into making them. Hopefully one day someone could figure it out, but I'm just having fun sharing these ideas for now :)

-----

What works well both in harsh sunlight and heavy downpours, plus is already something that people here use everyday? Umbrellas! How cool would it be to have an umbrella that absorbs sunlight during the day, and turns it into a personal spotlight at night? Or perhaps it could absorb and store large amounts of rainwater, to be re-used later or released somewhere more useful?

My main inspiration for this is the bamboo. This plant already plays a huge role in our lives here -- culturally, economically, and from what I recently learned, ecologically too! Our region suffers from floods often, and bamboo can help to control the flow of water, for example through their roots providing a barrier against soil erosion, or their ability to store large amounts of water and release it gradually during drier seasons. (And that's just one of the many reasons why bamboos are awesome and solarpunky!) I thought it would be cool to have water stored in the 'bamboo nodes' of the umbrella shaft, which could then be detached and used individually, or as components in other tech!

I chose the Amazonian lily pad as the canopy design because 1) it looks big enough to cover a person, 2) it has a wide surface for solar panels to 'photosynthesize' energy, 3) its container-like shape looks as though it could hold rainwater like a funnel while it trickles into the shaft, and 4) it just looks really pretty! Realistically, this canopy might not be able to do everything at once, so I'm hoping for this tech to be modular and highly customizable -- as in, you could replace this 'lily pad' with something else that serves a different function! I did play around with some other designs, here they are hehe

Hibiscus: Our national flower! Have these bad boys growing in my yard so I thought why not. Not sure what functions it would have yet... perhaps the pistil could be a sensor for gathering weather data? Or maybe the anthers are little lights? Maybe it attracts BEES???

Mushroom: Not familiar with the fungi in my area yet so I went with the classic Amanita. Though now I'm kinda regretting because! Wouldn't it be so cool and lunarpunky to design it based on a bio-luminescent mushroom, so it would make sense for the umbrella to glow in the dark? AGH missed opportunities ;;

-----

Anyway while I was designing the umbrella I thought about giving the model a cool fit too, so tadaaa! A customizable pair of pants that can be worn as a shorts + half-skirt/sarong combo during hot weather, or extended to become a full pair of jeans during colder/rainy times! I used zippers as the connectors because they seem easy to sew on and I like the punky vibe it adds to the outfit. HOWEVER, I'm realising that might be inconvenient or way too time consuming for some people. Maybe buttons, magnets or hook-and-loop fasteners would be easier?

As for the shirt, idk that was just for fun. Maybe it changes colour/design based on the surrounding temperature?

-----

So YEAH that was my longer-than-expected idea dump for this week! Thank you for reading <3 If you have any thoughts or ways of expanding on these ideas please please please share them with me I'm just really excited to see what people think waaaaa!!! ok bye stay hydrated

[trippygalaxy]

(Click for better quality)

@vaathnaos @whiteperle3 @willowthearts

SOOOOO I was kinda bored and wanted to attempt to draw myself in some of my favourite styles! Idk how close I got but Im pretty proud of how they turned out!

And imma ramble under the cut about these artists cause i love their art so much and they deserve all the attention <3

While I went through their art, I noticed a few things about their art styles. Each have their own 'focus,' intentional or not, that really makes their style...theirs! Ill mostly be talking about faces rn but i might go on to more later!

Aria: Her style focus is eyes (iris) and expressions Willows: Her style focus is hair (complex) and eye liner/shape Vaati: His style focus is Noses/face stucture and hair (simple)

What I mean by this is that when you see their art, you will notice that these 'focuses' are the most unique and tailored part of their art.

Vaati's exaggerated noses, Willows complex hair styles and Aria's expressive eyes are all so attuned to their style that it really feels like those are the most recognizable and eye catching part of their art (if we take out the amazing shading/colouring, dynamic poses and generally awesomeness.) This isnt to say that these are the only things that make their style their own, these are simply the most front facing thing that those only giving a glance will notice. But I, having looked very deeply at each style to attempt to replicate, have noticed a good many things.

LETS TALK ABOUT EARS >:D

They ALL draw elf ears SO differently! Vaati strives for diversity in shapes and size while Willow and Aria carry similar shapes throughout their art, but just point in different directions (depending on the oc) but tend to be outwards. There is also to say that because of Aria's more 'chibi' art style that hers have a more simplistic shape/anatomy but she is still able to keep them from looking plain by adding beautiful earrings!

OH AND EYEBROWS!

Arias are simple- very much so. Just being tiny, thin lines, but this is PERFECT to helps her with creating more dramatic expressions which works amazingly with her style, which wouldn't fix in at all compared to the other two styles here.

Willows are a little thicker, but are more akin to the perfect eyebrows u see in magazines and stuff. They arent as expressive compared to Aria or Vaati but she is brilliant with her way of drawing eyes + mouths to convey the wanted expression!

Vaati is able to use complex (shapes and thickness) shapes as eyebrows SO well! Most (including myself) would have issues with such shapes and keeping them looking natural, but Vaati expertly uses them, adding a dramatic flair to his expressions!

I COULD RAMBLE ON FOREVER ABOUT THESE STYLES- i really really could, but shall refrain for now!

ANYWAYS! if you three got to the bottom of this, I hope you guys didnt mind the ramble and...you lost the game :D

[eldritch-alicedoll]

It’s been 4 almost 5 year in Twst and now it’s might be a good time to summarise twst TL for my baby girl again. I’m aware that Yana sensei did mention that we can all decide the TL of the event by ourselves. Some event can’t be overlapping like Fairy Gala and it is fine cuz I want the second one to happened for my girl. (Sorry Leona senpai XD)

I try to make a road map for my girl since her growing from a clueless small punny to someone with a strong backbone happens through an experience share with the boys.

The way she start on the left and slowly transform to the right (ignore that bat they exchanged hair clip after officially date…….) with confident and cheerfulness……I want to tell that kind of story next year

Start > Prologue : like most Yuu she wake up here in the sourcing house ceremony but get amnesia and get blast by Grimm Fire which result on her have to cut her hair. Couldn’t say we here for 2 days…….more like thing happen in 24 hour 😂 drop in to Ramshackle at night , Grimm join the party. Then first thing after task to clean the street by Crowley then Ace shit us and detention after detention almost get expelled. Rolling from hill and we get to face the first blot monster. Retrieving the crystal and back to Crowley. Become the student then Bamm!

Book 1 happen in the same day we become student…..like 2 am? Idk my girl can’t say no to Ace bumb into the bed and being bully by both Grimm and Ace. The first day (for us) at school so we now student…..

The first time my baby girl get to talk to Lilia but briefly. Then she get summoned to Pomfiore because Vil can’t stand her hair cutting skill. It’s look terrible like unwash puppy…..thing in Heartslabyul keep rolling then while go get an egg with Deuce. Sam san give her a girl uniform but she refuse to wear skirt since Ace tease her. (That uniform had been untouched since here in Ramshackle wardrobe) She pick grey waistcoat and tie reflecting her mental state at that point……..

She try to return Riddle’s ceremony robe she borrowed and I think her puppy love episode start here. Later on at some pint Trey think it’s a good idea to cheer for Daia since it might be good in a long term if Riddle got something other than study to focus on while Ace is try to sell his bud to distract Riddle……He care about Daia okay but it’s win-win situation too

The day after is the unbirthday party which turn chaos….end up challenging Riddle and face our first Overblot. I think Riddle might need a day or two to heal up before turn up on the next unbirthday party where he fall for Trey joke and put oyster sauce in the tart.

The gap between the Overblot and second unbirthday party probably be the they when Cater ask Daiya and gang to live up their light music club performance . The boys pick their club so do Daiya where she get to become the 4th member of Light music club. Grimm does not recruit in since they want alone time from each other and club activities doesn’t require magic…….may be Grimm would start his own Grimm sama club (unofficially club that Crowley just don’t wanna fuss about)

Book 2 happened during the official magift tournament between dorm. She got bully by everyone 😂 and often sulk in the club getting help from the 3 easy going senpai. Kalim start feeding her crazy (cuz Daiya eat Tamago gohan for as a coping mechanism from her stress 🤷‍♀️ and Kalim……being Kalim see his junior eat raw egg on rice = she is broken. Ofcause Kalim will try feed Daiya like that parrot in Alladin) so she likely know Jamil for a while (but not his true colours until Book 4) the 4 of them end up chit char in Scarabia. Lilia had been consulter (And probably psychiatrist too) for her so they grow closer. But he won’t know about Tsunotarou incident yet from both Mal and Daia.

