#when the fic is too good you want it to be canon so badly (it will never happen sadly)

[weirdcharacter]

Me seeing Wade Wilson (masked): Such a pretty guy

Me seeing Wade Wilson (partially/ entierely unmasked): So fucking pretty

[this-is-chaos-magick]

Just wanna share my favorite scarletvision fanfic :b i've been rereading it over and over :b

[dyaz-stories]

JUJUTSU BOYS + PDA

how the jjk boys are when you're in public with them

including: gojo, nanami, choso, yuuji, megumi, maki

word count: 3.6k (500-600 words for one character)

cw: intended as canon compliant, established relationships, fluff, tooth-rotting fluff, kissing, public demonstrations of affection, can't think of anything else tbh

a/n: been reading some fics in this format so wanted to try my hand at it again. it's been years since I wrote short pieces like that, so I hope you'll enjoy them!

GOJO

Gojo has no concept of personal space, and that is something you had to get used to since you started dating — if anything, since before you started dating. Even when the two of you were at a more flirtatious stage, he’d always be leaning towards you to talk to you, face inches away from yours, hands on your hips if he needed to move past you, arm casually around you if you were sitting next to each other. It was all the better if it flustered you.

None of this has changed, except that he’s much more extra about it now. Holding your hand while walking? Nah, that’s boring. He’ll have his arm around your shoulders, even if it’s not convenient given the height difference. He’ll also try to put his hand in the back pocket of your jeans, pout if you tell him not to do it. If you’re waiting in line with him, he has both of his arms around you, is resting his chin on top of your head, and wants nothing more than for you to lean back into his chest, relaxing into his embrace. You can both be doing totally unrelated things — you’re reading and he’s checking his phone — but you’re slotted against each other, and that’s how it is ideally for you.

You’re waiting for him to show up to your date when you feel yourself surrounded by familiar arms, and then his cheek is pressing against yours as he surveys the book you’re holding in your hands.

“Whatch’ya reading?” he asks, breath warm against your cheek.

“Just doing some research on emerging curses,” you say with a shrug as you close it and put it in your bag. “So, did you want to check out that new bakery?”

He hums in reply, and you wait for him to move so you can start walking.

He doesn’t.

“…do you plan on letting go of me?” you ask after a while, turning your head to look at him.

He pouts at you, inches away from your face.

“I haven’t even gotten a kiss yet…”

“We’re in public, Satoru,” you say, feeling your face heating up.

“So? Let ‘em stare. They might as well, if you ask me.”

You want to roll your eyes — one day, you’ll have to talk about that exhibitionist streak of his — but in the meantime, you just have to crane your neck a little to peck his lips. They’re soft, as always, and he follows greedily when you pull away, his hand coming up to tilt your chin up gently as he presses more kisses on the corner of your lips, then on your cheek.

“You’re impossible,” you say, badly hiding your laughter. “Let’s go, or we won’t make it to closing time. You’re late, by the way.”

He lets out a heartbroken sigh, but finally frees you, keeping his arm around your shoulders as the two of you start walking towards the bakery. He keeps his strides short, so you don’t have to run to keep up with him, instead allowing you to keep a comfortable pace.

“Yeah, well, what can I say? I’m just too good at my job, they can never get enough of me.”

“Aw, poor darling,” you say. You grab his hand, intertwining your fingers with his, and bring it to your lips to press a kiss on the back.

He lets out a cough that doesn’t do much to disguise the fact that he’s getting flustered, and you grin, satisfied. Two can play that game.

Fortunately, neither Satoru nor you have any intention of forfeiting any time soon.

NANAMI

Nanami is a private man. There is no reason for the whole world to know his business, and he doesn’t feel the need to put his relationship on display for everyone to see. His softness for you is still plain to see in how gentle his voice gets when he speaks to you, in how carefully he chooses his words, in how fond his eyes are when he listens to you tell him about your day. He knows you like him holding your hand, though, so he’ll indulge you, especially when you’re walking by his side through crowded streets.

That is for practical reasons, of course. First, it just wouldn’t do to lose sight of you. Second, people tend to steer clear of him, his serious expression and his broad frame, and that means they realize quickly to steer clear of you. It has nothing to do with how soft your hand is in his, or how the way you use your thumb to stroke his skin sends shivers down his back.

“That’s a lovely restaurant,” you comment, eyes drinking in the elegant decor while Nanami is examining the menu.

“It had excellent reviews,” he answers, not going into details as to the great lengths he’d gone to in order to ensure that this date was as perfect as humanly possible.

“I’ve been in the neighborhood so many times, and I had no idea this was here,” you say. The place is very small, only a handful of tables, all of them now filled. You’re sharing an alcove with Nanami, creating some distance with other customers.

“There aren’t many tables available, so they don’t advertise much,” he explains as he sets the menu down. “But they’re known for their excellent cuisine.”

You give him a smile, then lean closer to him to kiss him on the cheek. Your lips linger just a little too long, and then you move them close to his ear, which is already turning quite red.

“Thank you for planning all that,” you say sweetly. “It looks wonderful.”

He clears his throat when you pull away, avoiding your eyes.

“Of course,” he answers, voice wavering imperceptibly. “Anything for you.”

And you know he means it, too.

Under the table, his hand finds your leg, large palm easily covering your knee while calloused fingers carefully rub your calf. You bite your lip, welcome the warmth that spreads in your body. You know Kento well enough to be sure that that’s as far as he’ll go, that he wouldn’t dare to do anything more in such a public setting, and that makes you enjoy the intimacy of the gesture all the more.

Later that night, while the two of you are walking out, his jacket is around your shoulder at his insistence — “It’s cold outside” — and he’s getting ready to call a taxi.

“Kento?”

He lowers the phone to look at you, and you push yourself on your tiptoe, hand closing around his tie to pull him down towards you.

It’s late at night, he tells himself. There’s no one around, he tells himself. That’s why he closes his eyes and allows himself to melt into the kiss, regretting it when you pull away too soon and catching himself before he grabs you by the hips to get you closer to him.

“I had a great evening,” you say. “Should we take this to somewhere more private?”

How much more merciless can you get?

“Certainly,” he says. “Just give me a second.”

There is nothing he can deny you.

CHOSO

Choso cannot wrap his head around what he can and cannot do around you. The rules for what is proper, what is acceptable, have shifted so much since he was last around, and he would die before he embarrassed you — or worse, before he did something that would make you push him away. He knows that you wouldn’t, and yet the fear is like a weight that tugs on his heart every time he thinks about it. He walks by your side, glancing at your hand that’s freely hanging between the two of you, and though he brushes his knuckles against yours, he just cannot bring himself to do it. It’s to the point where it’s the only thing he’s thinking about — and he just can’t do it.

Then you see something that catches your eye and you grab his hand and pull him with you in that direction, and he thinks his heart could just fall out of his chest. You make it look so easy, so natural, being with him coming as easy to you as breathing, and he couldn’t possibly ask for more. It takes him many other tries, many other dates, before he can take your hand in his. When he does, you glance down in surprise, then grin at him, and kiss his knuckles softly — and he’s so happy he could die.

“So,” you say, sitting on the park bench, knee pressed against his while you’re leaning into him to show him your phone, your hair tickling his neck, “that’s the movies they have on tonight. Think we should call Yuuji to ask him what to watch?”

“Hm,” Choso says, not really focusing on anything you’re talking about, not when you’re this close to him, “isn’t— isn’t that the one franchise he’s always talking about?”

You burst out laughing, then rest your head on his shoulder.

“No offense, babe, but there is no one in the world I’d go see a Human Earthworm movie for. Even if this one is supposed to have romance in it,” you shudder at the thought, “I’d like to go see something actually. You know. Watchable.”

Choso’s mind is going in overdrive. You’re so close, and he knows he should have gotten used to this by now. He isn’t usually like this, but some passers-by are looking — not necessarily being judgmental, though there was an old lady earlier who scoffed and shook her head, but… looking.

“Then I don’t know if Yuuji is going to be much help,” he manages to say as you keep scrolling on the cinema’s website.

“That’s fair,” you sigh, standing up from the bench, and even if he can now think again, he misses your warmth and your smell right away. “Well, maybe we drop the movie and just go get something to eat, what do you say?

“Sounds good,” he answers, standing up after you.

Hesitantly, almost clumsily, he reaches for your hand, fingertips brushing against your thigh as he does, then tightens his grip around your palm, ensuring that it wouldn’t slip away from you. You give him a fond smile, then take a step to get closer to him, and kiss him gently. His breath hitches, and his eyes dart around the mostly empty park.

“T-there’s people around,” he says quietly, and he hates that you step back to look around.

“Oh, sorry,” you say, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable—”

He takes your hand to pull you with him, and you follow him through the grass as he finds a more secluded spot, behind a tree.

“There,” he says, and you chuckle at how satisfied with himself he sounds.

“Oh Choso,” you coo, leaning against the tree while you grab his shirt to pull him down towards you. His mouth is warm, eager, and his cheeks remain a fierce shade of red as he kisses you back insistently.

You would have missed the beginning of the movie anyway.

YUUJI

The thing about Yuuji is that any type of public demonstration of affection feels so natural coming from him. It’s almost never meant to be suggestive, it’s not something he thinks through, it’s just something he does. You’ll be sitting with Nobara when he appears, and he just puts his arm around you while talking to her, like it’s the most normal thing in the world. You’re walking with him when he lifts his head up like he’s forgotten something, and what he forgot was to hold your hand, silly him.

If you walk by him while he’s sitting, he’ll grab your hips to pull you in his laps, fingers rubbing circles on the skin of your arms, absent-mindedly playing with your fingers as he holds your hand. After all, why wouldn’t he? He doesn’t even realize that it flusters you, and it just feels so natural for him to show his affection like that. He’ll look at you with stars in his eyes while you speak, not seeming to realize that his face is so close to him while you’re sitting in his lap.

No one pays attention to it anymore. You arrive just as Nobara is starting the movie — she’s putting on an action movie, thank you very much, even if Gojo just bought the collector edition of Human Earthworm 4 for Yuuji, with the director’s cut — and with all the students crammed in the room, including Panda, who’s taking most of the space on the couch, there’s nowhere left for you to sit.

“Come here,” Yuuji says cheerfully, waving you towards the armchair where he’s found his spot, “it’s about to start.”

You glance around the room for a reaction, but no one is paying you any mind. You walk over to him, perching yourself on one of the arms, legs over his. He doesn’t seem puzzled by it, just puts an arm around your waist casually.

Of course, you end up still sitting in his lap eventually, just slipping in it at some point in the movie. Can you be blamed? He’s warm and comfortable, and he wraps both arms around you so he can tuck his chin in the crook of your shoulder, nose brushing against your cheek when he turns his head. Not that he seems to notice how it makes your pulse quickens, eyes focused on the movie.

“What are the themes even supposed to be,” he mutters under his breath, eyebrows knitting together in annoyance.

“’Military good’?” you suggest quietly as a guy gets blown up on screen.

“The first half of the movie was about military bad,” he protests. “They can’t just act like that never existed.”

“Would you two shut up,” Nobara shouts from her spot, “or Maki will come beat you up!”

The two of you pipe down, knowing the threat is very serious and not one to take lightly.

When the movie ends, everyone gets up, stretching, but you’ve gotten comfortable against Yuuji’s chest, and you don’t feel like doing that just yet.

“That was terrible,” Yuuji comments, and you let out a brief laugh. Gojo has somehow made a cinephile out of him, and you love how worked up he gets over that stuff.

“Yeah, we should have been watching Human Earthworm 4 instead,” you say.

“Exact— oh, you’re making fun of him.”

You giggle, then tilt your head to kiss him. For a second, he freezes, eyes going wide. Kissing is the one thing he rarely initiates — but when you do, you get to see his gaze soften, before his whole body goes soft. His hold on your waist tightens — and then a pillow thrown with impressive precision hits him, and only him, on the ear.

“Not in public,” Maki shouts from all the way into the kitchen.

“Hey,” your boyfriend protests, “I’m not the one who—”

“You’re such a traitor,” you gasp, struggling to pull yourself free from his arms — but it’s no use against his strength, and he refuses to let go.

“You’re not going anywhere,” he says. “Now, where were we?”

You might have been at fault for the first pillow, but that second one is all on him, as far as you’re concerned.

MEGUMI

Megumi is a private guy. He can be affectionate in public, but there is a side of him that he only wants you to see. He especially doesn’t want any of your nosy friends, or worse, his adoptive dad to see how he can be around you. They would never stop teasing him after, and he doesn’t think he could live with that.

Or that they could live with that. Because he’d kill them.

It does annoy him that he’s supposed to deny himself because of them. If it was up to him, he’d spend most of his time alone with you, preferably in a small house in the middle of a forest with no one around, no curses, no sorcerers, no nothing. That, sadly, isn’t an option though, so he has to find his own way to do things.

“Don’t move,” he says sternly. “You have something on your face.”

You roll your eyes, but tilt your head up towards him, as he carefully runs his thumb under your eye, then over your cheek, blowing on it once it’s done.

“What was it?” you ask.

“Just an eyelash,” he says with a shrug. “You’re good now.”

