#Leather Personalized Diary | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

gojover · 4 months ago

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nice boys don’t kiss like that.

when your former rival chances upon your diary and reads all the unpleasant things you’ve written about him, he takes it upon himself to change your mind.

— pairing: gojo satoru x fem!reader — contains: fluff, developing relationship, former rivals to lovers, kind of suggestive, making out, profanity, posted as a mingyu fic on my main account but i want an excuse to post pining gojo on my birthday :) — word count: 3.3k — note: inspired by this scene from bridget jones’ diary. thanks for reading!

It is on a twilit Saturday evening, at precisely 7:01 P.M, that Gojo Satoru is accosted by a notebook for the first time in his life.

He lets out a startled grunt and finds himself with an armful of things—a denim jacket, a crumpled grocery shopping list, an empty box of Tic Tacs, a woollen beanie with a questionable brown stain he thinks is ketchup; all presumably from whatever depths of your drawer he can see you hunched over, searching for something that remains stubbornly elusive. The offensive projectile whizzes past his shoulder and lands on the polished wooden floor with a thud.

Satoru stands at the doorway to your bedroom, having bypassed the living room and hallway that leads to the kitchen in favour of pressing heated kisses to your cheeks and collarbones. He watches you, bemused. A few weeks ago, he might’ve laughed at your frazzled state with derision. Now, he still wants to laugh, but more in an affectionate way.

You turn around swiftly, nearly tripping on a stray stocking on the floor, and he bites back a smile when you mumble a string of curse words under your breath.

“Hi,” you say, breathing heavily. “I’m really sorry.”

Then you slam the door shut on his face.

Well, Satoru thinks. This is the first time a girl’s closed the door when I’m in her apartment.

Faced with nothing else to do except wait for your arrival, he drops the Tic Tac box on the floor, hangs your jacket and beanie on the back of the sofa, and almost stubs his toe on the corner of the notebook.

Wincing at the close call, Satoru glares at the book like it’s the cause of all his troubles. DIARY, it reads, embossed in ornate gold letters. The cover is a rich shade of red, rough and leather-bound. He picks it up; it’s rather heavy, and judging by the frayed corners and the random bits of paper poking out of the sides, it seems to be quite old too. Regardless, it is well-cherished—he knows this because he knows you, and you’re the kind of person who wears your heart on your sleeve.

Which is why he knows opening it is a bad idea.

Satoru shrugs and places the book on the coffee table, taking a seat on the plush, olive green sofa opposite it. He leans his elbows on his knees and interlaces his fingers under his chin. From the inside of your room, he can hear muffled screaming—should he be worried? The screaming stops. Satoru lets his tense shoulders relax.

His eyes zero in on your diary once more. He shouldn’t open it—he really, really shouldn’t. It would be a horrible breach of your privacy. Your trust in him would be broken forever, and even if he somehow manages to win it back, it will always be a stain in the fabric of your still-developing relationship.

But.

One tiny peek can’t hurt, right? He’s only waiting for you to come out of your room, after all. Just one little look, and then he’ll close the book immediately. It can’t possibly hurt. Curiosity is both a blessing and a vice, he figures, and since he’s already stacked up on vices, there is no harm in adding to his karmic points.

So he picks up your diary and flips to a random page, freezing momentarily when he hears an irritated grunt and the sound of something hitting the floor from inside your room. Your handwriting is a lot messier than it usually is; you probably save your best penmanship for official things, and your personal diary is not one of them. That, or you were just frustrated.

12th June

I fucking hate Gojo Satoru. I hope I never have to see him and his stupid handsome obnoxious face EVER AGAIN. I’m so DONE with him.

Satoru’s cheeks prickle with heat. He’s thoroughly invested now. He turns to another page.

14th June

Ran into G.S again today. He spilled coffee all over me what else is new but. he actually apologised!!! Crazy. Maybe he was just in a good mood. Either way, my new blouse is ruined so fuck him.

The strangest thing is that Satoru actually remembers that day vividly. You were wearing a gorgeous cream-coloured blouse, and he was so caught up in staring at you talking animatedly with your supervisor that he zoned out completely and accidentally spilled his coffee on you because he tripped over his shoelaces. Now, knowing that your blouse was new at the time brings up a slight twinge of guilt. He’ll ask you about it later.

22nd June

G.S is actually…… kinda nice? He supported me in the meeting today with the clients when they were being so tiresome. He has a nice smile I guess.

Satoru smiles widely.

23rd June

Nevermind. I take back everything I said. Gojo Satoru is a prat with zero social skills. I mean, would it kill him to say hello back??? I get that he’s busy but i thought we’d made progress. One thing is for sure. Gojo Satoru is NOT nice. Not even a little bit.

His smile falters.

The next page contains a similar anecdote—something about how he always vehemently disagrees with everything you say, and how despite his good looks he was a complete and utter asshole. Further investigation reveals the same thing: you hate Gojo Satoru with a burning passion.

And… Well, he couldn’t lie and say the feeling wasn’t mutual at one point in time—but it has mellowed down since then, gently and slowly, like a fallen leaf being carried by a soft wind. There came a day where Satoru found himself glaring at you, not with disdain in his eyes, but with a steady thrum in his chest where his heart lay. Later, he would realise that he didn’t hate you—not even a little bit.

He assumed you felt the same way. Why else would your smirks, so full of malice, melt into grins that could light up a whole town? Why else would you agree to go on a date with him when he asked you out, one day, after work, tripping over his words like an elementary schoolboy? Why else would you invite him home and ask him to spend the night?

Of course, it doesn’t explain why you’ve locked yourself up in your bedroom currently (frankly, he’s a bit befuddled about that). But the sentiment must still be there.

It’s a diary, he reasons.

It’s your diary, his brain screams back, and that’s the real issue here, isn’t it?

Diaries are full of crap, anyway, he thinks to himself.

Diaries contain the Real Thoughts And Emotions of a human being, his brain hollers back.

Mind swirling, Satoru closes the book and places it back on the coffee table, barely aware of his movements. Have you been lying to him? No, there’s absolutely no way—he trusts you far more than that, and besides, what would you even lie to him about? There are no benefits to stringing him along, and you’re not the kind of person who would do something like that, anyway.

You must have had a change of heart, then. That’s the only conclusion he can think of. Your diary entries come to a standstill after 27th June, which means you haven’t opened it in a while. It’s also around the same time you stopped picking fights with each other. Something must have changed by then; Satoru is glad it did.

Satisfied with his deduction, Satoru stuffs his hands in his pockets and crosses his ankles together. Behind your bedroom door, you remain suspiciously silent. He considers knocking on the door once to make sure you’re okay—or if you need any help, because staying put inside your room for over twenty minutes is certainly not normal when you have a guest and potential boyfriend over.

Almost as if you’ve heard his thoughts, the door to your room swings open. You stand at the doorway, breathing heavily.

“Hey,” Satoru says, quickly standing up. “Everything good?”

You beam at him. “Perfect. Sorry to have kept you waiting, I—”

Your gaze drops to the coffee table, landing on your diary. Satoru keeps his gaze fixed on you. You look back at him, lips parted.

“Um,” you begin. “It’s— It’s just a diary.”

