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Pygmalion and Galatea

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Voldemort trying to flirt: I have already murdered the one who dared to make you sad

Harry:

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The Tomarry Ship Dynamic™

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monster in the mattress

there is something in my mattress. he moved in not too long ago. he likes when I drink, when my vision blurs at the edges. he curls talons around my thighs- I wear layers to bed like putting a blanket down when a cat wants to knead in your lap.

 he likes to scratch at my throat and tug on my hair. he likes what I don’t like. he doesn’t visit every night just enough that I’m never sure, when I lay down to rest, whether I’ll be sleeping alone.

 he doesn’t allow visitors. no lover could ever know me like my monster; no friend could ever come so close. he’s possessive of my attention – when someone comes to stay, he keeps me awake, just him and me watching shadows while the intruder slumbers on.

 the worst nights are when we are friends, my monster and I. he likes to drag poison flesh past my lips, into my throat my stomach my lungs worming up to writhe in my brain. sludge behind my eyes, salt on my tongue. the monster likes when I forget myself.

 if I imagine I invited him, I reach new highs, close my eyes to a constant hum, give myself over to the supernova he can’t touch. when the star dies, my mattress remains. my monster grabs and grasps, dips me dizzy, reaches into my gut for bile as a gift. he holds me tight beneath the covers. I forget there is anything else.

 in grey light through blinds I see my monster for what he is. not a monster after all, but a ghost - my mattress his final resting place. he screams through the seams as if I wouldn’t shatter at a whisper. phantom fangs at my neck, my chest, my thigh; foreign breath on my teeth, heavy and sharp. he tastes like hemlock. he does not suffer other flavours to pass my lips – foods of all kinds but all I taste is his kiss. he will not let me forget him, this monster, this ghost.

 shadows fly from my bedroom, find shelter beneath my eyes. it is morning; the monster recedes. my mattress swells as I leave it behind, beckoning my return to his embrace. the sun shines. my monster is left behind, but he doesn’t mind.

 I will see him again tonight.

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if you were weirdly obsessed with going to boarding school as a kid then you’re queer and mentally ill now

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yes i am a writer. yes i have seven wips with four words in between them. yes we exist.

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Oh, are we not using friend? Yeah, sure. Let’s just give it another decade.

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Mrs. Cole after realizing there’s one extra kid at the orphanage: Tom, who is this?

Tom: His name’s Harry. I found him in the dumpster

Harry: Wha-

Tom: He’s mine now. :)

Mrs. Cole, too tired to question Tom’s latest BS, and desperately hoping he would distract Tom from trying to burn down the orphanage: Very well then. He gets your room. 

Technically part 2 of this

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Can you write a Ficlet of Tom trying to figure out if Harry is going to give him Valentine's chocolate?

(Sorry, this is the other way around! I read your ask wrong 😂❤️)

“Alright, honest opinions,” Harry said as he took a seat at the Gryffindor table. His friends had already long since arrived. It was growing close to the end of dinnertime. The platters of food running down the table were only moderately filled instead of overflowing and only Ron was still finishing off his dinner. 

Before Harry could clarify the topic, Hermione looked up from a book she was thumbing through and said, “Your handwriting could do with improvement.”

“Thanks, but–”

“I’ve always thought you favored the right side of the pitch when you play,” Ron offered through a bite of ham. “The Slytherins are going to take advantage of it one day.”

Harry paused for a moment, fork hovering over one of the platters. “You think so? I should– Wait, I had a reason for this conversation. It wasn’t quidditch.”

“I can honestly say a great friend,” Neville said, proving that he was one of the good ones. Then he added, “You’re going to fail Herbology if you don’t spend more time in the greenhouses. I watered your project yesterday to keep it from dying.”

With a groan, Harry sought comfort in food. “Anyone else have something they’ve always wanted to say?”

Ginny turned around from her conversation with Dean to say, “You’re gay.”

“I’m bi,” Harry replied, rolling his eyes. “I’m just… bi in Tom Riddle’s direction. Which gets me back to my original question: honest opinions, do you think he’s going to get me Valentine’s day chocolates?”

