#eleven thousand notes later

[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 tombs 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, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ 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? Why don’t 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’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, 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.

[voxsmistress]

Mama Didn't Raise No Bimbo part FOUR!

lets see what else is in store for y/n ... you didn't think Velvette was just going to let her get away now did you?

Part One / Part Two / Part Three / Part Four / Part Five / Part Six / Part Seven / Part Eight / Part Nine / Part Ten / Part Eleven / Part Twelve / Part Thirteen / Part Fourteen / Part Fifteen / Part Sixteen

Seems Velvette had tagged your photo on her story with the hashtag #newmodel? Flicking your gaze back up to an amused Angel.

“Well toots … you might as well collect all three than just two. Here’s to you babe - you are so fucked”. He raised his glass. Raising your own you blink in shock.

Fucked was right.

It had been a few days since your exciting little adventure to the Vee Tower, coupled with the fact Velvette had not only shared your post on Sinstagram but followed you was helping you gain thousands and thousands of new followers and likes. But like your tequila, you took this with more than a pinch of salt. The Vee’s didn’t do anything for free. There was always a catch. You were waiting for this one to hook you sooner or later.

Unfortunately for you, it was sooner rather than later. You had finished your job for the night ready to head home, plus there was a bottle of whiskey and a hot bath with your name on it. Arm raised to wave a taxi you were distracted by your phone starting to buzz in your other hand. Unknown Number. Huh, weird. Deciding to answer it you lower your arm. What harm could it do?

“Hello?”

“Is this Miss Y/n?” Frowning at the unfamiliar voice, hmm you were rather selective about who got your number. So … who was this?

“Speaking…?”

“Ah Miss Y/n I am Velvette’s assistant, and she is insisting that you come in to meet her to discuss an opportunity that you really do not want to miss out on” huh. Okay. Was not expecting that.

“Uh huhh … and when is she wanting to meet?” Looking up at the darkening sky you had a horrible feeling you weren’t going to be going home anytime soon.

“Well, what are you doing now?” Ohhh nooo! Come on!

“I have just finished work and was actu-”

“Ah perfect so you are free. Come to the Vee tower now and we will sort everything. See you soon” your mouth opened and closed as they hung up on the phone. Right eye twitching you took a deep breath in before exhaling slowly. The bloody nerve! Grinding your teeth you raise your arm up again and wave at a taxi. Trying to calm your anger you shove yourself in the first one that appears, telling them to take you to the Vee Tower. Stewing in the backseat you think it must be nice to be an Overlord – just ordering small insignificant demons around. Shaking off the attitude you realise you need to tidy yourself up.

Looking down at your outfit, a sigh escapes you. Not exactly the outfit you’d want to meet the fashionista Overlord in – a leather bustier, leather pants and your customary neon pink accessories and heels matching of course with your favourite faux fur coat – but it was going to have to do. You didn’t exactly have time to prepare. Scurrying around in your purse to find your compact mirror, you quickly tidy up your eyeliner – snarling at the cabbie when he purposefully swerved nearly wrecking your makeup – and pop a new layer of dark pink lipstick on with a topping of gloss. A quick fluff to your blonde/pink hair and that was the best it was gonna get with such little time to prepare. Spying your perfume, you give a little spritz to your neck, wrists, and boobs. Noting that you’d need to get some more on your next outing as you were nearly out.

Thankfully you had just enough time to get all that done before the taxi pulled up at the tower, throwing the money at the demon you step out on the street. If possible the tower seemed even taller than before. Intimidating. Shaking your head you steel yourself for this meeting, how the last one went down with the other two is not what you want this time round. No unnecessary touching. No being cornered. And no flirting. Okay maybe a little bit of flirting, you were a demon after all. Wait – no! No! Bad thoughts!

Stepping in to the reception you check the board to see what floor Velvette was on, marching to the elevators you ignore the same receptionist who seemed surprised to see you again. Yeah, Bitch I’m back! In the elevator you press Velvette’s floor and breath deeply. It would all be okay. Perhaps they were just going to tell you how much they liked your post? Or they were wanting a thank you in person for all the followers? Or how surprised at how naïve and stupid you sounded. Shaking your head you groan softly. Of course it wasn’t doing to be okay, dealing with the Vee’s was never okay. Or safe.

At the soft ding you pulled your attention away from your depressing thoughts and instead to the scene in front of you. Velvette yelling at a load of models, other demons running around grabbing body parts off the floor and clothes being burned. Well. That was different. A twitch of your lips hid a smile – so the Vee’s weren’t as organised and poised as they’d like you to believe. Good to know.

Taking a step into what felt like the Thunderdome your movement must have caught Velvette’s attention, she suddenly was advancing on you and quite fast for someone so short. You thought you were small, but she only came up to your shoulder. Of course her attitude, energy and that amazing hairdo made up at least a foot, if not more. And living with the other two Vee’s she needed as much attitude and sass to keep up.

“Ah so you are Y/n, totally nice to meet you face to face. Saw your post girl and I am in love with them – that last photo dump was so gorgeous and hitting all the trends so good on you.” Linking her arm with yours like you two were old buddies she pulled you further into the room, her voice so quick you had to focus so intently to understand what she was saying.

“So … any who, guess you are wondering why I brought you here?” She gently shoved you down on the chaise lounge, a small ‘offt’ escapes your lips when you hit the seat. Steadying yourself you turn your body to face the Overlord who decided to take a seat right next to you. Your knees almost touching. Okay then.

“Yes, I was curious why…” a glass of champagne appeared in front of your nose – accepting it gingerly you carefully held it in your lap thanking the demon who passed her boss a glass.

“Look, your style is cute but I think with my influence your style can be out of this world – I am in the market for a new model” - a glance to the pile of body parts in the corner of the room made you gulp - “and with your figure and my style we could totally rock this Hell, making us a tonne of money and you a star so whatcha think – whatcha say I can sort the contract out asap no problem, no fuss”. Blinking in a bit of shock at the speed of what she spoke and what she was speaking about you had to hold your hand up to stop her for a second. Information overload.

“Uh – wow that’s real generous of you Miss Velvette-“

“Please call be Velvette, or Vel! None of this Miss business,” Her smirk was widening, her black lipstick was shining under the florescent lights above us.

“Well, Velvette, I am really touched that you think I could model for you as your fashion range is just fantastic and I love it – but if I am to sign that contract what am I giving you?” You pretend to take a sip from your glass. No liquid entered your lips. It wouldn’t be the first time you’d heard of someone being drugged and signing their soul away – you wouldn’t be one of those.

“Oh, nothing big really. Just something tiny. Teeny really. You wouldn’t even miss it.” She wafted one of her hands around as the other was typing away on her phone.

“Uh huh and what would that teeny tiny thing that I wouldn’t miss be?” You hedged her for the answer what you knew was coming.

“Just your soul babes – nothing big.” Yeah, to her maybe. To you it was a massive thing. And you’ll be honest, you didn’t have masses in this Hell but you did have your soul which was more than some have.

“Then the answer is going to be no, Velvette” you placed your glass down on the table. Her fingers stopped twitching across her screen, her red eyes focused solely on you. Now normally you were one to bow your head and not make eye contact, but you’d had enough of the bullying attitude of these Vee’s now – not one but two now have tried to contract you into losing your soul and you weren’t having it! Matching her glare with one of your own.

“No?” Keeping the eye contact you nodded.

“Not to say I am not grateful that you thought of me, or the fact you even took the time to speak to me. But my soul is non-negotiable. Plus, I have a job already. One which I love and want to continue. So, thank you. But my answer is and will always be - No.” You might have held your eye contact, but your hands were starting to tremble a little. Clenching them together in fists you keep your gaze on hers. A small sneer was pulling on her lips, and you were getting ready to be dismembered like the model before you. But it never came. Instead, she laughed. Laughed?!

Not like an evil MWAHAHA laugh. But a genuine laugh. Confused you wrung your hands together as she lightly slapped your knee and wiped a tear from her eye.

“You got guts girl; I’ll give you that.” A strained smile tugged at your lips, dead heart thumping in your chest. “Fine then. No soul contract – which is a shame we could have had so much fun” her expression darkened with mischief sparkling in her eyes pulling a little heat to your cheeks. “But instead let’s make a little deal? No souls just two businesswomen making a deal, whatcha say?”

Raising your eyebrows in interest you place your elbows on your knees leaning forwards: “what do you suggest?”

“Your socials are starting to take off, people are noticing you babes, and I am here for it! You are a rising star, don’t think I haven’t been paying attention and seeing that people are using your hashtags and your name when they’ve seen you at one of the clubs singing performing”, surprised she had even looked you could feel your blush deepen. “So, here’s the deal – you wear some of my designs, tag them in your socials, etc and you come and do a catwalk for me and sing?”

“You want me to promote your clothes and sing at one of your Cat Walks?” you clarify because this evening was not going the way you had planned or thought it would go.

“That’s it gorgeous – whatcha think?” You think this was probably the longest Velvette had been off her phone.

“And that’s it? No loopholes, no contracts, no soul-binding – just for me to wear your clothes, promote them on my social media and sing at one of your cat walks – that’s it?” You narrow your gaze at the Overlord, there’s got to be some sort of catch here. The way she was gazing at you like a cat that had caught the canary you were sure you were screwed in some way.

“That’s it honey. No catch, no loopholes, just good business”. Humming under your breath, you racked your brains to see if there was anything that could go wrong.

“Okay, how long do I have to promote your clothes for and when is the Catwalk show?” you ask, tapping on your own phone bringing up your notes and typing away.

“Shall we give it six months and see what happens from there? The next Catwalk is in a one month’s time” her smile only got bigger. You couldn’t think where or what could be a loophole, it seemed like too good of a deal. And your mama raised you to believe if a deal was too good to be true then it usually is. But then again. When did you ever listen to her?

“So far so good, but what do you get out of it?” Her smirk grew, well that can’t be good. She reached over and squeezed your leg softly, your eyes flitted from her hand to her smug expression.

“I get exactly what I want gorgeous, but honestly helping rising stars get their fame is mainly it” her charming smile didn’t win you over. She was a lying. But let her keep her lies for now. You knew how to play the game and so far, you hadn’t been burnt. What’s a little risk.