“Clearly.” Satoru fights back a smile.

You chew your bottom lip nervously. “Did you read it?”

“I did,” he confirms, nodding. “I’m sorry. I was just curious—”

You groan, lifting your hands and covering your face with your palms. “Fuck.”

Satoru reaches out and encircles your wrists with his fingers, gently tugging your hands away from your face. He finds it oddly endearing. “It’s only a diary. I’m sorry I read it. I shouldn’t have.”

“I don’t care about that. You… you probably read all the horrible, mean things I wrote about you.”

“Well,” he says, shrugging a little, “some of the entries were definitely… interesting.”

You blink. Unable to help himself, Satoru drops a light kiss to the tip of your nose.

“I don’t hate you, you know,” you tell him.

“Mhm.”

“I’m serious.”

“Mhm.”

“Satoru.”

“I’ll tell you what I think about your diary later, ‘kay?” he says, hooking his pinkie finger with yours. “Come with me.”

“What? Where?” Confusion paints your features.

Satoru huffs out a laugh. “Just trust me.”

Satoru places the brand-new diary he’d bought for you on the dining table with a flourish. “D’you have a pen?”

You eye him suspiciously, gaze darting between him and the new, dark green notebook on the table. He grins, carefree and indulgent. Still wary, you hand him a blue ballpoint pen from the pen stand placed above the drawers to the left. He hums and uncaps it.

Flipping open the book to the first page, he bends down and writes slowly.

This book belongs to Gojo Satoru and

Satoru stops writing and holds the pen out expectantly to you. “Here. Write your name.”

Confused, but curious, you oblige. Your name, written in your handwriting, next to his own semi-legible scrawl, makes a warm, affectionate feeling bubble up inside his chest. He wonders what it would look like when both your names are signed next to each other on a marriage certificate. Then, he wonders when and where your wedding would take place. A summer wedding sounds nice, but the sweltering heat might be a bit of a problem. Winter weddings are beautiful for sure, but neither of you is a big fan of the cold.

He’s in the process of thinking of names for your children and pet dog when you break him out of his daze.

“Hey. What’s all this about, hm?” You nudge his shoulder lightly with yours.

Satoru says, “It’s a diary, but for both of us.”

You glance at him, eyebrows raised questioningly. He swings an arm over your shoulder and draws you closer to him, smiling when flyaway strands of your hair tickle his cheek.

“In your old diary, it was pretty obvious you, uh, didn’t like me much,” he explains, holding up his free hand when you open your mouth to protest. “I don’t blame you. We were assholes to each other most of the time. But we’ve moved past that. At least, I hope we have.”

Your reply is instantaneous. “Of course. Of course, we have.”

Satoru trails his fingers absent-mindedly over your arm. “Right. And… It’s kind of silly, I guess—I don’t know—but I thought—if we kept a new diary together, one that we could use to document our journey, with both our perspectives in the same place—I thought it would be nice.”

Your mouth parts and you look at him, an indiscernible expression on your face. He shifts from one foot to the other, feeling suddenly nervous. You don’t betray any hint of emotion on your face, but Satoru’s heart hammers inside his chest. What if you think he’s being silly and overly sentimental? What if you find the idea ridiculous?

“We don’t have to if you don’t want to,” he quickly backtracks. “I know we’ve only just moved past the idea of being more than friends, but—” He stops himself.

“But…?” you gently prompt him, twisting around to see him better.

Satoru swallows. “But I can’t imagine not being with you.”

He hears your sharp intake of breath, and in the next moment, the breath is knocked out of his lungs when you throw your arms around his neck and pull him in for a tight, rib-squeezing hug. Automatically, his arms circle your waist, and he presses a light, barely-there kiss to the junction of your neck and jaw.

Eyes shining happily, you pull back slightly with a wide grin on your face. “You’re so hopelessly romantic, it makes my chest hurt.”

“Consider this your trial run. If you don’t like it, I’ll stop.”

“Don’t you dare.”

He sighs, content. “Okay, I won’t.”

“What should our first diary entry be about?” you ask, loosening your hold on him.

“About how you ditched me inside your house for almost half an hour after you invited me over.” He’s only half-joking.

You look away, embarrassed and sheepish. “I can explain.”

“I’m sure you can.”

“I’m being serious, Satoru.”

“So you’ve said,” he agrees breezily.

“Actually,” you begin, a tad shy, “I was thinking it could be about this—about how you bought us a diary and then kissed me in front of the dining table after we christened the book.”

Satoru’s eyes widen, but before he can get a word in edgewise, your lips are already centimetres away from his. “May I?” you whisper.

“Yeah. ‘Course,” he murmurs back.

The kiss makes him feel dizzy, like he’s had one too many bottles of soda—fizzy and light-headed. Your lips are soft, mouth warm; you taste like chocolate, and he licks into your mouth desperately. His fingers dig into your waist, bunching up the material of your t-shirt, and you run your hand through his hair, tugging gently. He’s kissed you before, of course, but something about this time feels important, a core memory sort of thing. Later that night, he’ll sit beside you on your bed and watch as you write in your shared diary, and he’ll make fun of the way you chew on your pen cap when you’re thinking of what to write next and you’ll shut him up with a kiss.

But for now, he indulges himself whole-heartedly. You let out little gasps which he swallows with his mouth. He tilts his head and kisses you deeper. Only when his lungs are burning does he pull away, and even then, not without a parting peck to the space in between your eyebrows.

“Satoru,” you say, breathless.

“Yeah?” he responds, unable to tear his gaze off of your kiss-bitten lips.

“I really am sorry about what I wrote about you,” you apologise, looking down once and then back at him. “It’s only a diary—everyone knows diaries are full of crap.”

“I know.” Satoru smiles tenderly. “I’m not mad.”

“You should be. I would be, if I was in your place.”

His eyes dart back to meet yours, and he grimaces. “If you really think about it, I’m the one who should be apologising, not you. I shouldn’t have read your diary, no matter how curious I was.”

“I… don’t really care about that, weirdly enough,” you say thoughtfully. “I was more worried about the fact that you thought I hated you and you were gonna leave me. Not so much about you reading the diary itself.”

“Pfft,” Satoru says, affectionately condescending. “If I left you, where would I go?”

Your mouth parts as you stare at him, dumbfounded. “Jesus. How do you say things like that unironically?”

“I could compose whole sonnets about you and it wouldn’t be enough.”

“That’s ironic, I hope.”

He tilts his head and pulls you close. “Only one way to find out.”

When he captures your lips with his this time, it’s with colliding bodies and biting teeth. He runs his tongue across your bottom lip, and you shudder in his arms, moaning. Somehow, you stumble back into the living room, a mess of tangled limbs.

Briefly pulling away, Satoru sits down on the same sofa he’d occupied earlier and clumsily pulls you onto his lap. You brace your hands on his shoulders for support, lifting your head up when he presses an open-mouthed kiss to your jaw.

“Fuck, Satoru,” you gasp, eyes falling shut.

He hums against your skin. “Tell me what you were doing in your room for so long.”

“I was—ah—it’s embarrassing.”

Satoru stops his movements. “I won’t judge you.”

“I know,” you say, teeth worrying your lower lip. “I’ll tell you someday.”