You study him, waiting for him to give something away, but he doesn’t, just staring at you with the same expression he always wears.

“Should we get going?” he asks. “I thought we were supposed to catch a movie.”

“Sure,” you relent. “We should get moving.”

The streets are quite full at this time of the day, and you have to step aside frequently to let people pass, sometimes losing sight of Megumi. Eventually, with a sigh, he grabs your hand, pulling you with him as he walks, sending murderous glares to anyone who stays in his path.

“You’re going to get lost at this rate,” he mutters as he pulls you with him.

“I mean, worst case scenario we meet back at the theater,” you say, and you grin at the offended look he gives you. He notices it, but doesn’t answer, a light pink dusting his cheek as he glances away.

He hates the idea of being away from you on a day that’s supposed to be about the two of you — but since he refuses to say the quiet part out loud, you get to tease him all you want.

To be fair to him, having Megumi as your scary guard dog does make it much easier and much faster to reach the theater. He gives you a pointed look when you get there, and, to your regret, lets go of your hand quickly, though his touch lingers there a second longer than necessary.

“Should we get a couple seat?” you ask innocently as you approach the register.

Megumi glares at you once more while you give him a sweet smile.

“It’s better that way, right?” he says, clearing his throat. “Otherwise strangers might have to share one.”

“Sure,” you nod, not even bothering to hide your grin. “It’s just more practical, right?”

“Right,” he says stiffly.

Even once you are in the couple seat, he keeps a thoroughly appropriate distance from you, one that you might find a little hurtful if, at the end of the commercials, he didn’t fake a yawn to put his arm around you, in the least smooth way known to man.

“You know you can just do it,” you say quietly as the lights turn off, resting your head on his shoulder. “You don’t have to go through all that.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbles.

Reaching for his face, you tilt his head towards you, and push yourself to meet his lips for a sweet, soft kiss. For the first time since you’ve stepped foot outside, his whole body relaxes into yours, and he stops trying to pretend.

“You had something on your lips,” you whisper when you pull away.

He snorts, then quickly goes back in to steal one more kiss from you before the movie starts.

“Liar,” he says.

As if he’s one to talk.

MAKI

Maki isn’t a demonstrative person as a general rule. She does compliment you without hesitation, words falling from her mouth so genuinely that it never fails to fluster you, but physical demonstrations of affection don’t come easy to her, maybe because she received so little of it as a kid. She does it sporadically, and she does very much enjoy teasing you, loves knowing that she can get those reactions out of you.

It’s the more spontaneous gestures that get to you though. She’ll kiss your forehead after a battle that left you bruised, a way of comforting you. She’ll pat your head after you managed to pull an impressive move during training. On one occasion, when you got injured, she carried you in your arms to Shoko, demanding that you be taken care of right this instant. She’d been the one to get flustered after that, hiding her face in her hand in embarrassment when it was brought up later on.

It might not come easy to her, but she does love it when you do it — when you show her your love in that way.

“You’re late,” she scolds you when you reach her for one of your dates, needing to take a second to catch your breath because you’ve been running since getting out of the subway.

“Sorry,” you say between deep breaths, “there was an emergency.”

Worry flashes on her face immediately.

“A curse? Were you hurt?”

She reaches for you, tilting your face towards her as she examines it, then study your body to make sure you weren’t injured. You let her, surprised at first, then endeared.

“Don’t look at me like that,” she frowns once she realizes how soft your gaze has become.

You grin, then push yourself closer to kiss her. You don’t care that you’re in public, and though it wouldn’t have occurred to her to do it, neither does she. The kiss is sweet, gentle. I’m alive, you’re alive, it says. No need for more.

“See?” you ask cheerfully. “All good. Now, I’m pretty sure you were going to buy me dinner…”

She clicks her tongue, but she’s grinning. It’s nice to see her so at ease, so relaxed. It’s a side of her you’d never see within the walls of Jujutsu High, nor on a mission. You’re the only one that can bring it out of her, and man do you love it.

“I’m buying? Again?”

“I did almost just die.”

“Nice try, but you told me you were fine.”

“I’m fine now,” you insist, “but…”

“Well, I was disowned by my family, so I don’t have money. You’re buying.”

The two of you keep bickering, but, as you walk, you reach for her hand. She pulls away at first, years and years of reflexes kicking in instinctively, and once she realizes what you were doing, she’s the one who takes your hand in hers. She holds it delicately, careful not to break it — to be fair, her strength would probably allow her that.

It’s so sweet and light, being out there with you like that. So normal. She hopes it never ends.

You squeeze her hand, and she lets you guide her across the street, content with just following, knowing that she can trust you to fill in her shortcomings in the relationship, like she does it for yours.

The sky is grey, the forecast said it might run later tonight — Maki’s planned an umbrella, she’s sure you didn’t think of it — but as far as she’s concerned, the day is as beautiful as it could possibly be.

this is my first time writing for... pretty much everyone here except gojo lol. i hope you enjoyed it and that the characterization wasn't too off, but any feedback is welcome! if you want to support me and my writing, please reblog/leave a comment or send me an ask, i'd love to chat! i'll see you later for some more jjk writing ^-^

you can find my gojo x reader work here

[tossawary]

I think it would be fun to do a "character swaps with older version of themselves" fic with Moshang. A post-canon Mobei-Jun who has been happily married for a while (probably at least 50 years old) accidentally touches some plot device artifact and time travels, swapping places with his 20ish-year-old self. Older MBJ wakes up in head disciple Shang Qinghua's bed where his younger self had been napping.

Younger MBJ lands in his own palace, where he is quickly found and fawned over by Older SQH, who can't help but think this MBJ is so cute. The System quickly confirms for Shang Qinghua that this situation has been sorted into a "multiple timelines" thing, so SQH doesn't have to worry about "protecting the timeline" by doing anything like hiding the fact that he's MBJ's husband. (So, there's an alternate timeline younger version of Airplane Bro now? He's just going to... ignore having an existential crisis about it. Yeah.)

Which is great because Older MBJ would not have thought about this at all as a potential issue. Older MBJ also thinks Younger SQH (Younger Airplane Bro) is incredibly cute and has no problem informing him that they're married in the future. Younger Airplane Bro is trying to figure what the fuck is happening, but he's having trouble thinking over the sound of how MBJ only became hotter: MBJ didn't get much taller, but he did get wider, heavier, more muscular, and hairier. Holy shit. Older MBJ doesn't even have any problems passionately kissing Younger SQH just to prove that they're married. And he smiles! He's so gentle and communicative! Comparatively!

("Luo Binghe is the Demon Emperor in my time," Older MBJ says. "Ah? Who's Luo Binghe?" Younger Airplane Bro lies very badly. "Hmmm, so you did know," Older MBJ says, and then makes some comment about LBH's husband that makes Younger SQH go, "HIS WHAT NOW?!")

Younger MBJ is trying to be cool, not really confused or scared, and Older SQH spoils him rotten by showing off the home that they're made together and how well the palace works to serve and defend MBJ. Linguang-Jun can't show up here because SQH will light him on fire if he shows his face. Younger MBJ doesn't even really like his SQH yet and is also struggling with how good Older SQH looks: a little taller, broader, relaxed and easygoing, answering all of his questions and explaining important things to him, dressed like a beloved demon lord's spouse, efficiently ordering everyone around. "Call me Gege," Older Shang Qinghua said with a wink, and it went straight to Younger MBJ's defenseless heart; he is developing new kinks immediately. Help him.

In the end, after a few days at most, they manage to switch Older and Younger MBJ back without too much issue. Older SQH is a little annoyed that his husband kissed an alternate timeline version of himself, but mostly because he sure would have liked that experience when he was only a disciple! Okay, SQH may have pet Younger MBJ's head and pinched his cheeks and hugged him and brushed his hair a little and shamelessly lavished him with good examples of human affection, but it's not the same!!!

Younger MBJ and Younger SQH in the alternate timeline are left in SQH's tiny head disciple house, completely flustered, sitting next to each other and barely able to look at each other. What. The. Fuck. Eventually, Shang Qinghua manages to say, "Uh, do you want to make out?" at the same time that Mobei-Jun says, "We should get married as soon as possible. Tomorrow."

[fatesundress]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He evidently does not.

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

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

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

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

���I wonder why.”

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

“What, Tom?”

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

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

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

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

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Curiosity—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

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

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

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

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

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

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

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

“A professor?”

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

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

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

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

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

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

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

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

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

“So?”

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

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

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

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

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

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

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

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I —”

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

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

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

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

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

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

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

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

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

“Tom.”

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

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

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

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

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

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

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

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

Tom has cracked the book.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have no need.”

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

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

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

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

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

“Why would he lie?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

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

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

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

“Should I?”

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

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

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

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

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

Summer blisters when it comes.

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

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

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You always are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are regardless. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

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

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

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

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

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

You’re almost positive you did not.

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

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

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

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

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

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

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

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

It happens again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take to the library.

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

The third sign is the end. 

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

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

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

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

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

He’s something else entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been good at it.”

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

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

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

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

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

He sees all of you.

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

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

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

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

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

“I cannot.”

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

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

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

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

“Do you want me to lie?”

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

“Her death is the first step to —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...What?"

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

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

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought I would have time.”

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

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

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

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

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

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

“You have lost me, Tom."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

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

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

Be well.

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

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

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

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

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

You find that to be true.

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

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

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

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

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

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

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

Due February.

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

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

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

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You drink, and don’t look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I take that back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

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

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

“Am I?”

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

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

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where is Mari?

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

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

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

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

“Well then —” 

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

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

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

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

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

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

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

“I haven’t protested.”

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

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

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

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

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

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

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

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

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

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

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

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

My door is always open.

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

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

It’s a tempting door.

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

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

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

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

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

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

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

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

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Renauld?”

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

“Well, yeah —”

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

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

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

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

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

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

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

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

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

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

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

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

And… he does.

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

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

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

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

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

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

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

But something about it itches.

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

You are green, through and through.

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

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

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

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

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

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

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

“Yes.”

“Right.”

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

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

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

You’re incredibly daft about it.

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

The itch exacerbates.

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

You wake up and he isn’t there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

R.R

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

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

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

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

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

But you do, because he told you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes."

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

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

“I earned this,” you hiss.

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

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

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

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

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

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

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

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

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

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

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

“Yes,” you agree.

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

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

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

He was your first in everything but this.

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

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

“How long?” he asks thickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He brings you to his bed after and you let him, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

[slasherx]

Thomas Hewitt relationship HC's

Content: Thomas Hewtt x gn!Reader

Warnings: Canon typical violence, manipulation from Hoyt, possessive and jealous behavior, brief mention of sex but no actual NSFW, so 17+

Notes: My first slasher fic! Pls be nice, it's my first time writing for our boy Tommy

Lets skip over meeting him for now. If anyone wants to know how I think Thomas would meet and fall in love with his S/O, just shoot me a request!

Thomas would be very cautious at first. Not because he doesn't trust you, nono, he'd HAVE to trust you before getting in a relationship first

He's cautious because he doesn't know how to control his strength around you, and doesn't want to cross a line. You're his first and likely his only partner in life, so he doesn't want to lose you

Thats another thing - he's super scared that you'll end up seeing how much better you can do and leave him. If not for how ugly he thinks he looks, then for the fact that his family are cannibals.

This leads him to be very jealous and possessive. If another man comes near you, he's behind you in an instant if he can be, glaring them down and practically tearing them apart with his eyes

If he finds you flirting with another man, he'll be angry with you beyond belief. Would probably give you the silent treatment for a week, and he's already mute, so that's saying something (I tease)

Probably wouldn't be super touchy, he's been hit his whole life, and I believe the Hewitt's would use physical disciplinary methods growing up, which means Tommy would've most likely been hit by his family too. Nowhere is safe for this poor man

He wouldn't mind if you were touchy though, it would just take him a while to get used to it

He doesn't mind if you don't get along with Monty or Charlie, that's kind of a given, especially if you're a woman or fem presenting, but he wants you to get along with his mother so BADLY

He definitely would not say "I love you" first, he would wait for you to say it, even though he'd most likely fall in love with you first

He'd do anything for you. He'd kill for you, beat someone for you, talk shit about someone for you, etc. He'd basically drop anything for you. Aside from his family, you are his first priority.

This can lead to fights between you and Hoyt. Hoyt doesn't think Tommy should be loyal to "a good for nothing slut like you" above certain members of his family, since you're technically still an outsider

Tommy will butt into these arguments and have your back, but the first time this happened, Hoyt had managed to get into his head and make him doubt you. Yeah, safe to say that never happened again

Tommy wouldn't feel comfortable sharing a room until you were farther into your relationship, and it would take even longer for him to take off his mask around you

When he does finally take his mask off around you, he expects you to yell and scream, to call him ugly. But when you don't, and you even call him handsome? Oh he is melting into the floor

That's when he starts to develop an unhealthy obsession with you. He was in love with you before, but now that he's shown his rawest form to you and you still loved him above all else? Oh he's in LOVE love

He refuses to leave you alone, and this is probably around the time you guys first have sex. He wanted to wait until you were married like his Mama asked, but he just couldn't help himself.

This is getting kinda long, so if you guys want a part two or something, be sure to request!