“Okay Velvette, you have a deal”. Raising your hand, she slapped hers into yours and gave it a strong shake – red and black smoke erupted from her making you jump back a little but was stopped from the grip she had. Her grin was terrifying. Her hair was waving around her head like it was full of static. But as soon as the smoke and lights appeared, they disappeared as if you had imagined it. Pulling your hand away, the tingle of electricity ran through your fingers, you knew you hadn’t imagined it. Not at all.

“Well then gorgeous now that’s all done – you can pop back tomorrow and we will get all your measurements and go through colour schemes, styles, etc so keep you day wide open yeah!” Finishing off her glass of champagne we leaned back against the chaise lounge – never once had she let her gaze off you.

Nodding in agreement you thank her while rising from your seat, it was time for you to go and drown yourself in that bottle of whiskey. “You can stay if you’d like?” A flush covered your cheeks at her racking her gaze up your body.

“Thank you, but I better get home. Big day tomorrow I want to be rested” you give her your best winning smile, slipping your purse under your arm. Rolling her red eyes at you she huffed a little, “fineee be boring babes”. Happily!

Before you could even think of taking a step towards the elevator the doors slid open. An unimpressed Vox stood in the middle tapping away on his own phone, not tearing his gaze away from it he steps into the room.

“So what unfortunate soul have you managed to convince to work with you now Vel?” His charismatic voice lacked his usual flare and instead sounded bored. Not something you usually would hear from the TV Demon.

Clearing your throat, you were frozen in place when his eyes connected with yours. Uh oh.

“That unfortunate soul would be me” you smile nervously at him, watching as his screen glitched slightly. That was weird. His bored expression disappeared with the glitch and in its place was his usual charming smile.

“Ah Miss Y/n what a pleasure to see you! What was that you just said?” Velvette appeared at your side, wrapping an arm through yours you watched his screen glitch a little again.

“She’s mine now Voxxie” she smirked at the glitching demon.

“She’s WHAT?!”  

Taglist: @tasha-1994 @azullynxx

[therealflickerman]

Split Lips (tasm!peter parker x reader)

Part two

series summary: Its simple hating peter parker, the cocky asshole who has made it his mission to one up you every chance he gets. In the same vein, its simple loving spiderman, the sweet masked vigilante who has made it his mission to ensure your safety. How simple will it be when the two worlds meet.

______________________________________________________________

chapter summary: You never want Peter Parker around, but you find he tents to show up whenever you need him most.

word count: 4.9k

chapter contents: reader is intended to be fem! , language, a little banter and a little fluff, reader is anxious and a mess,  idk anything about american diner culture, these two r awkward idiots that don’t know how to be soft 

note: poor pete just wants to be your friend, and poor reader is a disaster girl. I had so much fun writing this chapter I hope yall enjoy it!, thank u charlie for editing

masterlist

series masterlist

chapter one / chapter two / chapter three / chapter four (ongoing!)

Your earphones carry music to your eardrums, blaring at the highest volume possible, it's a feeble attempt to drown out your thoughts and you’re not quite sure it’s working. It crosses your mind that you should probably lower the volume sparing others in the library from the distraction, however, as you find yourself re-reading the same sentence for the third time, you can’t quite find it in yourself to care. 

A groan slips past your lips, the heels of your palms find the sockets of your eyes and you sit like this for a moment before dragging your hands down your face in irritation. Your biology textbook sits on the desk in front of you, the annotated page, a testament to last night's productivity, mocks you with its perfection. 

You’ve been at this since Eleven a.m. and you can quite literally feel your brain melting out of your head, it’s rare you have trouble studying, actually, you would go so far as to call it a forte of yours. You blame your recent bout of sleeplessness and curse how busy your brain has been the last few nights. 

Sliding your sleeve just above your watch, you check the time, it reads ‘one twenty-six p.m.’. “Shit,” you exhale, scolding yourself for letting the time slip through our hands.

You look at the testbook with disdain, promising yourself at least fifteen minutes of study before your shift at the diner begins. You flip to a new section and pray a change of scenery will kickstart your brain into surrendering a bit more work, though you feel deep down that it’s a lost cause. 

A defeated sigh escapes you, your eyes lock on the start of the page and you begin to read. The chapter talks of the immune system's response to pathogens and you recall touching on the topic in class. You specifically remember that day because Peter had ‘accidently’ spilt his milk all over your notes during one of his usual attempts to irritate you, despite the way his grin curled into that of a worried frown, and the way he had jumped into action, letting out frantic apologies, you’re not so sure it truly was an accident, though maybe that's what you’d like to think. 

Your brows furrow as you realise you’ve in fact lost your train of thought once again, your brain had wandered off about a thousand times already that morning, but it particularly bugs you this time as it dawns on you that you are unable to escape Peter Parker, even as you sit alone with your thoughts. For a second your throat feels tight and you think you could cry from pure frustration, though you look to the library that surrounds you, there are a mix of silently working students and businessmen, and you decide you don’t want to be the deranged woman crying into her biology textbook at one-thirty p.m. the afternoon before her test. 

You opt to take a deep breath rather than the later and you reread the line, taking a note on the sentence before completing the paragraph. You turn the page and you finally feel concentration begin to build. 

A yelp slips from your lips as a book drops and lands before you with a soft thud, it breaks the still silence of the library, shattering the first string of focus you had managed since last night's study session. Your gaze shoots upwards and you’re met with the same big brown eyes you’ve become accustomed to.  

“Enjoying your last-minute study session?” he plops into the chair across from you carelessly. 

You struggle to hear him through your loud music though you quite like it that way.

Your eyes narrow and you rip your headphones out with a swift tug. Music plays from them softly as they’re discarded on the desk. “Peter-”, you start, and wish you had the chance to finish. 

“I finished studying last night but,” he slides your textbook across the table, spinning it in his direction so he can read your annotations, “it’s good to see you putting in the work,”

“Peter, I am going to kill you” In a fit of irritation, you aggressively shove the textbook back to your side of the desk, you genuinely cannot believe your luck or lack thereof. 

“That's not very nice,” 

“You…” you spit loudly, wincing at the volume of your voice before lowering your tone, “are not very nice.” Your hand motions to all of him and your eyes narrow further in aggravation. 

He mouths a humoured ‘wow’, and leans back in the chair with an arrogant grin and a cross of his arms.

“How did you even,” you find the words, “there are like twenty libraries in Queens and you’re

sitting across from me…” your arms crossed, “uninvited” you emphasise. 

He shrugs with a grin and leans over, digging through his beat-up backpack.

He silently places his things on the desk, ‘just make yourself at home’ you huff ironically with an eye roll. He laughs softly at your comment as he pulls out a small pencil case, it's dark blue and covered in Sharpie doodles, then grabs the rest of his books, piling them on top of the one he had used to startle you. 

“I thought you were done with studying” you deadpan. 

He hums a laugh, “you can never be done with studying" he quips sarcastically. 

You let out a breath of frustration as he continued digging through his bag. 

“Look Parker I really need to focus-”

“Oh I wanted to give you this,” he mumbles, cutting you off and pulling a sheet of paper from the backpack, sliding it across the desk to you. 

You look down at the page, it's a photocopied version of his messy, yet readable notes. 

“Your bio notes…?” you look up at him and meet his eyes, “why?” your brows furrow further though this time fueled by confusion. 

He hums, opening his book, “felt like being nice” he adds and you let out a humoured scoff. 

“And you just somehow knew…” you correct yourself with a clearing of your throat, “Well, thought I needed these” You watch him, a brow raised in confusion, 

“I can take them back,” he grins, meeting your eyes and reaching across to snatch them from your hands. You pull away, further furrowing your brow and begin reading the notes. 

“What did you do to them,” you ask, sceptically as you skim the page. His work seems genuine, in fact, the notes are far more well-versed than the half-assed sheet of scribbles you’ve been working on and you swallow the insecure feeling you’ve grown used to. 

He laughs, his smile growing as his hands pull back and raise defensively with a soft ‘nothing’. 

You spare him a cautious eye with a shake of your head, continuing to look through the notes. 

“Hey… look at this way,” his face turns earnest as he leans in to speak, you humour him, placing the paper down and giving him your attention. 

“Now you won’t fail” he nods, the mask of seriousness slipping away as he breaks into a stupid grin.

‘Asshole’ you mumble to yourself softly, a gentle smile tugs at the corners of your mouth and you shake your head. 

He watches you carefully, satisfied with the faint smile that curls on your lips. 

“Seriously though, how’d you know I’d be here?” your focus turns back to the notes with the raise of an eyebrow and the linger of a smile. 

He shrugs, leaning back in his chair, “remember that one time in English,” he says in an attempt to jog your memory, his hand finds the textbook in front of him and he fidgets with the pages, “we were fighting about the best libraries,” you’re sure he’s right because the two of you fight about everything, “you said this one was your favourite, specifically this area because you like to look into the garden” 

He’s right, you like to look out of the giant glass windows and watch people sitting in the library's garden, studying with their friends.

“And what, you wrote all that down in your journal?” you joke, watching as he laughs.

He hums nodding his head with a, ‘Yeah, wrote it all down in my personal diary’.

“No um,” he breathes a laugh, “I just have a good memory,” his eyes flick to meet yours, you exhale a sceptical hum, nodding your head in response. 

“How else do you think I beat you in all those exams,” he smirks watching the grin tug at your lips,

“What, like the one on friday?” you mock.

“No like the one tomorrow” he retorts. 

This pulls a laugh from your lips, you roll your eyes with a shake of your head. 

You hum as the laughter dies down, “you might’ve got me there” you say softly, letting up the teasing and your eyes leave his, suddenly very interested in your textbook. Unconsciously your lip slips between your teeth and Peter notices. 

“Do you… want help studying?” he offers awkwardly, it’s unusual for him and your eyes flick up, sending a sceptical look.  

You’re met with a genuine smile. 

You beckon him towards you with furrowed brows, he leans forward, accepting your hand against his forehead, with a roll of his eyes and a sweet laugh.