When you purse your lips, ready for him to kiss you again, Satoru lets out a soft laugh. “Sweetheart.”

“What?”

“I think I need to correct some of your… perceptions of me,” he murmurs, rubbing his hands up and down your back.

You furrow your eyebrows. “What?”

“I’m sorry about your blouse,” he whispers. “You looked really pretty wearing it, you know. Got distracted. Couldn’t take my eyes off you.”

“Satoru, I don’t know what you’re talking—” You gasp when he kisses the column of your throat.

“I’m sorry for being obnoxious,” he continues, lowering his head and pressing his lips to the pulse point on your neck. “But I’m not sorry you think I’m handsome.”

“Only your face,” you mutter, but you tug on his hair to get him to tilt his head up. When he does, you kiss him again, your hands warm and placed on the junctions where his neck meets his shoulders.

“I’ll support you in more than just meetings,” he says, pulling back. His breath ghosts over your lips, prompting a shiver to pass through your body. Your eyes widen when you finally, finally realise what he’s talking about. “I’ll tell those stupid clients to shut up and take it.”

You laugh, bright and happy, and Satoru wants to bottle the sound up greedily. “That sounds kinda wrong,” you say.

He shrugs, his smile turning lopsided. “I’m sorry for ignoring you when you said hi to me. I won’t do it ever again.”

You laugh again, teeth flashing in the warm glow of the living room lights.

There’s an odd feeling in Satoru’s chest—something warm and golden—something he can only describe as being terribly, hopelessly lovesick for you.

He whispers your name again, kissing the corner of your mouth. “Tell me what you were doing in your room for so long.”

You groan again, your previous amusement turning into embarrassment. Your next words are muffled by his shoulder, your lips warm against his clavicle as you mumble something only you can understand.

“What’s that? I couldn’t hear you,” Satoru says mischievously.

Another sound of mortification.

“I won’t laugh,” he says. “Promise.”

“Underwear,” you mumble, just loud enough for him to hear. “I was searching for a better pair of underwear than the one I had on.”

To his credit, Satoru really doesn’t laugh. It takes a lot of effort, though, and he has to bite the inside of his cheek to prevent his giggles from escaping.

You lean back and narrow your eyes at him. “Oh, go on. I know you’re dying to laugh.”

He shakes his head, cheeks blown out like a pufferfish. You stare at him quietly.

Minutes later, he exhales shakily. “See? I didn’t laugh. I’m a nice guy.”

His lips find yours again, slower and more languorous this time. After all, he has all the time in the world now—to hold you like this, kiss you gently—and he plans to cherish each second. Your tongue swipes his lower lip, and he parts his mouth willingly. He feels like putty underneath you, as he uses one of his hands to cup your face and deepen the kiss. Your lips move against his, already familiar, but he could never stop craving it.

When you pull back to breathe, your eyes are wide and your lips are swollen—a fact that Satoru notes with pride.

“Nice boys don’t kiss like that,” you breathe out.

“Oh, yes, they fucking do.”

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pahicraft · 2 years ago

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akshayaquapri · 1 month ago

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Customized Diary with Pen Holder

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prettiest-thing-in-the-morgue · 4 months ago

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(Tumblr refreshed my page halfway through writing the original I was going to send you, so this one won't be as great lol.)

You're writing is so good! I loved how Damian is practically a reflection of the Reader. It's got me imagining Damian seeing his future through reading a journal/diary left behind.

I'm also just imagining Damien reading how Tim treated his biological older sibling and going, "I knew that cretin was bad news! Is this what Drake is planning on doing to me, too? Vile."

I can especially imagine Damian learning Reader wasn't enrolled into Gotham Academy by Bruce and had gotten in on scholarships. Or that Reader had a fake ID to start working almost as soon as they came to the manor so that they could afford new uniforms and clothes, as well as any school based amenities. As well as personal amenities. Working themselves to the bone. Being disinvited from eating at a table. That they had never been allowed to eat at before, anyways. How the Reader had only seen Bruce maybe two times since coming to the manor.

How they left for Russia at 15/16 and that's where the diary ends. And two/three years later, they still have never come back. Alfred admitting he doesn't know if they're alive or dead.

And that's when Dick comes in, having overheard the last bit only. He had been looking for Damian when he saw and followed Alfred to a little room in the abandoned maid's corridors.

How could Bruce not tell Dick that Reader left? Had moved to Russia for a survivalist summer camp and never come back? It's been- it's been-

The realization hits.

It's been years. Literally years! Since Dick had last seen Reader walking in the halls of the manor.

On the other hand, Damian is planning out how to get to Russia and find his sibling. His real sibling. Who knows what it's like to be judged for having an abusive mother, despite the memories of love. He's scared that the Wayne's will abandon him, too.

He probably even threw it in Dick's face when he comes into the room. "You are just pretending to care. You will give up soon enough. When you realize it is not as easy as telling me to believe in you, you will show me you are not worth believing in. When I do not become your vision of perfect, you will grow tired and angry. Just like you did to my sibling." While clutching onto the stuffed penguin.

And it makes Dick see how small Damian really is. How that cold glare is a shield, hiding how distressed this 10 year old child is. How it was the same look he'd see the Reader have when they walked through the halls. Dick coming to the realization that he'd never even talked to Reader except upon first meeting them.

Damian finding out where Reader is and tracking them down.

And it leads to Reader becoming the favorite sibling of Damian. As well as being ride or die for their baby brother. And even teaches him empathy through assassination.

Like, Reader asking why he was there, only for Damian to tell them how he was in danger with his mother, so was sent to the care of their biological father. Only to be treated like a thing. How they were angry he wasn't immediately like them. How he felt excluded by them. How he's scared of Tim and lashing out at the older boy, because something just seems inherently wrong with the other. And how he just wants family that wants him too.

Which leads to Reader asking what his favorite color is. In confusion, he states that it's green. So Reader pulls out a large green shirt and a green fleece blanket, gives them, and tells him he looks tired and can sleep in the guest room. Asks him if he's allergic to anything or avoids certain foods. Damian says no, cause the Bat Cow incident has yet to happen so he still eats meat. Reader makes Blinchiki with salmon and fruit on the side.

And Reader gives Damian a knife in a leather sheath, hilt first. Tells him to sleep with it under his pillow, with a hand in it at all times. That if he ever hears someone in his space that he doesn't trust or recognize, to pretend to be asleep until they get close. Then strike for their stomach.

Damian feels so loved.

Especially when the Reader sneaks into his room at night a week later and he gets to try it on them. The Reader leaps back in time. They pause for a moment. Which causes Damian to fear that this wasn't the same type of training his mother gave. Only for Reader to start laughing and tell him good job.

I can imagine that Damian breathes out a sigh of sadness, telling his sibling he has to go back to the Wayne's to check in, because otherwise his mother may try to find him. And he heard that his brother had gotten away from her before Damian was given to his father.

Reader, who had been asked to go to Gotham and scout out a trafficking ring the developed between the dark city and Russia, agrees.

Cue Reader and Damian not only busting the trafficking ring, but also saving Bat Cow and getting her as a pet. They're a little confused as to where to put her though. So they just have a cow in their safe house. Take it out on walks like a dog. Feed her with a mix of store bought veggies.