Metting the Savannaclaw and face another overblot she start to realise that she’ll die if she still being the same. So around here instead of Book 3 she meet Mal for the second time. And she Copy Ruggie habit of athletic between the broom in Magift and likely ask Mal for help. Yeah……..the nick name little Crow start here cuz she hang on Mal broom while he playfully speed to the sky teasing her)

Then it should be nice where Bean day 1-2 happening: I think it’s the first time she stand up against other at the end of bean day. Where Rook start call her Trickster and Floyd call her starfish chan……..and likely during Bean day Lili could found out thing between Mal and Daia so he kinda plan on having Daia get close to all his boys especially Sebek. Since they close in year and they got opposite traits. That kind of smile at the end of Bean day might be something Briar Valley need hmm…….

(Idk if Bean day suppose to be Zetsubon in jp which should be happened in January right. And some say this could happen before Book 2 but for the development of my baby girl. It’s should be here)

Book 3 happened during first test right? (I grow up in very traditional school…..like 130+ year boarding school full of haunted story……similar to Ramshackle but better condition so idk how other school divide the test) so during the deal with Azul. A big commotion happen while the gang first visit the merfolk museum. Daia drowned…..well technically she not since Azul’s potion work perfectly fine but being under water stirred her memory so the Leech twin and Acdeuce combined drag her back. Riddle out burst to Azul and the light music club isn’t quite happy. Azul break off the deal since he was ensure to provide the potion but the potion is failing and he take full responsible in it. Ace Deuce Grimm go back in slavery work in Mostro lounge but Daia secretly go back to make a deal with Azul again. This time with secret guide by Mal and a help from Leona gang to do the same of what happened in Book 3

They live happily for a while in campus until they got bomb bath by Ghost marriage event. Daia is send with the second team to fakely cry to the princess that Idia is her lover but being too scared to she end up congratulating to the princess and stay as Idia’s guest instead…….fucking traitor 😂 Leona push her to move them into more comfortable positions and demanding thing around. Lilia also join in teasing and kinda have a good time. Almost ignore Idia until Ace team arrive to save the day. Then Lilia card story happens when he show off to Daia and get freak out by the price of Kalim’s treasure…..they almost get in a dance so Cater start aware of this two chemistry. He start to act as third wheel to make sure Lili doesn’t fully win the girl before Riddle.

May be another event take place here likely to be wish upon the star since Daia is closer to Deuce and Trey now. Ortho get to talk to Daia and they talk more about her amnesia symptoms. May be future event can be here as well cuz it’s sound like a big gap until the break

Daia & Riddle relationship probably at peak around here. It’s a wrong call from both end since Heartslabyul gang encouraged her too soon so everything fall apart before the break. They don’t get to clear thing up as much as they wish to. Thing between Mabu and Daia also get affect cuz she sulking and avoid the topic. And they part way on the break with all that angst

Book 4 happen on school break……so yeah except what happen in Scarabia. Jamil finally exploded with Daia habit of eating raw egg on rice 😂 in his point of view. He had to make extra potion for her since Kalim ask for it but instead of being grateful. This little shit go back to eat garbage food so he had enough. But does he still cook for her ..? Yes! But he doesn’t shut his mouth anymore. He even laugh if she get stomach cramps if she eat raw egg. So Daia learn how to shout back from Jamil lol in the most stupid way ever. Oh and Azul claim that whatever he own Daia is now clear off. They are in good terms

Mal card drop in my Lilia. He fully aware of their relationship now. Mal also accidentally become a consult for Daia staying in Twst. And encouraging her to take after Trappola and Spade to talk thing out….kinda like Sebek and Silver.

They make up and white rabbit fest happening introducing Silver to Daia.

Book 5 : it run for a month if I still correct…. I’m hesitant to put Harveston Sledathon here since I’m not sure if Vil will let Epel off for couple days. May be Daia and Epel need to beg hard and accept the consequences. But January should be a snowy month and it’s good for Daia to get to know Sebek too

Then another overblot happen. Tsunotarou identity revealed. And Lilia drop a bomb on her telling how he had a thing for her. I think what’s going on between Lilia and Daia. He was going to play match maker for Daia and one of his boys for a while. He thinks she’s adorable and her presence in Briar Valley is something he looking forward to. And Mal talk some sense into him. The girl already hesitated about belonging to twst since her break up? With Riddle. Mal barely hold her so whatever you want to do just do. Lilia confesses to her. He say he can wait since he had no idea his time is too short than what he had expected. And being selfish for once. Being honest for once isn’t that bad. Even if he plan to part way with her at some point before graduate. He can teach her a thing or two about love and being loved. Bonk him bonk himmmmmmm yeah Daia is very sweet to him then she will punch him at the end of book 7.

Book 6 : and happen right after book 5

Firelit sky : over the sand happen so I got a sibling moment between Mal and Daia here

And cloudcalling on the Savanna can be here to so Daia and Lilia get more time tgt before the nuclear bomb in book 7

Book 7 : so at the beginning Lilia broke up with Daia and about to leave forever in a week 😂 my girl fight back. She face 7 overblot and almost the end of the world. There is nothing to fear……..she ask to spend time with Lilia as his gf only to break down at the end and Mal know it. She is another reason why Mal overblot for sure. And regardless of how thing going in end of chapter 7. She will get her memory back and her relationship with Mal bloom into Big brother - Little sister thing. Unofficialpart of Diasomnia family at this point. But thing with Lilia oh please do i need to say that he need a lot of make up for it?? And after Book 7 she change her uniform. She finally wear that NRC girl uniform she get since book 1

(Idk where book 8 gonna be we have to wait)

Port fest happened here cuz I want my girl to team up with Ortho and open her Japanese traditional sweet shop.

Fairy Gala if (Sorry Leona your one not happen in this TL) I revisit the event recently and I think it’s quite nice to summarise the relationship between the 1st year. Othro had grown up as a person. Sebek is open up for friends that not from Briar Valley. Daia could lay back and be a supporter for once and the whole thing how she view Fae kin affect her relationship with Mal and Lili. Especially if Season 2 of Twst coming up in a few years (i hope)

Camp Vargus

Stitch event can happen here too cuz it’s kinda wrap up thing between Riddle and Daia.

Then All the Halloween is happen here. I want Halloween to be the end of their year

Masquerade first

Lost in the book with The nightmare before Christmas

Then Halloween 1-2

Playful land might be push further back between book 4 and 5 it’s not that affect and it’s give more event for Daia & Ace + Daia & Lilia

Cooking class would be scattered around all year so whatever it’s sound like an on going class…..

And whatever I rant about might be scrapped and rewrite to whatever I come up with again when I write it for real lol 😂

[cyandreamzaceattorney]

❀ Sister Iris ❀

A few days ago I felt like drawing Iris in this outfit and using some of my Acrylic inks. It was fun but I do want to do a digital version of this drawing at some point cuz I couldn't get the colours just right and I might also change up the shoes and other details for the digital version, idk for now as I don't plan on doing the digital version anytime soon :P

Rest of post contains AA3 and AA6 spoilers

Also I gave her a butterfly earring cuz I personally hc that pink butterflies are an important symbol to Kurain village, specifically to spirit mediums and come from Khura'in (cuz they do have the butterfly on a lot of things in Khura'in). To add to my hc, I like to think the pink butterflies are either associated with spirits, or are actuality spirits.

I tend to lean towards the later for my hc cuz we see a pink butterfly near Nahyuta in court (which makes sense since apart of his goal as a prosecutor is to give victims soul's salvation), pink butterflies appear when you get a not guilty verdict in Khura'in (and they even come from the Pool of Souls!) and Dahlia has multiple pink butterflies surround her when she acts sweet and wouldn't you know it, she's a known murderer (which adds a dark connotation to the butterflies that surround her)! But that's just a little pink butterfly fan theory of mind that is probably not very original as I doubt I'm the first person to make these links XD

[petrichor-idyllic]

Hiiii I'm back with another request. Minho x fem reader. So we are in the Glade and one day reader gets the idea for everyone to have a day of and play a game of capture the flag (if you dont know how to play that lets just play hide and seek). After BEGGING Alby for days he finally finds it a good idea and reader starts planning everything. The Gladers get put into two seperate teams while they play, Minho and reader leaders of each team CUZ WE'RE THE BEST OF THE BEST. Somehow in that game Minho and reader share some playful, aggressive, flirty, spicy/high tension moments that follow after the game as well as they get to talk about it later. Idk if it makes much sense but I'llleave the rest to your imagination ;)

YESSS I love me some flirty competition.