“No fever,” you hum, “but you’re just not acting like yourself,” you mumble in sarcastic dismay and your hand pulls from his forehead, sitting back in your chair, you turn your focus back to your textbook. 

"You're a regular comedian," he remarks dryly, a humoured smile never leaves his lips.

Your eyes keep on the page in front of you, “so I’ve been told” your voice drips with irony, pulling a laugh from Peter. 

“So…” his words fade though you know what he’s asking, he bites the inside of his cheek watching you. 

Your eyes drift to your watch before meeting his, they’re already staring at you. 

“I truly, truly would love to you” you deadpan with a nod, “I would, but luckily for me, I have work in about ten minutes and my boss will wring my neck if I’m late” You give a wry smile, collecting your things. 

A stupid grin stays curled on his lips, ‘yeah yeah’ he shoos you off with a roll of his eyes.

You’re satisfied with his reaction and push your chair into the desk. 

“Thanks for the notes!” you tease, waving them in his direction as you head for the door. 

______________________________________________________________

As dusk settles outside, the diner is left lit by the dingy light bulbs that hang overhead. Your eyes hurt from their flickering and you blink tightly with a shake of the head in an attempt at dulling the pain. 

Balancing a coffee cup in each hand and a slice of hot apple pie on your left wrist, you tread cautiously, one foot after another, approaching an older couple on the far right of the diner. The heat from the porcelain kisses the tips of your fingers, both cups filled to the brim with boiling hot coffee, your eyes trace the black liquid, watching as it sways with each step you take.

“Here you are,” you give a sweet smile to the older couple, placing their coffees down and hiding a wince as your raw fingers place the hot plate of apple pie between the two of them. The wife thanks you sweetly with a smile and you ask if there's anything else you can help them with, to which they politely decline. 

You offer a smile before turning on your heels and heading back to the kitchen, pushing open the swinging doors softly and slipping inside. You quite narrowly dodge a kitchen hand who’s balancing a towering stack of porcelain dinner plates, frantically apologising, you offer to help out but she swiftly brushes you off, rushing in another direction before you can finish your sentence. 

You slip to a quiet corner of the kitchen, avoiding the preparation benches and bury your face in your hands for just a moment, an exhale of frustration slips from your lips.   

“Hello!” Your manager's voice is grating as he calls your name, your hands drop from your face and you quickly turn to meet him, instead you’re met with clicking fingers inches away from you eyes, you recoil at his obnoxiousness with a flinch. “You’ve still got twenty minutes on the clock kid, get out there” his voice is raised over the sounds of the kitchen, he points to the kitchen doors and you send him a sheepish smile, ‘sorry’ rolls off your tongue but you’re not sure he hears, let alone cares for your apologies. Your expression drops to that of disgust as he passes by, heading to grab something from the freezers, and you throw the finger in his direction. 

You push through heavy kitchen doors, and you notice the back of a man's head sitting in your section of the diner. Rushing to the booth, your eyes flick to your watch quickly and you make a mental note that you have around fifteen minutes left. 

Your hand feels around your apron for your small notebook and pen and your eyes flick down to assist, “Hello welcome to Uncle Bills,” you find it and flip it open giving the man your name, “I’ll be your server today,” you plaster the usual cheesy smile on your face and look up to meet the eyes of the man you’re serving. 

“What a surprise seeing you here” 

“Parker…” your eyes narrow and you try to find the words, “Do you not have a job or like, anyone else to bug?” you genuinely wonder how it’s possible to see someone that you actively avoid twice in a day. 

“That's not a very nice way to talk to customers” he quips, tilting his head to the side.

“Seriously are you stalking me or something,” 

“What you didn’t know about that journal of mine?” he grins up at you, “the one with all that info about your favourite libraries” he laughs with a shrug, and mumbles a ‘thought you knew’.

You roll your eyes with a cross of your arms and turn to clean the table of an old trucker who had finished his burger.

“Wait, I’m sorry,” he laughs out, “I promise. I didn’t know you worked here,” his face is sincere though that stupid grin remains.

You raise your brows at him and a beat passes. 

“I just want a coffee,” he smiles sweetly. 

“Okay” you exhale a sigh, “how do you like it” 

“Just black,” he answers, “so um… when do you get off?”. 

“In like ten minutes thank god, why?” you question writing in your notepad.

“Sugar?” you ask before he can answer and he shakes his head with a, ‘no thanks’

“Well, I just thought, maybe I could walk you home”, he offers with a hint of uncertainty

“What, is my address missing from your journal?” you joke, putting your notepad back into your apron. 

“You’re just on fire today aren’t you” he teases. 

“Aren’t I always,” you give him a sarcastic grin. 

Before turning to get his coffee you pause a moment, meeting his eyes with a genuine smile, “Look Parker… thank you, for the offer but I’m… I’m just exhausted, maybe another time”, you nod and your teeth catch your lip picking at the skin as he responds. 

He nods softly, “Yeah, for sure”. 

You offer a pressed smile before turning to brew his coffee

You return just a moment later, lowering the near overflowing cup ever so slowly ensuring none of it spills. 

“There you go,” you lean in slightly, “I found you our biggest mug, absolutely free of charge” you whisper with a wink, sending a sweet smile.

“My hero” he murmurs sarcastically, matching your low tone with a grin. 

You let out a hum and stand up straight brushing your hands down your apron, “well I’m just about off” You smile and there's an awkward beat of silence.

“Hey you keep those notes I gave you safe, I heard they’re worth a lot” he teases, looking up at you. 

“Hmm, I don't recall any important notes, I did throw away a sheet of paper with unreadable chicken scratch on it though” 

He offers an eye-roll laced with amusement, wishing you a good night. 

You return the sentiment with a sweet grin. 

______________________________________________________________

Awkwardly, your hands fumble behind your back, untying your firmly tied apron. You grab your tips from the pocket and stuff them in your jean pocket. With care, you fold the apron neatly and slide it into the pigeon-hole designated with your name, swapping it with your jacket which you slip on. 

The image of Peter's big brown eyes flash in your mind and you feel the all-too-familiar pang of guilt rising in your throat. Your teeth snag your lips as you frown slightly and for a moment you think you should have accepted his offer to walk you home. 

You swing your backpack over your shoulder, taking a second to think, and release it’s likely you’ll catch him on your way out, you swallow your nerves and decide you’ll take him up on his offer. 

You let your manager know you’re leaving and push through the kitchen swinging doors, expecting to see Peter still sitting at the booth. 

Instead, you’re met with a half-drunken cup of coffee and a five-dollar tip. Your lips curl into a smile and you roll your eyes, ‘always the gentlemen’ you think to yourself as you pocket the money. 

______________________________________________________________

The soles of your shoes tap against the floor of the subway, and you hum along to your music, resting the back of your head against the cool of the glass. The subway is quiet at this time of night having just missed rush hour and you’re more than grateful for the peace. The voice of the announcement system warns you that your step is the next, you hear it quietly through your music, opening your resting eyes. 

You step onto the quiet platform, thankful for the more peaceful trip this time around. You walk slowly through quiet backstreets taking your time and mindlessly listening to your music, the volume is gentle, wary of the softly throbbing headache that you’ve acquired from the day. You hum along softly, and your teeth sink into your lip, occupying themselves. 

“I thought we weren’t doing that anymore” a familiar voice calls out and a flash of red drops down next to you. 

You jump slightly, turning to look at the man. “And I thought we weren’t scaring young women at night” You let out a breath attempting to control your heart rate, he laughs with an apology and follows your footsteps, walking by your side. 

“I didn’t think I’d see you again?” you utter, though it comes out as a question. 

He hums a laugh, “I just couldn’t stay away” he teases sarcastically. 

“Seems to be the way a lot of people feel” you mumble with a grin. 

“Elaborate”

“I’m fairly sure I have a highly dedicated stalker” you nod playfully. 

He chuckles, “And what makes you think that”. 

“You know that kid I was talking about, Peter?” you ask and Spiderman nods along, “well, he first found me at my favourite library and then walked into my job four hours later to order a coffee”. 

“Sounds like we have a high-profile case on our hands,” he jokes and it pulls a small laugh from your lips with an eye roll. 

“You know you sound a lot like him” you say matter-of-factly. 

“You don’t know what I sound like” he retorts rather quickly. 

“No I mean,” you think for a moment, “you’re both annoyingly witty”. 

“I’ll take that as a compliment” he jokes with a satisfied nod. 

“How does the um,” you raise your hand to your lips, “the voice thing, how does it work” you question with a small tilt of your head. 

“It’s just a vocal converter” he nods. 

“Like Ghostface in Scream,” you add and he nods. 

“And the um,” your hand hovers over your wrist, and you contort your hand into his signature pose. 

“Oh, here look” he stops the both of you and flips his wrist, a white web shoots onto the brick wall behind you. 

“Try it,” he mumbles, your hand hovers over his wrist and he gives you a soft nod, encouraging you to press down on the sensor. You press the heel of his hand and a web shoots past you, sticking to the wall in one swift motion. Your mouth forms an ‘O’ as you mumble a soft, ‘woah’,

Spiderman watches you, a soft smile sits behind his mask. “So do you, like, have any actual powers?” you ask with a furrowed brow, “besides being a genius” you add and the irony draws a small laugh from the boy. 

He hums a soft ‘hmh’, he shakes the web from the shooter and walks past you. You stand with crossed arms and watch as he climbs the walls, his hands and feet sticking to the vertical bricks. “So you can do that without the suit?” you call up at him and he gives a soft nod, releasing the wall and gracefully falling from the height. 

“What else can you do?” you ask in awe, you had never particularly been a fan of Spiderman, you’d watched the news clips, and defended him when your mum questioned if his presence was ethical, though you’d never questioned, nor ever thought of, the logistics of his ‘powers’. 

He lets out a laugh, “I have um, enhanced strength, agility, stamina, all that” he nods, “Oh and um, a tingle?” it comes out as a question and he tilts his head slightly.

“I do not want to hear about your tingle dude” you laugh with a disgusted face, he elbows you gently, with a, ‘Not like that you weirdo’. “No it’s like, I can tell when there’s danger,” he attempts to explain, “like, I know to duck before something hits my head”. 