Damian already knows he's going to take her to the Manor. There's plenty of space. That's what he ends up doing the next day.

The expressions on the Bat Family's faces when he's brought a cow home after nearly two months of not knowing exactly where he was would be hilarious. The fact that he's so gentle and sweet towards the cow, and somehow more calm around them if a bit standoffish, floors them.

"Reader said that I need to learn to value life from an empathetic route. Bat Cow is now family to me. She's my responsibility. And I'll care for her as such."

Damian being vegetarian is also a big change. But seeing Damian actually 'behave', becoming quite and disappearing into the background, backing out of being Robin? All of it is a shock.

(Damian's not going to stop being a vigilante, of course. He finally has a cause of his own. But he's refusing the legacy of a man who clearly doesn't want him. And following in Jason and Reader's footsteps.)

Right before Reader is about to leave, a Wayne gala gets held hostage by the Joker. Who's specifically threatening Damian as the new Wayne. Who promptly gets a sniper bullet put through his skull. Damian damn well knows who it was. Feels very happy he has a sibling who was willing to get in trouble to save him, unlike the supposed siblings that stood to the side and watched.

I can also imagine Damian introducing Reader and Jason. The two realize who the other is. Jason saying how it was nice to finally meet the Reader, considering they never wanted to before he died. And Reader snipping back that they distinctly remember begging Alfred to meet their supposed brothers. Both deadpan for a moment. Only to realize, "Oh shit. We weren't allowed to meet each other cause the adults were assholes." Jason was being accused of a murder he didn't commit and Reader was considered outside the family and was never told anything about the Bats.

Just imagine. Damian, Jason, and Reader all becoming super close as family.

While the ones at the manor are all becoming Yandere. Trying to figure out where Reader is. Hunting down as much of a paper trail as they can. Slowly uncovering everything that happened to Reader. From the moment they were in the manor to the moment they left. Reader becoming this sad child never given a chance. Who became a god damn assassin with a fuck to of kills. Bruce especially feeling horrible, cause in his mind his child has to become a killer to even get his attention. Tim feeling awful, cause he realized that the Reader had none of what he thought they did. Dick realizing he failed another sibling.

Duke gets invited into the family and Damian decided, this one's cool. And invites him to the monthly family dinners with Jason and Reader. And Duke hears Bruce worrying about Reader. So he tells the man that he'll ask Reader if they want to come to the manor to play video games. And it just makes the yandere family just mentally need to reboot.

Hiya ty for the juicy ask and apologies if this is late tumbkr hasn't been sending me any notifs !!

read lone warrior here

Yess !! Reader is a mirror of Damian- a mirror version of him that's a bit more unstable and unhinged - that's probably why he was so drawn to her because they have alot of similarities !

And yes Damian will go all yandere (platonically) over her because he feels safe , comforted ? When he's in her room or much less her general space - and to top it off she too is an assassin like himself and she too also doesn't get along with the family so ofc he's determined to be in contact with her !

It would be very hard to her in contact with her through because not only is she considered a cold case , it's been years since she's been at the manor and with her special job she isn't someone you can easily find .

In this particular au mc hasn't met Jason as her adoption to the Wayne family occurred right after his death along with Tim's adoption and during this time Dick would be busy running the titans and being nightwing so he personally hasn't met her.

Especially since she wasn't a Robin or anything. Tim and Mc relationship is rocky - extremely rocky - and to a point Mc's relationship with Bruce and Alfred is very rocky as well.

To her they were temporary roommates - she already had a mom and a dad who loved her itlnitially so she saw no use for seeking that in either of them and Tim was honestly a weirdo to her .

Though upon Damian finding about her and obviously cross questioning Alfred about Mc , damain would probably cross question him too thinking he'd know her only to be disappointed when Dick has no clue about Mc . Que the curiosity when he begins to find out more about you and is actually pretty mad at Bruce & Alfrdd because neither mentioned you to him and also allows a 15 year old child to be missing.

Like he's realky pissed off because lord knows what could happened to you ?. Also yes Damian is extremely hostile to Tim when he finds out about how vile he was to you . Bro actually tries to strangle him for it .

Though once Damian does mett Mc - they start off rocky - mainly because Mc has no experience with any siblings or anything familiar since her mentor & he's also Bruce's son and she wants nothing to do with him at first.

Obviously the more time Dmaian spends with her she gradually sees herself in him and takes him under her wing like a big sister . I'd picture her taking him fishing or something to instil patience in him or like teaching him to ride a bike .

But yes as Damian spends more time with Mc is the more he learns that he isn't alone in this and that it's okay to be broken and gradually becomes calmer . Obviously much to his dismay he has to return back home and when he does the batfam are suprised by the change lol.

I picture him talking about Mc to Jason because Mc gave him a vintage gun from her personal collection for protection and when Damain was showing it off Jason was curious about it .

So safe to say Jason is blown shocked when he finds out he has a badass sibling who has no regard to human life , straight up badass assassin who literally fishes and bakes in her free time. So ofc Jason is excited to meet mc like hello please be his older sister too god knows he needs the advice you have Damian .

Cass and Steph 100% thinks your badass and wants to meet you too and is low key mad at Damain for gatekeepgatekeeping you from them .

Duke thinks your pretty chill but abit scary at the same time but hey you sound cool and maybe you can give him pointers on how to fight better .

Alfred , Bruce and Tim are feeling guilty because they feel partial to blame for Mc's trauma and neglect - especially Bruce and Tim because they feel responsible for the way you turned out . Bruce is literally scrambling to find out about you lol.

As despite not being blood related by any means Damian considers MC his blood sibling & his favorite sibling :))

Literally have them saved as " blood sis " on his phone.

#dc universe #batfam #dcu #damien wayne #dc x reader #platonic batfam #bruce wayne #damian wayne #jason todd #platonic yandere #yandere batfam x reader #batfam x y/n #batfam x neglected reader

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whoahoney · 4 months ago

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brothers best friend!Eddie reading your diary while he's balls deep inside of you.

Note: Surprise bitches. 😏 Idk if anyone's gonna read this, ive been on HIATUS 5ever, but this is something I wrote while recovering from dental work high as balls. I hope you enjoy! I'll edit further when my phones charged.

Warnings: smut (18+) minors DNI, slight humiliation kink, secret hookups, kinda fluffy 🫶🏻

------------------

It had been a couple months of your sneaky schemes, Eddie sleeping over and sneaking into your room to "chat" for a few hours after your brother fell asleep. You and Eddie had always been close, but finding your place amongst your brother and his friends could be hard sometimes. So for the most part, Eddie sought you out, finding you around the house to shoot the shit.

Neither of you could tell who started it, neither of you cared. All you know is that one night, he was on your bed, your legs in his lap, his hand on your thigh, the weed was good and your faces were achingly close to each other.

Neither one of you fought before giving in, it was natural as can be.

so of course you just

kept

going.

Since then, any time he could manage to make his way to your room (or walk in on you in the shower), he was there, ready to unbuckle his belt and bend you over.

He loved working in and out of you, setting a brutal pace for himself since he never knew how much time he had with you. He often fantasized about the day he'd be able to take his time with you. Simmering on the idea of massaging your pussy til it was slick and gaping for him, wondering if you'd let him lean forward and lap it all up.