• ───────────────── •

Here's my masterlist, in case you like what you see and want to request more!

[dramioneasks]

Top 10 Most “Kudos-ed” (Completed) Fics on AO3 of 2023:

Damaged Goods by slytherin_after_dark - E, 50 chapters, Words: 150,499 - Hermione, now in her mid-20s, is back at Hogwarts to pursue higher education. Trying to forget the trauma carved into her by the war, she spends one lust-filled night with a certain pureblood. But that night will have consequences. While her personal life unravels, a string of mysterious murders forces her to work together with Draco Malfoy, who himself seems to carry many secrets. "He scared her. Not because he wielded killing curses like they were nothing, but because he seemed to understand her in a way that even she didn’t. The more she let him in, the more power he had to destroy her." Come for the smut, stay for the plot. Read if you like: - Murder mystery - Dark Arts - Hurt/ Comfort - Hermione and Draco both deal with PTSD - Angst, so much angst

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In Silence & Submission by gillianeliza - E, 29 chapters, Words: 69,694 - 10 years after the war everything has changed. Enemies turned into friends and lovers. Fear turned into hope. Pain into joy. Everyone has moved on except for Hermione Granger. Nestled within her friend group, now made up of not just Harry and Ginny, but also Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, Blaise Zabini and of course Draco Malfoy, she was content to allow the trauma of her past to haunt her. More than just content - it was what she felt she deserved - until one evening Draco Malfoy decided enough was enough. This is a low stakes, split POV fic that deals heavily with life AFTER the Battle of Hogwarts. You will find the POV of either Hermione or Draco stated in bold italics, in the middle whenever it shifts. Please read all tags as this work deals with BDSM, kink, trauma recovery, & suicidal ideation.

A Game of High Stakes by In_Dreams - E, 51 chapters, Words: 263,110 - In theory, the task is simple: kill Draco Malfoy. In practice, putting a curse through the Dark Lord's favoured lieutenant will take everything Hermione has―especially since he's trying to kill her, too. Even more so when the lines between them start to blur. Sometimes, the only way out is through.

Hogwarts: A History (Hermione's Version) by Lizzie_carlile - M, 38 chapters, Words: 141,828 - Lord Voldemort has been defeated, and the children of the Wizarding War are thriving. When the heir to the Most Ancient and Noble House of Black is adopted and takes her place in the family with her loving fathers, a new trio is formed. With her best friend and her brother by her side, Hermione Black is thrust into a world that she never knew existed. Will whispers from the past threaten to destroy the world she knows? Or will love once again conquer all? Another take of the Nice Things AU. What would happen if Draco asked Hermione to the Yule Ball before Ron Weasley had a chance to?

Teach Me How to Forget by scullymurphy - E, 20 chapters, Words: 109,646 - Hermione Granger is 27 years old when her life falls apart. Cheated-on, flatless, fed up with her job, she decides to change one thing she can--take a class and try for some career advancement. But change is never easy, especially when an old enemy is the catalyst. And the class instructor. "Just as the minute hand clicked over to the hour, the doorknob twisted and a figure slipped into the room. He was tall, a bit windblown. Hermione had a general impression of crisp cuffs and polished leather, and then a more specific one of the most beautiful grey coat—highlighting his shoulders and eyes, skimming to just the right place on his knife creased trousers. His movements were precise and confident. He was wearing the softest-looking gloves. He was not Professor Belinda Rowle. He was Draco bloody Malfoy."

The Order of Serpents by bl_crtz - E, 44 chapters, Words: 193,506 - During the Battle of Hogwarts, Harry Potter walked into the forbidden forest, died, and walked out with crimson eyes as the new vessel of the Dark Lord. Since then, Hermione Granger served as an elite member of the True Order, isolating herself from other Order members and going on missions alone, not only haunted by the loss of her best friend, Harry, but Ron who had run away after the battle. Three and a half years later, Draco Malfoy shows up with his two year old son on the Order’s doorstep seeking to switch sides. Together, Draco and Hermione are forced to deal with not only each other, but their own past and confront who they’ve become because of the war.

The Contender by rubykrishna - E, 9 chapters, Words: 58,875 - Hermione stopped walking. Her eyes scanned back up the roster until they found the name that she initially mistook for a typo. Draco Malfoy….Beater. She could comprehend the words, the name and the meaning. She understood that his name being on the roster meant he was the starting Beater for England’s national team, but for whatever reason, when her eyes ran over the black ink, her brain could not articulate any emotions or reaction. 

Sincerely Yours by LovesBitca8 - E, 10 chapters, Words: 40,759 - A smile tickled the corners of Hermione’s mouth as she clicked Send. She listened to the whoosh of the message and then turned off her computer. When the ping! had come in, she’d had one foot half-out the door of her flat. She’d dropped her coat and darted for her computer desk, a wide grin blossoming at her inbox. You’ve Got Mail.

[sundrop-writes]

you were nice to me and acknowledged my existence so i hope you know that means you’ve unknowingly asked for all my dumbass, hyper-specific 12AM bullshit thoughts.

you can turn this into a mini blurb or teen wolf pack headcanon - whatever works for you, but who do you think in the pack is would be into you wearing a necklace (or any form of jewelry really) with their name/initial on it? are they buying it for you or is it something you would have to initiate, do they want one too with your name/initial on it?

i know it’s not everyone’s thing but i think it can be really adorable 🥰

if this isn’t your vibe just let me know, no biggie 🩷

This is absolutely my vibe!!! I love this prompt so much omg. Also, I love it when people come to me with their random 12am bullshit - whether it's just to rant in my inbox about fictional characters or to suggest fic ideas. This is what Tumblr inboxes are for

My requests for Teen Wolf are open!! Just make sure to read my rules first!!

What would the pack think of you wearing a necklace that represents them?

A/N: I changed it from an initial to a representative symbol, partially because of a tiktok that Star sent me the other day of someone selling Teen Wolf necklaces in an Etsy shop that I can't stop thinking about and I want one so badly, and partially because I think Derek's tattoo would make a really amazing necklace.

Warnings: descriptions of canon level violence, I tried to make the reader as gender neutral as possible (please let me know if I messed up anywhere on that), Isaac's low self eesteem due to his father's abuse, mentions of Jackson x Lydia, references to sex (but nothing descriptively smutty), I think that's it.

Includes: Derek Hale, Isaac Lahey, Scott McCall, Stiles Stilinski, Erica Reyes (I got tired while writing this so that's all the characters we have lmao)

Derek would love it. It would be his idea - he would be the one to give you the necklace.

He met you shortly before becoming an Alpha, and you were the defining member of his pack. You were the first person he had bitten in order to turn them - you had been bleeding out outside of the Hale house after Peter had stuck his claws through your stomach, sensing Derek's attachment to you (even if it was something that Derek himself hesitated to admit), and he had called Derek weak for taking a liking to you. So the moment after Derek had slashed Peter's throat open, making him the Alpha, he had used his new found power to bite you, ultimately saving your life.

You were someone he had once viewed as his weakness, but he had come to realize that you were his ultimate strength. You showed him how to interact with Erica, Isaac, and Boyd with kindness and understanding, you showed him how to harness his Alpha power with more than just the anger he harboured inside. You showed him love - something his isolated heart hadn't felt in years.

To him, the triskele tattoo on his back represented the three forms of a wolf could take - the powerful, leading Alpha, the following Beta, and isolated, weak Omega. It represents how a wolf can rise to power, but he can also fall to weakness if he's not careful.

When he gave you a necklace with that same symbol as its pendant, he explained to you why it was so important to him that you wear it.

"You have helped me rise to my full potential." He told you, pinning the clasp behind your neck. "Every time I look at this around your neck, I want to be reminded of that. I want to be reminded not to fall to anything less." He kissed the base of your neck, causing you to break into a large smile as his thick, warm arms wrapped around you from behind. "I need to be reminded to serve you a good, loyal Alpha every single day. Not to fall back into my former weaknesses."

"I thought I was your weakness?"

"No. You're my strength."

Isaac would be unsure about it. And it most definitely was not his idea.

It started with you and Lydia hanging out before a lacrosse game - the two of you were getting ready in her room, and while she finished up her makeup, she said 'oh!' as if suddenly remembering something, and then went to her jewellery box. You looked on in curiosity as she pulled out a necklace, and when you squinted closer, you saw that it was a silver pendant with the number 37 on it.

"What's that?" You asked.

"It's Jackson's jersey number." She told you. "It's good luck for a player's girlfriend to wear his jersey number, and I didn't want some big ugly jacket with the numbers written on the back."

It made you wonder if you should wear Isaac's jersey number to the game, even though the two of you had been playing around with dating, not exactly official. Isaac was hesitant on PDA and labels. Lydia encouraged you, though, and she ended up using a red lipstick to write his number 14 on your cheek, making you look like a crazed fan - but everybody at the game already knew who you were there for.

Before the next game, Lydia gifted you with a necklace similarly to her own, with the promise that she wouldn't have to freeze her ass off in the stands alone - and to her, it was like the two of you had matching best friend necklaces, representing the lugheads that you cheered for on the field together. At first, you only wore it to games. But then you found comfort in wearing it all the time.

Isaac, of course, took notice of this - his eyes easily magnetized to the number 14 glimmering on the silver chain around your neck.

He felt like he didn't deserve to have a mark on you. He was undeserving of claiming you, undeserving of being called your 'boyfriend'. He was worthless, and you wearing something that represented some kind of serious relationship between the two of you - why did you want him? Why?

After a long, tiring night of talking, some tears, and eventually some kissing - he finally understood. And from then on, he was more than proud to have his 14 constantly shining around your neck.

Scott would love it. But it would be your idea.

The two of you had to date in secret - your family had a loyalty, an alignment with the Argents, so you couldn't be seen with Scott in public, creating a deep frustration between the two of you when you couldn't hold hands in the hallways or go on 'real' dates like other couples could. Scott expressed a deep frustration at loving you, being your boyfriend, but not getting to be yours twenty-four seven like he wanted to, and that's what caused you to come up with the idea.

You got a silver heart locket necklace, and inside, put a picture of the two of you. Well - it was a piece of the picture of the two of you. You grabbed a photo of the two of you kissing, and cut out the space that had formed between your necks when your lips came together in a kiss - to anybody else (most important, if your family saw it) it would have looked like a photo of blank sky. But you and Scott were the only two people in the world who knew what the photo truly was.

And you gave him the rest of the photo with the missing heart shape cut out between the two of you so that he could be reminded of your next words every single time he looked at it.

"The space between us isn't what matters." You told him firmly, pointing to the space you had cut out of the photo. "No matter how big that space gets, we always know how much we love each other. We'll always have each other."

From then on, every single time he looked at the silver heart dangling around your neck, it was something he remembered with a smile. No matter how far the two of you had to be apart, no matter for how long - your love kept you together.

Stiles would absolutely love it. It would be his idea.

Stiles would be incredibly shy and shitting his pants nervous about asking you to wear his numbers, but the week before, you had asked him to be your boyfriend after a roaring success of a first date that he had no clue how he landed with you. His first game as a first linger was coming up, and he felt like things could only go up from here.

He had you, he was first line, so - he steadied his courage as he tightly gripped the black velvet box that had the shiny gold necklace in it, praying that this wouldn't be too much, too soon. Praying that he wasn't going to scare you off.

"Um, hey." He greeted you at your locker, a ball of nervous energy that had you giving him a questioning eyebrow.

"Good morning." You smiled at him, wondering why he was acting so strange. You leaned in and kissed him on the lips - a light, chaste kiss in greeting, and he felt himself nearly knocked over by the joy of it.

This was really real. He had you.

"What's that?" You asked, motioning toward the box in his hands.

"Oh, uh - a gift." He said. "For you."

"Stiles, you didn't have to. It's not my birthday or anything."

"I know." He said. "I want to - to do something special. To celebrate you being mine."

An intense wave of butterflies overtook you at this, and you look on in awe as he opened the box, presenting the necklace to you.

"It's - um - it's my jersey number. Ya know - 24. Just - it's a thing that people usually do, wearing their boyfriend's number... and I - am I being too weird? I'm sorry." He went off rambling the longer that you didn't speak, and you quickly raised a hand to his wrist, trying to calm him with a soothing touch there.

"I love it." You assured him with a smile. "Thank you. I can't wait to wear it."

"I could... help you put it on now?"

You nodded enthusiastically, and he excitedly grabbed it out of the box.

From then on, you never took it off. You were more than proud to be his, and proud to show it off by wearing the necklace.

Erica would fucking love it, but it wouldn't really be intentional on either of your behalves.

One thing Erica never expected about becoming a werewolf - how possessive it would make her. But being able to smell when someone had touched you, being able to hear how hard your heart pounded when you were scared or anxious - it made her want to rip apart anybody who even looked at you the wrong way. The two of you weren't even officially dating. Your friendship always crossed weird lines - you were the only person who was kind to her when she was an outcast, and after she transformed, you were the only person she knew for certain didn't just want her for her body.

The sex between the two of you was amazing, but you never talked about feelings.