You shove your hand in your pocket, pulling out a scrunched-up receipt and throw it towards his head. His hand raises swiftly, catching the ball of paper, “really?” he questions before unravelling it, with a serious face and a hum he reads, “Hemorrhoid cream?”. 

Your brows furrow and you quickly grab the receipt to see a grocery list of, ‘gum, Coke Zero and a KitKat’, you roll your eyes with a ‘ha ha, very funny’. 

“So,” he looks down at you and the two of you make eye contact, “tell me about your day,” he mumbles as the two of you continue your stroll, you accept his offer once again. 

“It was pretty boring… I studied for like god knows how long and got nowhere,” you grumble and Spiderman listens attentively. “Then, just as I was on a roll Parker interrupted me… but he gave me his notes so,” you give a pressed smile, “never will I ever tell him how much it helped me out but he is a lifesaver.” you nod. 

Spiderman's lips curl into a wide grin behind the mask and he lets out a hum in response, ” Anyway my boss is an asshole,” you add with a, ‘but what's new’.

“What’d he do today?” he questions and watches as your eyes roll at the thought of your manager. He’s so intensely focused on you and for the first time since knowing you he’s able to take in the small imperfections on your face, he observes the slope of your nose and the way your mouth moves as you speak, and suddenly he’s all the more grateful for the guise of his mask then he’s ever been before. 

“He’s just an asshole you know?” you ramble, eyes locked on the floor in front of you as your brain trails back to your manager's fingers in your face. “I mean he clicked in my face as if I’m like some dog,” you let out an angry huff, “seriously, get your dirty ass fingernails out of my face dude, and then he yelled in my face!” you take in a deep breath before releasing it with the rest of your frustration. 

Spiderman frowns slightly behind the mask with a shake of his head, “you want me to web him up?” he attempts and grins as your lips curl into a smile. “That would be great actually,” you giggle. 

There's a beat of silence before you start up again, “and, I don't know, I feel guilty, I think Peter keeps trying to hangout with me, I mean I refused him like twice today and I don't know…” you trail off for a moment, “It’s not like I hate him, I mean he’s annoying, but so am I, and… well I actually really like talking to him, I just,” you look up at Spiderman, “I’m not blabbing on too much?”. 

His masked face shakes slightly with a soft laugh and a, ‘You’re good.’

“I just don’t think I’m that great at being friends with people,” you exhale a sigh. 

“Well we’re friends” he adds and the Peter behind the mask feels a pang of guilt.

“Yeah, I guess,” you mumble. 

“What you don’t think we’re friends” he quips, nudging you softly and you hum a laugh. 

“Well this is our second time talking…” you trail off and look up at him, sending a stupid grin. 

“That's okay… we just… move fast,” he mumbles and you hum in agreement with a nod, ‘really fast,’ you add and he laughs with an, ‘Exactly’.

“No… you’re right,” and you send him a genuine smile, “Thanks Spidey, for listening”. 

“Spidey huh?” he asks teasingly. “Well I’m not going to say Spiderman every time we talk” you ask with a grin, “I bet you’re not even a man,” you add teasingly. 

“What makes you say that,” he asks defensively. 

“Well first of all that was a little defensive,” you giggle, “and I don’t know,” you shrug, “I’m a teenager, I go to school with teenagers, I know how they act,” you mumble matter-of-factly with a grin. 

“Also I would be a little worried if a forty-year-old man actively sought out walking me home at night,” you add 

“Proud of your detective work are you?” he teases and you give a cocky nod. 

“Well I can’t actually tell you my age-”, he begins,

“Oh come on,” you grin, cutting him off. 

“Okay, you wanna know?” he asks, his tone is earnest and you respond with an eager nod. He pauses and leans in slightly, and you follow his action,

“I’m actually eighty,” he says and a giggle slips from his lips. You grin with an eye roll and hit his arm playfully, he lets out a joking, ‘ow’.

“I think you should have a little more respect for senior citizens,” he laughs following as you continue your route home,

“I have plenty of respect for real senior citizens,” you mumble. 

As the two of you reach your apartment block you let out a huff of pain. “I’m going to rip my feet off,” you groan, wiggling your toes in your shoe. 

“Not so sure that will do any good,” he quips and you grin. 

“What kind of apartment building doesn’t hand an elevator,” you moan, 

“Why don’t I swing you to your fire escape,” he offers sweetly, and you send him a smile, “really?” you ask. 

He hums a, ‘mhm’, and your smile curls wider, before dropping ever so slightly, “my mum… she’ll wonder why I didn't come through the front door,” and Spidey gives a shrug. 

“Maybe she just didn’t notice,” he offers, winking behind the mask before he remembers that you can’t see his face. “Yeah… why not,” you shrug dismissively with a smile. 

He wraps a tight arm around your waist, ‘which is yours?’ he asks and you point to the one lit up with a string of fairy lights with a sheepish smile, he lets out a small laugh finding your attempt at decoration sweet. 

“You’re going to need to hold onto me okay,” he mumbles and you swallow a pang of nerves with a nod of your head before wrapping your arms tightly around his neck. 

He shoots a web, swinging you both upwards and you let out a small yelp at the feeling of the floor disappearing beneath your shoes. Your arms tighten around him and your eyes slam shut at the strange feeling of freefalling for short bursts of moments. 

You feel his chuckle rise with a chuckle as you cling to him tightly. Wind rushes past your ears and through your hair before you feel your feet land on the slightly shaky fire escape, it's over before it begins and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding. 

“Holy shit that is terrifying,” you mumble with big eyes, a laugh escapes your lips and you meet his gaze. 

“Next time you should try opening your eyes,” he teases and you mumble a ‘next time?’ with the raise of a brow. He nods with a laugh, “I’ll take you,” he says and his voice is sweet. 

You breathe out an, ‘okay’ with a sure nod of your head. “You should see how beautiful the city is at night,” he mumbles softly and you feel a grin of admiration grow on your face. 

“I’ll look forward to it,” you smile and you wish each other a goodnight before he swings off.

TAGLIST

@chaoticcoffeequeen

[honeysuckleharringtons]

"Star Boy" ~ B. Hargrove

Summary: When Billy and Reader go for a late-night drive, the stars are just too beautiful to not stop and gaze at them.

Pairing: Billy Hargrove x GN!Reader (R wears a skirt though)

Word Count: 1,043

Content Warnings: a mild sexual joke, i think that's it? unless you count Billy being very out of character lol

Extra Notes: this is kind of rushed because i simply don't know to write a Billy fic lol, i hope you guys enjoy regardless of my crappy writing!

Originally Written: 10/24/2023 through 10/25/2023

honeysuckleharringtons masterlist can be found here!

halloweek masterlist can be found here!

The windows were down and the radio was cranked up, the cool October breeze surrounding you like the perfect weighted blanket.

Billy's left hand was settled on the steering wheel, the other placed affectionately in yours. He hummed along to the AC/DC track playing in the stereo, a sound that was, quite literally, music to your ears. You'd always told him he should join a band, but he simply insisted that he didn't want to, since you were the only girl he wanted fawning over him.

His fingers tapped against the leather of the steering wheel, the noise bringing a strange sense of comfort to you. It was truly nights like these that you lived for. No matter how many late night drives you and Billy went on, no matter how many ten p.m. trips to 7-Eleven you took together, you'd truly never get your fill.

Billy spoke up abruptly, breaking you from your thoughts as you watched the passing trees. "You wanna do something fun and a little bit illegal?"

You raised an inquisitive brow in his direction. "Are you trying to get Neil to kill me or you?" you questioned, though internally curious about where this was going.

"Don't worry about him. If we play our cards right, he'll never know," he said. He lifted your hand to his lips, leaving a gentle—and somewhat persuasive—kiss over the soft skin of your knuckles.

It didn't take much to have you agreeing, and soon, he'd whipped the car in a different direction, heading toward what you could only assume was the middle of nowhere, given the sheer amount of trees surrounding the vehicle.

A few minutes later, he was putting the car in park and hopping out, jogging over to your side to grab the door. Once again, Billy was taking your hand in his, this time leading you over to what appeared to be a tall, white fence. The moonlight sparkled along the wood and on the fresh green grass, and you soon realized exactly where he was leading you.

"Why are we at the country club?" you whispered, almost anticipating for someone to catch you.

"You'll see," he simply answered before his hands were distracting you, grabbing you by the waist. "Come here, I'll give you a boost up."

"As long as you don't try to look up my skirt," you scolded, a defensive finger pointing at his face.

"I would only look up your skirt if I was given proper consent first."

You mumbled something sarcastic about him clearly being a gentleman before he was hoisting you up on his shoulders. Billy practically tossed you over the fence like a sack of potatoes, leaving you to wonder just how many pounds he was bench pressing at the gym.

The sight on the other side of the fence had you nearly in tears. A blanket was spread across the luscious grass, the moon shining on the lake beside it. Pillows and unlit candles surrounded the area, and your heart flipped at the sight. "Billy," you simply said, a thousand emotions hidden in the word.

"Do you like it?" he asked, joining you behind the fence.

"I love it," you smiled through teary eyes. You all but pulled him toward the blanket, though you were internally curious as to why he was being so romantic all of a sudden.

He moved around a couple of the pillows to make the space more comfy for the both of you, instructing you to lie back on the cushions. "I thought we could go stargazing. You've always told me you wanted to see a shooting star. Air's supposed to be clearer on this side of town."

And so, the two of you lay back on the blanket, your hand in his as he began to point out various constellations and shapes. Though, the beauty of the Big Dipper had nothing on the sparkle in Billy's eyes as he explained the stars to you.

The two of you examined each speck of light for hours, conversation barely ceasing as Billy pointed out every detail of Orion's Belt, every line of Andromeda. Your heart warmed at the sight, remembering how hard of a time he'd had adjusting to his cross-country move. Now, he'd found something about Hawkins that made him happy, and your heart swooned at that.

"Promise me something, Billy?" you said suddenly, rubbing soft lines on the back of his hands where your fingers met.

He turned to face you, messy curls framing his face as the moon shone down on those cerulean eyes you'd fallen in love with. "What's that?"

