#spellcaster reader

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

king of day Sun and lord of nights Moon, bonding with Cursed-AU Y/N,,,,,, bc they are simps in every au i make sorry i dont make the rules (BONUS: AU LORE/INFO BELOW, ALONG WITH ANOTHER [story-relevant] DOODLE!)

Some lore about the curse au, copy and pasted from the discord bc im lazy and im very very sorrys fjfkhdskjh:

Okay so. Casting magic takes energy, bc this is an angsty au

The bigger-more complex-more powerful the spell is, the more energy it takes. The most powerful spells can take as much energy as in multiple human lives. There’s legends of spells cast during wars or battles that fell entire armies at once purely just by being cast

NORMALLY, when casting a spell, the magic comes from the world/plant life/living things around the caster

A curse is a kind of Forbidden Magic that can span generations. If one casts a curse that the cursed one will never quench their thirst, or they will never have enough sleep (simple curses for example), the curse could be passed down to their children, sometimes for multiple generations

A curse is ALSO a kind of spell that goes out of its way to deliberately alter the future and continues to- it’s basically a spell that’s constantly working when most spells are more like they last for a few seconds or maybe a minute or two then they’re done and the magic is used up and gone

So if you’re cursed to never feel warmth, there’s magic around you or in you that is constantly sapping the warmth from you or putting chills into you. You can’t see it, but it’s always there, even if just in small amounts

So when a curse is cast, it takes a lot of energy. Like, multiple human lives’ worth

There are ways to circumvent the possibility of killing the people around you (or yourself), like having some animals recently sacrificed, which is the most commonly heard of version

But. Sometimes, very rarely. One might cast a curse on a whim, without planning on it or really considering the series of events leading up to it or following

Cursed AU Reader did that once. Cursed someone in a fit of rage or passion

They were standing in a field, ready for a harvest festival, at the time

The fields withered and died and it’ll take years for them to get back to being fit enough to grow anything in

The mark of a cursed witch, which is a sign from Wiccan culture meant for containing(?), basically keeps the Marked Person from taking any magic from the world around them

The only energy they can use is the energy their physical body contains- and if they use too much or too frequently, they’ll kill themselves in the process

Basically it’s a way of making sure the caster can never use enough magic to really do much of anything sjdgdhdhd

and,,,,, the concept art for a moment i might write abt at some point,,

[curvykittyyssmutfics]

Since its loki we are talking here, can we have loki lusting for his half sister, reader who is the goddess of lust and love. He does magic on her so he could do on her

Courtyard Shenanigans

Damn what a gorgeous evening tonight turned out to be. Its just what the fuck I need after the most grueling day of coming second to Thor in everything. Plus there's nothing more peaceful then enjoying the beauty of Asgard as the day settles out. Dusk makes the orange stained sky unsually gorgeous, infused with dusty pink clouds that cast the prettiest of shadows over the Royal Palace of Valaskjalf. The crisp clear breeze seems fresher than any air I've experienced on any planet.

But trying to enjoy the phenomal view, as I step out into the courtyard, is short lived. Sus muffled grunts sound off from a few feet away, seemingly near the statue my worrysome mother insisted be created in my image. What or who the hell is that moaning in terrible pain?

Crouching low, I creep along the edge of the full shrubbery leading in that direction. I can't help my eyes transforming into saucers as I peek through the multi-colored rose bushes. Utter disbelief smacks me like a speeding freight train at the scene unfolding right before my eyes: my slutty half sister riding the fuck outta one of my guards face.

The lucky bastard is horizontal on the cemented circular bench that surrounds my stone doppelganger. His hand is flying at the speed of light on the pathetic member that sticks out through the guard uniform as you grind your clearly soakin wet pussy on his mouth; transparent rivelts drip from your oozing center down his chin to his neck. I'm not shocked that his lips are so damn red and raw from your treatment but from the way he moans into your core and fucks his fist is a clear indication of satisfaction. Piercing moans of approval get louder before you begin to speak out loud.

"Fuck, riiiiight there! Come on, cause you-ah!- finished allova yourselfself twice but haven't made me cum once. Haaaah, fuuuuu- mmm.. Shame on you soldier, maybe you need a little incentive."

I watch intently as you throw your head back on a moan with closed eyes and roll your neck counterclockwise. I rather soak you in your every move, purposely ignoring the wad of cum pooled around his balls. Your freshly done braids swing widly; cute, jet black nails grip his shoulder tight in your pleasure. The breeze gets stronger for a moment, swirling around the two of you in a glittery sheer sky blue mist before dissipating within seconds. When your lids reopen, eyes matchin the color of the sky, you stare upwards with an open mouth. The man beneath you seems to go insane, licking and sucking at your hungry little cunt like a starved man in the woods.

"Gods yes, so much better. Good boy, jus needed a little push huh? Thats it, aaaaah, lemmeuseyouuuuu!"

Fuck, your skin is radiate, glistens with perspiration from all your hard work. The humping of your hips makes your perfect soft flesh jiggle erratically. How I'd be perfectly happy to die right at this moment without making my way to Valhalla if it meant trading places with that insignificant bug. He has no idea how lucky he is to have the gift of YOU sliding what's gotta to be the the universe's most perfect pussy on his undeserving mouth.

The shocking incredulity surging through me at the scene seems very understandable, the raging boner however makes me pause. It's not the first one the little vixen has caused me but the guilt that comes with lustin after you is gut wrenchin.

Probably doesn't help that you appear to have strict orders to never come near asgardian clothing. Your fuckin itty bitty knitted baby blue top and salmon tinted scrap of cloth wrapped around your waist like a snug skirt damn nearhad me drooling. You are and always will be the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.

Shouldn't be hard to guess why I'm relentlessly having to secretly grip my dick at the base almost every time I'm in your fuckin presence. I live in a life of hopelessly attempting to not nut in my royal robes because of you.

Damn, it's impossible not to witness how this plays out since I've yearned to be in the place of this unworthy fucker for years.. How I desperately wish it was my mouth you dragged your quivering quim allover like that. I'm entranced at the way you grip his medium length blonde locks and drag across his face even faster as you degrade him.

"Gonnacuuuuum! Oh God, finally! No thanks to youuuu, had to u-use my gifts jus to get the pleasure I yearn. Yeeeeees, stay right there! Ohfuckohfuckohfuuuuuuk!"

My hands flies to grip my clothed dick firmly, this time to aid the nut trying to spray outta me instead of stifling it. It only takes a couple squeezes, along with the image of you leaning forward as the scum sucks your little clit vigorously; the flutter of your vacate gummy walls paralyzing me as my cream sprays 5 abundant globs into my mother's rose bushes. I thank the gods for your booming whine that helps to covers my perverted groan.

Your hips swivel a few more times before you drop her head back down and gracefully slip off his face. Taking a few steps back, you watch my soon to be fired guard gasp for breath; his hazel eyes are unseeing and dazed as fuck. So memorized by her orgasm, I'm estatic to notice I missed the small peckered fucker cum for a third time. It seems my little sister has also noticed, the way narrowed eyes trail to his dick and your cute little nose wrinkles in disgust.

"Leave us." She demands to him curtly before looking right into my soul through the thick bush.

As confused as he seems to be, head ducking left to right quizzically, the guard scrambles away as he hastily tucks his dick away. It would almost be funny if it werent for the sinking feeling in my gut. Nothing else to do except sheathe my still hard cock and reveal myself, I stand awkwardly and watch you fix your clothing to hide your drippy little slit.

"Come, brother." Y/n demands, finger crooked at me.

You step one leg over the bench and sit with it between your smooth chocolate thighs. Back straight with your nose in the air, you sit like a queen where that coward laid just a moment before. I walk over on stiff legs and do the same a few inches away, avoiding eye contact at all costs. The smell of your pussy lingering in the air entices my rock hard dick that taps impatiently underneath my clothing. Your stare on the side of my face almost burns but my guilt keeps me focused on the ground as you speak confidently.

"Why do you spy on me in my most private of moments, Loki? You must know it isn't proper of a brother to watch his sister do such things."

I swallowly visibly before answering.

"I'm- I'm sorry. It was not my intention. I came for air after a long day and heard noises of which I assumed were pain. Well, I thought.." I trail off uncomfortably.

"But you did not leave once you realized." You counter back.

My mouth open and closes as I fumble my response, cheeks feeling like they've been god damn torched.

"Well you- you knew of my presence and still concluded such distasteful acts, out in the open may I add." I shoot back, finally looking into your pretty, dark, almond shaped eyes.

"You didn't seem to mind as you stroked your fat cock to completion while starin in between my legs."

That stumps me as I sit gazing at your beautiful frame, mouth slightly agape. But you only giggle at me as you stand and prepare to exit the courtyard.

"Next time be more inconspicuous; my father wouldn't like to see you do such things. In fact I think mother would be amused even less." She teases me and turns to leave.

A snap of my fingers brings my statue to life. The stone scrapes loudly as it moves and grabs each of your wrists, locking them in place into the air. The way you stand there helpless and shocked does soothe my ego a bit, I can readily admit.

"You blame me as if you weren't gyrating allover that man's face like a common whore. Yes I lust after you, dear sister. But I know you do for me as well. Yet you charade around the castle flamboyantly, refusing to wear our royal attire. Instead insisting on donning tiny earthly garments and then bending in front of me every chance you get. You want me y/n and I'm sick of you pretending you fuckin don't." I say leaning in close, lips just half an inch from your own.

Already a bit agreeable, I sense how much our close proximity affects your state of mind. As tense as your flawless frame is, your gorgeous eyes shut and you lean in to try to kiss me. Before you can I raise my right hand, swiftly drawing a circle in the air with the tip of my finger, watching as glittery emerald green smoke forms a thin circle. I gently blow it into your face and you unknowingly inhale as I press my lips to yours lightly for a few seconds before pulling back. You try to follow, lips pouting as I deny your request.

"Lokiiiii. Kiss meeeeee." You whine, arms pulling at the stone hold on your wrists.

"Hmmm.." I pretend to think dramatically. "Beg me, sweetheart."

Your response is instantaneous.

"Please, big brother, pleeeeease! I want you, no NEED you so bad. Can I have your lips? No wait!Your cock? Pretty please? Promised to always take care of me right? Need you to take care of me now, Lokiiiii."

"Ok, Ok y/n. I'll give you what you want, but only if you answer a question. If you lie, you don't get my cock. Understand?"