Also, sorry if I'm reusing gifs, this book does not get enough attention I stg.

FRIENDLY COMPETITION

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMERY: See above. Fem!Runner!Reader x Minho. Takes place before the arrival of Thomas. Based on the Glade layout in the Movies to make my life easier.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, spice content, some sexual tension (hopefully) and some good ol' competitive spirit.

It's finally happening.

Finally.

For the past few months, you've had the absolute perfect idea to raise spirits in the Glade.

It's simple but genuis- a game. And not just any game: Capture the Flag.

Alby kept saying that the Glade was fine, and that the Gladers didn't need a break- but after a particularly hard week, he caved.

Besides, if anyone could bring the Glade together and convince them to play along; it's you. Being the only girl means that the Gladers are practically climbing over each other to win your favour.

Sure, it can be kind of annoying and it greatly increases Alby's blood-pressure having to keep an eye on you. But, now that you're out in the Maze most days, having proved yourself worthy as a Runner, Alby sees you as Minho's problem more than his.

Not that Minho's complaining. He is your Keeper, after all.

He actually liked having you around. You push him to try harder, mainly because you're constantly reminding him that you're better than him. You are not better than him, you know that, but as long as Minho thinks someone is coming after his spot- he's going to try even harder.

Of course, Minho revels in the jealous looks and envy from the other Gladers for spending time with you. He enjoys seeing their faces when he comes back to the Maze, you by his side, having some kind of flirtationship about who actually got back first.

So, he might have a slight crush on you.

But, who doesn't?

Which is probably why when you brought your idea to him, he was surprisingly eager to join in.

You spent all week preparing. Including making war paint, coloured bandanas for the two teams, and, of course, the flags themselves.

Minho decides he's going to play team captain, making you both leaders of opposite sides. You'd be lying if you weren't excited.

Your competitive relationship is about to reach it's peak- and it's Minho. Come on, it's Minho. God, if he so much as looks at you with his dumb smirk for too long, your knees go weak and you want to dive on him then and there.

Yeah, you might have a thing for him. No one else has the balls to be as sarcastic or playful with you.

"Alright, you boys ready?" You stand in Council Hall, black bandana keeping your hair at bay with black stripes across your face and smeared around your eyes, creating a smokey eye effect.

You'd somehow managed to rope the other boys into it as well. Obviously, you have nearly half of the Glade on your team, but some notable members are Jeff, Gally and Frypan; with Newt, Winston and Zart choosing to side with Minho.

Alby has made the executive decision to dictate. Probably so he can make sure that no one gets injured in the flames of yours and Minho's fighting passion.

Whatever- you don't need them.

The flags are already hidden. The groups taking it in turns to find perfect places once you'd returned to the Glade for the day. You don't think the Runners have ever done their maps quicker.

You'd figured the most obvious place for a flag would be the Deadheads. And that's the first place your going to look. Minho might be quicker than you, but you're smarter.

So, obviously, you hide the black flag in a barn.

What? It's not like there's any rules saying you can't put the flags inside a building. And since one of the old barns isn't in use anymore since the Slicers opted to use more outside pens and a better constructed building nearer to the killing shack, there's an opportunity.

And you'd be a fool not to take it.

So, the Black flag is in the abandoned barn. And the White flag is yet to be found.

"Yes, ma'am," Gally responds, a lot of your team nodding in unison.

"We all know the plan?"

Another round of yes' and nods.

"Alright, let's do this!"

The rules are simple. The winner brings the opposing teams flag back to their territory. You've claimed Council Hall and the White team have the far corner, near the back of the Deadheads.

You made the choice to make the location of the flags unknown, mainly because Alby didn't want the whole thing to just be a massive fight. So, most of this is going to be trying to find the flags.

"You ready?" Alby pushes the door open and you grin at him.

"Shuck yeah."

You and your group let out war cries and chants as you make your way to the centre of the Glade. Night is starting to fall and with the Doors closed, it's all free game.

You're actually pleasantly surprised to see the other team has also gone along with you theatrics- mainly because Minho looks damn good.

He has similar fave paint to you, with the piece of white fabric tied to the belt hooks of his pants. He wears a simple tight black shirt with his signature backpack/harness. A change from his normal blue button-up.

He puts his fingers to his lips, letting out a loud wolf-whistle as you approach.

"You look good," he shouts, probably because you're wearing a tightish tank top that you normally leave for especially hot days.

"Likewise," you laugh. Your teams stand across from one another in the middle of the Glade. "You ready to lose?"

He scoffs, shaking his head, "Big words for a little girl."

"Don't try me."

"Alright," Alby already seems sick of this, even if he is hiding his amusement from watching his best Runners flirt. "You all know the rules- no violence, well, no bad violence at least, no playing dirty. And have fun- 'cause we ain't doin' this klunk again for a long time." He clears his throat. "Okay, let's get this over with. Three! Two! One! Go!"

You're not sure what Minho's plan is, but yours is cover as much ground as physically possible. Which is obvious when your entire team splits off in completely different directions. You all react so quickly that the White team doesn't move for a second.

Which is weird. But you know Minho is a tricky dude- you're not about to fall for it.

Your goal is, of course, the Deadheads, with Gally and a couple going in the same direction before cutting off. The woods are big, so it's good to have multiple pairs of eyes covering the ground.

Stumbling through the woods, you quickly come across the Map Room, which is the first place you decided to check out. Sure, Minho is smart enough to know this would be the first place you'd visit. So, he'd probably put the Whie flag there purely because he'd think you'd think it was too predictable.

Maybe you're reading too much into this.

Checking around the building, the door is very much locked. You look through the crack in the door and see nothing. You figured that putting the flag in the room is off the table since Alby would actually gut the Keeper if he dared turn their most important building into a game piece.

Realising this idea is dumb, you leave the Map Room be.

Making your way through the Deadheads, your heart jumps into your throat when you hear a twig snap. Spinning around, you hold you ground.

Suddenly, you are reminded of the very real threat of you being a girl alone in the woods in the dark.

"Hello?" Your voice wavers slightly. "Who's there?"

"Slim it, girly, who do you think?" The sound of Minho's voice as you turn and see him leaning against a tree eases you.

"Shuckin' hell, man, you tryna give me a heart attack?"

He shrugs. "If that's what it takes to win."

"There's no way I'm letting you win this."

"Oh, yeah?" He smirks, standing up straight.

"Yeah, you following me or some klunk?"

"I have better things to do," he scoffs.

"Doubt it." It takes you as second, but you realise that Minho came from the opposite way to you, which means he's either looking for your flag in here or- "wait, if you're here, and you're not following me, that means you're probably protecting your flag- then your flag has to be nearby."

Minho's face drops for a second. "You're think too much into that." You've known Minho for long enough that you can tell he's lying. His smooth facade slips and his voice becomes serious. Normally, he'd just laugh it off and call you the Glade equivalent to a dumbass.

But, not here. He's become visibly tense.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah."

"So, you won't mind if I... look around?" His jaw tenses, and he remains quiet. "'Cause I think I'm just gonna..."

With no warning, you break into a sprint, slipping past him before he gets a chance to catch you.

Though, you figure you're right when you hear Minho quick to run after you.

Ah shit.

Okay, so, you've raced Minho hundreds of times- more than you can count. But being chased by him?

That's terrifying.

Minho is absolutely faster than you. He's faster than everyone, and you suspect that even in your playful races, he's going easy on you.

But he's not now.

You shriek as he dives into you, sending you oth crashing to the forest floor. You roll a few feet, landing away from Minho as you mainly tripped with him flying over you.

After the initial shock, you scramble up, kicking leaves from under you. Minho is quick to do the same, and you adjust your stance; hands loose and protecting your face, one leg behind you.

Minho scoffs when he realises what you're doing- ready to fight him. He loosely shakes his arms, his smirk playful and full of sparks.

Despite how he's looking at you like a piece of meat, you can't afford to get distracted.

Lunging forward, he blocks you easily. You duck and swing like your life depends on it, catching yourself as you miss and fumble to the side.