One night in the haste of undressing, she dropped a necklace on your floor - a nameplate necklace that her parents had gotten for her birthday a few years ago. You didn't want to forget to bring it back to her, and you thought it was funny, a kind of joke - so you put it on. You thought nothing of having the name 'Erica' dangling around your neck in bold silver letters.

When Erica saw it - it drove all of her wolfish instincts insane. Seeing her claim on you, her name literally written across you - it took everything she had in her not to throw you across a table in the middle of the library and fuck your brains out, then and there.

And she saw the way other people reacted to it too. The way guys would go to flirt with you, but then their eyes would dart down to the necklace and then look to her, as if finally noticing her presence glaring at them, telling them to back off - and then they would scatter in fear. It was the first time in weeks that the two of you actually had peace.

So she implored you to keep it. She loved having a silent little claim on you. After all, wolves love claiming their territory, right?

...

Teen Wolf Masterlist

[foundfamilynonsense]

I don’t think some people realize why the gray jedi thing pisses some of us off so badly.

Imagine you like lord of the rings and you decide to look around the fandom.

And it turns out that 10+ or something years ago someone wrote a piece of fanfiction where they rewrote the rules for the ring. So instead of it only having one master and corrupting everyone else that tried to use it, it sometimes chooses to take a new master if it feels the person is worthy of it. And therefore this author’s self-insert OC can now use the one ring in all its glory without getting turned crazy.

This fanfic gets published (as some fanfics do) and most of the fandom has read it and loves it.

Now, when you (someone who has only dealt with canon works written by Tolkien) see this fic you go… huh. That’s nice, but it goes against the very point of the books and the lore tolkien created. So while it’s a good fic I’m not going to interact with it.

But then people keep harassing you for taking about/ writing the one ring the way tolkien wrote it to begin with.

And they SWEAR that this is the Actual lore of the one ring, and that YOU are wrong. Which is completely insane to you, because FRODE TOOK IT TO MORDOR FOR A REASON. There is only one lord of the ring!! That’s literally the name of the series that’s what it’s about!! If what the fandom was insisting about was possible, there would be no plot. In the original books.

This is why we are so upset over gray jedi!! Bc if it was possible to use the dark side but still be a good guy then wtf is wrong with Anakin? Why the fuck did Darth Vader fall to the dark side? Why did Luke struggle so much? If you can have your cake and eat it too why are the movies so fuckin long?? Why did Luke fail against Vader in Empire? what lesson did he learn in Return? Why would the movie be called Return of the Jedi if Luke had not learned the Jedi ways????

You can write OC’s as gray jedi all you want but when you start forcing it into canon it literally ruins the movies!

[thugbiscuits]

september fic rec list 18+ only

please note: none of these fan fictions were written by me. when you read please make sure to like, comment, and reblog. IT MAKES ALL THE DIFFERENCE.

hello again, freaks >:) im really excited for this month's list. down below you'll find pretty much all the best fics (imo), of every category. it’s mostly smut happy reading!

joel miller fics

make it stick(joel miller x reader, smut) @gutsbys i loved getting to read joel’s inner thoughts.. and how nasty they are omg. i 100% need to have his babies, that’s all.

teacher’s pet (joel miller x virgin!reader, smut) @javiscigarette this fic destoryed my pussy and now i want financial compensation. read at your own risk cause whewww the details are too good. also make sure to read BOTH parts ;)

sugar rush (joel miller x f!reader, fluff) @beardedjoel super fluffy, been reading this to get me ready for spooky season and it hits me right in the feels every time

skincare sunday (joel miller x reader, fluff) @hellishjoel ahh taking care of joel? yes please. this fic is so sweet to me, that’s a real doting and caring man 😤

logan howlett fics

sweet (lumberjack!logan howlett x reader) @fairlyang #NEEDTHAT

make him do what i say (older bf!logan howlett x reader, smut) @dollfacefantasy logan with silver winged hair is superior

vis (logan howlett x afab!mutant reader, smut) @ozarkthedog all i’m saying is that fucking logan before work could save my soul idk 🤷🏽‍♀️

both (logan howlett x reader x storm, smut) @selfcarecap why is nobody talking about this, i would like to talk about this!! this had me crying, screaming and gnawing on the bars of my enclosure.

glory box (old man!logan howlett x reader, smut) @rqnarok oh? oh 😏

time after time (logan howlett x afab!reader, smut) @hyper-fixates if you like the ‘3 times you did and 1 time you didn’t trope’ then this is literally a gift from the fanfic gods !! the slowburn, all feels raaah!

handful of roses (logan howlett x reader, angst fluff) @techwrecker the way logan tries to be a good man is more than enough for me. come home the kids miss you :/

primal love (logan howlett x reader, smut) @strangererotica indeed primal, and indeed lovely. logan is such a needy lover, and this fic was written beautifully.

ex!worst logan howlett x reader, smut) @seventeenpins the banter, the audacity of this man, the AUDACITY. i’m hooked on this version of logan so badly

wade wilson (deadpool) fics

trigger control (wade wilson x girlfriend!reader, smut) @librababe99 HEART EYES

getting nasty w/ wade and logan (poolverine x reader, smut) @darnell-la self explanatory. 11/10

three is a charm (wade x f!curvy reader x logan, smut) i say this a lot but if i could physically eat a fanfic it would be this one. no doubt. i’m eating up every crumb of thissss ! @eloquentlytired

husband!wade wilson (wade wilson x fem!reader, smut) @jojissalsa perfect mix of smutty and sweet imo. wade for husband 2024

bucky barnes fics

big dick is back in town (bucky barnes x f!reader, fluff) @brunchable this was so cute (and canon in my mind). bucky has such a sense of humor in this! OP did such and amazing job on this

loverboy (bucky barnes x reader, fluff) @thevillainswhore i need that man down bad and desperate for me always ! this fic was so adorable to read, i love seeing this side of bucky. aaah such a dream

love language (bucky barnes x reader, fluff, smut) @flowersforbucky this was the sweetest thing ever!

hey, babydoll (bucky barnes x reader, fluff) @buckysmischief smoking with your favorite super soldier, what could be better than that?

hugh jackman fics

controversially young girlfriend @whimsiwitchy it’s always a pleasure when bri updates. and if you haven’t been following this series, i highly reccomend! amazing dialogue, great portrayal of hugh and reader’s romance. get this, it has even better smut. that’s all, go read!

training partners @pedroscurls we were fed with this series! hugh is such a sweetheart with reader, and it truly had me kicking my feet and giggling while reading this.

dividers by @/saradika-graphics <3

lovey’s note: i had to add my own thoughts this time around cause phew, this list had me in my feels. feel free to 100% ignore my ramblings, they don’t make sense half of the time 😂

[amphitriteswife]

Helloooo, i love all your works especially the Gun's!!! Hueheueh🥺🥺 i see that the req is open, and i read your terms already! If i may, can i req for slight nsfw older!fem reader and bratty goo😋? Thank you in advance, pls keep hydrated and gets lots of sleep!! I love you😸💖💖💗💗💓💖💞💗💓💖💘

Helloooo! I’m glad you like my fics🥹🩷🩷 bratty goo is literally canon idc what PTJ says it’s true. I might went overboard with this-

Noona

Source: Lookism

Pairing: joongoo kim x reader

Type: request

Disclaimer: NSFW.

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*tap tap* Goo impatiently tapped his foot against the floor, the sound a little damp because of the carpet. His bottom rested on one of the luxurious sofas in the lobby. He was starting to get impatient. It’s one of the days he once again decided to Ignore Charles’ commands and just do his own thing. Yet when he came to your work he had to take a ticket to wait on his turn! Can you believe it? He’s YOUR boyfriend? Why isn’t he getting princess treatment? He’s suing everyone who works in this company. He couldn’t help but sulk in his seat and think of you. He felt rather…energetic to put it lightly. He wanted to see you. Really badly if he’ll be honest. Not that he’d say it to your face though, you’ll have to get it out of him….he’s still waiting and waiting and with each moment he gets even more impatient

Finally, after what felt like a 3000000 years he sees your form in the distance, walking towards the lobby. You look as beautiful as ever, your tall height and maturity brings back memories of how he met you. He can’t help but feel proud of it too, you were the first one to ever put him in his place. Something even Jonggun never managed to do. He practically jumped out of his seat and made his way over to you. He was so happy to see you, he doesn’t know why he feels that way but he just does okay? Yet when he was about to practically jump on you the smile on his face vanished, his glasses having a familiar reflection that is only seen when he takes things seriously. Which is almost never. He doesn’t like it. His eyes kept looking over at you and the colleague you were speaking to. He doesn’t blame you. He really doesn’t. He knows from your face, your voice, your clothing…it’s all professional. Besides, you’d never be interested in a lowly colleague. It’s fine. Really, it’s really fine. That’s what’s he’s telling himself, yet He can’t help but clench his jaw….he feels a jealous…and a little angry. He wanted to be the one to talk to you first. But no, now you’re talking to a colleague instead of him, your boyfriend! How irritating…

Goo found himself making his was over to you, his irritation flaring up by each step as the sight of you and the colleague talking came closer and closer. A pair of his hands snaking up to your waist and placing a slight kiss on your cheek made you stop your sentence in surprise. Good placed his head on your shoulder, his eyes darting over to your colleague, a slight grin on his face as well as a vein in his neck. ‘Might want to leave. I aint that kind to men ya know?’ Despite the playful personality Goo has, his tone was on edge and very dangerous. It wasn’t like him to become irritated so easily, especially since he’s usually the one making others irritated. The colleague you were talking to seemed intimidated by Goo which caused him to make up and excuse and leave you and Goo alone in the hall.

‘Care to tell what has gotten into you?’ Your tone made Goo a little sad, his eyes averting by the reflection of the light shining onto his sunglasses ‘come on! Why so professional? I’m your boyfriend.’ Goo said a little more pleading this time. He doesn’t like it when you talk to him as if he’s your colleague or some customer, he’s not like that! He’s not them! ‘Boyfriend or not, i’m working. You can’t just.’ You told him sternly. Yes he’s your boyfriend. Yes you love him. But he can’t treat your colleagues like this, it will cause you trouble. You sighed at him, it’s all so tiring. He’s being immature and it really isn’t the place nor time to be acting like this. For some reason this time Goo felt some sort of offense to your sigh. He came all the way here to meet you! He wanted to see you! Why are you being like this to him! Your boyfriend! The thought in his head made him scoff, and for soms reason his scoff made you a little irritated too, he. The person who just caused unnecessary trouble was SCOFFING???. As much as you wanted to say something, you held back. Patience, a younger boyfriend like Goo takes all of your patience but still. Breathe in, breathe out and don’t try to skin him alive. One hand brought to your forehead in frustration. Goo didn’t like that he made you irritated. he shifted his weight from one foot to the other, one hand brought to the back of his neck, yet he still wasn’t going to apologize, never. That was until a sudden idea popped into his head, he’s a sadist okay? Why not screw with you a little more?

‘Noona~ come on! You won’t be mean to your boyfriend, would you?’ Goo said playfully, a grin splattered on his face and his hands again grabbing your waist. Noona. Noona?! He was practically calling you old, and you knew he was doing it on purpose. ‘Say that again.’ The dangerous edge in your voice caused him to be a little startled now, but he was not backing away from this. ‘Noona.’ He said again, grinning even more. He was doing it on purpose and he didn’t even try to hide it. He pulled you against him, well tried to until you pushed him off you and instead pinned him to the wall, Goo on the other hand could’ve never predicted that you’d do this so openly and frankly it made him even morse stunned. His mouth was agape and his eyes wide with shock. He could feel your breath against his ear and your voice sending some shivers down his body. ‘Stay still.’ Your stern voice made him jump quite a bit, he knew you could be stern…strict even…but he never expected this…. Not that he’s complaining. Goo found himself enjoying the encounter more and more. His hands above his head and your sweet silky smooth voice whispering things in his ear. He loved it. ‘Please say more things to me.’ Goo hadn’t even realized that he was begging to hear you saw such degrading things to him, he wanted you to tell him that he was being bad and that he needed to behave. His pants felt so incredibly tight, the familiar feeling in between his legs tingling, the feeling of himself straining against his pants, the way your voice was adding onto the feelings he felt was making him overwhelmed. It only took a matter of seconds before he was fully hard in his black pants. The bulge very noticeable despite the color of the pants he was wearing, your hands trailed down to his chest which caused him to let out a hiss. He wanted more, way more. See what you’re doing to him? You’re making him addicted.