"Yeeeees big brother." You slur back at me, lookin a bit dazed from my little homemade concoction.

"How many of my personal guard have you fucked?"

"Just the one you seen me with today. It was awful: he came with a quickness I couldn't have imagined. He's the only man I've ever been with." You answer honestly.

"Glad to hear I needn't murder my entire guard then. Alrighty, honey sit up a bit."

You do as I ask and I slide underneath your restrained body, taking out my leaking dick. I wiggle the shaft back and forth, smacking it against your plump soft brown ass cheeks. Fuck, your moans are like music to my ears and I curse myself inwardly as a feel a tautness in my groin from the way you frantically hump back at me.

"Please Loki, you promised me. One question and I answered. Gimme my dick. I've earned it, have I not big brother?"

That filthy fuckin mouth spurs me to lift you by your hips and rapidly poke my fat cock tip into your snug little hole. (Although he should fear my wrath, I am suddenly semi grateful for the foreplay my guard provided for how fuckin drenched you are now.) It feels so fuckin good.

The way you squeal and tremble has me mandhandling you with a tight grip, keepin you in place as I dig into the tightest pussy I've ever felt. It's so warm, so wet, just the most perfect little slit to ease into. I can't cease the breathless way I repeatedly grunt your name into the air of the courtyard loudly.

The tense sensation bubbling in my balls and pelvis quadruple and its my turn to whimper loudly. It's barbaric the way I fuck into you for the first time, carelessly crying my pleasure into the wind. Your wails are even more unhinged and it's a miracle that nobody has come by to see who's out here groaning like a wounded animal.

"Haaaaaah! OhmygodsLoki! Ohgodsohgods, so very good big brother! Just like my dreeeeams- aaaaahhhfuu-Loki!!!"

You've hit feral and I've only just got in all the way. Our chests heave simultaneously as I reach up to flick your little top out the way, watchin your breast flop out and shake uncontrollably at your attempts to fuck onto my cock. If not for my hold on your hips you'd most definitely would be successful in milking me within seconds. It shouldn't be this hard not to breed you but it's taking all my will power not to creampie my little sisters pussy.

"Y/n s-stop it, lemme-FUCK! Darling, please just lemme handle it. C-can't hold back if you don't keep still. Haaah, ohgods! Please sweetheart!"

The swiveling of your hips is gonna be my demise. All I can do is match your frenzied pace, pulling out only half way before slamming in each time. I know I'm giving my princess what she deserves as continuous praises for me spill over your plump lips.

"Thankyouthankyouthankyoubigbrother! Your cocks the best! I'm yours Loki, only your yours tohavetoholdtofuck! Ohgods! You'resofuckinamazing!"

The whiny dirty words, plus the way your soaking wet pussy puts my spasming dick inna chokehold makes me lose all concentration. The stone statue releases its grip on you and falls back into place as if it never moved and inch.

Your quick to lean forward on my chest, one hand slipping down to rub at your sticky little clit as your hips never miss a beat in their delicious torture. Its almost pathetic when you cum on the first stroke of that throbbing button, except im grateful because there was no way I could hold out for much longer.

"I'mcummingLoki! Yesyesyes, cumming on your cock big brother! Feelssogood! Ah ah ah! Mmm yeeeees Loooki!"

Warmth spreads throughout me as you put your pretty face in my neck and fuck the shit outta me. Fuck the tables have turned, high pitched moans flowing from me as I stare into the sky blankly as you force me to creampie your tiny little cunt. I'm gasping through my groans as I try to breath through this intense fucking orgasm.

"Y/n haaaah oh Gods, y/n! Suchabrat for thiiisss. Gonna make you pay little girl. Ohfuuuuck, big brothers gonna get you back.."

Gush after thick gush pours into you as my arms drop limply to the ground. My hips quiver and I can't control the small humps they give as I fuck my heavy load into you. I don't notice how the last of the sunlight slips behind the castle, dimming the courtyard. It's hard to observe anything other than my cock becoming overstimulated from cumming twice so powerfully within just a few minutes.

"Ah, ah, ah y/n! Waaaaait darling, gimmeasecondplease! 's too fuckin good, haaaah! Please pretty girl, need a moment." I beg unashamed, head thrashing from left to right.

Thankfully your hips circle to a slow halt, but you dont immediately release me as you did the guard. I can admit I am less than pleased at the way you sit up and look down at me sinisterly while I suck in air desperately.

"No fair big brother, you used your powers on me.." You say in-between heaving breaths as I look at you in shock. I had no idea you knew..

Your hypnotizing eyes swirl with that tantalizing sunset color as the shimmering blue mist appears again but this time surrounding the two of us thickly.

"Now I wanna use mine on you."

OH. FUCK.

[daaydreamy]

AND spellcaster!harry coming to his house after a long day and finding everything a mess like all his potion bottle’s cut into pieces and like everything is floating and mb if him and y/n have a cat it’s like floating in the air running from a couch chasing it and y/n just sitting peacefully on a floating chair while reading a book ❤️

welcome home

summary: harry comes home to… something.

warnings: none.

pairing: harry styles x fem!reader

•••

“I’m ho-…”

Harry’s lips parted in shock from the sight he just came home to, looking around in pure astonishment. He let the keys in his hand fall to the ground and he started walking around, seeing spilled potion bottles that were from his little potion closet that nobody was supposed to open and mess with because those potions were very real and could lead to some very strange things when used in the wrong ways.

The most obvious thing though, was that almost everything in the house was floating as if gravity wasn’t a thing anymore.

“Harry, if you do not fix this immediately, I’ll make noise all night. I do not enjoy floating.” Rutherford, the talking grandfather clock in the living room, suddenly boomed, causing Y/N’s head to lift up from where she had been reading a book, smiling once her eyes fell upon Harry.

“Hey, baby.” She smiled sweetly, waving at him from a floating loveseat, book in her lap.

“Hey, babe, er… what- what happened?” He chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck as he looked up at her. He glanced at their cat that was also floating, running after one of her toys that was very close to the old wood of Rutherford. He looked back behind him where all the potion bottles were opened and dripping onto the floors, some of them bubbling and sizzling.

“I know just as much as you do.” She shrugged and Harry scrubbed a hand over his face, pinching his nose.

a/n: i love spellcaster!h so much 😭😭😭

🏷: @crow-i-guess, @planetflos, @harrycanyonmoonn, @bxtchboy69, @sweet-as-lilacs, @lyricalniall, @venusincleo (couldn’t tag you!), @bxbun111, @tenaciousperfectionunknown, @emispleased, @goldenhrry, @cinnamongirlrry, @manifestrry, @sadqn1, @judesgfirl, @taylorsreputationsversion, @violetsandfluff, @phoebebridgersforqueen, @a-strange-familiar, @moonlightbea-33 (couldn’t tag you!), @famedrs-blog, @coochiesteak, @blahblahblah-888 (couldn’t tag you!), @milesisntdonewritingyet, @harrysgoth, @walkingintheheartbreaksatellite, @cinnamonlola, @youcan-nolonger-run, @velvetrylie, @vamprry, @ellie-loveshs, @gorlsinmultifandoms

[prettylameusertbh]

i really wrote all of the shit that’s in my master list about someone else.. except for the drowning one. i need to focus on myself and write more about myself

[sorcerous-caress]

drabble request: shadowheart taking up an oath of vengeance after freeing dame aylin and being an absolute beefcake + standing in front of a squishy mage reader

p.s. no rush in writing this alright your health comes first!! sending you hugs hope you feel better soon

By oath of vengeances do you mean against Shar herself? A whole god? Or just sharrans in general.

Because damn it takes some courage for Shadowheart to immediately swear vengeances against her previous deity and siding with selune her sister. That's a Shadowheart that got fed up with the gods, that's bold and confident.

The oath of vengeances is special in the way it's less about the paladin's bond with their chosen deity, but more of their hatred for their enemy. They're not out to specifically help people or spread their religion.

They're out on a mission for blood, to annihilate anyone who has ever done them wrong, no second chances, no forgiveness. It's the closest to grey morality a paladin can get.

Especially with Dame Aylin as a witness to her oath, she probably has more than the necessary authority to knight Shadowheart right then and there with both Selune and Shar watching.

Afterwards you can see the shift in Shadowheart, how she starts taking the straightforward route and facing problems head on instead of leaning on trickery and the shadows to raach her goals. How she puts herself between you and the danger with bravery.

Especially a cute spellcaster Tav who can't wear armour or has many hitpoints. A glass canon that can summon elemental and send wave after waves of insects and daggers but need constant protection. Shadowheart would bash any enemy who comes even close to you with her shield, effortlessly plunge her sword into them, constantly keeping an eye on you.

Staying so close by, so you're included in her aura of protection. So she can cast lay on hands whenever you're slightly injuired.

Now imagine her princess carrying afterwards because she is sure she saw you sprain your ankle and you need to be treated immediately, after all you are their most powerful member in the party and nursing you back to health is in her job description.

And thank you so much <3 I appreciate the sweet message.

[witchw0lvesnwist]

Follow me on TikTok & Instagram @witchwolvesnwist

[fromneptune-withlove]

Added new items to my store!

[thetarotman]

Moon Serpent and Bone 10/25/2024

The Moon Serpent and Bone 6th Annual Samhain Night Market and Hekate, Queen of the Witches, await you.

This is the official WordPress Blog post about the upcoming Moon Serpent and Bone 6th Annual Samhain Night Market, also known as the Moon Serpent and Bone 6th Annual Samhain Oddities and Curiosities Night Market. Also, it honors me greatly that, of the more than 250 applications Moon Serpent and Bone received for this Night Market, mine was one of only 60 which were accepted. This Night Market…

[oraclewitches]

How tarot readers feel

[author-in-denial]

okay progress has resumed on chapter 5, I've found a natural way to progress it. unfortunately now i have to fully establish how the spells work, and that's gonna be a pain.

[iridesca-enchantress]

MY ASKS ARE OPEN!

Feel free to ask me any witchcraft related questions!

[tomriddleslove]

Blood on Love’s altar.

✩Tom Riddle x Reader

Summary: Tom Riddle did not know he could grieve. But now? He’d give up everything to not feel it.

Warnings: Mentions of Death, Suicide, Self Mutilation (brief)

A/N: 🙂

Song: Dove - Antihoney

Antent - hope to see you again

“You ought to put that away before Professor Dumbledore sees.”

The very first words you spoke to Tom.