You dive again, attmept to kick him, which he blocks, before trying to to punch him. Almost effortlessly, he grabs your wrist, taking you by surprise. It takes minimal effort from him to push you back, somehow managing to grab your other wrist and twisting it into his already used hand, leaving both your arms in the grip of one of his toned hands.

Your back hits the tree before you can even process what's happening, making you gasp at the contact. He pins your arms above your head, firmly holding you in place.

"You didn't seriously think you'd beat me, right?" His tone is dangerously calm and he's far too closer. Closer than he's ever dared be before.

You open your mouth, trying to think of anything to say, but heat beats against your skin as the moonlight breaks through the trees. The noise you make is a strange breathy hum, and Minho's grip loosens for a second when your eyes land on his lips.

Oh, God.

Minho can feel any power he had to begin with, slipping through his fingers when you look at him like that. Your dark-lined doe eyes make his heart beat faster, and it's such a subtle change but he's never seen you like this- so vulnerble; so under his control.

No words are exchanged as he leans closer. He can't help it, he's drawn to you. His grip almost loosens completely as his other hand brushes against your waist, sending a whole new wave of butterflies through you.

"Minho," you mumble and he swallows.

"Don't do that," he mutters equally as quiet, "don't say my name like that."

"How else would you like me to say it?"

He lets out a heavy breath. "Am I going to regret this?" It's obvious what he referring to, but you have a plan.

"Only one way to find out." He takes this as a yes, leaning further into you.

His lips ghost yours. But his grip is gone.

And you have a game to win. No matter how intoxicating Minho may be. Instead of leaning forward and kissing him, you rip hands away from him, shoving him hard in the chest.

Since you've taken him completely by surprise, he stumbles over himself and a branch, landing flat on his back.

You make no hesitation to make a real for it. Sprinting through the forest, you're kind of just running away from Minho over anything else. Looking over your shoulder like you're trapped in a horror movie, when in reality, everything in your body is screaming at you to turn around and rip Minho's clothes off.

Not fully paying attention, your foot snags on a tree root, sending you flying forward and down a hill. You plummet down, rolling and hitting the ground multiple times.

"Ah, fuck," you hiss, any pleasure from you interaction with Minho fading from your senses in an instant, immediately replaced with aching pain all over your body.

Forcing yourself to sit up and stop your head from spinning, you blink, before laughing outland to yourself.

In front of you, in all its glory, is the White flag, sticking out of the ground at a crooked angle. You struggle to stand up, limping slightly, grabbing the wooden handle and yanking the flag out of its spot in the mud.

Your victory is short-lived as crashing noises and snapping branches startle you, forcing you to retort to your defensive stance. It can't be Minho- unless he can teleport and sprint at you from the other direction.

That's made apparent when Gally comes thrashing through the greenery, falling into the greenery.

"Gally!" You hiss. "What the shuck, man?" He stares at you in awe, pointing at you, blinking as you approach, trying to keep your voice down as Minho could he close.

"You got the flag?"

It's now your turn to blink. "I got the flag."

"You got the flag!" You both laugh, high-fiving and pulling him to bump chests.

Then leaves crunch behind you.

"We should go." You state.

"Yeah, gotta go."

The pair of you start making your way out of the Deadheads, which goes about as well as you'd expect when you break through the greenery and someone on the White team immediately noticed.

"Hey!" They've got the flag!"

Fuck.

"Go! Go! Go!" You push Gally forward.

"I'm going! I'm going!"

All you have to do is get back to Council Hall. Easy- surely.

The pair of you start to book it through the open Glade, stumbling slightly and trying to dodge the White team from all angles.

Somehow, with an entire army behind you, you and Gally manage to cover solid ground. You're both very close to the Council Hall when you're rugby tackled from the left.

"(Y/N)!" Gally shouts your name as you're, once again, plastered to the floor, only for him to follow your lead.

You manage to shove the Glader off, kneeling him in the groin, scrambling on your hands and knees to grab the flag. Getting to your feet, you jump out of your skin when Minho blocks your way to the open door of Council Hall.

"Shit."

"Yeah," he swallows, looking like he's ready to pounce on you, "shit."

He's mad. God, is he mad. Though, he's also experiencing new frustrations more than he ever has before.

"Throw it!" Gally shouts, managing to just about stop someone from choking him. "Throw the shuckin' flag!"

Dipping to the side and swerving Minho, you javelin throw the flag, sending it flying straight through the doors.

You stand in shock, Minho staring at the door. Silence fills the Glade for a second before you hear Frypan cheer.

The entire Black team's chants and cheering echo off of the walls as Gally walks up to you.

"We won!" He laughs, throwing his arms around you as you hug him back, letting out a hearty laugh before Frypan, Jeff and some other team members join in.

They start cheating your name, the other team groaning but begrudgingly coming over to congratulate you.

You're too swept into your victory to even get a chance to talk to Minho until you're deep into your celebrations.

A bit tipsy, with enough liquid confidence to face him, you walk over. He's sat on his own, staring into the flames of the Celebratory Bonfire, a glass jar in his hands.

It's no shock to anyone that he's thinking about the evening's events. Mainly your interaction in the Deadheads.

He can't get it out of his head- the way you looked at him, lips parted, chest rising and falling, your hands held above your head; even just thinking about it is making his head go fuzzy.

"Hey," he's sucked out of his thoughts of you by, well, you as you approach him from behind.

"Hi," he sounds a mix of intrigued and irritated, like he wants to hear what you have to say- preferably an explanation.

"Figured I should come over," you say honestly as you swing your leg over the side of the log, straddling it as you face him.

"Did you, now?" His bitterness is painfully obvious and you roll your eyes.

"You're mad at me."

"Who said that?"

"No one had to say anything- you're sat here pouting and haven't spoken to me."

He scoffs, dropping his head. "I'm not pouting- I- I'm not even mad." He laughs, more at himself than you. "I can't believe I fell for it- shuck, that's the kinda klunk I'd pull if I could. I just- I didn't expect that from you. Still a dirty trick, though."

You suddenly feel anxious. "I didn't- it wasn't meant to be a trick." You stutter over your words, basically mumbling the last part as you drop your gaze, avoiding his.

"What?" He blinks at you and you shake your head.

"Doesn't matter- what did you think of my hiding place?" You change the subject, forcing a wicked grin to avoid the burning feeling you're starting to feel in your face.

"What do you mean?" He takes the bait, not wanting the awkward conversation anymore than you do- but he doesn't have a clue what you're talking about.

"The Black flag? What did you think of my hiding spot?" Minho falls silent, his face dropping before turning into a sheepish grin, which tells you more than enough. "Oh, my God- you didn't find it, did you?"

"W-well, I didn't- I wasn't-!"

You let out a loud laugh. "Oh, my God," you repeat, "you don't know where it is!"

"I wasn't looking for the shuckin' flag! That was meant to me Newt's job- I was just tryna guard ours since I figured you'd go straight on the offensive."

"So, Newt didn't find it then?"

"'Course he shuckin' didn't." You snort at this. "Where is it then? Hm? Where've you hidden it, oh mysterious one?"

You stand up, swinging your other leg over and smiling down at him. "I think it's better if I show you- c'mon."

Minho shakes his head, downing the rest of his drink, but he stands up, jogging to catch up with you as you walk away.

You lead him further through the Glade, your lack of presence not going unnoticed by the Gladers; especially Newt who forced Minho to explain why they lost.

Leading him to the old farm area, it's hard to see in the darkness, but you can still make out his puzzled expression. You grin devilishly as you reach the old barn, pushing open the door and playfully bowing.

The hole on the roof lets the moonlight, illuminating the ink-dark fabric of your skillfully crafted trophy.

"You gotta be shuckin' kidding me," he grumbles as he walks past you, towards the fall that takes pride of place, sticking out of a pile of old hay in the middle of the room. "The abandoned barn? Seriously?" He walks backwards, having spun around to face you.

"Yes, Sir," you joke as follow him, the loose door slamming behind you without your weight on it.

"Sneaky son of a bitch," Minho laughs to himself. "I woulda never thought of this." He turns back around, walking closer to the flag.

"I know," you skip after him, slipping your hands into the back pockets of your baggy pants as you rock on your heel once you reach him. "'That's why I did it. You might have the looks, Boss, but I've got the brain." You playfully point at your temple as he glances at you out of the corner of his eye.

"You think I've got the looks?" You blink at him, his tone now flirty.