"Never lose that sparkle you have when you talk about this stuff?"

He snickered before pulling you up for a kiss, the taste of cherry slushie prominent on both of your mouths. "Don't go sappy on me now."

"I can't help it," you huffed in amusement. "You bring it out of me. You're like a puppy or something. I can't help but find you adorable."

His eyes narrowed in on you, clearly not amused at your words. "I don't know what they put in your slushie, but I think you need your eyes checked because I am not as cute as a puppy."

"You keep telling yourself that, you big golden retriever in black cat's clothing," you said, eliciting another deep chuckle from the man. "You still haven't promised, by the way."

In one swift motion, he was grabbing your body and pulling you down on him, eyes filled with love as he looked up at your squealing form. "I promise."

"You have to say the whole thing."

Billy held up a finger, drawing a 't' shape over the pocket of his tee shirt. "I, William Neil Hargrove, will never lose my sparkle. Cross my heart and hope to die."

"Now, was that so hard?" you giggled, placing a soft kiss on his cheek.

"Yes, it was," he grumbled. "But I love you, so savor it because I'm not doing it again."

You rested your head on his hard chest, his scent and feel enveloping you like a bubble, made to keep away anyone or anything else from just the two of you. "I suppose I'll take it, star boy."

-> taglist: @ducky-is-dead-inside @awkotaco24 @liberhoe @hereiamhereigo @esoltis280

[aernx]

꧔ ONCE MORE — ! (현진)

the aftermath of yesterday’s breakup lead you to go back to your past shared apartment to pack away your things. but how can you leave when he’s still there, right in front of you—begging you to stay?

꒰ genre ꒱ angst/comfort, post breakup but they’ll make up

aerin’s notes ✮ — kinda inspired by a tumblr oneshot i saw a few months back, but i can’t find it anymore 😭 also i’ll edit it later i’m so lazy rn so pls don’t mind grammar mistakes :D

You stuffed your clothes in your suitcase as you sobbed quietly. Who would’ve thought that you and Hyunjin’s relationship ended due to a petty argument. After eleven months of blossoming relationship, the two of you thought that you we’re meant to be, but hell after yesterday? You knew that you were just going to be one of the girls he loved before.

You zipped your suitcase up as you finished packing your clothes. Glancing at your surrounding, your mind clashes itself, swarming yourself with thousands and thousands of memories; memories of you and him.

You clasped the handle of your luggage as you felt your heart ache. But what made your heart ache even more is that from now on, he will just be another memory. Another memory that will fade as time flutters away.

Why is it that he gave up on you so easily? Why is it that you gave up so easily? Another drop of tear rolled freely upon your delicate features. It is true what they say, that eyes are windows to one’s heart because right now, your heart is shattered.

You slowly contained yourself, heading outside the room and towards the door as the wheels of your suitcase glided gracefully through the wooden floors.

But the door opened itself before you could even turn it. The man you love loved stood there, eyes wide with a bag of groceries in his hand and the door knob on the other.

“Yn-” He managed to grasp out reaching for you as you head out towards the door. “You’re leaving?” Hyunjin quietly whispered. What looks like panels of glass layered over his eyes as he met your gaze.

“You made it clear that you didn’t want me to stay yesterday.” Upon hearing you reply, his hand that was once rested on the doorknob reached to grab your wrist, stopping you from going further.

“Please yn, please stay. I’m sorry, I’m truly sorry.” His vision turned blurry as he clasped your hand tighter. You felt another set of tears brimming your vision, breaking his teary gaze at once.

Your silence only pushed him to go further. Putting down the bag of groceries to the floor, he took your other arm, intwining them as he refused to let go. Why does his hand fit so perfectly with yours?

“Please yn, I’ll do anything. Scream at me all you want, express your hatred towards me—your anger. Slap me, do anything you want I deserve it but please don’t leave me. I was too caught up in the moment yest-”

“Gosh why are you making it so hard for me to leave?” You hear your voice crack a little and Hyunjin swore his heart broke when he heard your wavering voice.

Honestly both of you were a crying mess—in front of your shared apartment door too. You were grateful no one was roaming around the halls because that would be embarrassing.

“Then don’t.” He squeezed your intwined hands, silently pleading you with his glossy eyes. “I love you so much, yn. Too much my heart can’t physically take it without you.” He sniffled before continuing. “So please, give me one more chance. Let me love you once more.”

You let out a sob as you hear his words. “Promise?” You quietly whispered.

And once again, Hyunjin felt a part of his heart shatter at your voice—knowing that he was the reason why you were crying.

“I promise, love. But please stop crying, I’m sorry.” He welcomed you into his embrace, wiping away your tears as he held your jaw to look at him.

“But you’re crying too, silly.” You ran your fingers through his tear stained cheeks wiping the tears off his beautiful features.

Hyunjin chuckled at your words before leaning towards your forehead, shutting his eyes and basking in your presence, too scared to let go—afraid that it was just a dream. But it’s not, and a soft peck you gave him reminded him that it was all real.

© aernx 2023 / do not steal, copy, translate — hope you enjoy l this! please let me know if you have any suggestions ! likes and reblogs are appreciated <3

[darklydeliciousdesires]

Little Earthquakes - An Original Story.

So, besties. I thought I'd test the waters with the prologue to my new story. I know so many of you aren't here for originals, but I can but hope I'll find a few readers. Nothing would delight me more! Now, let's get to introducing you to the new world and people within it! I've tagged a few people who I thought might be interested, but if not, no worries.

Tag list - In the comments. Please DM to be added/removed.

Words - 2,831

Warnings - 18+ throughout. Minors DNI!

Prologue.

In every year group of every school the world over, there is always the girl. She’s the one whom other girls covet to be like, and pretty much all of the boys want to get with. In the year eleven group of Fulham Green Academy, west London, back in two thousand and five, that girl had been Holly Madden.  

She was popular, kind, proficient academically, and god, she was beautiful. Holly was also the girl one of her classmates would have asked out in a heartbeat, had Nathan ever been able to sum up the courage to open his mouth and speak to her. Various other factors prevented such, too, namely that they socialised in two vastly different groups at their mixed senior school. She was one of the popular girls, after all, and Nathan one of the alternative kids.  

The two groups seldom mixed.  

That was until one night when Lee Harris, the kid who loved everybody regardless of what social group they slotted into, threw a large end of term party. It was a classic example of ‘my parents are on holiday, I’m not, everybody come over!’ that led to much teenage abandon and hedonistic excess. Especially if your name was Nathan Gill.  

The only difference? He hadn’t actually wanted to end up in the state he had. Not at all. Enter one Chris Lawrence and a tray full of weed-infused brownies. 

“This tastes weird,” Nathan announced, yet for the kid with a massive disposition for demolishing anything chocolatey, it still hadn’t stopped him from consuming it. 

Chris didn’t know how the hell he managed to stop himself from falling apart laughing, standing with their cohort Kelsey, both playing captive audience to the mild deception of their friend. “Does it? Can’t think why, blud.” 

“Yeah.” He then paused in chewing the last mouthful, watching his friends carefully. “Why are you’s staring at me?”  

“No reason,” Kelsey chimed, clapping a hand to his shoulder, almost able to hear his brain ticking away within his skull. 

“Have you put something in this?” The two snorts of laughter were confirmation that yes, they very much had. “Oh, shit off! Nah man, that’s proper messed up.”  

His friends howled, watching a very disgruntled Nathan deal with the confirmation that he had indeed been doped. Chris reached for him, ruffling his hair. “Bruv, it’s only a bit of ganja, yeah?” 

“Yeah, but I don’t pissing smoke weed, do I?” 

“And you still haven’t,” Chris chimed. “You’ve ate it!” 

The pout on his face had his friends furtherly descending. “Don’t like being stoned though, do I? That’s why I don’t have nothing to fucking do with the cheeba!” Getting a rise out of the usually very chilled, very zen Nathan was half the fun of it. Seeing him stoned off his balls was the other, Nathan still furious as he finished the remainer of his can of Carlsberg. “I’m not talking to either of you’s.” 

How right he was, for when it kicked in, speech was beyond him completely. 

“Nath, you alright, mate?” Lee, the party host asked an hour later, finding Nathan sitting at the kitchen nook with a pad of paper and a pen. A note was scrawled. 

“Yeah, just can’t speak. Too mashed. Got spiked via cake.” 

Reading the words, he began to laugh. “Ahhh, the pot brownies? Nice!” More scribbling followed. 

“Not nice! I don’t like weed!” 

To Lee’s credit, he held in the desire to piss himself laughing at his mate’s anguish.  

“Oh, right! You want a coffee or something? My mum has the fancy machine so I’ll make you one if you want?” 

“No thanks. Just wanna throw Chris and Kels into a pissing landfill!” 

He boomed with laughter, shaking his head. “Well, I best be moving along, got to do the mingling thing. Later mate!” 

“Bye.”  

He was left alone then, except for the glances from across the kitchen from Kelsey, who was trying her luck chatting up one of the sixth form girls while keeping a watchful eye on him. That suited him fine, not actually able to speak anyway, sitting there feeling very, very high. It was a different high to smoking it, he had to confess, but he still didn’t like it much.  

He felt very fuzzy around the edges, his vision faltering a little bit, but not so much that he couldn’t make out the face of the girl he fancied when she approached him half an hour later. Oh, god. Why Holly Madden? Why now? 

Sitting down in the nook adjacent to him, her smile glowed. “Hi, Nathan. You okay?” He turned the pad of paper to her and pointed to the first statement he’d written to Lee, wishing the ground would open up and swallow him whole. “Ohhhh, not one for weed then, no?” 

“Bingo.” 

“Do you want me to leave you be, or can I kotch here? I need a time out, too many drunk people.” 

He scribbled, feeling his heart racing. Holly Madden wanted to sit with him. Him! 

“That’s fine, but I’ll be on mute for the foreseeable.”  

Shrugging, she smiled, a smile that made his heart skip. “That’s fine. I’m not really into loud people. Even when you’re talking you seem quiet and chilled. I like that.”  