First year, 2 weeks into school. It was a Thursday afternoon, to be precise. It was during a transfiguration lesson. Tom had managed to nab a copy of Markov’s ‘A Guide to the Dark Arts’. It was a forbidden book, but one that had greatly intrigued him. He held it under the table, reading.

You nudged him and when he sent you a scowl you did not look away, rather speaking those very words.

“You ought to put that away before Professor Dumbledore sees.”

He just about manages to snap the book shut and shove it into his bag when Dumbledore walks past, the eclectic man giving the pair of you a once over before moving to the next desk.

The second time he spoke to you was in the library a few days later.

“Still sticking your nose in the restricted section?” You pry, sliding up behind him as he startles. He turns to face you, a look of annoyance on his face as he speaks.

"And what business is it of yours?" he retorted, his eyes narrowing.

“You’ve already quite the reputation. Lurking in the restricted section should taint that, no?” You hum.

Infuriating. Nosy. Intransigent.

-•-

“Morning Riddle.” You quip as you walk into potions, taking a seat next to him.

Second year, 3rd day back.

He looks at you but says no more, internally cursing you.

You work on a strengthening solution and accidentally drop a jar of bat spleens onto Tom’s bag.

He debates getting back at you for it, but he doesn’t.

Clumsy. Persistent. Agitating.

-•-

Third year, same scene, same setting.

"Still poking your nose where it doesn't belong?" you tease, sidling up to him with a mischievous grin.

Tom's annoyance flares, but there's a flicker of something else in his eyes, a begrudging amusement perhaps. "You never learn, do you?" he mutters, though there's less bite in his tone this time.

You laugh, the sound echoing through the potions classroom. "Where's the fun in following the rules?" you reply, settling into the seat beside him.

Tom's lips twitch into an almost imperceptible smile before he turns his attention back to the brewing cauldron. Your laugh isn’t awful, he supposes.

-•-

Fourth Year, Charms. The sun was particularly nice that day. It casts a lovely glow on your face.

Professor Trinfort announced a partner project, pairing students for a collaborative spellcasting assignment. As fate would have it, you found yourself paired with Tom Riddle.

You exchange a glance, nudging him lightly. "Looks like it's you and me," you say with a faint smile.

Tom nods, his expression less guarded than before. "Seems that way," he replies, his tone less curt than usual.

As the two of you work together, you notice a subtle shift in Tom's demeanour. He's more open to your suggestions and more willing to listen to your ideas. There’s a newfound ease between you, and you don’t say anything for fear of disturbing it. Tom has left one of his books on his desk again. Professor Trinfort was walking past and you quickly grabbed the book, hiding it underneath your bag. Tom notices and looks at you with an unreadable expression for a second.

Nosy. Irritating. Perhaps not too bad, though.

-•-

5th year. You’re not there. Your absence is noticeable in the first week. It’s suffocating in the second.

Tom finds himself searching for you in the corridors, and he cannot help but feel as though something is missing. He values the quiet he now has during lessons, but it’s not as rewarding as he thought it would be. There’s a nagging feeling in him that he can’t quite shake.

He learns very quickly that you’d been attacked on the first day of term and had been in the hospital wing for quite a while. He visits you whilst you’re sleeping. He stares at your weakened form, not moving. It’s odd, seeing you in such a state.

You wake the next morning to news of the perpetrators being withdrawn from school after they all woke up missing fingers. You somehow know who it is.

Tom does not visit you till you are asleep. When he does, he places your book by your bedside. He doesn’t let himself stay for too long, berating his foolishness as he leaves.

-•-

6th Year. Tensions are running high after the death of Myrtle Warren. You’re all to face your boggarts, and Tom notices how apprehensive you are. You chew at your bottom lip, leg bouncing up and down relentlessly.

He places his hand over your thigh, focusing ahead as you turn to look at him.

“It’s agitating.” He mutters, and he can tell how ridiculous it sounds. You suppress a smile and turn back to the front.

He can tell you’re a bit shaken up from the lesson, so he offers to study with you in the library during the evening. He meets you after dinner, spotting you in the far corner.

You’re wearing a black corduroy skirt—a white vest with lace trimmings and a baggy green cardigan. You’ve pinned your hair back with your wand, the end of your quill pressed to your lips as you work. You’re rather beautiful, he notices. He takes a seat next to you, ignoring the smile you beam as you work together.

Hours have passed and he hasn’t noticed, enjoying your company. He feels a weight on his shoulder and turns, realising you’ve fallen asleep. He huffs in annoyance but he does not move, a hand coming up to remove your glasses from your face as he carefully sets them down on the table. You wake up in your bed, your books neatly placed on your desk. You must have come back at some point, you think to yourself.

-•-

“Hey,” You hum, plopping down next to Tom on the frosty glass near the black lake.

“Morning.” He responds, not looking up from his book as he acknowledges you. You reach into your satchel, producing a small thermos flask. You transfigure a pebble into a cup and pour a glass of steaming cinnamon tea for Tom.

As you hand him the cup of cinnamon tea, Tom finally looks up from his book, a faint hint of surprise crossing his features at the unexpected gesture. He accepts the tea with a nod of thanks, taking a sip before setting it down beside him.

"Thank you," he says quietly, his voice softer than usual, a hint of warmth in his tone that catches you off guard.

You smile in response, a gentle warmth spreading through you at the sight of his rare display of gratitude. "You're welcome," you reply, “Cinnamon tea is my favourite comfort drink.” You add, and Tom finds himself storing that piece of information in the ever-growing folder in his brain labelled ‘you.’

-•-

7th Year. Tom is elected Head Boy. You’re a bit upset you didn’t get Head Girl, but you suppose you weren’t that extraordinary. Tom feels otherwise.

You still got awarded prefect and found yourself paired on patrols with Tom.

“Seems like the universe is set on keeping us together. You finally warming up to me Tom?” You tease, grinning lopsidedly as you both roam down the dark, empty hallways. He meets your gaze with a small smile of his own, a rare display of warmth that sends a flutter of excitement through you. "Perhaps," he replies cryptically, though the glint in his eyes betrays a hint of fondness that you can't help but return.

You continue to walk in silence for a bit more till you (stupidly) have an idea. Upon digging around in your pocket you find a Gorpin’s exploding powered parcels, a tiny thing about the size of an acorn that exploded colourful powder when thrown. With a small grin, you call Tom’s name, tossing the parcel at him. He turns around and meets your gaze for a second before he’s enveloped in a cloud of pastel blue.

You laugh at the sight, clutching your stomach as a string of giggles escape your lips. As the cloud slowly clears, a flicker of uncertainty crosses your mind, a sudden fear that perhaps you've overstepped some invisible boundary. Your smile fades, replaced by a furrow of worry as you open your mouth to apologize.

But before you can utter a word, something unexpected happens. Tom's lips quirk up into a small smile, and he’s chasing after you.

“Tom!” You laugh, the sweet sound echoing through the halls as you begin running away from him.

His laughter joins yours, his footsteps getting closer and closer as you turn a corner. Your lungs burn, laughter bubbling from within you when you’re suddenly swept upwards, two strong arms wrapping around your midsection.

“Got you. Gonna make you pay for this.” Tom says, an uncharacteristic smirk on his face as he practically hauls you over his shoulder.

“Wait, Tom!” You protest, a yelp escaping your lips as he begins running with you in his arms.

Your protests are ignored as you enter the prefect's bathroom, and the second his intentions are clear you laugh, whilst pleading. He shifts his hold on you so you're being carried almost bridal style, and he raises a brow as he looks down at you.

“Wait, Tom. It doesn’t have to be like this.” You plead, trying to free yourself from his gasp. A smile tugs at his lips as he hums, seeming to retreat for a second. But he then holds you tighter, and in two swift steps jumps straight into the baths (which was more like a pool), sending you both into the water. A small shriek escapes your lips, and as you resurface from the water, laughing and sputtering, you shoot Tom a mock-complaining look. "Tom, you're incorrigible," you exclaim, your laughter bubbling up between your words.

Tom chuckles, the sound resonating in the spacious bathroom as he treads water beside you. For a moment, his gaze lingers on you, admiring you.

"You're quite something, you know that?" he says softly, the words carrying a warmth that sends a shiver down your spine.

Before you can respond, he closes the distance between you, his lips meeting yours in a kiss. You all but melt into the kiss, a hand coming up to cup his face, resting in his drenched black curls as you sigh into his mouth.

“Tom…” You murmur.

He’s never heard a more beautiful sound.

It’s nearing a month till your final exams and you haven’t seen Tom for a few days. You venture up to his dorm, knocking on his door.

“Tom?” You call out softly, leaning against the door. “It’s me.”

There’s silence for a second, and then the door unlocks.

As the door creaks open, you find Tom sitting on his bed, looking pale and dishevelled. He coughs weakly, his gaze meeting yours with a hint of surprise before he quickly looks away.

"Hey," you say softly, stepping into the room and closing the door behind you. "I heard you've been under the weather. Thought I'd come to check on you."

Tom nods, his expression unreadable as he shifts uncomfortably on the bed. "Yeah, just a bit under the weather," he mutters, his voice hoarse.

You frown, concern creasing your brow as you move closer to him. "You should be resting," you say gently, reaching out to feel his forehead for signs of fever.

Tom flinches slightly at your touch, but he doesn't pull away. Instead, he meets your gaze with a hint of vulnerability in his eyes. "I know," he admits quietly, "but I hate feeling like this. It's... frustrating."

You nod in understanding, your heart aching at the sight of him looking so uncharacteristically vulnerable. "I brought you some cinnamon tea," you say, pulling a thermos flask and a few biscuits from your bag. "Thought it might help."

Tom's lips quirk up into a small smile at your thoughtful gesture, a hint of gratitude shining through his usual stoicism. "Thank you," he murmurs, his voice softer than usual.

You smile back, and Tom shuffles over to give you some space. You take a seat next to him, crossing your legs as you pour him a cup of tea. You blow on the tea to cool it slightly, taking an experimental sip to ensure it’s not too hot. When you're satisfied with the temperature, you hand the cup over to Tom. He twists it around to make sure his lips touch the same part of the cup yours did. It faintly tastes of cherry lip balm.

You don’t notice the gesture.

You lean back against the headboard, legs outstretched in front of you as you stare up at his ceiling.

“You should go. You’ll get sick.” Tom murmurs, his voice laced with an uncharacteristic apprehension that has you smiling.

“It’s fine.” You smile. You shuffle down slightly and very carefully place your head on Tom’s chest.