You weren't quite sure what to make of it all, it felt like just another thing you two did together. At least that's how you assumed he felt. The usual glimmer in his eyes as he sauntered into your room never changed, regardless if he was asking for popcorn and a movie or seeing your tits.

You didn't really care, you just liked being around him.

and you quickly found out you were more than willing to do casual if that's what he wanted.

Often times after he left your room, you tried to write about it in your diary to make sense of it all. At first it was passive thoughts about your hang outs, wondering if it meant he saw you as a friend or something more, but ever since you started messing around, its all you ever write about anymore.

Details from the way he made you feel, how long his dick was, and your innermost feelings about him were all in there, no holds barred. You'd never imagined that he'd care enough to read it, let alone what he was about to do next.

He had you face down in a pillow, hand cradling the nape of your neck, your skirts flipped up and over your back, panties discarded in the knotted up bedsheets. You're panting, the air around you is thick and sweet despite the lingering cigarette smoke clinging to his person.

"Oh, I love seeing you like this," He says under his breath as he grabs a handful of your ass. "Face down, ass up, that sweet pussy spread open around my cock," He pressed deep inside you, trembling as he relishes the softness of your walls and you give him a sweet whine. "Shh--not so loud, sweetheart..." His hand found its way into your hair, winding it around his fist and pulling it taught. Your mouth opens with a silent gasp.

He looks to the left and spots the familiar leather bound diary you're always scribbling in, and with a sudden urge, he grabs it up.

He lets it fall open to the place where you left your pen clipped to the page, which happened to be the latest entry about him.

The way it feels when he's inside me... I crave it. I think about him all the time...

He smirked to himself, quickening his pace and pulling your face up to see the page he's on, "You like me so much,I made the journal-how cute.." He cooed into your ear before taking the lobe between his teeth, sending tingles down your spine, your fingers clenching the pillow til you knuckles turned white.

You were so lost in him that you couldn't even speak, your cheeks flaming with embarrassment as he read aloud, "His touch feels like electricity, he makes me feel alive..." He softly chuckled before letting his teeth graze against your neck and biting down and making you clench around him.

"His dick is so long and hard, it hurts sometimes, but I never want to tell him to stop or slow down, I'll take whatever I can get from him. It's so pathetic. I'M pathetic. But do I care??" He recites in his best impression of you as you hide away in the pillow, he chuckles to himself before remarking, "My dick makes you feel pathetic? tsk, aww..."

Then his eyes skimmed over a passage, and he slowed as he took the time to read it, "I want to be around him all the time. For more than these moments we manage to steal-but I don't know if he feels the same way... maybe it's just casual. Maybe he does this with a lot of girls." His heart swells in an unfamiliar way, a smile fighting its way onto his cheeks.

"You're too kind- really," he chuckles as he tosses it to the side. He lets go of your hair and brings both of his hands to your hips, pulling himself out almost completely before shoving back in with a grunt, his front slapping your ass.

"I don't have a diary, but I will tell you this-" He withdrew himself and flipped you over settling between your thighs before sliding in with ease. You inhaled sharply at the fullness, your chest heaving. He licks his lip before pulling up your shirt, freeing your breasts to bounce as he pleased.

"There isn't anyone else I'm doing this with..." He pressed his bare chest against yours, looking deep into your eyes. His fingers gently smoothed your hairline as he worked a slow easy pace in and out. "Right here, with you, is my favorite place to be..." He whispered, nose to nose- working himself in and out in and out at an agonizing pace that dragged on deliciously. "I love being with you in any way I can get it." He admitted into the darkness.

Your eyes are huge as he plants a kiss on your lips. You open your mouth and nudge his tongue with yours, wrapping your legs around his waist as he plunges in with fervor.

"Aww, my pussy makes you feel pathetic?" You quietly mock with a smile.

"Aw, that's my girl," He mumbles against you, his embrace tightening around your torso, and thrusts growing more and more eager as he chases his orgasm and yours.

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson #eddie munson x you #eddie munson one shot #eddie munson smut imagine #stranger things smut #eddie munson fluff

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seokmn · 5 months ago

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✎ᝰDEAR DIARY .ᐟ⋆⑅˚₊

pairing: jaehyun x gn!reader wc: 1.2k words warnings: mention of reader wearing heels and having period cramps lua's note: part two here

“you melt me down”

Jaehyun has been your best friend since kindergarten, and your friendship has always been strong.

You never saw Jaehyun as more than a friend, you didn’t even consider him a man. To you he was just… Jaehyun. You kept thinking like that until his older brother’s wedding ceremony and party.

All those boring and annoying jokes about how you two would be such a cute couple made by his family members made something change a little bit in your mind. Followed by how good he looked, how he stole one of the countless pairs of slippers that the guests were supposed to take home way earlier just because your feet were hurting from the heels and how it was a romantic night, you couldn’t help but start to see Jaehyun as something more, as an actual guy. An actual guy that wasn’t that bad, in fact he wasn’t bad at all.

Since that day, you started to look at Jaehyun with other eyes. Your heart would beat faster with any of his caring or gentle attitude towards you that you would usually not even care or think too much about.

No one knew about your new feelings towards Jaehyun. No one but your diary.

Ever since his brother’s wedding, you’d been writing about Jaehyun every night. If your diary was a person, it would roll its eyes as soon as you wrote down the letter J.

“Y/N, I thought you were already ready! The movie starts at 5PM!” Jaehyun barged into your bedroom – definitely not an unusual action – and looked at you as if you committed a crime. “What are you still doing in your pajamas? Go get dressed!”

You groaned and got up from your bed, leaving the book you were reading open on your bed. “Fine! I’ll go get dressed,” you walked towards your closet, took a pair of jeans, a shirt and a leather jacket, and showed them to him, waiting for his approval. Jaehyun gave you thumbs up and you walked out of the bedroom, heading to the bathroom to change your clothes and fix your hair.

Jaehyun stayed in your room, waiting for you. He took the open book in his hands and took a look at the cover and read the page you were reading before. “Another romance story,” Jaehyun sighed and shook his head. “Poor Y/N, will become a hopeless romantic person. Why are they making it more difficult for me?”

Jaehyun started to look around for a bookmark, but as he was searching for one, he found another book open resting on your study table. However, it wasn’t any book, the word’s font looked a bit strange to Jaehyun, until he noticed that it was your diary.

He wasn’t going to read it, he didn’t even want to touch it, but he read a name and the word “love” written with a red glittery pen and a few hearts around the name and that caught his attention. It was his name.

Did I see it right?

He leaned forward and read it again, feeling bad and guilty for doing that, but the curiosity was stronger than any bad feeling. It really was his name.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Jaehyun said, but there was a hint of a smile forming in his lips.

He knew it wasn’t right to read your diary, the object that you put your heart and soul in it. An object that's only yours.

“Sorry, Y/N,” he mumbled before starting to read your last entry.

January, 27th.

Dear diary,

I almost screw everything up.

I had pretty bad period cramps during class and even silently cried. No one but Jaehyun noticed, fortunately, the last thing I would want was getting all my classmates’ and teacher’s attention.