He couldn’t help but buck his hips when he felt your lips gro from his ears to his chest, your hands tearing open the button up he was wearing underneath his blazer, each time you went lower the soft sound of buttons bursting open could be heard loudly mixed with heavy breathing that came from Goo. Your hands were doing god’s work, you felt amazing. Goo couldn’t help but let out a soft moan when your lips reached the top of his belt. His legs feeling weak. He might just collapse because of your touch. It’s almost embarrassing, almost. Goo, the man who was supposed to only care about money, an unhinged man who sadistic lunatic, a sadistic monster feared by many. Yet here he is, almost a crying mess by how you’re touching him and how good it feels. He was way more sensitive than the times before. Your hand slowly undid his belt, taking him out his pants which caused him to grunt in response. Your lips again making their way to his ear. ‘Keep quiet.’ The stern voice made him whimper in response, his head leaning back against the wall. ‘No…’ he mumbled slightly, his hands wrapping around your neck instead. It was an interesting sight to see, Goo being all smitten by you and holding you so closely while his pants were hanging onto his knees. You were quite literally wearing the pants in the relationship. Goo couldn’t help but let out a strangled sigh as your hand finally wrapped around him, he couldn’t help but take in the sight. Your perfectly done nails wrapped around his aching dick, slowly pumping him up and down. ‘Say you’re sorry:’ Goo tried to struggle out your grasp, even if the both of you knew he was enjoying it, he doesn’t give in easily. Such a brat. ‘No!..agh…no!’ Goo laid his head in the crook of your neck when you started him harder. One of his hands brought to his mouth to muffle his sounds. His hands sliding from his mouth to your arms, gripping them tightly. He pressed his mouth into your shoulder. ‘I’m not saying it again.’ You said pushing him to the wall even rougher. He wanted to give in. He didn’t want you to stop. Even if he was being a brat he loves this so much. The temptation of giving in was too much to bear. ‘I’m sorry. I’ll be good. Please, please touch me more. I’m so close….so close…ahh…please?’ The sound of Goo begging sounded like music to your ears. You felt his dick twitch into your hand, your thumb slowly rubbing on his tip while he practically yelped for you. ‘Please don’t stop.. you’re going to make me come…’ goo held into you tighter. He could feel himself shaking, he was so close to almost exploding. His breathing becoming disheveled. He closed his eyes and moved his head so that his chin was was on your shoulder. He could practically feel the warmth of his own release building up…that was until you moved your hand away and pushed him off you. ‘There is a meeting i must attend. Handle it yourself.’ The cold voice almost made him cry. He was close…. So close…his eyes wide and filled with tears. You left..you just left him there while he was so needy. His pants to his knees and still hard… the pre-cum dripping into the ground. ‘Noona….’ Goo’s voice was strained from all the moaning and grunting. You’re so mean you know? So humiliating…so dominant.. yet despite it all he feels so addicted to it. He loves it. He pulled up his own pants, fixing his disheveled hair and trying to steady his breath. The soft sound of the nickname now not bringing any emotion to you made you turn just a little to face him. He was still panting and it was easy to guess what he was doing, but it was better than being naked. ‘I’ll wait…i’ll be obedient this time…’

Thank you for reading! 🩷 maybe i made this too smutty-

[cz19y]

Heyyy, I was wondering if you could pls do head canons with sae, rin, isagi, n shidou (separately) w/ a fem!s/o who is thick (big booty n pudgy stomach)? It can be either sfw or nsfw. No pressure tho, take ur time n have a good day! 💕

MY LOVELY ! [HCs]

Multiple × Thick!Fem!Reader

FT.: Sae & Rin Itoshi, Isagi Yoichi, Shidou Ryusei

∆ SFW/fluff & suggestive, mention of bad comments, hint of insecurity, mention of abandonment issues[Rin’s part], characters aged up, OOC[? prob], some of them will be quite short[sorry], first time writing thick!Reader, grammar spelling errors[?].

NOTE: I never had an ask before and I have NO experience in writing for thick!Reader, so, perdon me for bad writing (:’0

I tried to do some research/reference from other fics cuz I really don't want to get y’all uncomfortable with incorrect wording, perdon me once again. Aside from that; I was shocked when I saw that I had a surprise in my inbox[I was giggling and going crazy bc I got nervous]. I hope I got the request right ! Srry if not :0

[ Stating . . . ]

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ SAE ITOSHI

Glares and glares hard when someone makes you uncomfortable.

Likes to steal you from whatever is occupying your precious attention and makes ya take his afternoon nap with him.

Pinches softly your sides — finds it soft.

His fetish can be clear as a say behind locked doors haha-

No place on this earth is better to take a nap on your tummy.

He had no idea of what to do when you first got insecure — he’s aware he lacks comforting skills and for that moment, he was desperate to learn it for the sake of his heart to see you happy again.

Keeps you away from the public's eye if you're comfortable with attention.

But if you're okay being seen in public, he's also okay.

Although, he likes keeping you to himself.

His manager is tired of him running off or ditching him to some place because he saw something that you’d like.

I feel like he'd get a little jealous when you interact with Shidou a little too much.

Keeping you away from Shidou.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ RIN ITOSHI

Takes notice of every outfit and his eyes soften every time he can admire you.

So pretty. So beautiful.

Thinks you're breathtaking and will shut down whatever makes you uncomfortable or insecure.

His words are sharp — nobody dares talk badly about you anymore if that was ever the case.

Rin craves touch if knowing him enough — watching horror movies while cuddling are the best.

Tries his best to comfort you whenever insecure.

“Don't let those lukewarm lowlifes get to you.”

If his lover worries about him going for someone better; just know that he’ll never do that.

He knows what it feels like to be abandoned — he’s somewhat emotionally mature[I think], Rin wouldn't get emotionally attached to someone just to abandon them.

“You know I’ll never abandon you, idiot.”

Reassures the best he can.

Likes kissing your gummy hands. Adores how they feel.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ ISAGI YOICHI

Hypnotized when you sit.

The fat of your thighs only makes him lose the goody-shoes manner he has.

Dreams of sleeping in between your tight.

Fetish aside, finds you stunning.

Really- he worships you with stars in his eyes and kisses all over his beloved, favorite girl without being asked or hesitant.

Likes cuddling after practice or a tired day. You fill out his energy bar like no one can.

A feeling of proudness washes over him seeing you getting along with his friends.

Slur Isagi can be found outside the field if anyone talks bad about you.

begs Talks to Chigiri to give him some tips with girl stuff cuz he has no experience with it.

▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬▬ SHIDOU RYUSEI

Absolutely in love with you.

No matter your form — thick, chubby, fat, — he doesn't care.

Says it's even better that you have that extra fluffiness.

Can't keep his hands to himself — adores how your tummy is soft and warm.

I can picture him taking a chomp out of you.

You're not allowed to feel insecure, not under his watch 🗣️🗣️

We all know he slapped your booty [more than] once.

His whole team is tired of him talking about his girlfriend — especially Rin, he’s ready to cut out his ears and fill out the hole with concrete.

Likes your tummy rolls. Finds them adorable.

You two can go nonstop about anything and everything half asleep while his hand caresses your sides.

[anotherfuckingmarvelfanaccount]

You Like That?

My Masterlist

Okay yall, I’ve read too many at this point and they were hot, so I’m trying a Stranger Things fic. Please don’t come for me, I know nothing about the show itself as I haven’t watched it and have no plans to, and my only knowledge of canon comes through the fics I’ve read. So enjoy this self indulgent semi-smutty fic that I couldn’t really finish the sex scene in because my brain left so. Yeah. Don’t hate me for this, my brain didn’t want to do this after I wrote the one scene it wanted.

Pairing(s): Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader, Eddie Munson x Fem!Reader, Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson, Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson, Fem!Reader

Warnings: Reader has a huge praise kink, so many mentions of sexual things, smut, bi!steve harrington, bi!eddie munson. probably bi!reader, never explicitly mentioned, but let’s be real, i’m writing it, she’s probably bi. oral sex, fem!receiving. implied but not explicit p in v!sex. aftercare & cuddles.

Word Count: 4155

Summary: You’ve been dating your two boyfriends for about a year, and the three of you have had sex a few times, but nothing major. However, while they’ve been a little more open about what they want to do, you’ve been hiding one thing from them. Your major praise kink.

**

You were making KD for the boys when they got home, as today was your day off. Thank goodness, as you hadn’t slept well at all last night. “Rob, I had a nightmare about telling them, I can’t!” 

Steve and Eddie stood in the kitchen doorway together glancing back and forth between each other, you, and the phone. What the hell had happened while they were at work? They heard Robin say something to you, but couldn’t make out what it was over the phone. “What the hell am I supposed to do, Rob? How am I supposed to tell my two boyfriends I have a major fucking praise kink?” You asked into the phone.

“That’s one way to do it, sweetheart.” Steve said while Eddie groaned softly in response to your revelation.

You spun around so fast you almost ripped the phone cord out of the wall. “Uh, Rob, I’m gonna have to talk to you later.” You said, cutting off whatever reply she was gonna give you by slamming the phone back on the receiver.

“So what, baby? Just call you cute and you’ll get all turned on for us?” Steve asked, reaching out for you because he wanted his “home from work” hug.

You gave Steve his hug, shaking your head while blushing out of your mind. “No? I-uh, I don’t really know.”

Eddie nodded slowly in understanding. “Ah, so like calling you a good girl.”

“Yeah,” You nodded softly. “And fuck, don’t do that.”

“It worked, didn’t it?” Eddie asked. 

“..Maybe.” You agreed.

Steve rubbed your back softly. “I know this wasn’t how you wanted to tell us, but we’re happy you did, princess. We’re proud of you.” Your thighs instinctively clenched together.

“That works too, baby girl?” Eddie asked, coming up behind you and holding your hips gently.

“Looks like it.” You muttered into Steve’s chest, embarrassed.

Eddie rubbed his thumbs in small circles on your hips. “There’s no need to be embarrassed, princess. But why don’t you finish dinner while we wash up and we can all talk about this later?”

You nodded, pecking them both on the cheek as you turned back to the stove so that you wouldn’t burn anything. It wouldn’t be the first time they had distracted you so badly that you had burnt dinner.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After dinner, Steve and Eddie took you into the bedroom you all shared and sat you on the bed. “There’s no need to be embarrassed in front of us, baby girl.” Steve said. “We’ve told you in explicit detail what we want to do with you and each other.” 

Eddie wanted to be gently tied (or handcuffed, depending on where you were) to the bed while either Steve fucked him or either of you rode him (or Steve fucked him while you rode him). But he also wanted to maybe try tying or handcuffing either of you, but only if you were okay with it. Steve wanted you to try riding his thigh one day, which you were not opposed to at all because god damn your men had some nice thighs, and he wanted to definitely try you sitting on his face. You honestly couldn’t even remember everything they said they wanted to try. Apparently, your boys were a bit adventurous. 

He was telling the truth, a couple of months ago the three of you had had a conversation in bed about what all of you wanted. You spent a good portion of that talk hiding your face in either Steve’s or Eddie’s chest at any given point while blushing like a complete virgin. 

During that whole conversation, you barely said a word; you knew at that point that you liked it when they told you they were proud of you, or you’d worked so hard and to let them pamper you, or that you had done a good job. That had always lit something in you, but you were scared to say it. You didn’t want to know what their reaction would be, and since you guys had just had sex right before, if it was a good reaction, you were also too sore to want to find out.

“I know.” You mumbled.

“Did you figure it out after that conversation?” Eddie asked, softly, sitting next to you. You shook your head. “During?” You shook your head again.

Steve sat on your other side, rubbing your back soothingly. “You knew before then?” You nodded, sniffling back tears.

“Hey, princess, don’t cry.” Eddie said, stroking your cheek softly. “We’re not mad at you.”

“You’re not?” You asked, looking up at Eddie.

His heart broke a little seeing the tears running down your cheeks. “Of course not, pretty girl. You weren’t ready to tell us yet. That’s okay.” 

You wrapped your arms around his neck and cried into his shoulder with both of them rubbing your back for a few minutes before your tears subsided. “I thought I was broken.” You mumbled.

“Why do you say that, honey?” Steve asked, resting his head against your back.

“Every time you guys would say that you were proud of me, or I had worked too hard and you needed to take care of me, or that I did a good job I’d get all..” You trailed off, not having found the word you wanted to use.

“Horny?” Eddie asked bluntly.

You nodded. “Yeah.” You said softly.

Steve stood from the bed, grabbing some clothes. “Why don’t we rest now and we can handle this more tomorrow?” He asked, tossing you each something to sleep in.

“More talking?” You asked softly.

“We don’t have to, honey. It’s not like we’re going to go through every second of your life and psychoanalyze you to figure out when this originated.” Eddie answered, stripping down to his boxers to sleep in. “But if you want to, maybe we can explore this a little tomorrow.” 

“I’m covering Robin’s shift.” You said, changing into what Steve had thrown at you.

Eddie smiled softly at your need to always please and help everyone. “When’s the shift?”

“8-5.” You answered, crawling under the covers.

“I work until 4, I can make dinner tomorrow?” Steve asked you both, climbing under the covers next to you.

“Well I work until 5:30, so I say yes.” Eddie said.

You curled into Steve’s chest. “Me too, Stevie, although we should still have some leftovers.”

Steve wrapped his arm around you, pulling Eddie into the both of you. “It could be, but we all know it’ll be a better after-sex snack than dinner.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

When you got home from work the next day, Steve was already cooking. It didn’t seem like much though, maybe frozen pizza? You weren’t sure. Either way, you made a beeline for the kitchen and wrapped your arms around Steve’s waist.

“Hi, my beautiful baby girl.” He said, turning around in your arms and kissing your forehead.

“Hi Stevie.” You mumbled, pressing your face further into his shirt.

“Are you okay?” He asked, looking up in confusion at Eddie who had appeared in the kitchen doorway. 

You nodded. “Need you to say it.” You mumbled into his chest.