Harry was met with his friends’ sympathetic and disbelieving expressions.

“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Ron began, “…but Riddle hates you.”

Hermione shook her head. “He doesn’t hate him. Does he even know who Harry is?”

Ron shrugged.

Harry considered drowning himself in the gravy bowl. Morosely, he said, “We have a special connection. He said thank you to me when I passed his paper to him when Flitwick gave me his paper instead. It was an Outstanding. Like his face, which is entirely outstanding.”

He received entirely too much disbelief from his friends and not enough support. It was terrible, really.

A few days later, as Valentine’s Day drew ever closer, Harry tried to get another opinion. “What if he’s secretly pining for me? And he’s realized that now that it’s our seventh year, this is the last opportunity he has to make a move?”

Dean scratched the back of his head. “Uh, I don’t know. He seems like a dick. I wouldn’t get your hopes up.”

Desperately, Harry turned to magic to aid him in his quest for the answer. The day before the big day, Harry stayed after class to ask one of his professors for help. It was something he rarely did, preferring to figure things out himself or leave his grades to chance, but these were desperate times. Thankfully, the professor agreed to help him.

“Hmm,” Trelawney said, hunched over Harry’s tea leaves. He’d slurped down a too strong cup of tea for this very purpose. She waved her hand over the cup, then stared at it some more, blinking one eye after the other. “Your future is quite clear to me, Mr. Potter. You will be a great quidditch star.”

“Brilliant, but what about Tom?”

Trelawney smiled. “He has a bright future that one. He’ll be minister of magic one day, you mark my words. I’ve seen it.”

No information on whether Tom would become minister with Harry by his side was incoming. Harry left his impromptu career session with a heavy heart, wondering if he should give into the fact that everyone was convinced Tom wasn’t interested in him. For all that he knew, their connection could be all in his mind.

The next morning, Harry had convinced himself that he would survive not receiving Valentine’s Day chocolates from Tom, as he had survived receiving Ginny’s embarrassing poem five years ago.

The last thing he expected was to watch Tom enter the Great Hall and make a detour to the Gryffindor table. Harry braced himself to see Tom visit someone else, but instead Tom placed a box of chocolates in front of Harry.

And was that a blush on Tom’s cheeks?

Without even uttering a word, Tom stomped back to the Slytherin table.

There was no world in which Harry wouldn’t follow him, chocolates clutched in his hand and delight in his heart.

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I found this forgotten witcher art on my ipad so I finished it because I have plenty of time now in this shitshow

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looking to have the first official chapter of my MoD!Harry tomarry fic up in the next week or so! 🙏💖

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by Anonymous

“Aren’t you going to ask me why I’m wearing a diadem?”

Words: 1041, Chapters: 1/1, Language: English

Fandoms: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling

Rating: Teen And Up Audiences

Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply

Categories: M/M

Characters: Harry Potter, Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley, George Weasley, Fred Weasley

Relationships: Harry Potter/Tom Riddle

Additional Tags: Horcrux Tom Riddle - Freeform, Rowena Ravenclaw’s Diadem, Attempt at Humor

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Fandom: The Witcher (TV) 
Rating: Explicit
 Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
 Relationships: Geralt of Rivia x Jaskier 
 Word count: 2k
 Tags: Modern Setting, Singer Jaskier, Bodyguard Geralt, Smut, Intercrural Sex, Bottom Jaskier, Top Geralt, (Mutual) Pining, and a little Praise kink.

Summary: Dim lights illuminated the crowd as Jaskier started the final song of his setup. His fans had been nothing but enthusiastic, surprising him once again and making him realize he was appreciated, wanted even. It was something he craved, and while the crowd managed to fill up most of the void inside his chest, only the seemingly unrequited affection he craved from his bodyguard could satiate him.

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jaskier: I thought of a way we could make money fast

geralt: You’d make a decent stripper

jaskier: I would make an AMAZING stripper, but that’s not what I’m thinking of

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sweatpants that say “SWEATPANTS” on the ass

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there’s a quarantine going on… no pressure but i KNOW ya’ll have WIPs