He tenses for a second but relaxes soon after. His hand hesitates for a moment before tentatively coming to rest on your shoulder, his touch light and cautious as if unsure of whether he's allowed to show such vulnerability.

"You don't have to stay," he murmurs softly, his voice barely above a whisper, but you can hear the underlying plea in his words.

You shake your head, a small smile playing on your lips as you nestle closer to him. "I want to," you reply simply, the warmth of his body seeping into yours, banishing the chill of the room.

“You shouldn’t.” He repeats, and his words are undoubtedly laced with an underlying meaning that should warn you.

But if you realise that, he certainly can’t tell. You simply close your eyes and speak.

“I’ve never been the best at listening, have I?”

-•-

Exams are over, and graduation day arrives. Tom feels a conflicting mix of emotions swirling within him, and he hates the fact he’s grappling with things he shouldn’t be worried about. On one hand, there's a sense of relief that he won't have to worry about dragging you into the complexities of his life any longer. The thought of you being free from the burdens and dangers that often accompany his endeavours brings him a measure of solace.

Yet, at the same time, there's a pang of sadness that ebbs away at him when realizes that this may be the last time he'll see you. The prospect of saying goodbye, of parting ways, suddenly becomes unthinkable, and he feels a little sick.

As he scans the crowd of graduates, his gaze eventually lands on you, a soft smile gracing your lips as you chat animatedly with your friends. For a fleeting moment, he considers approaching you and saying goodbye properly, but the fear of attachment holds him back.

Instead, he watches from a distance, silently wishing you well. As the ceremony draws to a close and the graduates begin to disperse, he turns to leave, only praying you’ll never have to see him again.

But just as he's about to turn away, you catch his eye, a knowing smile playing on your lips as you make your way over to him. "Hey, Tom," you say softly, your voice filled with warmth and affection.

Tom's heart skips a beat at the sight of you, his resolve wavering in the face of your unwavering presence. "Hey," he replies, his voice barely above a whisper.

You smile up at him, a glimmer of mischief dancing in your eyes. "Trying to run away? You know, you won't get rid of me that easily," you tease lightly, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand.

Tom's lips twitch into a small smile, a flicker of hope betraying his rationale at your words. "I certainly hope not," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the din of the crowd.

You lean up on your tip toes, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. You pull back and a small laugh escapes your lips, rubbing the faint lipstick mark it left.

Nosy. Irritating. Beautiful.

Tom doesn’t see you for a year after that.

A hesitant knock at the door of your dingy little flat nearing 1:00 am has you alert, and slightly on edge. You reach for your wand, carefully treading towards the door so as to not alert a potential intruder of your presence. You peer through the peephole, and you feel as though your world stops when you see Tom outside.

Hastily undoing the wards and spells that enchant your flat, you unlock the door and Tom all but collapses into your arms.

He reeks of dark magic, and you know. You’ve always known, really. What other mind could be so sadistically brilliant, who else would be able to crumble the Romanian Ministry of magic in a mere week?

You pull Tom into your flat, closing the door behind him as you guide him to the nearest chair. He looks drained, his usually sharp features drawn and weary. Blood stains his clothes, tension evident on his face.

You set to work immediately, inspecting the various wounds all over his body as you frantically recite healing spells, rummaging through a small leather trunk filled with an assortment of vials.

Tom observes you through half lidded eyes that threaten to permanently shut.

He always knew you’d become a healer. He had known since that day you came into his dorm and took care of him when he was ill. He had known since that day you had found an injured crow lying by the side of the greenhouse and nursed it back to full health in a mere hour.

You preserved lives, he took them.

“Up.” You murmur, pulling the hem of his shirt. He obliges, pulling his lead-like arms up as you unbutton his shirt and pull it off. You frown at the scars that mar Tom's chest and he wants to laugh.

Don’t stress over me, sweetheart. It’d be better off for you if I were dead.

He no longer flinches at your touch as you trail your hands down his chest, murmuring spells that alleviate the ache. You're exhausted by the time you're done, slinging Tom’s arm over your shoulder as you help him walk over to your bed.

He settles onto the bed with a heavy sigh, his body sinking into the mattress as if it's the first time he's allowed himself to truly relax in ages. You gently place your blanket atop of him, your brow furrowed as you take a seat at the edge of your bed.

You brush a strand of hair away from his forehead, his eyes drifting shut as exhaustion finally overtakes him. You watch over him for a while longer, lingering by his bedside as he slips into a fitful sleep.

You can't help but wonder how things came to this. How the boy you once knew, the one who had captured your heart with his sharp wit and brilliant mind, had become so lost.

You slide into your bed beside him and turn over, your back facing his. You let your eyes shut and find yourself falling asleep.

You wake up in the morning, and you know before you even turn around. Your bed was empty, barely a trace of warmth left. You had to be sure you didn’t dream last night's events, padding into the kitchen as you yawn.

A singular cup of warm cinnamon tea is there. You smile softly as you take the cup.

You didn’t see him for another two years after that. The news got worse and worse. Attacks were often and many. People were scared to leave the house.

Just when you've almost given up hope of ever seeing him again, there's a knock at your door in the dead of night. You're startled awake, heart pounding as you stumble out of bed and rush to answer it.

As you swing the door open, you're met with the sight of Tom standing there, looking worse for wear. His clothes are torn, his face bruised and bloodied, and it feels like a scene all too familiar.

Without a word, you reach out and slap him across the face, the sound echoing in the silence of the night.

Tom's startled reaction is almost comical, his hand flying up to his cheek as he recoils from the force of the blow. He stares at you in shock, his eyes wide with disbelief as he tries to process what just happened.

You glare at him, your fists clenched at your sides as you let out a string of curses, venting all the frustration and anger that has been building up inside you for years.

"You can't just waltz in and out of my life whenever you please," you spit out, your voice trembling with emotion. "You can't just show up here, covered in blood and bruises, and expect me to drop everything and help you."

Tom opens his mouth to speak, but you cut him off with a sharp gesture, your eyes blazing with determination.

"But you know what the worst part is?" you continue, your voice dropping to a whisper. "The worst part is that no matter how angry I am, no matter how much I want to hate you, I can't. Because despite everything, I still fucking care about you! I sit there, and I read the news, and every day I pray it’s not your death I’m seeing. Do you know how fucked up that is?"

For a moment, there's silence between you, the weight of your words hanging heavy in the air.

"I know," he murmurs, his voice barely audible over the pounding of your heart.

Before you can say anything else, he pulls you into a kiss, his lips pressing against yours with a desperation that takes your breath away.

You melt into the kiss, your anger melting away as you wrap your arms around him, pulling him closer. Despite everything, you know that you can't stay away.

For better or for worse, you're his weakness, and he's yours.

He pulls back and you have to resist the urge to dissolve into tears, bottom lip wavering as he pulls you into his chest.

“Don’t you dare leave. Don’t you dare fucking leave.” You tremble into his chest, and his heart pangs at your plea as he speaks.

“I won’t.”

He stuck to his word. He hated you for it. But he hated himself more. Because every second he stayed, was only binding you more and more to your demise. He was killing you, he knew it would happen, and yet he couldn’t bring himself to leave.

You erode his being, taking away everything that he was sure he was certain of. There were many times he would contemplate simply killing you, ridding himself of this foolish weakness that was causing him so much turmoil. A single look at you and Tom knew that there would be little to no meaning for immortality if you weren’t to be there beside him.

Tom would disappear for days on end, and you’d hear about an attack shortly after. He’d always come back. You turned a blind eye to his actions, ignoring the furious accusations of corpses that lay there in your name.

Truthfully, you could stop him. You knew that you could turn him in, and he wouldn’t dare lay a hand on you. But you didn’t, and so by association every person he killed had their blood on your hands too.

You had been called by Tom at the crack of dawn one morning. His voice echoed through your head, waking you from your slumber.

Clifford close. House 17.

You apparate without second thought, your eyes widening as you take in the scene.

Tom is standing there, covered in blood that you’re sure is not his. You turn around and spot another person, a frail old man who can barely look up.

The frail old man's plea is cut short as a burst of green light erupts from Tom's wand, ending his life in an instant. You watch in horror as the life drains from the man's eyes, a sickening realization settling in the pit of your stomach.

Tom turns to you, his eyes gleaming with a dark intensity that sends a shiver down your spine. Without a word, he turns his wand to you, muttering something that knocks you straight out.

He knows that making you a Horcrux is a drastic and irreversible decision, one that will bind your soul to his for eternity. But at the same time, he can't bear the thought of losing you.

The idea of immortality without you by his side is unbearable, and he knows that making you a Horcrux is the only way to ensure that you'll always be together. It's a selfish decision, born out of desperation and fear of losing the one person who has come to mean everything to him.

A sense of self-loathing creeps in. He knows that making you a Horcrux will condemn you to a life of despair, but he can't shake the feeling that he has no other choice.

When you awaken, you find yourself back in your apartment, the events of the previous moments feeling like a distant nightmare. Tom is sitting beside you, his expression unreadable as he watches you stir.

"Are you alright?" he asks, his voice filled with concern.

You blink in confusion, trying to make sense of what just happened. You recall the sight of the old man dying before you and slap a hand over your mouth, stumbling out of bed as you rush towards the bathroom. You collapse over the toilet bowl, retching. Your eyes sting, and you don’t hear Tom coming in until you feel a comforting hand on your back, one holding your hair up.

“Get the fuck off me.” You snap, pushing him away with a weak shove as you cough.

Tom steps back, his brows furrowing in concern. "What happened?" he asks, his voice tinged with worry.

You whirl around to face him, your anger boiling over as you shout, "You killed a man in front of me!"

He takes a step towards you, his voice cool and collected. "You must have been imagining things," he asserts, his tone firm and unwavering. "We were home all night yesterday."

Your hands tremble with anger and disbelief as you glare at him, tears blurring your vision. "You're lying!" you sob, your voice cracking with emotion. "You're making me seem crazy!"

Tom's gaze narrows slightly, a flicker of irritation crossing his features. "I assure you, I am not," he retorts, his voice tinged with impatience. "If you don't believe me, use Legilimency on me. Check for yourself."

You close your eyes, muttering legilimens under your breath. You probe into his mind, and he doesn’t keep his guard up.

In Tom's mind, you see a vividly detailed memory of him being home all night. He sits with you by the fireplace, a glass of whiskey in hand, engrossed in a book. You drink with him, a drunken giggle escaping your lips as you kiss him.