“Say it? Say what, princess?” He asked again, increasingly confused.

“Don’t make me say it, baby.” You said.

A look of understanding crossed Steve’s face. “You want me to call you a good girl?” You nodded into his chest. “Good girl.” He said appreciatively, knowing how hard it must’ve been for you to come to him for that. Steve and Eddie watched the tension leave your shoulders as a sigh of relief came out of your mouth.

“Thank you.” You whispered as a soft smile appeared on your face.

“You okay, baby girl?” Steve asked.

You nodded. “Rough day. Long day. Just wanted to come back home as soon as I got there.”

“You’ve been such a good girl for us, princess. We know how hard that was for you.” Eddie said, kissing the top of your head as you nuzzled into his chest instead of Steve’s. The sound that left your throat was unlike any noise that they had heard you make before. You were very quiet in bed, unless you were asking for ‘more’ or calling one of their names. “Baby girl?” Eddie asked quietly.

You cleared your throat softly, blushing. “I’m gonna go wash up before dinner. I had to clean the storage room today and it was disgusting.” You hurried into the large bathroom the three of you shared, shutting the door behind you and leaning against it. What the fuck was that noise? You thought, starting the shower and stripping off.

Eddie suddenly appeared behind you, wrapping you in a hug in the mirror. “Hey, pretty girl. Mind if I save some water with you?” You shook your head, still blushing from before. 

“No, Eds, we can save water but you have to help me wash my hair.”

He nodded, stripping himself and pulling you under the stream of water with him. “You know nothing you can possibly do will make us love you any less?”

You traced your fingers over his tattoos, nodding. “I know, I’m just-”

“A little nervous? Insecure? Scared?” He asked, rubbing small circles on your lower back.

“Yeah.” You said softly, hiding your face in his chest again. 

Eddie turned you around so you wouldn’t have to hide and squeezed some of your shampoo into his hand before rubbing it into your hair. “It’s okay to feel that way. God knows Stevie and I do sometimes too.” You nodded, relaxing into the feeling of Eddie’s hands moving through your hair and rinsing out the shampoo. “You okay? Feeling any better?”

You hummed in agreement, wishing you could stay under the warm water forever. “Hey lovebirds, dinner’s ready!” Steve called through the door, causing the two of you to break out of the little bubble you had formed and all of your anxiety to come rushing back. Eddie turned off the water and wrapped you in a towel, ushering you back into the bedroom to grab some clothes to go eat in.

“Thank you for making dinner, Stevie.” You said, giving him a hug in the kitchen once you were dressed.

“Of course, princess. You know we all take turns doing it. Even when dinner is just frozen pizza.” He replied, kissing the top of your head and leading you over to the table. “Dinner is served, m’lady.” Steve had set the table and even put pizza on all the plates, knowing which kind each of you liked best and where you each sat around the table.

Eddie walked in, sitting with the two of you as Steve rested a hand on your thigh. This was a common occurrence when they wanted sex, one hand each, slowly sliding up higher until you told them to knock it off. Eddie gave Steve a look, having seen into your brain a bit in the shower and Steve moved his hand off your thigh, kicking you both lightly under the table.

“How was your shift, hun?” You asked Steve, kicking him back lightly.

“Wasn’t bad, just wanted to come home and sleep, really.” You and Eddie nodded in agreement, just having to wake up to an alarm any morning made any of you want to stay in bed and snuggle. “How was yours, Eds?” He asked, taking a bite of his pizza.

Eddie chuckled, trying not to choke as he told you two the story of Jason coming in with a flat tire, a missing side mirror, and all of his turning signals burnt out as just the visible problems. This was followed by the fact that Jason had to be nice to Eddie to not get him to pawn off the car onto another mechanic at the shop just for all the shit in high school. Plus, Jason needed an oil change, had no brake fluid, and only had winter washer fluid in, despite the fact that he had a bottle of the summer stuff in his trunk. 

You almost spit out your pop as Steve choked on his pizza while Eddie regaled the look on Jason’s face when he told him the price. “Dude, you can’t let this much damage happen to a car before you bring it in. How long haven’t you had turn signals? When did the mirror go missing? When were you due for an oil change? You have washer fluid in your trunk, why isn’t it in your engine? Did you really only bring in the car because the tire went flat?” Yeah, he racked up quite the bill with that one. 

“You would think for the biggest bully in school who was always raving about his car, that he would take better care of it.” You said, standing up for a refill as you passed Steve and Eddie the pizza they each wanted more of.

You turned around to walk back to the table with the boys but realized that Steve had cornered you gently against the counter. “Baby girl, I know you’re nervous.”

“And you’re allowed to be.” Eddie said from behind him. 

“And we don’t have to play with this at all if you don’t want to. We never have to play with it. But if and when you’re ready, we’re here for as long as you trust us to be.”

“I know.” You said, looking down at the kitchen tile. “I do trust you guys, I just-”

Eddie interjected softly. “Don’t know what to do?”

You nodded. “Princess, that’s okay. Thank you for sharing this with us anyways.” Steve started. “We know it isn’t always easy to communicate wants and needs, and we want to remind you that we aren’t mad at you.”

“And you’re most definitely not broken. Whether it be for something that you think is weird making you horny, or it’s anything else your brain is telling you; we love you no matter what.” Eddie said, resting his chin on Steve’s shoulder.

“And,” Steve said, leaning towards you with a stage whisper, “we fuck good girls better.” You gripped onto the counter a little harder with one hand as you felt your knees almost buckle underneath you.

“I-” You started softly. “I don’t want to be punished or anything. If I fuck up, I don’t want spankings or punishments. And I don’t want like extra rules I have to follow either.”

Steve’s posture softened visibly as you said this, still not looking at either of them. Eddie grabbed one of your hands softly, bending over to kiss it gently. “Baby of course.” Eddie said. “We do not have to turn this into a BDSM relationship just because you have a praise kink and we want to play with some things eventually. This will not affect our entire dynamic.”

“Okay.” You said, nodding.

“Okay?” Steve asked. “You trust us?”

You looked up at him smiling hopefully at you and giggled softly. “Of course I trust you, Stevie.” Eddie raised an eyebrow, smirking softly. “Yeah, yeah. You too, Eds.” You let him pull you into a hug as Steve kissed your hands lightly. “Do good girls really get fucked better?” You asked softly, blushing as you did.

“Oh yeah.” Eddie said, kissing your cheek and wiggling his eyebrows. “Good girls get fucked the absolute best.”

Steve cupped your other cheek, resting his forehead against yours. “Do you wanna be our good girl, princess?” You nodded, trying not to make any noises you weren’t used to making. “Words, baby girl.”

“Yes, Steve.” You said breathily, he raised an eyebrow. “Wanna be yours and Ed’s good girl. Wanna be good for you.”

“I’m proud of you, sweetheart.” Eddie said in your ear. “I know that can’t have been easy for you.” You let out a high pitched whine and Eddie picked you up, carrying you into the bedroom and laying you down on the bed. “Want you to make more of those noises, baby.”

“Yeah?” You asked softly, pulling at the collar of his shirt.

Eddie pulled off your leggings and his shirt before throwing your thighs over his shoulders. “Oh you’ve got to be fucking kidding me.” He said, groaning.

“What is it?” Steve asked.

“Our good girl has been soaking through just her leggings this whole time.” You involuntarily tensed a little, covering your face with your hands to hide your continuous blush.

Steve sat next to your head, pulling your torso up onto him, resting you in between his thighs, and pulled your hands away from your face. “Yeah, princess? You hoped we’d do this tonight?” You nodded, not looking at either of them. 

Eddie slapped your thigh lightly causing you to look at him. “Are you sure you want this, baby girl?” You nodded again. “Words.”

“Yes, Eddie. I want this.” Eddie looked at you skeptically. “Just ‘cause I’m a lil’ nervous doesn’t mean that I don’t want this, sweetheart.”

“Are you sure, you’re sure?” You pulled Eddie into a kiss, trying to convey as much as possible that you were okay. “Yeah, okay. I can believe that.” Eddie said, pulling back and resituating himself between your legs. 

Steve raised an eyebrow at the two of you and you looked at him sheepishly. “I’m bad with words.”

“We know, princess. I love you.”

“I love you too. And you too, Eddie.”

“Love you too, baby.” He said, muffled by your thighs as he kissed them. Eddie kissed up one thigh and down the other, not stopping where you wanted him to, causing you to buck your hips up slightly. “Hold your horses there, princess. I’m getting to what you want.”

You whined. “Please, Eddie.”

“Be a good girl for me, yeah?” He asked, kissing just below your belly button. “I know you can do it.”

“Yeah, I’ll be good, Eds.” You said as Steve spread your legs further for Eddie to lay between. You pulled at Steve’s collar too, “Wanna feel you against me.”

“Of course, princess.” Steve pulled both his and your shirts off, gently squeezing your tits while you grabbed one of Eddie’s hands, wanting to just feel close to him. Steve used one of his hands to hold your hand that was holding Eddie’s so the three of you were all connected at one point. 

Eddie used you being distracted by Steve to finally put his mouth on you right where you wanted him. “Oh my god, Eddie!” You squealed, thighs closing around his head.

“Keep them open, sweetheart.” He said with a dangerous look in his eye. “I promise I’ll make it worth your while.” You nodded frantically, opening your legs even further and letting them dangle off of Eddie’s shoulders. “Good girl.” Eddie said appreciatively. You keened, bucking your hips into Eddie, letting your head fall back against Steve’s chest, and unintentionally tensing, which of course Eddie noticed. “Oh you like that, huh?”

“Yes, yes, Eddie please.” You chanted, squeezing his and Steve’s hands. Steve gently used his hand that wasn’t holding yours to scratch against your skin so your nerves would light up. “Fuck, Steve, please.”

Eddie sucked your clit into his mouth, running his tongue in circles around it and slowly pushing in two of his ringed fingers causing your mouth to drop open. “Come on, princess.” Steve said, “Cum for us. Be a good girl for us.”

“Eddie, Stevie, gonna cum!” You whined, arching your back as your hips raised themselves closer to Eddie’s mouth. “Little more, please!” Steve pulled you into a kiss as Eddie curled his fingers in the way you liked. “Cumming!” You exclaimed, thighs shaking around Eddie’s ears as you lost your grip on their hands, scratching at the sheets.

Eddie rubbed your thighs gently as he fingered you through your orgasm while Steve held your hands, not wanting to have to buy new sheets because you clawed through these ones. “There you go. Good girl. ‘M so proud of you.” Eddie said, finally releasing your clit from the pleasurable torture he had it under.

“Fuck.” You said, exhaling, taking deep breaths so you could slow your heartbeat back to normal. 

“Yeah, pretty baby?” Steve asked, stroking your hair. “Was that good?”

You nodded, resting your head back against his chest. “Yeah, fucking shit, Eddie, that was so good.”

“I’m very happy it was good for you, sweetheart.” He said, offering his slick fingers to Steve to lick off.

“Shit, honey, you taste so good.” Steve said, sucking Eddie’s fingers further into his mouth.

Eddie moaned loudly as Steve’s tongue swirled around his fingers. “Fuck, Stevie, why don’t you ever do that to my dick?”

“You never asked.” Steve said, releasing Eddie’s fingers with a pop. You squeezed your thighs together, as watching your two boys never failed to turn you on. “Oh, princess. Did we forget about you?” Steve asked, pointing your face up towards him by sliding a finger under your chin.

You blushed, your eyes not meeting Steve’s as you shook your head. The look you felt from Eddie reminded you to use your words. “No, Stevie. Like watching you guys.” You said, curling into his chest and drawing shapes into it with your fingers. 

“You like watching us together, sweet girl?” Steve asked, hand migrating from your back to your tits.

“Yes. Fuck, it’s hot.” You said, not making eye contact with either of them.

Eddie cupped your cheek softly and pulled you into a kiss. “Is this all it takes to get you vocal in bed, baby? Letting stuff slip out you never would before? Such a good girl for us, teaching us all this about you.”

“Fuck.” You whined softly. “Eddie.”

“I’m right here, baby. What do you want?”

“You and Stevie. In me. Please.” Your pupils were blown wide as you looked up at the two of them, and even the fact that you were speaking to them in bed was new and turning them both on.

Steve palmed himself softly, groaning. “Both of us?” You nodded. “At once?”

You blushed. “I don’t know if that would work.”

“But you’d be willing to try?” Eddie asked.

“Maybe not tonight.” You said, palming Eddie through his boxers.

Steve pulled you onto his lap. “So what do you want, sweetheart?”

You paused, trying to figure out how to word what you want before it just falls out of your mouth in a jumbled mess. “Stevie in me first, and while he fucks me, Eddie gets himself off. But you can’t cum until you’re in me.” You said the last sentence while jamming your pointer finger into Eddie’s chest.

“Fuck.” The two men said together.

“Yes.” Eddie said. “I can do that for you, my good girl.”

You groaned softly. “You can do that, Eds?”

“I’d do anything for you, baby.” He said, kissing your forehead and going to sit on the desk chair.