"That's not what I meant," you're quick to take it back.

"Oh, yeah?" He turns towards you stepping forward, and you refuse to be a coward and step back, so you hold your ground. "What? Just another dirty trick then, hm?"

You grimace. "It wasn't a dirty trick."

He steps closer. "What was it then?"

"That wasn't meant to happen," your voice lowers as your breath hitches, feeling that same powerlessness you experiences before, except he's yet to lay a single finger on you. "That wasn't planned."

"That doesn't answer my question, does it?"

"Minho.."

"I've already warned you about that."

"About what?"

"Saying my name like... that. Looking at me like that; I can't take it." He closes his eyes, throwing his head back and taking a deep breath.

"What are you trying to say here?"

"You're joking, right?" He pulls his head back to look at you again. "Do you seriously expect me to spend every day with you- competing, flirting, challenging me, and for me to not be attracted to you? I thought I made that pretty obvious." A beat passes as you try to process the new situation you're in.

"You have no idea how it feels watching every guy here want you, blindly listen to you, just because they'd do anything to have you- when I'm just as bad. But I know you, better than any of these shanks do. You don't want someone who will bend to your will and worship the ground you walk on; you want someone that'll push back a bit, someone who will give what they can take. Right? Because I don't know what to do anymore and if you hadn't made a break for it earlier, I would've, I could've- I don't know what I- shuck it! We wouldn't be friends anymore, that's for sure."

You've seen Minho like this. You never heard Minho like this. He sounds almost desperate, his voice is deep, and you can smell the musky scent of earth and natural soap off of him.

"I don't even know what I'm saying here. I don't wanna mess this up but I cant fucking take this anymore. I just-"

You cave, leaning in and silencing him as you lips press to his. It's a quick peck more than anything as you pull away again. "You talk too much," you mutter.

His Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, eyes dipping into you before he pushes forward. Kissing you again, his hands fly to your waist, pulling you close and making you gasp.

Your hands come to his hair, allowing him to grasp at you, his fingers kneading into the skin of your hips under your shirt. He pushes you backwards, hitting your back against one of the fragile beams.

His tongue brushes against your bottom lip, and you part yours in response, allowing your tongues to brush for a second. You repeat the motion, the make-out session becoming more hungry and needy. You drop your arms, pulling at the hem of his shirt instead but he grabs your wrists, pinning them above your head once again.

He leaves your lips, making you whimper as he feathers kisses up your jaw, coming up to your ear. He kisses your tragus, letting himself move further down and pulling your lobe between his teeth. You let out a gasp, arching into him before he suddenly sinks his teeth into your neck.

Well, sinks is too strong of a word, but his teeth brush against the sensitive flesh as he kisses it before starting to suck on it, undoubtedly marking you- almost like he's claiming you.

He repeats the action as he moves further down.

Your eyes flicker around, and for some reason, the hay and the slight breeze and the still-standing flag makes you chuckle.

"What?" His breathing is heavy and his voice is rough and scratchy, but he continues.

"Minho?" You properly get his attention, sounding equally as drunk on lust.

"Yeah?"

"We're not having sex in a barn."

He freezes, pulling away from your neck as he blinks at you. "Huh?"

"We are not having sex in a barn," you repeat, starting to smile slightly.

"Right, yeah," he seems to come to his senses, releasing your wrists before he snorts. You can't help but laugh too, resulting in the pair of you giggling in the middle of the empty room.

"Shuck," he mumbles, "the hell's gotten into me?" This makes you giggle more, then you leans forward again, pecking him on the lips as you drape your arms around his shoulders, and he lets his fall to your waist.

"Though, we... we could go to my hut?" You bite your bottom lip as a sly smirk starts to creep across his face.

"Yeah? You sure?"

You nod. "Couldn't be more so."

Yooo, back again with some Minho spice. This was really fun to write and I love writing some tense flirty competition- which of course means I want to write an Enemies to Lovers with Minho but I don't quite have the idea. Any suggestions?

Anyway, I hope you enjoyed :))

[dwindlinghaze]

Hiii ur writing is sooo good

I was wondering if u could do a Remus x reader who is James sister and she falls for the first time she sees him and just like a fluff kinda thing idk but I was thinking and it sounds cute 🤷🏽

no worries if u don’t wanna write this but if u do thanks you write him so well 💗

hi!! tysm for requesting! i hope you like this! sending lots of love 🤍🌸🫧🪽

the light is coming

(remus lupin x potter!reader)

contents : fluff, pining

　 . • ☆ . ° .• °:. *₊ ° . ☆

"james! where are we going?" you squeezed his arms, leaving white prints on his skin.

"ow- we're going to meet my friends," james answered, pushing through the crowds in diagon alley.

"i've meet them before," you replied with a huff. you wanted to see them actually, since your pretty crush is a part of his friend group, but you weren't going to show it. playing it cool.

"but you've never met them," he emphasised.

it's true. just sharing smiles and waves when you passes them in the hallway. you were younger than them so your schedules were different.

"so... here's my sister!" james happily introduced you to his friends once you entered a coffee shop where his friends were.

"this is sirius," he pointed to the infamous hogwart's handsome boy with eyes so grey and cool. he wore a black leather jacket with shiny chains decorated within them.

you sent sirius an awkward smile. the thing is, you were scared of meeting them in person, face-to-face. not because they intimidated you, but because you were never really comfortable with the presence of men around you. you knew deep down that james' friends are friendly and fun but that fear doesn't go isolated.

"this is remus," james tilted his head to the boy standing closest to him. he wears a green coloured sweater, even though it's the summer. you noticed this of course, he never took his jumpers off. his hair was the perfect shade of golden blonde, eyes as green as a comet in the sky. he wore a macrame bracelet that his mom probably made for him.

he has a different aura. you actually might be comfortable with him overtime. his gaze so friendly and warm, despite his scruffy exterior. you thought you might actually blush when he sent you the prettiest smile known to men.

"and here's peter," james patted peter's shoulder. he was shorter than all of them. he seemed kind and polite. wearing an outdated cardigan with the edges a bit worn out.

"lovely to see you guys," you chuckled, sending a happy smile. and in return, you got warm greetings back.

"let's go to the quidditch store!" james announced, dragging you and sirius by the arms.

your brother and sirius were in a deep conversation about quidditch that you ncould never understand so you wiggle yourself out of his grasp. preferring to walk behind them along with remus and peter who were having a peaceful time admiring the wizardry architectures.

your pace slowed down, meeting with the two. a part of you also just wanted to be closer to remus. he welcomed you by smiling at you with the kindest eyes. leaving your heart hammering. maybe it was a bad idea to leave james 'cause now you're in this messy situation.

"hey," remus started softly, not wanting to scare you off. "how you're enjoying your summer?"

"hmm good, how about you?" you replied, finding it hard to create a complete sentence.

"it was fine, missing school though. wait- i meant friends- james sirius peter not like i'm a school-lover or anything," remus let out a nervous laugh, tips of his ears turning a shade of red.

"yeah i totally understand that. i miss my friends too," you smiled at him warmly. "did you do anything exciting?" you asked.

"no, not really. you?" he looked so focused at you to the point that you think you might disappear.

"uh i just.. went to the beach s'all, nothing really exciting. i guess when we grow older, the things we find exciting isn't much fun anymore," you shrugged, still keeping your eyes away from him.

a few seconds later, he pulled your shoulder to himself, making you gasp reluctantly. he did that so you wouldn't hit the person who was carrying a trolley. how convenient.

that simple gesture made your heart beaten twice as fast. your long time crush was holding you?

"oh i'm so so sorry," remus pulled his hand away, sending apologetic eyes. "i- i didn't want you to hit him so i pulled you, i'm so sorry!"

"that's okay remus, i appreciate what you did," you smiled softly. "can i call you that?" you asked.

"you can call me anything," he smiled.

you two bonded together overtime. he is becoming your best friend in the whole entire world.

he asks about your day. he opens doors for you. he asks what is your favourite breakfast menu were so he can save it for you. he pulls out chairs for you to sit.

"i've been seeing funky things about you and moony," james said one day.

"what funky things?"

"as if you two were in love...?" james quirked his eyebrows up.

"we're not," you huffed, feeling your ears turning warm.

james looked at you suspiciously, "y'know you can tell anything to me. i won't let remus knows that you're in love with him, promise."

"i'm not!," you defended. though you think you were.