As you pull away from his mind, a sense of dread washes over you. The memory he showed you is so convincing, so detailed, that you find yourself doubting your own recollection of events.

You come back to this reality, blinking as you suck in deep breaths.

Tom's expression softens slightly, a hint of sympathy in his eyes as he reaches out to gently touch your shoulder. "It's alright," he murmurs reassuringly. "You had quite a bit to drink last night. You're probably just tired."

You nod, though you can’t rid yourself of the nagging feeling within you. Slowly sitting up, you follow Tom back to your bedroom. You lay back down in bed with him, convincing yourself it was a nightmare.

The second you close your eyes, the man calls out to you.

It’s very real.

In the following months, the cycle of Tom's disappearances and reappearances continues, each time leaving you more drained than before. You watch helplessly as he delves deeper into darkness, his actions becoming increasingly erratic and unpredictable.

You're alone in your apartment when it happens, a sudden surge of overwhelming emotions washing over you. You double over in pain, clutching your head as a vision flashes before your eyes.

In the vision, you see Tom, his face contorted in rage as he inflicts unspeakable torture upon an innocent victim. The scene is so vivid, so horrifying, that you can barely believe what you're seeing.

Gasping for breath, you stumble back, your heart racing as you try to make sense of the vision. You feel sick, your mind reeling as you stumble back into one of the chairs.

Tom returns in the evening, and you cannot bear looking at him.

You wash the blood off his hands. He could have used a cleaning spell, but he prefers for you to do it instead. To face the reality of what you’ve chosen. To wash the blood off his hands knowing it could have been yours.

You do not ask him about the vision, because you want to delude yourself into the comfortable reality that it was merely a nightmare of sorts.

‘Those only occur during sleep’ a voice points out in your head. You choose to ignore it.

Egged on by confusion and fear, you begin reading. Researching. A mirror image of Tom, hiding dark books from his sight as you read.

You bring it up one day.

You stand in the kitchen, brewing some tea as you speak.

“Is it possible to make a Horcrux out of a human?”

Tom's eyes widen in alarm, a flicker of apprehension crossing his features before he quickly masks it with a calm facade. "Why would you ask such a thing?" he replies, his voice steady despite the unease that lingers in the air.

You don't miss the subtle shift in his demeanour, the way his gaze flits away from yours for just a moment before returning.

You shrug nonchalantly, feigning innocence as you pour the tea into a pair of mugs. "Just curious," you say casually, though your heart pounds in your chest.

Tom watches you closely, his expression unreadable as he takes a sip of his tea. "It's not something that should concern you," he says finally, his tone firm.

"But is it possible?" you press, your voice tinged with determination.

Tom's jaw clenches, his gaze hardening as he meets your eyes. "Yes," he admits reluctantly, his voice barely above a whisper. "But it's a dark and dangerous magic, not something to be trifled with."

You nod slowly, your mind whirling with possibilities. "I see," you murmur, though you're already formulating a plan in your head.

You reach for one of the barely touched knives nestled in the drawer you had open and without second thought stab it straight through your hand.

Tom immediately drops the cup he holds, rushing over to you.

“What the fuck are you doing?!” He exclaims, eyes wide with disbelief as he stares down at the gruesome sight.

You grit your teeth, a pained sob escaping your lips as you yank the knife back out, and Tom’s heart is pounding at the sight of your blood dripping onto his hands.

“[Name], please. Stop-“ He pleads, stammering as he tries to staunch the bleeding.

You watch in disbelief as your skin begins to heal itself together, an almost grotesque sight. It seals together, and in no less than a minute it’s completely healed, not a scar in sight.

Your stomach fills with dread, eyes widened in betrayal as you look up at Tom. His gaze meets yours, guilt riddled in his eyes as you snatch your hand away.

"Fuck," you shout, your voice filled with a mix of pain and fury. Tears stream down your face as you struggle to process the revelation. "You... you made me a fucking Horcrux?!"

Tom's face pales, his own emotions mirroring the turmoil within you. He takes a step forward,

"I... I didn't mean for this to happen," he stammers, his voice laced with desperation. "I never wanted to hurt you."

But your rage consumes you, and you lash out at him, your voice filled with venom. "You ruined me, you fucking monster!" you scream, your words echoing through the room. "How could you do this to me? How could you use me like this?"

Tears mix with your words as you continue to berate him, your emotions spiralling out of control. You feel a searing pain deep within your chest, reaching out to shove him.

“I’m sorry. I thought it would work out! You’ll be immortal! Can’t you see it’s-“ He starts, and you snap.

"Sorry won't fix this!" you cry out, your voice breaking. "You've destroyed me, Tom. I can never be whole again."

He doesn’t know what to say, remaining silent as he tries to reach out to you.

“Get out!” You scream, reaching for your glass as you throw it in Tom’s direction. It smashes against the wall behind him, but he can’t look away from you.

He ruined you. He really did.

"Get the fuck out!" you scream, your voice filled with venom. You grab whatever is within reach and hurl it in his direction. Books, vases, anything that can cause damage. Each object crashes against the walls, shattering into countless pieces.

Tom has never felt like crying before, but this might be the first time he does. He turns and leaves, for he can’t bear to face what he’s done to you.

He was weak, after all.

You sink to the ground, your body racking with sobs as you hide your face in your hands.

What a cruel thing it was. Even if you wanted to, you could never permanently rid yourself of Tom.

You claw at your chest, as though you can just pull the fragment of Tom’s soul that was bound with yours.

You feel trapped, imprisoned within your own body. Your heart aches with a profound sadness, knowing that you were both beyond redemption. If only you hadn’t warned him that day if only you weren’t selected as a prefect, if only you didn’t try to save him.

Tom hasn’t heard from you for weeks. He doesn’t dare intrude either, no. He had already done enough damage.

The date is permanently engraved in his mind.

August the 17th. 7:03 pm.

He feels a searing pain in his chest. His hand comes up to clutch his heart as a pained groan escapes his lips. He can’t see for a second, his vision blurred.

Every breath is a struggle as he clutches his chest, his heart pounding against his ribcage.

The realization hits him like a tidal wave.

A Horcrux must have been destroyed. He only had two to date.

One was the ring engraved with his family sybil, which he wore on his hand.

The other?

Fear grips him, a fear he has never known before.

No. No. No. No. No. No.

He all but stumbles upwards, his mind focusing on one image as he apparates without a second thought. He appears at the door of your flat and doesn’t entertain the idea of knocking, bursting through the door with such force it splinters.

“[Name]?” He calls out, his voice a desperate plea as he searches through the eerily quiet apartment.

His heart pounds in his chest, his breaths shallow and rapid as he calls out your name, his voice laced with desperation and urgency.

"[Name]?" he repeats, the sound of his voice echoing through the silent space. There is a sense of foreboding, a heaviness in the air as he navigates the chaos, his eyes scanning every corner, every shadow.

His footsteps are quick and purposeful as he moves from room to room, his senses heightened, attuned to any flicker of your presence.

Finally, his gaze lands on a small table, and there, amidst the disarray, he sees a letter addressed to him. His heart skips a beat as he snatches it up, but within the depths of his mind, he knows what the contents of the letter will read.

Tom.

You by no doubt will know by now. I must preface by saying that I hate you. I will never ever forgive you for what you’ve done to me.

I remember with frightening clarity the day we had both first met. You were quite rude, but you backed down slightly when I had covered for you. It was then that I knew you must have not had very good people around you in your upbringing, for you were very reserved.

Despite all that, despite the fact that it was a very clear warning not to get entangled with you, I still did.

Year after year, I persisted. I could tell when you got annoyed, yet I did not give up. I was determined to know who Tom Riddle was.

I knew I loved you the day you had stayed with me after that boggart lesson. It’s rather silly, it was quite possibly the bare minimum someone could have done. But coming from you? Merlin, it was essentially the same as being gifted the moon.

I was not oblivious to what you were doing. Even from a young age, I knew of your plans, of your intentions. I suppose in a sense you’re not to blame, for I chose to love you willingly.

I only wish you had trusted me. You may have loved me, but you never trusted me. If you did, you’d have known my soul was already yours. I was bound to you indefinitely, there was no chance I wouldn’t have loved you.

I wanted love, you wanted devotion. They aren’t the same, my love. Devotion would have been me following you to the ends of the earth if you asked without question. Love would have been me not wanting to, but knowing I’d travel further to save you should you need it.

I would have given the world for you, Tom. I just wish you had let me do it on my own accord.

I love you. I always will. I always have. If there is a heaven though, I hope we never meet again.

Do not be afraid to be human. You, out of despair, and fear, and greed, drove everyone away from you. You cannot mourn a loss that you perpetuated. We are all human, flawed and imperfect. You are too. You may try to avoid it, you can split your soul and continue killing, but you’re only deflecting the truth.

I hope in my death you will meet your own. Mortality is a beautiful thing, Tom.

Do not postpone it. Existence has no better gift.

- [Name.]

-•-

It’s rather cruel how he can recall the entirety of your life in mere minutes. It doesn’t feel right, for the only time Tom truly lived was when he was with you. A lifetime, an eternity.

A mere recollection as he stands at your grave.

The rain is harsh, unforgiving. It seeps into his skin though he’s grateful, for some feeling was better than none.

He thought he would be immune to grief. It wasn’t that bad of a thing.

He can’t recall a day he hasn’t thought about you.

He threw himself further into the dark arts. He became more prominent, more ruthless. Many thought he was simply becoming more powerful.

Tom only hoped that in his efforts someone would find a way to end him. He threw himself into the most haphazard situations with the hope that a spell would misfire, that he would make an enemy of someone who would be able to kill him.

His eyes flicker up to the tree that grows above your grave. It was perhaps the first and only time he had cultivated a living thing.

Cinnamomum verum.

His fingers trace the inscription on the stone. Your laughs are buried deep within the recesses of his mind. They echo everytime he steps foot into your apartment.

It had been 6 years since you were found dead. He hasn’t touched a single thing. He sees life in your unmade bed, in the plants that he has an elf tend to. He keeps your necklace on him at all time, rolling the small pendant between his fingers when he finds himself thinking of you.

He forgoes tending to his own wounds. If it killed him then so be it.

There is not a day that goes by when he doesn’t read your letter.

Losing you was beyond losing a piece of his soul.

It was losing everything.