Jaehyun gave me his sweater so I could get warmer and lessen the pain. Didn’t help, but it was the best thing he could’ve done at the moment.

What seemed to lessen the pain (I know it’s not physically possible, give me a break, okay?!) was the sight of him secretly texting his brother’s wife asking her what he could do to help me out with the period cramps.

During lunch break he disappeared for minutes, and then came back with some of my favorite snacks, a heating pad and painkillers. I was impressed. I got even more impressed by the way he was treating me. He never treated me poorly, but I never saw him so worried.

I kept asking him where did all of that come from and he said he asked help from his brother’s wife, she gave him some tips and he asked her to bring those things to me. That’s when I almost screwed up.

I almost told Jaehyun that I love him! I started saying “I…” then I stopped, stared at him and said that I think he’s the best.

My heart was beating so fast I thought I was going to throw it up. That was too much for me.

I wish he was my boyfriend. I’ve always heard my friends telling some awful things her boyfriends said or did to them, but if Jaehyun was my boyfriend I know that I wouldn’t have any problems with that.

People always talk about how love and relationships are so difficult, but loving him isn’t hard at all. It’s quite the opposite, it’s easier than breathing, it’s safer than a bunker.

I guess I’m lucky to be in love with my best friend and not with some random guy who I know almost nothing about. I know basically every Jaehyun’s secrets, I know everything he likes and dislikes, I even know how he’s going to react about something that didn’t even happen. That’s how much I know about Jaehyun, and I know he knows about me that much as well.

I hope one day I have the courage to tell him about my feelings without the fear of ruining our friendship. It sucks to not know what he feels towards me, but I wish he has at least a little crush on me.

Tomorrow we will watch a movie and go to a pizzeria after his band practice. I hope everything goes smoothly and we have a great time. I also hope he wears that grey hoodie, he looks good on it.

Wish me luck, Diary.

Jaehyun didn’t know if he should gasp, smile, jump around your room or shout from happiness, but at the end all he did was sit back on your bed and pretend to be reading the earlier book because he heard your footsteps approaching the bedroom.

“I’m ready, and what are you doing with my book?”

Jaehyun clicked his tongue, folded the corner of the page and closed the book before standing up and looking at you, trying his best to not smile at your cute face and at the thought of you liking him in secret. “These books will be the death of you. Did you know there are many other book genres to read?”

“Shut up, I like romance.”

He placed his arm around your shoulder and started to walk with you towards the front door of your house, the closeness between you two made your eyes widen and you swallow hard. “One day, someone will love you and treat you better than any of those little characters love and treat the protagonist. Maybe sooner than you expect.”

“What?! What are you talking about?”

“Shhh. Let’s go, the movie waits for us.”

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kalpanahandmadepaper · 9 months ago

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Personalize Your Journey with Our Handmade Leather Journals Elevate your note-taking experience with our exquisite Personalized Handmade Leather Journals. Each journal is meticulously crafted from high-quality leather and features a unique brass hook lock ensuring your thoughts and ideas stay secure. Product Features: - Personalization: Add your name or initials for a truly unique touch. - Size: Convenient 5x7 inches perfect for on-the-go planning and journaling. - Pages: 144 pages of premium 125 GSM paper ideal for writing sketching or brainstorming. - Design: Handmade with care combining durability and style for a timeless look. Whether you're using it as a planner diary or sketchbook this leather journal is perfect for capturing your thoughts and dreams. Ideal as a thoughtful gift or a personal treat it blends functionality with elegance. Order now to create your one-of-a-kind journal!

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cardansriddle · 1 month ago

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The diary - Tom Riddle x fem!reader

Summary:

When you stumbled upon a mysterious diary in the second-floor lavatory, you never imagined you would be caught in the web of Tom Riddle. What begins as innocent curiosity becomes something darker, as he slips into your dreams, your thoughts, your very skin. And before you realize it, he isn’t just haunting your nights—he’s consuming you, piece by piece, until there’s nothing left that hasn’t been touched by him.

Warnings: dark themes, smut, dub-con? kind of. not proofread. dumbledore cameo

A/N: Hopefully this is a worthy comeback!! It's been such a long time since I last posted here so I hope this isn't too rusty. I surprisingly enjoyed writing a darker narrative so lmk what you guys think!

༻♛༺

You were not exactly at fault for how it started.

You had only wandered into the second-floor girls' lavatory following a trail of water—moonlight slicing through the cracked windows, painting the tiles in silver streaks. The bathroom had been flooding. You’d slipped your wand from your robe pocket, lips parting to cast a simple Reparo to fix the broken pipes—and then you saw it.

A diary.

Its black leather cover shimmered with a slick sheen, as though it had not been drenched at all. There was a mysterious pull to it, and you approached it, not thinking, only feeling—as if the world narrowed to that single object.

The moment your fingers brushed the surface, cool and impossibly dry, a strange silence fell over the lavatory, and something in you shifted. When you grasped it in your hands, you had been overcome with an urge to never part with it again, and just like that...it began.

You had first turned the diary over to determine who it belonged to and had only seen the gold-embroidered name. Tom Marvolo Riddle. The name was unfamiliar to you.

You flipped through its blank pages, frowning. Nothing. No memories. No clues. And yet... it called to be written in, like it craved ink the way lungs craved air. So one day, when you were in the library, you decided to scribble in it, only for the ink to sink into pages of the diary and disappear with no trace left behind.

Then, seconds later, letters bled onto the parchment, neat and elegant.

Hello.

To say you were bewildered, would be an understatement. You thought perhaps it was a trick of light, or maybe it was your lack of sleep finally catching up to you and causing you to imagine things, when once again, words appeared on the page.

What is your name?

You sat for a minute, contemplating if you should really converse with this charmed item. You had never heard of such magic before, and before you knew it, your curiosity had won over any rational thoughts. You hesitated, but only briefly. Then, quill trembling, you wrote your name.

Pleasure to make your acquaintance. I'm Tom Riddle.

Browsing through your head, you came to the conclusion that you had never heard of the name before. Dipping your quill in the ink, you asked him the question that was ringing through your mind.

How are you writing to me through this diary?

I am a memory preserved in this diary.

Your hand faltered. So you were not just conversing with a charmed notebook, you were actually talking to a real person. Well...a memory of a person. A boy sealed in pages like a soul trapped between ink and silence.

Are you a student at Hogwarts?

I was. A long time ago.

Why have you preserved yourself in this diary?

There was no answer. You waited for what felt like hours but could have been only a few minutes, yet he did not respond. There was a strange energy surrounding the item, and had you not been so transfixed, perhaps you would have listened to your intuition and given the diary away to a professor. But your desire to find out more about it clouded over any reason, so you shut the diary and stored it safely in your trunk.

༻♛༺

The next time you opened the cursed object was hours after curfew. You sat cross-legged on your bed, curiosity flooding your brain with endless questions as you picked up your quill and wrote.

Hello, Tom.

It took a few moments for his reply to appear.

Good evening.

You chatted with him for what felt like hours, asking countless questions (and making sure not to touch upon the subject of his preservation in the diary lest he leave you without an answer again), and he in turn inquired you about your life.