"you are! i can see it. y'know i'm really glad it's remus who you've fallen for because he's a good guy. the only one i'd let you be in a relationship with."

"james stop that. i'm not in love with him, he wouldn't love me anyway."

"oh you're so wrong about that!" james said before he left you to his quidditch practice.

remus did everything right. starting from little things to big gestures like this one.

you were sitting on the grass besides the black lake with a carpet under you. seeing the waters shining and glimmering.

it has been a routine for the both of you to sit here every friday, talking about literally anything and everything.

surrounding you were pretty wild flowers, matching your florally dress that you wore today.

it would be a lie to say that remus wasn't in awe of your appearance. your hair were shining under the warm light of the sunset. everything was perfect today.

"is this okay?" he asked, wrapping both of his arms around you from the back as you stared into the big wide lake. he just wanted to be close to you. to feel you. hug you.

your stomach was flipping, feeling his gentle touch. "yeah, you're so warm," you cuddled into him as he nuzzled his face to your neck.

he swore he's going to ask you to be his girlfriend soon. it's inevitable. he feels it.

[niki-phoria]

‧₊˚✩ chishiya, arisu and kuina reaction to their s/o doing their makeup

warnings: ooc chishiya, might edit and change kuina's later idk, this is just fluff there are no games or anything they're just cute

gn! reader (no pronouns used)

reblogs (with feedback) >>> likes

‧₊˚✩ chishiya

(word count 230) look at how pretty he is omg

chishiya poorly stifles a chuckle as you brush the liquid against his eye, slightly pulling away from you. “stop moving,” you complain, hand holding his face in place. 

“it feels weird,” he says. “how do you do this everyday?” 

you shift from your position on his lap as you lean in a little closer. chishiya’s hands ghost against your hips, holding you in place. “the sooner you stop moving the sooner you can take it off.” you tilt his head to the side to get a better angle. “close your eyes.” 

despite his complaints, chishiya relents, lifting his head and letting you work. his skin is soft as you press your hand against his jaw. his eyes stay closed when you pull back. you take the time to admire him. his bangs are pushed back behind his ears, framing his face. his jacket is only partially zipped up, part of his chest and collarbones visible. 

you put the cap back on the eyeliner, setting it aside on your bed. chishiya’s eyes blink open as you hold his chin to turn his face from side to side. “done?” he asks.

“done.” chishiya smirks, wrapping his arms around your waist and pulling you down to sit fully on his lap. you laugh, wrapping your arms around his shoulders. “you’re so pretty.” 

chishiya leans up to press his lips against yours. “you’re prettier.” 

‧₊˚✩ arisu

(word count 298)

arisu laughs as you brush the power against the corner of his eye. you stifle a chuckle of your own, pulling the brush away from him. “stop laughing,” you whine. 

“i can’t help it!” he whines. “it tickles.” 

you shake your head and move to sit up on your knees. you nudge his knees apart, gently pushing him back to make room on his lap. your knees press into the mattress on either side of his hips as you lean over him. arisu looks up at you, blushing. “what are you doing?” 

“your makeup,” you say. arisu’s blush deepens, ears burning a fiery red and cheeks a light pink. you pretend to not see it and continue applying the eyeshadow to his face. 

you’re so focused on blending out the different shades of brown that you don’t notice arisu’s hands awkwardly resting on your waist. his hands are warm as they press against your body. his blush is still painfully visible as you set the brush aside, careful not to let the makeup touch your white sheets. 

you bring your hand up to his cheek, stroking your thumb against the skin. arisu opens his eyes, blinking up at you. you smile, leaning down a little. “do i make you nervous, arisu?” 

“n-no,” he stammers. you smirk, leaning down even further to press your forehead against his. 

“are you sure?” 

“y/n,” he whispers. 

“i like you, arisu.” his eyes widen as he stares up at you. his grip on your waist tightens a little. 

“i like you too.” 

“can i kiss you?” arisu’s blush deepens even more as he nods a little, closing his eyes before you gently press your lips against his. he smiles a little when you pull away, pressing another quick kiss against your cheek.

‧₊˚✩ kuina

(word count 270)

kuina’s hands gently press against your thighs as you lean over her. the blue eyeshadow is vibrant against her skin as you buff the colour out. you lean back up on your knees as she blinks up at you. the moment feels more intimate than it should be. your knees are on either side of her hips, bare skin against hers. 

“does it look good?” she asks. you move off of her, making room so she can sit up. you lean over to grab your phone, unlocking it before handing it to her. kuina shifts to raise the phone up, closing her eyes and snapping a quick picture of the makeup. “oh wow, it looks beautiful!” she smiles. 

“you think so?” kuina nods before gasping. 

“we should add glitter!” you chuckle at her enthusiasm, letting her look through your various eyeshadow palettes. “ooh, this one is pretty.” she picks out a light blue glitter, looking over her shoulder at you. “what do you think?” 

you lean over her shoulder, glancing between the palette and her makeup. “it’s pretty,” you say. “let’s test it out.” 

kuina excitedly sits across from you as you carefully press the glitter against her eyelid, blending it into the rest of her makeup. when you pull away she eagerly pulls your phone out again, taking another picture to check how it looks. 

“it looks great!” she smiles, throwing her arms around you and pulling you into a hug. kuina presses a kiss to your cheek. “thank you!” 

you hope she doesn’t notice how flustered you are as you wrap your arms around her waist. “of course.”

[babypinkbruno]

Blind Date Drabble pairing: Bruno Bucciarati x fem!reader word count: 3239

warnings: none!

notes: may become a chaptered deal... also on my ao3! this has not been beta read lol i'm too tired. maybe you'll like it, idk. i love him anyway and enjoyed writing this even though i desperately need to sleep. hehe.

It is ridiculous, Yn thinks to herself. This is so stupid. ‘Quit stressing – you look hot.’ Next to her Mista sips on a canned drink, eyeing her appreciatively. ‘Do I really need this?’ Yn asks, hesitantly.

‘You asked us to set you up with someone,’ Mista shrugs. ‘He’s a really nice guy, we promise – right, Fugo?’ he yells down the hall.

Fugo’s voice floats back. ‘I took no part in organising this!’ Yn laughs, rolling her eyes. She turns back to the standing mirror she is sitting cross legged in front of, getting herself ready, smoothing and fluffing her hair in the right places. ‘You sure it’s not too much? Do you know where I’m meeting him?’

‘Sure, I do. In fact, I’ll drive you.’ Yn grins, the anxiety melting away slightly. Though she is hesitant, it is true, she did throw the idea out there to her friends that maybe they knew a single guy who might be interested in going on a blind date… Though she recalls that conversation being held when she was very drunk. ‘You want a drink to calm your nerves?’ ‘I am not pregaming a date,’ Yn says firmly, with a wry smile. ‘I just hope that he’s hot enough to make me forget about Bruno…’

‘Suit yourself,’ Mista grins slyly. ‘I’m sure he’ll order you a glass of wine, or something. Or an entire bottle.’ He pauses thoughtfully. ‘And you don’t need to worry about Bucciarati – trust me. It’ll be fine.’ An hour later, Mista pulls up outside a rather low-key building. The lovely architecture is old, beige coloured stone with very minimal windows showing the inside of the establishment. As Yn steps out of the car, she notices there are two bouncers dressed immaculately. A few tables are set up outside underneath an awning, with patrons relaxing, nursing cigarettes and drinks in crystal glasses. Yn looks back at Mista, peering through the open window of his car. ‘You sure this is the place? It looks… intimate. Fancier than I’m used to.’ Mista grins. ‘It’s definitely the place. He’s inside,’ he says, glancing at his phone. ‘Have fun, baby girl.’ Yn smiles weakly, suddenly nervous. She gives her friend a wave as he heads off down the road. Once the lights of his car have disappeared, she takes a deep breath and heads toward the entrance of the establishment. She is not even sure what kind of place this is. Is it a bar? A club? A restaurant? All of the above? The bouncers greet her kindly but absently, scrutinizing her ID and then waving her in. Yn notices the way they give each other a knowing glance and she wonders what the hell was up with that. Before she can wonder further, she is distracted by the sound of a jazz band playing. She walks up the few steps into the building, suddenly breathless by how lavishly decorated the interior is compared to the outside.

Wall sconces cast a golden glow all over the walls, candles on every table, and a glittering chandelier hangs in the middle of what looks like a cosy dance floor. The jazz band plays softly at the end of the establishment, each member dressed smartly in 1950s style suits.