[cowboygenesis]

1/2 fatum invenit | gale x reader

part 1 of the "fatum" mini-series.

summary: you've loathed each other since the dawn of his first arrival. it never should've worked, but somehow, as you find yourself chest-to-chest within a sunken crypt with no way out, your feelings finally surface— and Gods, do they cut deep.

pairing: gale dekarios x sorceress!durge!reader tags: fluff, angst, tons of cursing, mutual pining, forced proximity, enemies/rivals to lovers. word count: 5.3k notes: whew, here we are at last. if you've read "knuckle up" you might find the ending a little similar but... what can i say, im a softie. also, the durge aspect of the reader is truly very minimal, i just added it for the sake of flavor, whatevah... oh, and reader is super cheeky and generally curses a lot, im case that's something that bothers you. i want this to be a two-parter eventually, so expect some smut in the future chapter. as always, let me know what you think! enjoy! masterlist.

You… you fucking knew it. The one time in your life you decide to give a wizard the benefit of the doubt he… he screws you the fuck over.

It was supposed to be an easy job: infiltrate Kereska’s chapel, retrieve the relic Raphael demanded, and slip away unnoticed. Hey, no big deal— you’ve handled worse without breaking a sweat.

Most of your companions weren’t so eager to take on the devil’s dirty work after a night of drinking, so, you figured you’d tackle it solo. No problem. After all, you’d just returned home to Baldur’s Gate. The evening was warm, the streets thrummed with energy, and after a night of revelry, you were in a damn good mood.

So when Gale, with his calm, holier-than-thou attitude, offered to “assist,” you’d thought sure, why the Hells not?

And what a mistake that would turn out to be for you. Just as your gut had warned you, things ended up going sideways. All because of him.

You both had made it past the wards, the traps, and even those fucked up, undead necromancers that you hated dealing with—no thanks to Gale’s constant commentary on your spellcasting techniques. It was always some remark about how your magic was “undisciplined,” how you were “too reckless to be at your best.” Fuck, like you hadn’t been doing this shit for years, now.

Warranted, you weren’t exactly the nicest person, either. Meals at your camp were a battlefield of their own, filled with biting comments and passive-aggressive stares, often over trivial matters that had nothing to do with magic.

Plus, combat was no different. It rarely took more than a few minutes before you and Gale were mired in a heated debate over the “best course of action for the situation”. Naturally, these debates only added to the tension, making every encounter feel like a personal clash as opposed to a friendly discussion over technique.

You two were polar opposites, discordant, incompatible.

But you were an idiot, then. A dumb, tender-hearted idiot in a great mood who had hoped you two could eventually get along if the stars aligned just right. But that’s all hindsight.

After all the hard work, you had almost had it— your hand was just within reach of that damned necklace, caution thrown to the wind, when Gale decided to get fancy. A small “adjustment” to the magical aura surrounding the relic, he’d explained— something about minimizing risk and stabilizing the flow of the Weave so you could extract it safely.

You discarded the idea, of course; “fuck your tricks,” you had said (your actual words), rolled your eyes at him, and said goodbye to the remnants of your good mood as he reprimanded you like a teacher would a novice— and that, naturally, you weren’t.

Unlike him, you didn’t need a stack of tomes to inspectthis kind of arcane energy. It felt powerful and intricate, yes— but beneath it all, it was just a trick of the eye. The glowing, golden-tinged sphere wasn’t malevolent whatsoever, and instead served as a cheap ploy to repel those tempted by the artifact.

So, knowing what you knew, you reached for the relic despite his suggestion.

But, just as you were to lay a finger on it, he… he cast his fucking “safety” spell. And everything went to hell.

The forcefield around the necklace reacted— wildly. The air rippled in waves, the ground shifting beneath you, and suddenly, you were trapped in some kind of collapsed chamber beneath the chapel— cut off from the rest of the world, with no way out.

Worst of all, you were in heartbreaking proximity. The dugout was deep, but narrow, allowing you maybe a centimeter of privacy before your chest collided with his. And Gods, did that happen often. Any movement you made, your bodies would collide in one way or another, be it feeling his thigh rub against yours, grazing fingers, or smacking his chin— the last one being a complete accident on your part, of course.

And yes, as two magic-wielders would, you tried your luck. As it turned out, the stone binding your bodies together seemed to have a sort of Weave-repellent property that rendered your only functional skills worthless.

So, here you were, stuck with your arch-rival, and with every passing second, your frustration grew. It must have been half an hour since the disaster struck when you finally felt your head pound with frustration.

“Gale,” you sigh for the millionth time, “Are you even listening?”

He’s been doing a great job ignoring your commentary by seemingly occupying himself with analyzing your surroundings. Smart, sure, if it wasn’t for the simple fact he refused to collaborate with you whatsoever. After your initial scream-off, he seemed reluctant to give you the time of day again.

He finally clears his throat to speak, and you shoot him a glare in the dim light.

"You just had to do your thing, didn’t you?" he sighs.

“And you just had to show off,” you retort through a bitter snark.

Gale glances at you with narrowed eyes, yet his expression remains infuriatingly contained. “I was trying to prevent a catastrophe. If I hadn’t intervened, the entire chapel may have collapsed.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snap, “It collapsed on us instead. I’m so glad we avoided a disaster, Gale.”

He exhales slowly, then gives you a haphazard eye-roll. “Perhaps if you hadn’t rushed things—”

“Rushed things?” Your chest flares, making it collide with his. “I didn’t touch a damned thing. You’re the one who decided the Weave needed tuning or whatever other bullshit.”

Gale’s eyes narrow, a flash of frustration crossing his face. “You think I did this on purpose? I made the right choice. But you—”

“Oh, so it’s my fault now?” You cut him off, “Honestly, fuck you, man. If you were half as concerned with doing a good job as you are with peacocking we wouldn’t even be here in the first place.”

He looks away, his jaw tightening. “Peacocking?”

“Yeah. Peacocking, showing off—Are you okay? I thought you were supposed to be the clever one.” You shrug in mock nonchalance, rolling your eyes as if the circumstances weren’t already driving you up the wall.

You feel Gale’s chest rise and fall with a steadying breath, the sort one might take when trying to stop themselves from saying something they’ll inevitably regret. When it came to containing his bubbling rage, he beat you to it every time.

His casual lilt, when it comes, makes your teeth grit. “Obviously.”

You groan loudly, letting the back of your head thud against the stone wall behind you. A tense silence falls between you, broken only by the steady rhythm of his breathing, a sound that seems to grow louder in the small space whenever conversation dies down.

“You would’ve been buried stone-cold dead under the rubble if I hadn’t cast that spell,” he mutters, and just like that, your patience snaps.

“I— I can’t believe you’re saying this to me,” Your words are sharp as daggers, eyes burning into his as you twist your body just enough to face him head-on. “The barrier was a ruse, Gale. A fake. I told you not to cast that damn spell—”

“And I suppose explanations are beneath someone of your obvious talents,” he snaps back, his words dripping with venom.

You glare at him, feeling your pulse quicken. “You’re a scholar— Gods, don’t you know this kind of illusory magic is Kereska’s whole thing?” you spit, watching his face aptly in hopes of catching a glimpse of something; remorse, sympathy, fuck, even just a bit of pity would satiate you.

But it never comes. His eyes bore into you with practiced reprimanding, and because he must see you on the precipice of breaking down, he continues to poke the metaphorical bear. “You should’ve waited.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, I must’ve missed the part where you became the authority on everything. In case you somehow overlooked it, I’ve been doing this for years without your lectures.”

“And look how well that’s worked out for you,” he retorts, his voice low, treacherous. There’s a mocking smile imbued on his face, and you quickly realize it makes you want to tackle him to the ground and claw it out yourself. If it wasn’t for the minimal space, you probably would’ve even attempted it. “This wasn’t some petty street magic. That relic was infused with layers of defense—complex protections you clearly didn’t even account for—”

“I knew what I was dealing with!” you hiss, pushing against the wall for leverage. You brush against his chest again, sending an electric jolt of tension through the confined space. “I didn’t need your over-calculated, pompous meddling. I had it under control until you—”

“Under control?” Gale’s voice rises, his frustration finally splintering through his quiet facade as he emits a burst of scornful laughter. “Do you even hear yourself? Your recklessness nearly got us killed!”

You scoff, pushing back even harder. “You’re so damn smug— acting like the world will end if you don’t micromanage every little detail, but guess what? You don’t always have the answer. And right now, we’re stuck— all because of your fucking arrogance.”

He opens his mouth to reply, but then closes it, jaw tight, eyes blazing as he holds your gaze. For a second, you think he’s about to let loose another lecture, but instead, there’s silence—a strange, electricity-charged stillness that envelops you like a cold breeze.

You can’t speak. It crackles between you with a strain, thick enough to feel suffocating. Every breath you take only draws you closer to him, and somehow, it almost feels like the walls enveloping you have only grown thicker throughout your argument.

The closeness, the heat, the sheer intensity of the argument—it’s all too much, and yet, neither of you looks away once your gazes inevitably connect.

The wizard licks his bottom lip languidly, lips smacking as he seems to be taking you all in. His eyes scan over you, and somehow the fact makes you feel vulnerable.

Finally, he breaks the peace.

“If I’m so arrogant, why did you let me join you?”

His eyes are dark, but not just with frustration; they’re searching, questioning, as though he’s daring you to give an honest answer, knowing it’s something you can’t afford yourself right now.

“You asked me to let you come,” you bark out, pushing his chest with the heel of your hand, the contact sending a spark of heat through your outstretched arm. “I didn’t want you here. I figured we’d get through this, grab the necklace, and go our separate ways again. But no—you wanted to come. Play the hero, do all the dirty work, whatever your reasoning was.”

Gale doesn’t flinch at your words, but his eyes narrow slightly— they flicker to the space your bodies connect at, then back to your tautened face.

His gaze lingers on where your hand presses against his chest, and for a fleeting moment, you think he might back down. But instead, his jaw clenches, and when his eyes snap back to yours, there’s a fire behind them that ignites something deep in your gut.

“And you agreed,” he counters mockingly, the smile adorning his face making your head spin. “Why?”

The question hangs between you for a beat. You falter, mouth opening and closing without a reply.

He’s right. He’s fucking correct, and you hate it.

Why did you agree? You could’ve said no, barked back at him, insulted his stupid wizard frock— pushed him away with one of the countless options you had at your disposal.

But you didn’t. You let him come with you, willingly.