You felt silly— finding so much pleasure in talking to a diary, but there was something enigmatic about this Tom Riddle persona that had you hooked.

He asked you things—where you grew up, what subjects you enjoyed, which House you were in. You told him everything. Not because he demanded it, but because with every answer you gave, he gave you more. Ideas, stories, the weight of his voice echoing in the shape of words.

You spoke to him every day. A strange intimacy began to form between you. One that defied explanation.

You shared complaints about professors. Tales of your friends. Moments of quiet vulnerability. You asked him about the school during his time—what had changed, who he had known. He answered thoughtfully, sometimes fondly. But never about himself.

There was always a shadow behind his sentences, like something coiled, waiting.

But as a week passed ever since you first opened that diary, you noticed the unusual amount of exhaustion that would take over your body. You were in a constant state of sleep deprivation, and no amount of potions could keep you energetic enough to go about your day without collapsing.

And then, the dreams began.

They started subtly.

You were wandering Hogwarts, yet it felt different—older, taller. The stone was darker, the air thicker. You turned a corner, and there he was. Standing beneath the arches near the Great Hall, his figure blurred like memory, his eyes like ink poured into glass. A boy—no, a young man. Tall and poised, as if carved from obsidian and smoke. His school robes were immaculate, draped across his frame like they were stitched directly to his spine, and the torchlight behind him caught the sharp angles of his face with clarity.

He was impossibly handsome.

The kind of beauty that felt wrong. Otherworldly. His cheekbones were high and cruel, his mouth curved in a knowing, unreadable line. Dark hair framed his face in elegant waves, shadowing his brow just enough to deepen the darkness in his eyes.

And his eyes were bottomless. Liquid night. No warmth. Only gravity, as though they could pull entire thoughts from your skull if you stared too long.

You knew, without him saying a word: this was Tom Riddle.

You froze, pulse thundering. It was the first time you'd seen him—beyond ink and parchment.

His gaze swept over you, slow and precise, like a knife deciding where to cut.

“Is this a dream?” You whispered.

He stepped forward. Just one pace. Enough to close space, enough to make your breath catch.

“Is it you I’ve been speaking to?” Your voice was smaller now. “The one in the diary?”

He smiled then.

It wasn’t reassuring.

“Yes,” he said.

And just like that—he vanished.

You woke up with a start.

The dormitory was quiet, but everything felt wrong. The edges of your vision blurred as you sat up slowly, blinking into the dim, gray light of early morning.

You were still in your bed. Still in the castle. Still yourself.

Your chest felt tight, as though the air was thicker somehow—harder to breathe. And even though you had just woken, your body pulsed with exhaustion.

The memory of it clung to you like fog—the image of him standing beneath the arches. That strange blend of reverence and possession in his gaze. It felt more real than the four-poster bed around you. More vivid than the chill creeping up your spine.

You pushed the sheets away, shakily reached for your wand, and lit the tip with a whispered Lumos.

The diary was exactly where you had hidden it: under your pillow.

Your fingers brushed over its cool leather cover. You pulled it into your lap, opened it to the first blank page, and hesitated before dipping your quill into ink.

Your hand trembled as you wrote:

Did you come into my dream?

A pause.

Nothing.

No reply.

You swallowed. The silence on the page seemed louder than anything else in the room.

You tried again, slower this time.

Was that really you? I saw you. I spoke to you. Is that possible? Can you do that?

Still, as the ink sank into the page and disappeared, the pages remained stubbornly blank.

The silence felt… deliberate.

You pressed your lips together and stared at the space where his words should have appeared for what felt like eternity.

༻♛༺

The next dream came the following night, as though the moment your head touched your pillow, you slipped into his world.

This time, he was waiting for you in the Astronomy Tower, seated on the ledge with the stars behind him. The wind curled around his form, but he didn’t shiver. His posture was perfect. As though he didn’t feel the cold. Perhaps he didn't.

“You are back again” he stated simply.

“I didn’t have a choice,” you replied, more breath than voice.

“You always have a choice,” Tom murmured. “But curiosity… it tends to be stronger than fear.”

You stood a few feet away, uncertain.

“I don’t understand why I’m seeing you.”

“Because I wanted you to,” he said, tilting his head, as if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

You met his gaze, perplexed. “Why?”

He ignored your question, abandoning his post at the ledge in favour of stepping closer to you. "You have been asking about me." His tone was disapproving as he regarded you. "You will stop."

"I just wanted to know, to understand—"

“Curiosity,” he interrupted sharply, “is a disease. And you are already sick with it.”

His eyes roamed your face, not unkindly, but with a dangerous precision. As though he were committing each of your expressions to memory. Or dissecting them.

“Not all answers are meant for you. Not all doors are meant to be opened.”

That was the last thing he said before you woke up. You ran your hands over your face, wet with sweat. For the first time since finding the diary, you felt something curl beneath your skin.

Not curiosity. Not excitement.

Something closer to dread.

You couldn't shake the feeling anymore.

The dreams, the exhaustion, the way the world seemed increasingly distant during the day—all of it pointed back to him. Tom.

You had to find answers to the mystery that was this man. You decided to not heed his warnings, and made a mental note to inquire some of your Professors about a student named Tom Riddle.

So throughout the day, as you ignored your friends' concerned questions about your worn-down state, you began your inquiries. Though they seemed fruitless, that is until you crossed paths with Professor Dumbledore that evening outside the Great Hall.

He had always watched you closely—too closely, some students said—but now, when he met your eyes, it was as though he already knew something was amiss.

He greeted you upon your approached, eyes glinting like distant stars, and as perceptive as he was, he made a deduction “you seem… troubled.”

"I wished to ask you about something." You hesitated, then drew a shallow breath.

He waited patiently, nodding his head as he gestured for you to continue. “Professor… have you ever heard of a student named Tom Riddle?”

The silence that followed made the air go cold.

Dumbledore didn’t answer right away. He studied you in that piercing, quiet way of his. As if trying to read not just what you said, but what you meant.

“What brings this particular name to mind?” he asked carefully.

Your fingers curled at your sides. Part of you screamed not to tell him, but the other—rational, terrified part—knew you couldn’t keep pretending you understood what was happening.

“I… found a diary,” you said. “In the castle. It had his name on it.”

Dumbledore’s eyes darkened, barely perceptibly. “A diary?” he repeated. “Where exactly did you find this diary?”

You hesitated. “In the second-floor lavatory."

His face shifted subtly. Something like gravity passed behind his expression.

“Dear girl,” he began, and his voice took on a different weight—no longer gentle, but grave. “You must bring this diary to me. First thing tomorrow morning. Do you understand?”

You nodded, slow, reluctant.

“Do not write in it,” he continued. “Do not open it. Do not let it remain near your bed. This is important. There are things in this castle—remnants of old power—that do not sleep quietly.”

You were confused, but his words lodged somewhere in your chest, and for a moment you truly meant to obey. Truly.

You went straight to your dormitory after dinner, mind spinning. You placed the diary on your desk and pushed it away like it might bite you. You told yourself you would give it to Dumbledore in the morning.

But your body was already betraying you. Before you could even undress or extinguish the lamp, the fatigue crushed over you like a tide. Your vision blurred. Your head hit the pillow without you realizing it.