There must be around fifteen tables, pushed to the edges of the interior, up against the walls decorated with paintings and photographs. Yn notices a second story, like balconies at a theatre. She catches a glimpse of other tables and patrons watching the band play from high up.

Yn turns to the maitre d, anxiously, feeling somewhat out of her depth. She gives her name to the man, and he smiles at her warmly, that same knowing glint in his eye as was in the eyes of the bouncers.

‘Right this way, signorina.’ He leads her to a table tucked near the corner, close to the bar, and her heart lurches when she sees who sits there, waiting patiently for her.

In fact, Yn almost spins on her heel and leaves. Her heart races, pounding loud in her ears. Bruno Bucciarati – her boss, the one guy she was trying to not crush on – stands up, surprise flickering across his pretty features. He smooths his shirt. He has dressed somewhat more casually yet looks pristine in a dark coloured button up shirt, paired with darker trousers, neatly pressed. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, the top two buttons of his shirt left undone. Bruno smiles softly at Yn, and she catches the way his eyebrows slightly crease upward – he’s nervous… The maitre d leaves them, smiling to himself as if it is the most entertaining thing he has ever seen.  Yn’s mouth opens and closes like a fish, words unable to escape her mouth, her cheeks warming, ‘What are you–’ ‘You look—’ Yn and Bruno look at each other, accidentally speaking at the same time. Then, they laugh. At first, gently, then, as if it were something unbearably funny, they laugh harder. Bruno turns away, covering his mouth with his hand, his laughter effectively melting away any nerves between them. He gestures to the seat nearest his, so she can see the band without having to turn around in her seat. Yn smiles and sits down, smoothing her dress. ‘This is terribly unexpected.

Bruno nods, a chuckle escaping his lips. Yn notices the pink dusting his cheeks, and wonders if he is embarrassed because he is happy that  it is her who arrived, or if it is because he is disappointed. ‘I’m sorry, if you were hoping for someone else… At least, we can enjoy, um, hanging out, right?’

Bruno looks at her, surprised. ‘What do you– I’m pleased it’s you.’ ‘O-oh.’ The two of them stare at each other for a moment, the laughter from earlier threatening to bubble up again.

Yn laughs lightly and she looks round at the bar. ‘I, um, need a drink.’ ‘It’s not so unbearable that you need to drown your sorrows already, is it?’ Bruno jokes, the slightest hint of worry in his voice. Yn shakes her head profusely. ‘No! It’s just been a long day.’ Bruno looks at her, understanding. He slides her the menu – a thick bound book with the word “menu” embossed in gold on the cover. ‘You can tell me all about it over your favourite drink,’ he says kindly. Butterflies flutter dangerously in her chest as she meets his gaze – those bright eyes, as warm as a sunshiny summer’s day. She manages to drag her gaze away from his and to the menu, flicking through the pages. Finally, she chooses a familiar wine, and Bruno beckons the waiter over, his smooth ordering for the two of them. ‘So, you didn’t know it was me?’ Bruno says, a small smile tugging at his mouth. Yn blushes and avoids his eyes. ‘I– no, I had no idea, Mista did not tell me a single thing.’

Bruno lets out a soft laugh. ‘Are you disappointed?’

Yn shoots him a confused glance. ‘Not at all–’

The waiter cuts her off, delivering their wine.

Bruno thanks him with a smile and gently places Yn’s glass in front of her, the wine reflecting the flickering of candles placed around the room. ‘Shall we toast?’

Yn regards him curiously. ‘Toast to what?’

Bruno pouts thoughtfully, watching her sniff at the wine. ‘To our companionship? And our dear friends’ mischievous meddling?’

Yn rolls her eyes playfully. ‘Mista’s gonna get a smack later, I tell you.’ She raises her glass to clink against his. ‘To companionship, and our meddling pals.’

They drink quietly, surveying the taste as it lingers in their mouths.

Yn watches Bruno carefully, her heart racing in her chest. How the fuck did Mista get Bruno to agree to a date? And with her? She cannot believe that after months of pining for her boss, she is finally sitting next to him… on a date. Mista must have gotten sick of hearing her whine about how much she likes him… Yn thinks to herself, embarrassed.

Bruno notices how pink her cheeks are. ‘Are you okay? Is it too warm in here?’

‘Oh! No, I–’ Yn says, shrugging out of her coat, letting it drape over the chair next to her. She wears a neat dress, with short sleeves, the satin skirt falling to her mid thigh. Yn notices how Bruno averts his eyes, clearing his throat. ‘Sorry, I didn’t know what venue I’d be going to, so I just put on what I thought would fit with… most date places…’

Bruno shakes his head, suddenly worried.. ‘You look beautiful.’

Yn holds his gaze, the air between them seems to crackle with electricity. She looks away before she can say something stupid, and takes a sip of her wine.

Bruno smiles softly, his cheeks still pink. ‘Tell me about your day?’

‘Well, it’s not… interesting at all,’ Yn says. ‘Just went to work, pretended to be a barista.’

‘Do you not find the cafe interesting at all?’ Bruno asks curiously, resting his chin in his palm.

‘Well… Sometimes. I can’t say I enjoy all of it. Don’t get me wrong, I know I’m extremely privileged to have a job, I just would rather, you know, be out there with you guys, on a mission.’ Yn shrugs, sipping her wine, enjoying the way her mind starts to feel fuzzy.

‘At least you’re grateful, though I’m not sorry that there hasn’t been more action available for you at the moment,’ Bruno says. ‘I like it when you’re safe in class rather than out there roughing people up.’

Yn blushes at his words, her heart skipping a beat as he admits he is glad she is not out there facing danger every day. ‘How was your day?’ She asks, changing the subject.

Bruno thinks for a moment. ‘Tiresome – reports, supplies, the usual check ups on our establishments’ He speaks softly.

Yn finds herself captivated by them, his tanned skin looking soft but calloused where it is evident that his hands had been busy. She wonders how they might feel, grasping her thighs and— stop. It’s not like that.

She shakes her head slightly, pushing aside her filthy thoughts. ‘But, now it’s time to relax,’ he says, smiling at her. He sips at his wine, watching her intently.

‘True,’ she replies, mirroring him and sipping her wine. ‘This place is beautiful. Do you come here often?’

‘Not often, no.’ He places his wine glass down on the table, and stands, offering her his hand. ‘Would you like to dance?’

Yn looks at him rather surprised. ‘Yes, I– I would like to, but I don’t know if I’ll be any good.’

Bruno shrugs. ‘It’s not a competition, we’re here to have fun.’

Yn quickly drains her glass, the last mouthful of wine better act as her courage, she thinks. She accepts his hand, her heart fluttering as she looks up at him and is met with his toothy smile. She was right, his hands are soft.

Bruno leads her down a few steps and into the open space in front of the band. He places a gentle hand on her waist and holds her other hand close in his. He looks down at her, his soft expression reassuring her nerves. ‘Don’t worry, just follow the music,’ he whispers low into her ear.

She shivers as his voice meets her ear, his breath sweet on her skin. She nods, swallowing nervously.

The music is gentle and Yn finds herself enjoying dancing so much more than she thought she would 

For what feels like half an evening, Yn is swayed on the dance floor. At first awkwardly, but then as the music progresses, she grows more comfortable, even going as far as to rest her forehead on his chest. She can feel how Bruno’s heart beats hard against his chest, and her own flutters at the thought.

She wonders if there is any chance that… No. Of course not. They��re… friends. They’re superior and subordinate. Boss, and employee. It is impossible to be anything more, she thinks to herself.

‘Hey, Yn,’ Bruno’s voice is low in her ear. ‘Are you alright? You’ve– you’re not moving.’

Yn suddenly snaps out of her daze, opening her eyes and looking up at him.

Bruno meets her gaze with surprise, worry furrowing his brow. He reaches to her cheeks, wiping away a tear that had rolled down her cheek. His lovely blue eyes search her face. ‘What’s happened?’

‘I–I’m fine,’ Yn half-lies. Her heart races as she stares back into his eyes, desperately resisting glancing at his lips. ‘Just thirsty,’ she murmurs.

Bruno hesitates before intertwining his fingers with hers and leading her back to her seat at their table. He disappears to the bar and returns with glasses of water. ‘Please drink.’

Yn accepts the water glass gratefully, swallowing the cool liquid quickly.