You clench your fists, pushing against the surge of discomfort bubbling in your belly. “Well, forgive me for being an optimist,” you mutter, voice tight. “I thought, for once, that maybe— Fuck. Maybe we could get through one fucking mission without trying to jump at each others’ throats.”

He exhales at your explanation, tilting his head to glance through the top of the crevasse and toward the chapel ceiling. You follow suit, albeit subtly, noticing the intricate engravings lining the skylight; in the dim light of the afternoon sun, they look elegant, beautiful, even. How didn’t you notice that when you first walked in?

“And how’s that going for us?” he asks suddenly, the smile curling at the edges of his mouth turning bitter.

You huff, running a hand through your hair. The condensation sticks to your fingers, and you can’t help the joyless chuckle that escapes your lips when you look at him again.

“Well, I don’t know,” you sigh, shrugging your shoulders lazily. Your cynical laughter shifts into the shadow of a smile. Somehow, as he glances down at you, you find yourself with a pang in your chest that overshadows the frustration you’ve been drowning in— it’s deep, and resonant, and feels like it’s swallowing your heart whole when his dark eyes meet yours. “We still hate each other.”

The wizard exhales sharply through his nose, and strangely, you can’t seem to read his expression even as your eyes squint.

His gaze is fixed on yours with an intensity that makes your pulse quicken; you feel it best when his hot breath hits the sweat-slicked skin of your face as he leans in. It’s a slight, almost imperceptible gesture, yet just enough to make your breath hitch with… rage, aversion— or perhaps, most frighteningly, something else you’ve been pushing down for months since your first quarrel.

You’re forcefully dragged out of your stupor when the pad of his thumb grazes your palm— the touch sends a sharp, almost uncomfortable jolt of electricity down your spine, leaving you speechless as you chalk it up to an unfortunate accident. Nothing more, it couldn’t be.

“I don’t hate you,” he says, and though his tone is stiff, the words cut through your pause like a skilled blade.

It couldn’t be.

Your breath catches in your parched throat, heart pounding with a force that would surely reverberate through his body hadn’t his robe been so thick.

You can feel the heat radiating off him, each shallow breath you take only drawing you closer— or, at least, that’s exactly how it feels in the tiny space you’re being forced to share.

His thumb is still brushing your palm, slowly, gently, and deliberately enough that you cannot ascribe it to a simple accident anymore. For a second, your eyebrows arch and there’s this urge to pull away, something thrumming in your head and telling you to hold to principle.

But you don’t… you— you physically can’t. Not when he’s gazing down at you with… with patience. Understanding, maybe. But why?

A beat passes, then another. The tension coils so tight you almost want to scream to break it, and his gaze remains locked on yours, his palm grazing yours.

You swallow hard, trying to gather your scattered thoughts, but your voice betrays you when you finally manage to speak, trembling, barely above a whisper.

“You—” Your throat feels tight, words failing you as his face remains inches from yours. "You’re fucking with me. I… you hate me, Gale, I can’t—"

He glances down at you with a strange glint in his eyes, then exhales loudly again. Did you strike a nerve?

“Why do you always do this?” he questions with exasperation tugging at his tone. You feel his touch momentarily drop from yours, and in the heat of the moment, you find yourself missing it.

“What?” you blink, eyebrows furrowed.

“This,” He gestures between the two of you with a frustrated sigh. “You’re— you’re always picking fights with me. Always pushing, always assuming the worst—”

“I’m picking fights?” Your eyes narrow, the sneer coming back to your lips like armor. “You’ve been criticizing every godsdamn thing I’ve done since day one, making me feel inferior, questioning my skill— and now I’m the one picking fights?”

He shakes his head sharply, then sighs in frustration. When you look up, his eyes are locked on yours—deep brown with flecks of gold, catching the fractured sunlight streaming through the cracked skylight. You could drown in them, given the chance.

“No, that’s not— That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” He stops himself, closing his eyes briefly before opening them again. “You don’t— you just refuse to listen to me. When we fight, in camp— even now. The relic, that barrier, you— Gods, you always act instead of—”

“Don’t you dare paint me as the villain now,” you snap, bumping his chest with the pad of your palm again.

“You almost got us killed!” he bites back, “I don’t care for your talents if it means you don’t utilize them properly. Have you ever stopped to think that maybe, just maybe, raw talent doesn’t equal capability?”

Right.

Your lips purse, the pit in your stomach suddenly overpowering your ability to retort. It was a mistake— you should have known the niceties were a convenient gimmick to ascertain his position over you, and not an actual instance of humanity, for once.

But somehow, your false hopes only drive the wrath within you. You let the nausea overcome you and have it fuel your bitter tone as you finally find the power to speak up again.

“All you care about is being right— about having the last word against anyone who dares question your abilities,” you mutter, challenging his stern gaze with your own, “And the rest of us? We’re just supposed to sit by and watch, grateful to be in the presence of Gale Dekarios, the great, tragic wizard who thought his tricks could satiate a fucking Goddess!”

You’re fuming. The words that come out of your throat are only half-baked as you shrill at him, but… but at the moment, it feels right— warranted, somehow.

So when you catch him give you the space to continue, you take it.

“…But the truth is, you need to feel superior. You need everyone to see you as the sleekest in the room because deep down, you’re still clinging to the ghost of a woman who abandoned you. And that’s why you’ve been picking me apart since day one—because I’m not afraid to tell you how full of shit you are.”

Suddenly, you feel his hand catch your wrist, his grip firm as he holds you still. His thumb presses lightly against your pulse, sending a sharp, unwanted jolt of awareness through your body as your arm tries to jerk away.

“You don’t know the first godsdamn thing about me,” Gale growls, his breath fanning your face as the words spill out, thick with venom. “You’re so wrapped up in your own insolence, so blinded by your stubborn pride, that all you can see in others is a reflection of yourself. And trust me when I say that it’s an ugly one.”

You laugh, a bitter, angry sound, but your heart is hammering now. “Oh, so you think you’ve got me all figured out?”

His jaw clenches, but his grip doesn’t waver. “I know enough. I know that your actions speak louder than words. I know that you’re reckless, impulsive, and too damned proud to admit when you need help—”

Your heart pounds in your chest, the heat between you scorching as your breaths mingle. “You’re such a fucking hypocrite. You’re the one who’s blinded by your own self-importance— always thinking you’re the wisest, savviest person in the room, like the rest of us are just pawns in your little fucking game.”

Gale’s eyes flash with something wild and uninhibited, and you watch his sneer shift into a bitter smile again.

“You— You really think that?” he questions through a chuckle, voice gravelly and low. “Do you really think I’m just using you for some game?”

For a heartbeat, neither of you moves. You sneer at him, and the outrage bubbles out again.

“Oh, don’t make me laugh. You’ve only ever looked out for yourself. This was never about helping me—it was… it was about proving something. To me, to yourself, to fucking Mystra,” you trail.

The moment the words leave your lips, the air shifts between you like a storm about to unravel. His grip on your wrist tightens, not painfully, but with a deliberate firmness that forces you to stop and feel the tension between you. His face is suddenly too close, and for the most succinct moment, you catch something flickering in his eyes—something dim, and dark—but not the rage you were expecting.

He should be angry with you— Hells, he should be furious. You just tore into every insecurity you knew he had, ripped open wounds that never quite healed, and worst of all, dragged his old lover into it all.

And yet… his gaze isn’t burning with the fever you’ve grown used to seeing from him in every argument, every fight.

Why the fuck isn’t he furious?

“Gods, I actually— I used to admire you. You know that? Before all this, I thought you were someone I could… I don’t know, respect. You were this brilliant, woeful man who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders, and I thought, ‘Maybe there’s something more underneath all that.’ I thought we could, I don’t know, actually be something—friends, allies, whatever the fuck. I wanted us to trust each other. But… but you…" your voice lowers to a near whisper, and somehow, unbeknownst to you, your eyes go glassy with hot tears.

You’re left reeling, heart hammering in your chest as your mind races along with your bitter confession. The air around you feels viscous, mucous-like, but when your throat goes dry with impending tears you look up to see something that makes your breath hitch.

He’s listening.

Not just waiting for his turn to speak as he usually does around you, not calculating his next clever retort, but listening— really, truly listening.

His gaze, once so sharp with ire, has softened. His dark eyes are fixed on yours with a vigor that nearly undoes you, and there’s no anger in them now, no resentment.

Your breath catches.

“You never gave me a chance, Gale. Not once. It was always about you, your guilt, your past, your Mystra— Fuck!” you cough out and rub your eyes with the pads of your palms, massaging your vulnerability away. “I tried. I really, really tried. But none of this seemed to reach you, not through that… that mental barrier you’ve created around yourself. I think that since the very beginning, everything else was just noise to you. I was just noise to you,” your voice dies down to a mutter, and you inhale sharply to fight the sorrow back into your grieving heart.

You withdraw your hands and finally feel brazen enough to face him.

You can feel the heat in your cheeks, aware that your nose is red from the tears you tried so hard to hold back, that your eyelids are probably puffy and swollen, and you’re a fucking mess.

But it doesn’t matter now. You’ve come undone, and now, nothing mattered to you anymore; not the anger, not the sorrow, and especially not the way his kind, gentle touch seemed to soothe your aching heart when his palm met yours.

You scan his face, but there’s nothing— or at least, you can’t seem to read it through the coating of tears obscuring your eyes. The light above has shifted to cast his face in a warm, velvety light. You catch the subtle lines etched into his forehead, the faint silver threads streaking through his hair, and his lips curling into… a smile.

Despite your desperation, despite your pain, he was smiling.

Your chest tightens, fists clenching at your sides, and before you can stop them, a stream of hot tears finally spills down your cheeks.

This was it. You braced for impact.

“…So do whatever the fuck you need to fill that void in your heart, but don’t involve me in any of it. And— for fuck’s sake, Gale, don’t act like you give a shit about me because you—”

But you never get to finish.

Before you can witness the gentle glint in his eyes as he leans into you, before you can even register it, his lips crash onto yours.

Your gasp is muted against the softness of his mouth. When he moves, it’s not gentle, not soft, but raw in its intensity and so, so desperate.

His grip on your wrist tightens briefly before finally releasing, his free hand sliding up to cup the back of your neck. The warmth of his hand is a pleasant change to the cold, hard stone you’ve been leaning against, and suddenly, just as your mind threatens to flood you with dopamine, it all dawns on you.

You’ve been here before—no, not here, but in moments that feel eerily alike.