She’d actually noticed those attributes? Oh, god. It was a good job he couldn’t speak, because if he could he’d have likely ballsed it up spectacularly. Then again, it wasn’t surprising. Holly was very much like the party host in the fact she was open to mingling with everyone, regardless of her status as one of the popular girls. “So, I noticed your display board for the examiners before we broke up. That charcoal you did of the snake was incredible!” 

They’d been in the same art group as well as form class at school, submitting their final presentation to the exam board in the shape of a display of their work, which made up half of their GSCE grade. Nathan nodded, taking the pen and scribbling out a note.  

“Thanks. I was proud of that one. Loved your stuff, too.”  

She was sure he was just being polite since their artistic styles so vastly differed, but thanked him for the compliment anyway. “I’m crapping myself about the results. I really, really want to get in at UAL. Are you thinking uni, too, or something else?” 

Again, he began to write. “Yeah, uni. Loughborough, I wanna get out of London for a few years.” 

It was a good university, showing clearly that he had a lot of ambition. Sitting there, Holly began to feel a little uncomfortable, the manor of communication strange in the fact he couldn’t actually speak. Also, she felt shy. He had no idea how fucking cute he was, which was an odd feeling to experience, being that he was the furthest from her usual taste in guys.  

“Well, I’m going to head back to my friends. If you regain the power of speech, come find me.” 

Come find her? She actually wanted him to come and find her? While his brain flew into a panic, his note was calm and succinct.  

“Alright. Bye, Holly.” Whether or not he could, he knew that he wouldn’t, though, waiting until she’d left the kitchen before groaning and pulling his hood up over his head as he slumped down, wanting to hide. Oh, the shame of it. Too stoned to talk to the girl he liked when the opportunity to do so had landed right in his lap, and he’d blown it.  

Fuck Chris. Fuck Kelsey.  

He had to hand it to the latter, though. At midnight when they’d left, she’d been the one to carry him over her shoulder into the waiting taxi when he’d found he was without the use of his legs as well as his voice. Thank goodness she was a big girl, just a little shorter than him at six feet to his six feet two, and built like an ox.  

She’d also carried him safely up the stairs and into her bed, stripping his skate trainers and jeans before climbing in herself, definitely worse for wear. Being very much out in her status as a lesbian, her parents didn’t give two hoots about her sharing a bed with male friends at all, knowing there was more chance of hell freezing over than any sexual shenanigans occurring between them.  

Not that either of them had ever tiptoed out of virgin territory at that point in their lives. As he fell asleep, Nathan kicked himself that the girl he very much would have liked to change that with had been the one he couldn’t even speak to, and now it was too late. He’d likely never cross paths with the beautiful Holly Madden again now they’d left school. 

He was partly right there, their lives leading them in very different directions for many years after that night. Nineteen, to be exact. While she had never left London, Nathan had been to Loughborough, lived up in Edinburgh for a few years, gone over to spend time in Dublin, living a very carefree existence as a freelance tattoo artist who travelled from shop to shop. 

Life was everything he’d ever wanted it to be, and he all but forgot about Holly completely. 

Arriving back in London at twenty-seven, he’d met a girl, deciding to set up permanent roots in the city again. He and Lisa had married a year later, and a few months after that he, Kelsey and Chris had all gone into business together. The three had coveted to work in the tattoo world since their time at school, Nathan the only one who had gotten an apprenticeship and done it right out of leaving university.  

Kelsey had tired of the monotony of managing bars, and Chris was more than fed up of work in retail, so both had moved into their chosen field finally six and three years before, respectively. In two thousand and seventeen, Carpe Diem had opened its doors on Sailsbury Road, Queen’s Park.  

It was truly wonderful, the three best friends all reunited and running a thriving business together. Until the day where things started to go awry for one of them finally came along.  

“Kels, why you hovering, blud?” Chris asked, glad to be coming to the end of a lot of linework on the full backpiece he was starting on his client that afternoon. Pausing to reload ink, he raised an eyebrow, looking to the back of the shop as Kelsey listened in at the door of the private room used for clients receiving a body piercing.  

Craning her ears, she could hear it just above the sound of music playing, the band Soundgarden’s classic Black Hole Sun muffling the other noise emanating. Well, unless you listened closely, like her. With widened eyes, she moved away rapidly, shaking her head with her hands held out wide. 

“Oh, no, no, no.”  

Chris was perplexed. “What?” 

Jerking her thumb, she mouthed her reply, lest the client on the table before him hear what she’d had to. “He’s shagging in there.”  

His eyes all but fell out onto the hardwood floor beneath his feet. “Fuck off!” he mouthed back. 

“I’m serious!” she hissed in whisper, waving a pointed finger towards the back of the shop rapidly before beginning to clean down her station, ready and fresh for her next client. It wasn’t so much that he was a married man shagging somebody who wasn’t his wife, since he and Lisa were recently separated, it was the lack of professionalism to be doing it at his place of business with the girl whose navel he’d just pierced that shocked his friends more than anything.  

It would be fair to say he hadn’t quite been right since his marriage had come to an end. If either was truly honest, his behaviour had been very decidedly unlike the Nathan they knew and loved for much longer. Shagging around now that he was separated was one thing, but doing such with a client right there in the shop, though, was quite another. People talked, after all.  

Kelsey stewed on it as she continued cleaning her station, not wanting his reputation as one of the most talented tattoo artists in the city to become besmirched by such, or the good name of the shop to suffer either. After all, it wasn’t solely his livelihood this kind of behaviour could affect.  

Five minutes later and the door opened, the girl walking out before Nathan, who moved to the sales desk and took her payment for the piercing. With Chris’s client also now out the door, the two artists turned to their friend, the latter shaking his head. 

“Who’s been a bad lad then, ay?” 

Nathan didn’t have a poker face for the life of him, yet still, he tried. “What?” 

“Oh, no, no, no,” Kelsey stated, pointing at him. “Can’t fool us. I know sex moaning when I hear it, no matter how quiet. Listen, you wanna sow your oats now you and Lisa have split, go ahead. But not in the bloody shop, Nath!”  

He shrugged. “Weren’t like I was being that loud.” He then turned to Chris, mischief broadening his grin. “Had to cup my hand over her mouth. Poor girl ain’t ever had a pierced dick before, bruv.”  

His friend wanted to be supportive to Kelsey’s very real concerns, but the lad in him won out. “Fuckin’ a, blud! Little randy bastard, ay?”  

He held out his fist, Nathan bumping it as he chuckled filthily. “I’m a free man again, and shit, can you blame me? Proper gorgeous, she was.”  

“For the love of the virgin Mary’s knicker elastic!” Kelsey cried, placing her hands on her hips. “Can we take this seriously and set a rule? No shagging in the bloody shop!!”  

Nathan moved to her, grabbing her face in his hands and kissing her head. Immediately, she was aghast. “Don’t you kiss me! I don’t know where your mouth was ten minutes ago. I don’t want any miscellaneous fanny juice on my face!” 

“Never thought those words would ever leave your mouth, ay,” Chris interjected with on a snort. 

Nathan all but broke apart in hysterics completely at them, wrapping Kelsey in a big, tight hug. “You’re safe, didn’t have time for that. But chill out, ‘kay? Nothing to stress about, Kels. Just a one off.”  

Being held close by her friend, there was something else amiss, she noted. Or rather smelled. Nathan usually reeked of nothing but Fahrenheit aftershave, his staple scent since his teen years. Now though, it was tinged with the smell of alcohol. “You been drinking?” 

Letting her go, he shrugged, moving to begin sorting inks over at the storage shelves, knowing they needed to re-order. “Had a few last night. Probably sweating it out.”  

She left it there, but truly, she didn’t believe a word of it. It smelled fresh, not that stale, boozy sweat stink people suffered after a night on the piss. Also, he showered twice a day religiously. Besides, to her knowledge, he hadn’t even gone out the night before. She’d left him there at the shop at ten the previous evening, Nathan locking up before heading upstairs to the tiny flat above, where he was now living after Lisa had kicked him out.  

It was conflicting, because Nathan wasn’t a liar either, Kelsey doubting herself a little as she welcomed her next client, a guy who was having the side of his neck finished off by her that afternoon. All thoughts of her friend and his slightly off behaviour were put aside, concentrating one hundred percent on her task at hand.  

As for Nathan, he moved to his book of line drawings, taking the relevant one out and placing it on the light box to make sure he was one hundred percent happy with it. He prided himself on giving his clients the very best of his work. The young woman whose navel he’d pierced could definitely testify to that after the repeated push of his cock piercing against her g spot had made her come so hard, she’d almost passed out.  

He smirked as he thought about her, noting that she was the first girl he’d ever fucked whose name he neither knew nor cared to know. For a man who didn’t really do sleeping around even before he was married, it made an exciting change now he was free from the bitch who he’d wasted the last seven years with.  

“Hi, I’ve got an appointment with Nathan?” 

Turning around, he couldn’t believe his eyes. There she was. “Erm, yeah. Yeah, that’s me. Hi, Holly.” 

He would have been lying if he’d claimed to have given his old school crush much thought in the nineteen years that had passed, but seeing her standing there, suddenly he felt just as he had at fifteen all over again. 

[arcadia-of-pluto]

Twist of Fate; Chapter Eleven

Parings; LADS OT4 x reader

Word count; 2,728

Rating; 18+ for mature content and swearing

Themes; isekai, eventual smut

Notes; It's finally ToF weekend!! I'm posting this a little later than usual since I posted a one-shot today as well. Also, I think I'm going to try and cap out my chapters well before the 7k mark. If I go higher than that, I worried Tumblr will get too laggy and I won't be able to edit the chapter with italics and bold like I usually do. I'll also be making a main masterlist soon once I've written some more one-shots. I'll try to work on them in-between ToF and maybe post them during the week, I just got a little too excited today and posted my one-shot instead of waiting until the week 😭 but I have a three day weekend so I'll be able to probably write more in ToF and push past chapter 20!

Now anyways, here's one of my fav chapters

Prev || Next

Masterlist

The little girl leads you to a quaint seeming casino, graffiti covering the buildings next to it and its name shone in multicolour neon lights, “Elysium”. Once you step inside, you notice its lavishly decorated from the red leather chairs that surround a poker table to the fancy lamps and expensive looking art that adorn the walls. “Auntie, an outsider- I mean, a really nice lady is here to buy something!” The kid eagerly skips toward a young woman who was hunched over behind the bar. Under the dim, yellow light, you notice she was fiddling with some cards.