“Whatever you want from me, princess.” Steve said, pulling off his boxers. “You wanna ride me or what are you thinking?” You crawled off Steve’s lap and laid next to him on the bed, pulling him down into you for a kiss. “Oh, you want me on top today?”

You nodded. “Feels safer when one of you is on top.” You said, resting your hands on the back of Steve’s neck and running your fingers through the hair there.

Steve braced himself on his elbows on either side of you, leaning down to kiss you again. “We like it when you feel safe.”

“Fuck yeah we do, sweetheart.” Eddie said, stroking himself.

~~~~~~~~~~~(Time skip because I can’t do a full sex scene today)~~~~~~~~~~~~~

After you, Steve, and Eddie were all cleaned up, you curled up in bed with your boys, letting them talk while your head was still pleasantly floaty.

“Hey, pretty girl, you with us?” Eddie asked softly.

You nodded into his chest. “I’m awake.”

“Can we ask you something?” Steve asked.

“Yeah, you know that.” You answered. “Always.”

Eddie rubbed your back gently as Steve shifted to rest his hand on your stomach. “Was everything we did today okay?” Steve asked, kissing your head softly.

You nodded. “Yeah, it was really good. You guys made me feel really good.”

“You like that? Us calling you a good girl and telling you that you were doing a good job for us?” Eddie asked. His chest rumbled under your ear as he asked and you did your best to not let out a whimper at his words.

“I-” You cleared your throat in an attempt to get the words out. “Yes. I like that. Can you say it more?”

Steve kissed your head again. “Of course, princess. We can try whatever you want in bed.” 

“Okay.” You closed your eyes, smiling, as you placed a small kiss against Eddie’s chest. “Can we go to sleep now? I’m really tired.”

“Yeah, princess.” Steve said, giving both you and Eddie small kisses. “We can sleep now.”

**

Taglist: @chrisevansdaughter, @buckybarnesandmarvel, @sarahrogersevans, @nana1000night

Let me know if you want to be added or removed!

[shintaru]

pls write smut for chris. thank you🔥

This smut goes with the NSFW head canons pt 1

My body look like something you'd eat cakе off | Chris D’Char

m.list ♡ taglist Warnings : long smut fic

Disclaimer this fic is only this long because I tried to add everything from my NSFW head canons. I’ll only make my NSFW head canon smut this long the rest will be somewhat shorter so it’s easier to read.

You came over because Chris texted that he wanted to share his birthday cake with you, when you saw the text you were shocked he doesn’t share food with anyone.

On your way to his house, you hear your phone ring, you pick up your phone and see the call is from Chris and you answer the call “Don’t invite anyone else over, alright? I just want it to be you and me on my birthday just like old times” Chris says. “I won’t tell anyone” you reply “Thank you be safe on your way over here” he says “I will I can’t wait for you to see your gift” you say excitedly “I can’t wait to see it either, I know I said stay safe but please hurry I want you to see my cake before I eat it” he tells you, you laugh and say “alright I’m almost there” and you hang up after you both say bye.

When eating cake with your childhood best friend was the only intention you wondered how you got Into this position, you were spread out naked on his kitchen table covered in chocolate cake and icing with his head in between your thighs eating you out as if it was his last meal one minute you were singing him happy birthday the next you had asked him what his birthday wish was and he told you it was to try out a kink that he’s been dying to try you offered to help to asking what his kink was he told you it was a surprise.

You had been pent up for a long time, unable to get yourself off and you hated hook-up culture so you found yourself having to give up on pleasing yourself and that’s how you got here

With Chris watching your chest fall and rise as your breath hitched from the pleasure, your hands make your way pulling on his orange strands “Charr” you moan his nickname “feels’ so - good gonna cum” You feel your orgasm coming, you begin to wonder if this was his plan all along. To have you covered in his cake spread out for him on his special day.

You’ve noticed the looks he gives you and how overprotective he is of you. Deep down you always knew but you didn’t make a move even though you also had feelings for him. You didn’t want to lose your childhood best friend if things ended badly, so you pretended not to notice his feelings.

“Charr” you cry out loudly “Please be gentle” you plea “It’s too much,” you say with shaky breaths, he ignores your pleas placing his hands around your hips, he starts rubbing the icing on your hip around in circles with his thumb, the sensation makes your orgasm wash over you. Clenching your thighs together, trapping his head between your legs, your body begins to shake slightly, your back is arching off the table and your toes are curling “ah, Charr” you moan his nickname again and you squirt all over his face. You can feel his tongue lick up and down between your folds as he slurps up your juices leaving nothing behind.

You’re embarrassed, you try to cover your face with your hands before you can cover your face he grabs both of your wrists. Holding them above your head with one hand, you look up at him and he is standing between your thighs towering over you smirking while licking what’s left of your juices off his lips ``don't hide your face around me doll” he says. He wraps his free hand around your throat squeezing slightly and says “open your pretty mouth for me” you do as your told and he leans down to kiss you he sticks his tongue in your mouth he swirls it around letting you taste yourself and his birthday cake you moan into the kiss and his grip tightens on your wrist and throat you can tell he is starting to lose his patience “ I’ve waited so many years to trying to make you mine, can’t believe I finally have you” he says between kisses. He stops kissing you and stands up he takes his shirt off (like this) and pulls his sweatpants off his legs and you get to see how big he is your eyes grow wide you knew he had to be big because he is extremely tall but not that big he chuckles at your reaction and says “don’t worry love, I’ll make it fit, you’re already prepared for me from earlier” he pulls you closer to him by your ankles bringing your ass against his hips he has you spread open for him. One leg is around his waist the other over his shoulder. He looks at you and hesitates almost as if he is waiting for your permission. You nod your head letting him know he can continue with a wide smirk on his face. He slides himself into you with an intense force that’s not letting up. His hands gripping under your left thigh and over your right ankle. The position allowing him to reach deep inside your walls. His drilling pace has you spouting random nonsense.

“Fuck you’re so tight, you’re taking me so well,” he groans while looking down he moans at the sight of him stretching you. He repositions you both where both of your legs are spread wide in front of him. He picks up his brutal pace, bullying his thick cock in and out of your hole. The table shakes violently with each thrust you desperately try to grab hold of anything to steady yourself you end up gripping the sides of the kitchen table as he continues thrusting balls deep inside you. You’re both brought out of your pleasure when you hear a loud thud followed by a splat. You slowly raise up bracing yourself on your arms, Chris helps pull you to his chest by your waist. You both look down and laugh when you see the cake and utensils on the floor “so much for saving some for later” he laughs, you look up at him and say “we can get another one” in between your laughter he leans down and kisses you and you kiss back.

“Well since we lost our cake why not have some more fun with it hmm?” He says he lays you back down on the table, grabs a slice of the cake and breaks pieces of it all over your body and he smears more icing on your breast and thighs. With the cake still in his hands he pulls out flips you over setting you on the table. You’re on all fours, he smears cake on your ass. He bends down licking and biting the cake off your ass. He pushes you down by your lower back bringing your ass to meet his hips, he lines himself up and slides back into you with the same savage pace. He grips your hips and leans over you beside your ear and whispers “you feel so good, baby” your back is arching causing your shoulder and hips to brush against his chest and abs, breasts pressed against the cold counter top each thrust having your nipples rub against the freezing surface. You can hear the repetitive sounds of your skin slapping against one another with each of his thrusts. Your eyes roll to the back of your head being consumed by your pleasure. He raises back up and slaps your ass hard making you yelp out and moan and tighten around him “You like it when I smack your ass, huh?” He asks you can only moan in response he smacks your ass again “Answer me when I’m talking to you” he says “Yes” is all you can moan out in response. He grabs your hips picking up the pace and you grip the sides of the table desperately trying to hold onto something “ You’re so big” You moan when he pulls out. You feel your hot mixed juices spill out of you and drip down your thighs. He smirks at the sight, flipping you back over laying you down on the table. He sucks on your breasts eating the leftover pieces of cake that remains off your chest. After he finished eating and licking up the last bit of cake from your chest. He kisses and licks a trail down your breasts to your inner thighs. He sucks the icing from your inner thighs tasting chocolate on your skin. He bites hard on your inner thigh drawing a bit of blood making you cry out and he licks it up. You know he is leaving marks all over your body but you feel too good to care about it right now.

He picks you up and you wrap your arms around his neck and your legs around his waist. He carries you to his bedroom in front of his full body mirror. He sets you down so you can face the mirror and he tells you to grab ahold of his forearms. You do as you’re told, he lifts you back up, spreading your legs in front of the mirror, his cock still erect and your dripping cunt can be seen in the reflection displaying your naked bodies to one another. He slides himself back into you with a painfully slow pace so you both can watch as his cock stretches you out as he slides in and out of you. You moan at the filthy sight. He comes inside of you but his pace doesn’t let up he bullies his cock in deep, fucking his cum into your tight hole.

As you feel your orgasm coming you clench around him begging him “Don’t stop, Charr ah, right there, feels so good” he stops and pulls out. You whine at the loss of your orgasm. “Let me cum, Charr” you plea “ beg for it, tell me how much you love my big cock stretching out your little pussy and filling you up” “Please, let me cum, I want you to fill me up with your massive cock that stretches me so well” you respond in between pleading cries. You feel him twitch inside of you after he hears your response.

He picks up his vicious pace once again drilling into you. You can feel his hot breathe on your ear when he says “cum on my cock” you grip onto his muscular tattooed arms tightly and throw your head back over his shoulder and you feel your walls clenching around him your legs begin to shake in his arms as you’re about to cum.

He watches your reaction through the mirror and pulls out once again denying you of pleasure.

You start sobbing with how frustrated you are you need your release once he sees your crying face in the mirror he feels a bit bad for teasing you so much, he thrusts back into you aiming his cock at all of your sweet spots causing your orgasm to come much quicker this time you moan “too much” “you can take it, you’ve been taking me so well all night” he says.

With that You squirt on him and your liquids splash out onto parts of the mirror he cums from seeing the mess you made your mixed juices drip out of you. Even though you both just came he picks up the pace drilling his cum inside you “you’re making a mess” he smiles “only for you” you reply with half lidded eyes. “I’m going to fill you up with my cum” he says “fill me up, Charr “ you moan. He twitches, cumming inside you biting your shoulder to suppress his moans.

He walks over to his bed and he lays down setting you on top of him. You guide his tip to your entrance and you push the tip in while slowly syncing down. You moan as his tip stretches you out bringing that familiar feeling back. You slowly slide down stopping half way on his cock enjoying the pain as he stretches you out you throw your head back and moan “you’re stretching m- so good” not making any sense. His grip tightens on your hips he slams you down on his cock while thrusting into you. You brace yourself on his shoulders, you're bouncing up and down on him feeling overstimulated. “Make me cum” you moan into his ear. “FucK” he groans as he continues thrusting up as you bounce on him, you soon cum with him, soaking the sheets beneath you.

Still inside you he flips you over where you’re beneath him on your back with your legs wrapped around his waist, you wrap your arms across his shoulders and he bites down on your shoulder. Lifting your waist with his left hand and holding your hand with his right hand he slides back in with ease and goes a slow steady pace as you both make out drowning in pleasure. He starts pounding into you and slowing down and pulling himself all the way out and slamming himself back in picking up his pace and slowing back down. The switch in pace has your body spasming underneath him. You cum first clenching around him he keeps thrusting as he feels his hot white ropes enter your already full hole you both moan and kiss.

He lifts your legs resting the back of your knees onto his shoulders, spreading your thighs apart as far as they can go while lifting your hips some more he starts drilling into you. You moan this angle making him reach deep inside hitting all the right places drives you crazy. He looks down where you’re both connected watching as your small cunt takes his large cock he can’t look away, the way his cock is glazed with your mixed juices, skin slapping against skin, your filled pussy squelching as you continue taking him. It puts him in a trance, he loses it and his brutal thrusts are too much for your sensitive hole, he moans ”you’re still so tight after I’ve stretched you out, it’s like your pussy was made for me” you moan at his comment, he leans down and starts leaving hickeys all over your neck. You’re a moaning mess beneath him, begging him to slow down. He kisses you and tells you “cum with me, beautiful” you constrict around him milking him as his thrust slows down. You’ve lost track of how many times he came inside.

After you both come down from your high Chris pulls out causing you to moan both your cum leaks out of you, soaking the sheets. Still holding your thighs apart, Chris looks at the mess you’ve both made. “I’ll never get tired of watching my cum leak out of you” he leans down and kisses you “I don’t think your gift could top this, the best night of my life” he says.

You laugh at his comment. He tells you that he will draw you both a bath. “May I borrow some clothes?” You ask him “yeah I’ll give you some of my night clothes” he responds. Chris walks to the bathroom and draws a bath for the both of you. After the tub is full at the right temperature he picks you up bridal style, carrying you to the bathroom setting you in the tub. He leaves the bathroom after telling you he is going to wash the sheets. You look around the bathroom as you wait for him to come back. You notice how big the tub is, it’s round almost as big as a small jacuzzi. You’ve been to his place many times before but you never paid enough attention. He comes back into the bathroom, bringing you out of your thoughts. He steps into the tub and motions for you to come over to him. You follow his command and he pulls you onto his lap.