You recall the edge in his voice during arguments, the way he’d insist on ‘rectifying’ you at every turn, the blunt critiques you assumed were borne from pure vanity. But now… now there’s a clarity to it all. Worry. Fear. A softness, a hesitation. Like when he would offer his hand to you after a fight, his fingers lingering just a moment too long as they brushed over yours.

You loathed him… Hells, you detested him.

But how deep were you willing to draw the line between hate and devotion?

Against all your instincts, against the sharp, burning ache in your chest—you drink him in. His warmth, his touch, the power behind it all.

You know you should push him away, shove him off, scream, but instead, you find yourself frozen— trapped in the certainty of this moment. And despite every ounce of fury burning inside you, you can’t deny the spark it ignites in your indigent heart as he caresses you so tenderly.

And with that, you seal your fate with his.

Your lips press against his, head tilting until you feel you’re melting into him. He groans softly against your mouth, and the sound makes your chest thrum with a melody you’re afraid to place.

Your hands, trembling, inch towards his chest, but this time they aren’t formed into spiteful fists or an accusatory point— your palms lay lax against him, resting at the junction of his ribs and pushing, pushing… just in hopes of catching the steady thrum of his heart against your fingertips. The anger, the pain, the confusion—it’s all still there, but in this moment, none of it matters.

Just him. Just this.

For all the times you’ve misread him, all the moments you thought his criticisms were barbs, meant to wound—now you wonder. You had mistaken his care for contempt, his frustration for hatred. But now, as his lips part slightly against yours, the world narrows down to just the two of you. No damned relic, no mission, no war; only the benign sensation of his hand cradling the back of your neck, the warmth of his mouth on yours, and the undeniable truth of it all:

You’ve never hated him. Not once in your rotten life.

And when his tongue swipes against your bottom lip, you want to come undone. You’re tired, hot, melting into this fiery, passionate kiss that has slowly turned languid and gentle.

So despite the zeal enveloping your body, you’re finally forced to part.

When your eyes open, you find him already watching you. A shiver runs down your spine as you drink him in; tousled hair, half-lidded eyes, and the ghost of a smile on his plush lips as the both of you pant in tandem with each other.

He looks wrecked. But then again, you’re certain you do too.

Your face feels flushed, still burning with aftershock and when you bite your bottom lip, you find it swollen. Raw. The taste of him lingers there too, sweet like bourbon and sharp like anise.

You stare at each other. It’s like you’re seeing him for the first time again, really seeing him, and it softens your heart as much as it terrifies your lust-addled mind.

The silence stretches between you, so thick you can feel it pressing against your skin. It pulls taut with every second, coiling tighter, and you can’t stand how fragile it makes your heart feel.

You swallow hard, trying to gather your scattered thoughts, but your voice betrays you when you finally manage to speak, trembling, barely above a whisper. “You—” Your throat feels tight, words failing you as his face remains inches from yours.

"Yeah?" His voice is husky— you’ve never found that aspect of it attractive until now.

You open your mouth, but the words—whatever they are—die in your throat. Instead, all you can do is look at him and fall deeper into his embrace.

There are questions that swirl in the back of your mind, ones you know you should ask, but they slip away the moment his thumb brushes your cheek again. Why did he kiss you? Why did you let him? And why, despite the chaos and pain that’s passed through your mind, did this—he—feel like the only thing that has made sense since you forgot all else?

“I never hated you,” he murmurs and shifts slightly, lifting his hand to cup your cheek. You nuzzle into his touch.

“I didn’t want to hate you,” you manage, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I thought it’s what we were meant to be. Enemies.”

“We aren’t,” The corner of his mouth twitches. “We never were.”

His thumb brushes your cheek, and just like that, the fragile walls around your heart crumble. Gale Dekarios, the man you had sworn to hate, has somehow intertwined himself into your very existence in a way you suddenly think might last centuries.

—

As it turns out, the solution to your predicament was surprisingly, nearly embarrassingly straightforward. The anti-magic barrier encircling the sunken crypt could be dispelled by reciting the incantation inscribed on the rock walls— and with Gale’s surprising proficiency in Draconic, it proved quite an easy feat.

After that, it was just a matter of a few rudimentary spells. Naturally, the task took longer than anticipated, thanks to the lingering, newfound tension between you and the wizard— fleeting glances, soft touches, and even an occasional, stolen kiss as you recited your magic; things you surprisingly found yourself quite fond of.

As you step out into the cool evening air, you inhale deeply, savoring the crisp, refreshing breeze. The sunset paints the world in a warm, golden hue, casting long, soft shadows across the cobbled streets as you pass by groups of chattering townsfolk.

“I’ve been thinking,” you hear your companion muse through a playful smile. “After all of this, do you think we could avoid arguments for a little while?”

You meet his gaze with a puckish eye roll, a smile tugging at your still-swollen lips. The warm glow of the streetlights casts his face in a soft, intimate glow, and your smile widens into a grin when you catch his lips bearing that same sign of your carnal affection.

“It depends,” you reply with a nonchalant shrug, pushing against him playfully.

“Mhm, and on what exactly?” he hums, his hand squeezing tighter around yours. When his thumb caresses your palm, you feel your heart thrum with something you can’t quite describe.

“Oh, I don’t know,” you reply, glancing up at him with a grin. He returns it within a beat, and now it’s your turn to knit your fingers tighter. “How much longer are you planning on nagging me?”

He chuckles from the belly, and the coil in your chest that you’ve long expected to be spite emerges as something much larger, softer, and most unexpected. You fear to name it out loud.

You smile when your gaze meets his, the warmth in his eyes mirrored by the softness of your own. He leans in, and the world narrows to the touch of his lips against yours—a brief, gentle kiss that seems to linger in the evening light. In that fleeting moment, all the doubts and anxieties are swept away with his voice calling your name.

“For as long as I live,” he retorts softly, his voice laced with tenderness as the air between you, once again, fills with his laughter.

[lowkeyrobin]

If you are still doing descendants may I suggest a hook x wizard reader

oooo sure!! ; hopefully I did this like... okay LMAO ; thanks for requesting, hope you enjoy!

JAMES HOOK ; wizardry

summary ; youre a spellcaster, he's a pirate

warnings ; language

word count ; 363

masterlist

James loved your little spellcasting powers, he found it so... intriguing. The fact that some little wand, and/or your hands, could summon little sparks and trails of magic. Magic, just at your fingertips, fascinated him.

Yes, he found Maleficent's and Hades' powers interesting, too. But you, you were something else, like a muse, the Diego Rivera to his Frida Kahlo.

He'd stare in awe when you used your magic, absolutely enamored.

He gave you that look he always gave you when you spelled Red and Chloe with a silencing spell, making them hush up while Uliana spoke and stole the recipe book from them. You look over at him, seeing that lovestruck gaze in his eyes. You roll your eyes playfully, lightly nudging him with your elbow.

"You're staring" You whisper

He raises his hand and hook in defense, fake frowning for a moment before you both turn back to look at Red and Chloe. They scratch and grab at their throats, unable to speak over Uliana.

You wave goodbye as you exit the office with the others, shooting a little remedy their way as you close the door behind you. James waits for you, grabbing your hand as you quickly maneuver through the halls together.

"That was very attractive" He mutters

"Yeah, I can tell"

he loves watching you flip through spellbooks and help you learn new spells

and he'll happily let you practice on him

"you should bake some more cookies, add a little love spell while you're at it, love"

"you realize that doesn't make sense, right?"

"hush"

he's literally never been so fascinated by magic nor people before you

your friends are always teasing you how you changed his brain chemistry or something

you often prank him as well

one in a million moment where he wants to kill you /lh

"agh! y/n, why is their a horde of spiders in my room???"

he'd rather be on your side when you're pranking people

he's always getting you to do simple little tasks for him when he's lazy, aka using telekinesis of sorts

like turning on/off light switches, grabbing things when he's caught up, stuff like that

[valentine-cafe]

˖⁺. ﹙ yandere sorcerer  x male witch reader. ﹚ .𖹭 ݁

. . . pretty thing !! 🍒 :  sorcerer ˖ yandere character﹙ verse 9948e alessio. ﹚

a mad sorcerer attacks your village and takes a morbid interest in you | cw: dark content

his presence was like a breeze. as he stepped into your coven. the ease of wind -

that would soon roar into a fierce storm. carrying the screams of your fellow spellcasters. blood rain soaking the ground. and at the eye of it all - stood his dark figure.

unbothered. the height of rigidness. like a flurry of hail ready to cast down on any that find themselves foolish enough to challenge him.

they hadn’t given him what he came for. how is this his fault?

and still. you stumble forward. the blood of your friends fresh in your eyes and a fire in your heart.

on your way to being the best of the coven - you were. well, suppose that title is now yours. when surrounded by your fallen brethren.

you call upon the earth. the sparks of magic flow from your heart and through your veins. zapping at the tips of your fingers. a warning. a challenge. a spark to the storm that rages at the center.

you lunge. he catches.

“pathetic.”

even his voice sounds like the dry wind. straight from the darkest of catacombs. your attacks are met with but a raise of his hand. a twist of his wrist. viridian flies and strains your limbs. planting them to the ground.

death surely awaits you. yet your vision still catches him in front of you. peering those deep - glowing eyes into your own.

curious.

as though the blood of your coven is not on his hands. as though he had not slaughtered them all. why are you any different?

“kill me, you demon.”

tears drip down your face. you cry with a raspy voice. a metallic taste spilling from your lungs and bittering your tongue.

he raises a hand. that frightful viridian swirling from the wrist and blackened veins. straight to his fingertips. you squeeze your eyes tightly and brace yourself. call for your ancestors to tell them - you will be there soon.

you feel it. the static. the dread. the sheer power that reverberates off of this mad sorcerer.

and yet the sweet release never comes. the strike through your heart to draw your magic. rip it from your soul.

instead. a caress.

cold. soft. like snow kissing your cheek. your eyes open to behold the hand now trailing along your face. the dark shadow cast over his face now looming over your kneeling form as he leans over. those green, glowing eyes half-lidded.

“such beauty. . . for a mere witch.”

the words are poison on his tongue. yet they sound sweet to your ears. your stomach churns.

long fingers curl beneath your jaw. tighten. shove your head back. he breathes deep - shaky - and suddenly it is no longer the dread of death that you fear.

but the dread of his cold lips on yours and his dark whisper amongst the thunder.

“pretty thing. . . what a waste to shed your blood.”