“What do you want?” The woman asks, not even bothering to look up at you. Seems like she didn’t believe you were worth her attention so far. “A list of people who are attending Onychinus’ protocore auction and a map of the venue. How much?” You ask as you walk toward the counter, ruffling the little girl’s head as you step past her. This finally makes the woman face you, and she looks you up and down with interest, then makes a gesture with her hand, “Fifty thousand.” Yeesh. Expensive much? “Just for two pieces of intel?” You question with a raised brow as you sit down at the bar. She wags her finger as she tilts her head to the side, “Fifty thousand per word.”

“I..” You trail off, unsure if it's even worth it at this point. “Since you’re new and pretty, I’ll give you a 5% discount. What do you think?” The lady offers before the little girl speaks up, “Make it 10%.” When the lady looks at her in confusion, the little girl smiles up at her, “She bought a flower for five more than I asked for. Please, auntie?” “Thanks, sweetie.” You look back down at the little girl, petting her head once more, “She’s really sweet. Is she your…?” The woman sighs and shakes her head, “An orphan we’re watching over. Any other questions will require a payment.” “Even if it’s your names?” You know fraternizing won’t be enough to get an even bigger deal, but you’d still like to know their names. They don’t seem like bad people. “Just call me Violet and her Lily.” She says and you assume its code names. Or maybe not. More flowers though. You wonder what the N109 Zone’s obsession with flowers is. Violet meant watchfulness, and Lily meant innocent and pure.

After this, Violet glances over at the door to her right, sighing before she pushes it open. You could hear chatter mixed with the sound of rolling dice, spinning roulettes, and card shufflers. “You also going to Solon Hotel tomorrow? Do you have an auction invitation?” You can hear a female customer say, and then you hear a male customer reply, “Doesn’t matter if I get one or not. For something as big as this, you gotta try and get a piece of the pie, right? I heard there’s going to be a treasure. If you manage to get it, you could easily sell it for hundreds of thousands!” “Do you want to go? Then ask Sylus! I heard if you give him what he wants-” “Only if I can find Sylus in Onychinus. Haven’t you heard? While he was away, big changes happened in their ranks…” You’re unsure if you should be hearing this since you’re not exactly paying for it, but that does explain why it seemed like no one lived in that house you were in for a really long time. You strain your ears to listen to more of their conversation, but that’s when Violet closes the door.

“Did you hear them? Now, you should understand why “these two pieces of intel” are so expensive. I’m sorry, kid. I can’t just give this kind of information away for dirt cheap, especially when it’s about one of the N109 Zone’s big shots.” “What if I want information about Onychinus?” You ask nonchalantly and she freezes for a moment before leaning in the whisper in your ear, “Missy, don’t pry into things you shouldn’t know. I still got business to take care of .” You let out a sigh and nod your head, “Alright, I understand. Thanks for letting me know, Violet.” It makes sense. If she tells you something too secret, then it could lead to her losing her job or even her life. You can’t fault her for trying to be careful. You turn back to Lily, playing around with her for a bit as you listen in on the other customers' conversations.

“...Sylus hasn’t been around for a long time. Do you think he really went missing?” One man asks and the other shrugs, “Maybe he’s dead. Didn’t you see how arrogant Sherman’s punks have been lately? If Sylus was with Onychinus, they wouldn’t even dare to be so bold.”

You rest your chin on your palm, listening to the rumble of the spinning roulette and then the sound of cheers and screams. Someone must’ve won big, it seems. You sip on the drink you got from Violet at the bar, trying to appear like a normal patron as you eavesdrop on the conversations happening all around you. It seems Onychinus has been having some internal issues lately…and if Sylus hasn’t been seen around lately, how come you’ve seen so much of him? Recalling his pompous and contemptuous face has you chuckling to yourself. You can’t believe you almost miss him. If he had died, he would’ve dragged the entire N109 Zone down to hell with him. That’s just how he is.

“Miss, I have another flower. It’s for you!” You hear Lily’s voice before you see her. “Oh sweetie…” You hold back a pout of endearment as you notice how she’s on her tiptoes, trying to lean against the bar to reach you. She holds a black flower in both of her tiny hands, a black Calla lily, which was a symbol of rebirth and the beginning of a transformative journey. A fitting flower indeed. You take the flower from her, putting it behind your other ear, and smile at her, “Do I need to pay you for this one too?” “Nope! I gave it to you just because I wanted to.” She giggles before you decide to ask a few questions, “Did you grow up here? Does everyone know Sylus?” “Oh yeah! He’s a monster with huge wings that never dies. And- And, he has horns! If I don’t listen to Auntie, Sylus will find me and feed me to his man eating birdie.” The way Lily spoke was so animated, it was almost cute. She seems like just a regular child despite growing up in the N109 Zone.

It seems like everyone is afraid of Sylus and yet, they keep trying to make deals with him. Kind of like how people are afraid of demons but still try to make deals with them in movies…Though, Sylus did take the initiative to propose a deal with you. Maybe your evol can be used as a valuable tool against him- at least to guarantee your survival. You’re suddenly ripped from your thoughts as the familiar sound of gunfire fills the once cheery, lively room. You flinch, immediately moving your hands to cover Lily’s ears rather than your own. You quickly turn your head toward the entrance of the casino. “We got a party tonight.” One of the men rasps out, gun muzzle billowing out smoke. The door, which they kicked down, falls to the ground with a loud thud, the bolts on it useless and broken as a pair of leather boots steps on top of the wooden door. “Don’t be nervous. Onychinus’ important guest got lost. I’d like to ask everyone to cooperate with our search.” You can quickly notice that this man isn’t working with Sylus- even if this man is from Onychinus. He seems much like a snake, his voice dripping with venom.

Another person with a pair of sunglasses walks in. He’s flanked by half a dozen gun-toting men dressed in black. The sound of guns being loaded with bullets can be heard before you hear the guns being cocked as if threatening the patrons to try anything stupid. “Block the door and search the room. Everyone’s about to be entertained.” The same man, let's call him Snake for the sake of telling them all apart, says.

Gunfire and the sound of tables and chairs getting knocked over intermingle with N109 Zone slang that you don’t understand. In the hidden utility room, you hug Lily tightly as you look out the secret window that’s facing the lobby. “Ooh, there’s so many people. Today’s a good day for bus- mmph!” You quickly cover Lily’s mouth with a panicked whisper, “Do you have a death wish? Hide and don’t speak.” You add a “please” shortly after that, feeling like you’re being a tad bit harsh but it seems like she doesn’t even realize the danger you’re both in at the moment. The lobby floor is soaked in blood, and the mice hiding under the floorboards scamper away in fear. How you wished you were a mouse right now. Whistling, Snake casually strolls over to the bar, rings the bell, and then shoves a photo in front of Violet.

“I suggest you bring out our guest. Mr. Sherman’s not going to sit around and leave her unattended.” He says to her and one of your hands clenches into a fist, wanting to just give yourself up to protect the two people you had just met but you pause for a moment to think logically. Sylus is the leader of Onychinus, so why were these people acting as if Mr. Sherman was the leader instead? This Sherman guy doesn’t seem like shit, considering he didn’t even come out to get his ‘guest’, unlike how Sylus came to personally get you. “I’m sorry, she’s not here. I’d remember a pretty face if she actually showed up.” You can see Violet shrug from the secret window and now you’re starting to feel really bad. Even if she’s protecting you with a motive in mind, you still wanted to keep her and Lily safe. “Gonna keep your mouth shut? Fine.” Snake scoffs and turns to face his comrades. His broken, wire-bound jaw opens as he lets out a hoarse cackle, “Pry open their mouths one at a time. Someone will spill the beans sooner or later.”

“Missy, they’re looking for you, right?” Violet whispers, knowing that you and Lily were hiding in the secret room. “Are you going to hand me over to them?” You ask with baited breath, really hoping she wouldn’t just give you up. You tried to sound calm but inside, your thoughts were racing. All of this had almost made you completely forget that you were in a game; well, this was your life now, apparently, and you were in danger from here on out. Your free hand tightly clutches the tranquilizer in your sleeve, ready to stab Snake with it and pretend that it was a poison and you had the antidote for it as long as they let you go. That being said, you haven’t tested this thing that Xavier claimed could “paralyze an elephant” since there were no zoos in the N109 Zone…”Anyone who’s Onychinus’ target is valuable. I can get a better price if I find the right person,” Violet finally responds to you with a small shrug. A smile tugs at your lips as you shake your head, unsure if she was saying this as a front or if that was her true feelings.”Stay where you are. I don’t want to hand you over like this.” Violet says, firm on her decision to not give you up. Either way, even if she sold you to someone else, you wouldn’t be upset with her. You realize this is how people survive in the N109 Zone.

Suddenly, a crow soars in and dives toward the search party’s leader, its razor-sharp wings aimed at him. “What is that!?” You hear Snake yell out and you take this as your chance to escape- be it a dumb idea but still, it’s worth a shot. You roll and crawl out of the utility room. As you try to sneak away quietly, someone yanks you by the collar of your shirt. You panic, trying to scramble away from the person and you turn around to aim your gun.

Though you pause, noticing a familiar face in the shadows, his chin slightly raised. “So when someone saves you, do you always point your gun at them to express your gratitude?” Sylus. Several bullets grazed him only to dissipate into dust. The people who fired the shots are promptly strangled by something and they slump to the ground, dead. “Your underlings aren’t exactly obedient..” You comment, suddenly being reminded of the fact that this Mr. Sherman guy thinks he’s the leader of Onychinus for some reason. Sylu’s mouth twitches at your mockery as if he wants to say something but in the end, he just purses his lips, “Focus on yourself first.” At the sound of Sylus’ voice, Snake suddenly begins to panic and tries to leave, but a cloud of energy particles gathers around him…Several wanderers quickly materialize. Roaring, they rush straight for us.