And in the dark—

He was waiting. And he was not happy.

“I warned you, even if you don’t remember,” he was livid, eyes flashing red as he stared you down. “Not all doors are meant to be opened.”

“I didn’t mean to—”

“But you did,” he cut in. “You opened the door. You wrote in my diary. You let me in.”

You swallowed hard. “I didn’t know what you were.”

“Don’t pretend you regret it now.”

His fingers brushed your temple, featherlight. Your breath hitched at the contact—cold and electric. The sensation spilled through you like ice and fire, your skin hyperaware, tingling in the wake of his touch.

“You’ve been dreaming of me ever since,” he said, voice almost tender. “And each time… I take a little more.”

That silenced you.

His hand fell away.

And in that stillness, something inside you twisted—the slow dawning of comprehension. You felt your body differently now. Worn, sluggish. A tightness in your chest, as though some invisible thread had been pulling at your core night after night.

“What do you mean?” you asked, more quietly. “What are you taking?”

He looked at you, and for the first time, the answer wasn’t a riddle or a misdirection.

“You.”

You stared at him, the cold settling deeper into your bones now.

“My energy,” you whispered.

“My sustenance,” he corrected, with something like reverence. “You nourish me. Every moment you spend with me in this place brings me closer to what I once was.”

Your lips parted to speak, but you couldn’t find your voice. He was still watching you—his gaze almost gentle, but entirely unrepentant.

“This is how you’re here,” you breathed. “In my dreams. The diary...”

He nodded. “Dreams are the easiest doors to slip through. And you… you left yours wide open.”

You took a step back. He didn’t follow.

“So you’re not just a memory,” you said slowly. “You’re becoming real again.”

He gave a slow, almost regal inclination of his head. “The diary preserved more than memory. It preserved me. My soul, fractured, yes… but not broken. Not dead. And now—” he inhaled softly, as if tasting something on the air “—I am closer than ever.”

Your heart hammered against your ribs. “And when you’ve taken enough…?”

“Then I’ll be whole again.” His voice darkened with quiet ecstasy. “I will return.”

You felt your stomach sink. Your heart thundered against your ribcage as you dared to ask the next question. “Will I survive it?” Though you already knew.

He tilted his head once more, thoughtful. Almost amused. “No.”

The silence between you stretched, and for a moment, it felt like the dream would shatter under the weight of it.

But then, he stepped forward once again.

“I could drain you,” he said, and this time, his hand rested against your cheek—tender, reverent. “But I find I don’t want to.”

You looked up at him, dazed. “Why?”

Tom smiled. His thumb brushed your lower lip, and your breath trembled. "I find that you amuse me. It almost makes me want to keep you."

You trembled beneath his touch. It felt more real than ever.

“I can almost feel the heat of your blood,” he said, so softly it was almost a kiss, leaning in so close his lips nearly touched your ear. “Taste your thoughts before you think them.”

You felt your knees weaken.

His eyes grew darker, his smile more sinister as he continued. “There are… other ways,” he whispered. “Slower ways. You give willingly. A little more each night. And I become more… solid. Less shadow, more flesh.”

“No,” you whispered, stepping back. “I don’t want this. I—I didn’t ask for any of this.”

Tom tilted his head, that calm, terrible amusement flickering across his features.

“Don’t lie to me,” he said softly. “You wrote to me. You dreamed of me. You gave me everything, piece by piece. And now you want to pretend you didn’t?”

You shook your head. “I didn’t mean to. You infiltrated my dreams. You took from me. I would have never touched that diary if I knew it would lead to this.” You spat.

He brushed your neck with the back of his fingers. The touch was maddening, featherlight and possessive. Your mind screamed to claw your way back to the waking world and burn the damn diary. But your body—traitorous, aching, hungry—moved toward him without permission. His hand slid to your hip, slow, deliberate, and you grabbed his wrist—not to pull him closer. To stop him.

"I will keep you, how does that sound, pet?" Though he was not really asking you. Only toying with you.

“I’m not yours,”

“You were the moment you opened the diary,” he murmured. “You just haven’t accepted it yet.”

His hand cupped your jaw—cool, precise—but his lips were already descending, and when they touched yours, it was like stepping into fire.

The kiss started slow, a careful claiming. His mouth moved against yours with an eerie tenderness. But the softness burned away fast as you tried to resist, replaced by something deeper—hungrier. His other hand found your waist, pulling you flush against him, and you felt it: the sharp line of his body, the impossible heat of him despite the dream. Solid. Real.

Too real.

You gasped into his mouth, and he took the sound like an offering, slipping his tongue past your lips to taste you, coax you deeper. His fingers threaded through your hair, and he pulled until a groan escaped your throat.

Your mind screamed at you to push him away, but you were powerless and for a traitorous moment, you found you didn’t want to leave.

Not now.

Not when your blood hummed and your skin tingled and your body arched toward his like it knew him.

His lips trailed to your jaw, down your throat, leaving a blazing path in their wake. Every kiss was slow, deliberate, reverent—as though he were marking you.

“You see?” he whispered against your skin. “You’re giving.

You didn’t know how the room had changed, only that now you were lying on soft silk sheets, his body above yours, his weight pressing into you. His robes vanished, unspoken, revealing skin pale as marble, carved and perfect. Not boyish. Not innocent. This was a man shaped by ambition, by power, and now—by you.

His eyes—black and gleaming—darkened further, as though those words fed something inside him deeper than magic.

“I will have you,” he said. “And I will keep you.”

He kissed you again—harder this time—and his hands roamed, exploring every inch of you like he was memorizing, claiming, devouring. His name left your lips in a shuddering breath as your clothes faded from your body with the surreal, effortless logic of dreams. Nothing between you now—just skin and heat and the thrum of something sinister binding the two of you together.

He moved over you like a storm—controlled, but intense. His touch was all-consuming. Every motion was deliberate, coaxing the ache between your thighs into a feverish need. He knew exactly what he was doing, guiding your body to open beneath him, to receive him, to belong to him.

When he finally pressed inside you, slow and deep, you cried out—not in pain, but in overwhelming pleasure. He groaned against your neck, a sound of satisfaction, of ownership.

“You feel that?” he whispered into your ear, voice shaking with restraint. “This is real. You’re making me real.”

You clung to him, to the impossible way he filled you, the pressure and stretch and warmth of it, as he began to move. Each thrust was smooth, calculated—building steadily, matching your breath, your moans, until your body rose to meet his instinctively.

His mouth never left your skin. Bites, words—some in Parseltongue—spilled into the hollow of your throat, down your chest, laced with magic you could feel.

You couldn’t speak. You didn’t want to.

You only felt.

The pleasure within you approached fast, and when you came, your body arched into his, trembling and gasping. He followed you seconds later, with a sound so deep, so raw, lodged from his throat. He buried his face in your neck as he spilled inside you, hips stuttering, every inch of him tense, vibrating with power.

After, he didn’t pull away. Staking his claim while inside you.

“I told you there were other ways,” he whispered. “You’ll sleep deeply now. But in the morning… you’ll feel me. In every part of you.”

You drifted into unconsciousness in his arms, too spent to resist, too dazed to care. You had given in.

Your head screamed.

Your body sighed.

༻♛༺

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