“Wanna cum for me one more time?”

He asks, you nod in response. He kisses you and raises both of your hips out the water and lines himself back up with your entrance. He pushes you down on him and he sits you both back down in the water after you’ve taken all of him. He picks your hips up and slams them down helping you ride him. You’re riding him at a fast pace, moaning about how deep he is. You both begin making out as you continue riding him, water is violently splashing against your bodies and out the tub with his thrusts. You both don’t care only focused on the pleasure he tells you he is about to cum and you tell him you’re close too. He starts thrusting into you faster as you ride him quickly bringing you both to your release. You moan his name gripping onto him tighter as you both cum at the same time.

He comforts you and after you orgasm with lots of kisses and praises. He helps clean you out. You both soak in the tub washing each other and playing with the bubbles.

Chris gives you his shirt to wear for bed. He doesn’t put any clothes on himself, saying he is too tired to find something to wear. You both get into bed and lay on your left sides with Chris behind you. “Since we tried some of your kinks, can we try one of mine?” You ask “he raises up being curious “depending on what it is, we are both pretty tired it may have to wait until tomorrow” he says not wanting to over do it. “No, no it’s nothing hardcore“ you say. Once you explain that it won’t tire you both out he agrees. He lays back down and lifts your right up leg by your thigh, lining his tip with your entrance he slides his cock back into you. Causing you to moan at the familiar sensation. He lays your leg back down and wraps his arms around you, pulling the blanket over you both he kisses your shoulder.

“that was the best birthday I ever had” he exclaims. “now will you stop ignoring my feelings and be my girl?” He pouts when he says it “Yes, I’d love to” you say. His eyes light up as he smiles hearing your response.

You came over to attend your childhood best friend's birthday get together, for the two of you. To end the night cuddling his dick inside you and being your boyfriend. You’d never have expected the night to end this way you think as you drift off to sleep.

This was my first smut fic so if it’s bad I’m sorry. 💀 also sorry for the horrible formatting. With my nsfw head canons I had 4 characters Char, Dom, Wooin, and joker. All of their nsfw head canons are finished except for the smut part. So I didn’t want to post them missing the smut. As I wrote the smut for Char I realized how long it would be because I tried to include all the head canons I gave and I thought it wouldn’t fit the word count that tumblr has for a post so I’d just post the smut separately and link it to the head canons post. But since I don’t want to post the head canons without having all the smut done yet I’m giving this sneak pick for Chris’s smut and NSFW head canons.

Dedicated to @rossesnd @cozyunderworld @inosukehana

[baldurs-writers-3]

Rare Pairs 1: A Baldur's Gate 3 Fanfiction Rec List

This week, we have our first iteration of another recurring theme, Rare Pairs!

Rare Pairs are any romantic ships with less than 1000 fics to their name. This recurring theme is to help highlight ships that are often overlooked or buried beneath more popular ships.

Check under the cut for twelve excellent fics/series highlighting some wonderful yet overlooked ships, as well as a handful of unexpected yet intriguing ones! And as always, comment and kudos if you like them!

The cursed ships of Baldur's Gate by Amarilis_ancunin (100702, Explicit) Content Notes: Each fic has its own warnings, but some common ones include smut, dubious consent, canon-typical violence, and more. Pairings: Various, inclusive of Wulbren Bongle/Cazador Szarr, Barcus Wroot/Kar'niss, Lorroakan/Enver Gortash, Raphael/Vlaakith

This isn't just one fic: it's a whole series of wild, off the wall pairings that do not naturally come to mind but are absolutely delightful when they make it to the page.

Reccer says: Every single one of these pairings can fit the Kombucha Girl meme. At first oh-my-god, and at second look, oh-my-god-maybe? with the added joy of the writing being lovely to read and actual plot behind the smut.

Surround Sound by Irken (68,140 , Mature) Content Notes: hurt/comfort Pairings: The Emperor/Illithid Tav

This is a post-game series of vignettes about Tav learning how to be a proper illithid and the Emperor learning that he doesn't need to be such a guarded, self-sufficient loner. It's fluffy slice-of-life with a loose power-of-friendship-&-love plot about the pair rebuilding the city while helping their companions get their happy endings, too.

Reccer says: I wrote this! :'3 It's my baby. It's largely fluff, and I've been told that it 'brings joy' and 'feels like a warm hug.' So, if you like squids and want something to cheer you up, maybe give it a look~

Eat your eyes, your visions, your goals, your hunger. (Drink your blood, your breadth, your mettle.) by martyrologics (4,651, Mature) Content Notes: None Pairings: The Absolute/The Dark Urge

Trippy, mindmelding, Absolute/The Dark Urge smut, in like, the best kind of way.

Reccer says: The author's prose is gorgeous--you'll want to eat it. The descriptions of the brain becoming the Absolute becoming the Netherbrain, and its obsession with the Dark Urge are as purple as they come and it is a psychic maelstrom of awesomeness.

Learning to be Free by CobaltCactus (103,256, Explicit) Content Notes: None Pairings: Lae'zel/Shadowheart

Lae'zel and Shadowheart have been through HELL together and come out the other side way more than friends. Read along as they come to terms with losing large parts of their self-identities, gaining each other, and their experience in building a healthy relationship. The story also explores the consequences of their adventures together!

Reccer says: I love the balance between the various painful elements of their post game life and the tooth-rotting fluff of them getting to love each other! It's all just very well done!

Where Beauty Moves and Wit Delights by rainbowBarnacle (5776, Mature) Content Notes: None Pairings: Astarion/Karlach

An alternative take on what Karlach and Astarion could have gotten up to at the Tiefling party... who needs to touch to be naughty?

Reccer says: It seems like such an easy solution!! Good Karlach POV too, seeing how she starts wondering about this weird little fancy-vamp.

Before The First Light (Some Bright Morning Comes) by tinybabydeer (11191, Explicit) Content Notes: None Pairings: Halsin/Wyll

A nice, slow build exploration of how badly Wyll needs someone like Halsin to help him improve his self worth, even if he didn't expect it

Reccer says: The character voices are spot on and the prose is excellent. I didn't expect to enjoy this ship but this fic 100% changed my mind

On the Properties of Tea and Its Effects Upon Various Beings, Humanoid and Otherwise by Neila_Nuruodo (8619, Mature) Content Notes: None Pairings: Blurg/Omeluum

Blurg has finally found a place for himself in the world. While a hobgoblin running an apothecary might sound like a mere curiosity, he prides himself on the efficacy of his remedies. When the shop next to his, long vacant, is finally rented, he is naturally curious who might have rented it and what plans they have for the space. He certainly didn't expect it to be an illithid.

Reccer says: Its such a cute and fun little AU. Omeluum opens a tea shop and Blurg operates a shop next door and they get to meet and slowly fall in love and I just love it

Petals of Blood by DarkLordJordan (5855, Teen) Content Notes: Hanahaki Disease, Body Horror, Suicidal Thoughts Pairings: Astarion/Halsin

Astarion falls prey to Hanahaki disease, and obviously refuses to tell anyone, least of all Halsin, about it. But hey, don't worry. He can't suffocate on the flowers anyway so its fine!

Reccer says: Excellent hurt/comfort and a fun exploration of the trope

when flames die by fingonsradharp (5502, Teen) Content Notes: Temporary Character Death Pairings: Karlach/Wyll

Karlach falls in battle, Wyll does not feel very good about that at all, and the party meets Withers

Reccer says: I love the early party characterizations and the drama of everyone trying to fathom Withers as a concept

Pale Elf Needs Food, Badly! by Gally (12,434, Mature) Content Notes: Canon-Typical Violence Pairings: Astarion/Karlach

What if Balthazar could to zap away Astarion’s energy reserves and thus he instantly felt as if he had not eaten for months? What then? How do you quickly feed a vampire who is so ravenous that even the vampire is saying it's not safe to let him bite? Well, Astarion instantly pretty much assumes he's about to be staked as he has to be more trouble than he's worth now, right? Don't worry, Mama K is here! and these other guys too. Time to figure it out!

Reccer says: Love the characterizations and the whump is absolutely delectable

Meeting the parents is stressful, isn't it by SpiffyVaxildan (1740, Teen) Content Notes: None Pairings: The Dark Urge/Shadowheart

Set about a year after the defeat of the Netherbrain above Baldur's Gate, Hope has been slowly regaining her memories of childhood from before her Bhaal blood took over. She remembers her foster parents and wants to visit their grave. Shadowheart comes along for moral support.

Reccer says: A short and sweet fic set post game. I don't see a lot of durge/shadowheart so this was a treat. The author has a fun writing style and I'm always a sucker for funny love confessions.

Liar's Embrace by MoisopolonOikia (3671, Explicit) Content Notes: None Pairings: Florrick/Mizora

In which Lady Mizora goes to visit her favorite counsellor to apologize for the political fuss she may have caused.

Reccer says: A rare pair indeed! Come get your toxic lesbians (affectionate)! This fic was so fun and so well written, the pair I didn't know I needed until I read this.

The above fanfic recommendations were pulled from our community for this weekly event. Have any questions about what this is? Check out the FAQ!

Next week, we’ll be back with a very timely theme, Horror!

[lesbianrobin]

ok since people r very into my chris fic i shall share some of my random behind the scenes thoughts while writing it:

adriana has literally been waiting her entire life for her obviously gay older brother who joined the army to avoid his wife and then moved to los angeles to be a sexy firefighter to COME OUT ALREADY and by the time we meet her in this fic she is like Vibrating with the need to be like EDDIE IS GAYYYYYYY ARE YOU PEOPLE BLIND??? which is why it takes like absolutely zero prodding from chris for her to spill all of eddie's business. i think when eddie was little he was a very obviously gay little boy and as he grew up he learned how to Be Normal but adriana never forgot and she's like deeply sad about it.

chris is So fucking miserable at his grandparents' house he misses video games so bad. i couldn't find a way to really incorporate this without it feeling like a cheap "look he's a TEEN BOY" thing but yeah the second he gets back home he is slamming that headset on and gaming until eddie tells him he has to take a break or he'll burn his eyes out of his sockets.

there are a Lot of songs on buck and eddie's joint depression playlist that i listed and then cut for practicality's sake but if there's any like interest in that i could maybe put together + link the full playlist for y'all?

buck's "maddie" playlist is entirely music he listened to growing up bc it makes him think of her. as a younger sibling my music taste from birth to like. age fifteen ish. was just wholly whatever my older sister listened to and i think buck is the same way. i don't think buck necessarily listens to this playlist on his own very often but if he's hanging out with maddie and/or babysitting jee-yun he'll put it on because it makes him happy to enjoy some 90s/00s nostalgia with his best girls. sometimes he'll play it in the car when he's driving chris somewhere because he wants to carry forward some of those good memories he has with maddie with chris.

buck and eddie's texts were written in order to coincide with each other! eddie texts more frequently than buck but i think if you pay attention you can sometimes tell which days buck Also sent chris a text bc they match. some of them were sent specifically in the wake of very emotionally taxing shifts where they both wanted so badly to call chris and beg him to come home but they knew that wouldn't go well and they didn't want to make chris feel guilty so they tried to play it cool.

speaking of buck and eddie: i don't think that eddie's conversation with chris is necessarily the First step in eddie realizing he's gay or moving toward something romantic with buck. keep in mind that chris has been gone for at least two weeks by the time he talks to either of them, and buck and eddie spend the vast majority of their time together. this fic is restricted to chris' pov, and he has no way of knowing whether, say, buck and tommy broke up, or whether his dad has been thinking about some things differently since he's been gone. buck and eddie Also have to spend twelve hours in a car together just the two of them between the end of the fic and their reunion with chris. this is not me saying that buck and tommy DID break up or that buddie got together while chris was away (i don't actually have a solid "canon" for where they're at), just that i intentionally left space for a wide range of possibilities due to chris' limited knowledge of what's going on with them!!

i kinda intentionally did not delve too deeply into the psychology of the diaz parents here because i think their behavior is a bit inscrutable to chris. the vast majority of his memories of them are from when he was really little, and therefore i think he doesn't actually know them very well as people. he knows that there's some tension between them and eddie, but prior to this fic he never really bothered to question Why. all he knows is that his grandparents will probably come and get him if he calls, and that it'll hurt his dad's feelings, and in the immediate aftermath of the kim debacle that's all he cares about. once he's in el paso, he starts noticing some things that make him a bit uncomfortable, but he never does determine for sure what their motivations and opinions are about this whole situation, whether they're treating him a certain way bc he's the grandkid or bc of his cerebral palsy, and whether their treatment of eddie really does stem from homophobia or not. at the end of the day he's thirteen years old and i wanted to leave his grandparents' True Selves as a bit of a mystery because 1. i don't think They necessarily know why they do what they do and 2. i don't think there's any one answer that would be satisfying.

chris literally had zero intention of saying anything to eddie about the Gay Thing he just is very much thirteen years old and emotional and he fundamentally Trusts his father to never like. lash out at him for saying something like that. so he doesn't try too hard to hold it back and impulsively says Hey Dad Are You Gay Maybe because he's never gone so long without talking to his dad before and he's just bursting with thoughts and feelings. he's not even trying to do a buddie matchmaking thing it's just that the easiest way to make his argument is to be like (points at buck).