A moment passes as the two of them are quiet.

‘Are you–’ Bruno begins, before he is cut off by a message buzzing from his phone. He withdraws it from his pocket, opens it, and frowns.

Yn watches patiently, willing the butterflies in her belly to stop. Disappointment feels better than this horrible hope that he likes me back, she thinks.

‘What is it?’ She asks.

Bruno closes the phone and places it back in his pocket. ‘It was nothing that can’t wait until tomorrow.’

‘Was it work related?

Bruno falters slightly. ‘It was. Why?’

Yn does not respond. She knows he is busy, she knows she is lucky to be here with him right now, on this… whatever this is. But it was their work that made this completely inappropriate. The reminder stung.

‘Bruno,’ Yn begins, taking a deep breath. ‘Do you– would you ever…’

Bruno watches her patiently, his eyes flickering to her hands and to her face.

‘Do you think you’ll ever, like, properly date anyone…? Yn asks, feeling silly for even asking. ‘I mean, everyone in the neighbourhood knows you, like personally… Women love you…’ She trails off.

Bruno leans back in his chair, thoughtfully, an emotion Yn does not recognise flickers over his features. ‘I might.’

Yn looks at him expectantly. ‘Why did you agree to go on a blind date?’

‘Because Mista told me it would be you.’

It feels as though the air has warmed by several degrees.  Yn looks at Bruno, letting the information sink in. He knew it would be her? And he still…?

‘You knew?’

Bruno nods, frowning slightly. ‘I thought you knew as well. I never mentioned it because Mista told me you were embarrassed about it.’

That fucker… She thinks.

‘Well, I…’

Bruno takes a deep breath. ‘Listen…’ he says slowly, placing a gentle hand on her hand. ‘If you’re uncomfortable, try not to worry about it. Who says friends can’t enjoy each other’s company?’

Yn looks at him, mouth dry, unsure what to say. Unsure how to protest and say she does like him, that she is uncomfortable in a good way.

‘We might not have gotten the date we expected, but I think it’s been worth the worry, wouldn’t you agree?’

Yn’s heart skips a beat. Bruno’s kind smile was wider tonight, the creases at the edges of his eyes deeper, his goofiness a little brighter. He seemed to be having fun, she realises, so why can’t she?

He looks at her softly. ‘Be in the moment – you can forget about it in the morning.’

His hand begins to move, but before his warmth can escape her hand, she quickly intertwines her fingers with his. Yn avoids looking at his eyes, running away from their blue intensity. She waits a moment, expecting him to pull away, but he does not – he tightens his hand around hers, squeezing gently.

‘We can forget in the morning,’ Yn murmurs, more to herself. She would like this, the chance to have him to herself just for a moment, without the consequences of the next day. He surely would wake up regretting letting her touch him like this, she thinks to herself, but not tomorrow… We can forget.

But as the night drew on, and the closer their side moved toward each other, the more hushed their voices became, the more they leaned in, dizzy with drink, the less she began to believe that it would be as easy as simply “forgetting in the morning”.

Bruno walks her home, the chilly air swirling around her bare legs as they walk quietly beside each other down the sleepy streets. His hand still holds hers, his thumb absentmindedly rubbing against the back of her hand softly.

Every now and then, Yn glances up to see if Bruno’s expression had changed to disgust, disappointment, or anything else she is worried he might truly feel, but his expression remains calm, happy, warm.

‘Home, safe and sound,’ Bruno’s voice breaks through her reverie. He smiles down at her as they stop outside her apartment block.

‘Yes,’ Yn replies, looking up at the apartments. She spots the soft glow of a light from the open curtains on the second floor.  ‘Mista seems awake.’

‘That doesn’t surprise me,’ Bruno says, rolling his eyes playfully. ‘You’d better go in and get some rest, all that dancing really takes it out of you.’

Yn smiles up at him, remembering faintly how his hands felt on her waist. She shivers and tries to play it off as if she is cold, wrapping her coat tighter around her. ‘Well, thank you,’ she says quietly. ‘That was a lot of fun.’

Bruno nods, a smile still gracing his lips. ‘We’ll have to do it again some time.’ Yn’s heart flutters at his words. Next time…? I mean, yeah, friends hang out all the time… ‘That would be nice.’ Bruno grins in response to that and brings his hand to her cheek, stroking softly. ‘Goodnight, Yn.’ Yn holds her breath, unable to tear her gaze away from Bruno. She swallows hard, nodding, trying desperately not to learn into his touch too much. Bruno hesitates, glancing at Yn’s lips, but he turns, withdrawing his hand from her face. ‘Go on, I’ll wait until you’ve gone in.’ Yn nods, letting go of his hand regrettably. The space between her fingers has never felt colder, and emptier. From the apartment wafts the warm scent of pizza as she unlocks and opens the door. Yn can hear Mista’s turning pages of whatever book he is reading in the living room accompanied by the low volume of whatever is playing on tv. Yn turns back to face Bruno, dreading the moment she has to walk into her apartment, leaving the memories of the night behind her. Bruno seems to know exactly what she is thinking and smiles reassuringly. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’ ‘Goodnight,’ Yn manages, resisting the urge to reach out to him, to have her hand enveloped by his warmer, larger one again. Bruno nods, a flicker of something unrecognisable in his expression. His smile tugs at his mouth, and as he leaves, he waves a gentle hand over his shoulder to her. It is only later on, when she is tucked away in bed, tossing and turning over every detail of the evening, does Yn realise she had never seen Bruno smile as much as he had done that evening.

[spilledmilkfkdies]

So what are your personal thoughts on Yilidth (if you haven't already answered). I hadn't read the comics in a while but I don't think they ever said anything about him being related to Duman, though considering his eye and hair colour I guess it was probably implied. How do you think he created him? Like did he just use magic or did he had a one night stand and then years later, a basket with baby Duman just appeared with a letter telling him he's the dad, and he's like "Oh, f*#k".

I actually made an au where the wizards had joined Yilidth's wizard cult as novices and one task that he made them do was babysit Duman. Imagine the chaos😂

I think I have given my thoughts on him before, but that was both a while ago and I didn't appreciate him as much as I do now, which you can tell 💀💀 very angry very rambly stuff over there- So let me give some more/updated thoughts!!

Him being underused and shoehorned is still very true, unfortunately. He could've been a super handy tool to give us more information about the whole Terrestrial conflict, since that was an interesting part of canon that might have benefitted from a bit more exploration, even if it was a bit late. But then he just. Wasn't?? He was announced, he came, he died?????? And that was the first and last we saw of him. Honestly deranged boooo yucky.

He never even got to interact with the wizards again- You could literally say he was just some random criminal that had been locked away and almost nothing would change, and that's really his main problem. Aside from his design. I mean, love a blank canvas to throw a bunch of takes at, but come on!!!!!

Him and Duman's relation was never really mentioned either, I don't think? Beyond the "He was the leader of the fairy hunters!" there's really um. Nothing. Like in general. Ask canon Yllidith their names and he'll give you a blank stare fgbhbn- Tbh I'm surprised Duman's even in the lil flashback thingy at all ngl

Now, can we call any sort of relation implied? Are we gonna give them that much credit? Well idk! I'm just personally a fan of it so I just kinda. Squinted real hard. Matching eye colour? Mhm. Hair colour? Sure kinda. Yllidith having illusion magic and Duman being a shapeshifter? Yep that lines up enough for me, that does it, they're related now. Some people see the vision, others might not- I've spoken to plenty of people who aren't a fan of the take and that's a-okay, just know that I very much am 👉👈

This is a. Surprisingly consistent thing for me too?? Like yeah there's a case of "it depends on what I'm doing", there usually is- But not to a large extent ig? The method varies, but in a lot of stuff I'm doing now there's definitely a relation in one way or another.

Usually Duman is more or less made from scratch, a magic'd up baby, if you will. Though the process did include Yllidith's blood, so you have enough wiggle room to still say there's a blood relation. (Duman wouldn't.) (Yllidith only does when it's convenient.) But I've been getting the urge to explore a more normal approach where he was just regularly born lately, so maybe I'll get to that at some point too.

And!! If you ever feel like sharing more of that AU in any way, please do, because it sounds absolutely DELIGHTFUL. Imagine them thinking it's gonna be an easy enough task, and they wonder why nobody else wants to do it, then little Duman starts shapeshifting into horrors beyond mortal comprehension. Bye, I'm obsessed.