“Are they calling for backup because they can’t win? How is this not cheating?” You scoff, brows knitted together in annoyance before Sylus grabs your wrist and holds you in his arms. “What-” He slides his finger over the trigger of your gun, aiming the weapon at the figure in the center of the room. “Do you expect people from the N109 Zone to be nice and polite?” Actually…Yes, yes you do. Violet and Lily were nice enough. “I see you made a few friends while I was gone,” Sylus comments, noticing the two different flowers tucked behind either of your ears and plucks the forget-me-not, rolling the stem between his two fingers. He tucks the flower behind his ear with a small murmur under his breath, “A fitting flower..” But before you can have a chance to ask what he means, Sylus swings your body around, taking shots at every wanderer charging toward you both.

The room is a complete mess with broken objects and overturned tables and chairs strewn about. Wanderers keep appearing one after another and you fall back to the window, thinking about how likely you both could make a run for it. “We can’t wipe them out…Our only option is to retreat,” You say between breaths as you try to get your breathing under control. “Do you really believe “retreat” is a word in my dictionary?” Sylus asks with a raised brow. While you’re anxious and tired, Sylus is infuriatingly calm and smug. “Ohhh, so you like being a freeloader, Mr. Sylus?” You raise a brow, waving your gun around with an annoyed sigh, “Didn’t you see me fighting for my life earlier?”

“Since when was I required to investigate the files the Hunters Association had on you?” The white haired man looks down at his hand to pick at imaginary dust under his nails before continuing, “Consider this training practice. Get ready.” Sylus ignores your protests and grabs your hand to aim your gun at the switch box on the wall. “You won’t get any help.”

A gun is fired and the lights go out. Then, Sylus quickly vanishes. You stand there for a moment in silence, blinking a few times before you realize you’ve been left behind again. Curses spill from your lips and you run a hand through your hair. “Are you fucking serious?” You groan under your breath and suddenly you hear Sylus’ voice once more. “Let’s make a deal.” You suddenly turn around and notice he’s behind you once more. “Aren’t you going to leave? I can’t resonate with you.” You were getting more annoyed by the second, but Sylus continues, “If you’d like to attend the auction tomorrow, stand your ground for five minutes.” He steps closer to you, leaning his head down to whisper in your head, “And should you have the audacity to die on me-” He lifts his hand and puts a communicator in your ear. Then he speaks in a surprisingly gentle tone, “You actually will meet your end.”

It's really short today, especially considering I just wrote 12k for a one-shot, but what can ya do 🤷🏻‍♀️ I'll more than likely post chapter twelve way later on today or even tomorrow...and I also might post chapter thirteen. I'm not very good at keeping a strict schedule. I like to be spontaneous 😎 ...sometimes. but yeah, more flower language. The black Calla Lilly was a big game changer since it's meaning actually fits mc in every way, shape, and form. It's honestly insane.

I also gave the shopkeeper and her charge names since I didn't want to write "she" and it get confusing. That's also why I specifically named Snake. But also! I named the two after flowers, because I read a manwha where there was a group of sex workers all named after flowers and they had a little girl with them who was also named after a flower. Their village was being raided and they all protected the little girl until they died, and the little girl was taken in the be a fake crown princess– but yeah, basically I thought flower code names and run-down, shady areas go well together!

Taglist: @orphicmeliora, @yoongi-tunes, @mitzkooni , @hiqhkey, @tanspostsblog

[the-banana-0verlord]

Swings(Deuce Spade x reader)

Note: angst with a happy ending, gn reader.

***

The creaking of the swings slowly went back and forth. Of all the playground, this was your favourite place. You never liked the other kids, and they didn’t like you. So everyone stayed in their own territory, you the swings, them the rest. It was a good arrangement, really. 

Suddenly, another creak joined yours. You looked to your right. A little boy with blonde hair was gently rocking himself, a gloomy look on his face. After few moments of hesitation, you decided to speak up: 

« Hi. »

 He looked up to you. His eyes told the story of his sadness. 

« Hi, he replied. 

- Are you okay?

-... 

-... 

-...No. 

-Why? 

-All the other kids keep calling me dumb. »

He looked away. You knew the feeling oh so well. You had also felt it before you put your foot down and claimed the swings. 

« All the other kids are dumb, you muttered. 

-Do you think I’m dumb? 

-...No. 

-Why? 

-I don’t know. »

 The creaking sound followed the silence as you both eyed the ground. 

« Do you want to play tag? You suggested. 

-Sure. »

 And just like that, your friendship blossomed through the rejection of others and the kindness of you both.

***

Until six years later, at the age of eleven, your unlikely friendship held. But the inevitable had to happen. 

« You need to stop picking fights! » you cried. You were treating Deuce’s wound by the swings. Since about three years, it had been a recurring thing. 

« It’s not my fault they keep provocation get me, he grumbled.

-But you keep getting hurt! I hate it! » 

He stood up abruptly, making you flinch back. 

« Well, it’s who I am! And if you hate it, then you hate me! 

-you know that’s not what I meant! 

- that’s it! I’m out! »

You watched tearfully your childhood friend walk away. You didn’t call out to him, because you knew he wouldn’t turn. Him, on the other hand, was waiting desperately for you to yell his name, to stop him from making the biggest mistake of his life, even if he won’t admit it. But the call never came, and he kept walking.

***

The Dark Mirror announced your dorm. You walked to your dorm mates, passing by the back of a boy with dark blue hair.

***

You opened the door of class 1-A, with 30 faces crowded in. 30 unfamiliar... and one familiar. The years had done him good, but you still recognised your ex-best friend, Deuce Spade. You hid yourself behind your hair, hoping for him not to notice you. You weren’t ready to face him after all this time. You quietly took place at the back of the class, being sure that he wouldn’t see you from there. 

But what you didn’t know, it was that he was as aware of you of your presence here. He had seen you at orientation. He needed to muster up the courage to talk- to apologise to you. How could he ever find the words to describe the gutting feeling that had followed him since that unfortunate day?

***

The familiar creaking sound brought a smile to your face. You had found a rusty pair of swings behind the abandoned dorm. You had put it back in shape in no time.

As it did eleven years ago, another creak sang along with yours. You didn’t look up-  You knew who it was. 

« Hi, he spoke.

 -...Hi. 

-... 

-... 

-I’m sorry. »

 You heard him take a deep breath. 

« I am so, so sorry. I... I did a mistake, back then. No, not a mistake. Hundreds, thousands of mistakes. But the first one was to leave you. I should’ve listened, but instead I disappointed you and Mom. School was hard, and skipping and bullying was easy. I’m not trying to make excuses. I know what I did was wrong, and I intend to make it up to you, whether you forgive me or not. »

 He fell silent, letting the creaking sound fill the empty space. Your hand left the swing’s chain to take his hand. He looked at you. 

 « I forgive you, Deuce Spade. »

 You turned your head towards him, a smile on your face. He smiled back, entertaining your fingers. All that could be heard was the comforting sound of your swings swinging in harmony.

***

Have a good day/night!

[antihibikase-archive]

hi i dont know anything about black butler who are those two guys you keep posting about

//sound of stone sliding against concrete

Let's ignore everything going on in actual Black Butler canon rn outside of the shinigami. <3

Those two guys are Alan Humphries and Eric Slingby, two musical-only characters in the second musical, "The Most Beautiful Death In The World"- a musical-only plot which focuses on our main characters, Ciel and Sebastian, investigating a series of mysterious "beautiful" deaths.

Meanwhile, the society of Shinigami (which is a more advanced, almost corporate setting in the midst of the 19th century the rest of the series takes place in) is thrown into an uproar over these mysterious deaths, as they're the ones in charge of "reviewing" the memories of the dying in the form of cinematic records (movie tapes), and claiming their souls with the use of their death scythes- specialized garden tools.

At the time of this musical's release, there were only seven reapers revealed in the series- the five shown here, one OVA-only character, and another major character throughout all of Kuroshitsuji's media. So far, I think there's now at least eleven of them!

Anyway, Alan and Eric (the guy in the middle and the blonde right next to him).

Shinigami can't die, but Alan is inflicted with a strange illness known as the "Thorns of Death". While we don't get to see how this illness came to be and what exactly does it do besides weaken Alan and give him coughing fits, many of his co-workers are aware of his condition. There is no known cure for the Thorns of Death, so Alan has resigned himself to his eventual, lonely death.

Eric, who used to be his mentor, partners up with him to investigate the mysterious deaths, where they bump into the main cast and end up having to rest at their place after Alan's sickness interrupts a fight between him and Sebastian. Eventually, Sebastian finds out that Eric has been the culprit of the mysterious deaths, and Alan is betrayed as Eric won't tell him why.

After a bit of musical plot goes on, Alan finds out that Eric has been killing innocents to collect a thousand souls, as there is a myth that only a thousand souls can cure the Thorns of Death. Unwilling to allow Eric to continue down this path and unwilling to hand him over to the Shinigami society for punishment, the two remove their glasses together and run away- glasses are highly important in shinigami society, as all of them have poor eyesight, and its an essential part of their uniform.

Spoiler- they don't run very far. Sebastian battles with Eric, Eric tries to kill Ciel as the last soul, Alan protects Ciel from Eric's attack. Eric ends up killing Alan, collecting a thousand useless souls in the process. Eric later asks Sebastian to kill him, joining Alan in death and releasing all the souls he has collected.

As Alan dies, however, we see one of his memories with Eric, which was them talking about how lonely flowers called ericas aren't so lonely after all, for they bloom with others. Both the flower petals and the souls Eric collected are likened to snow, and become the titular "most beautiful death in the world". This is shown through their duet, Unmei!

I should also note that, while these two are musical-only, they've made cameos in the anime as silhouettes- or worse, in the manga, in such a LOVELY panel which talked about shinigami that tried to abandon the shinigami society. If I had any hope of them appearing in the manga. Well.

ANYWAY SORRY FOR THE RAMBLE . I plan to post the theme song of the shinigami society from the musical (it is so silly and catchy I think you'll LOVE it) BUT !! HERE THEY ARE . DOOMED YAOI BLORBOS FROM MY MIDDLE SCHOOL FIXATIONS

[honeybeezgobzzzzz]

☠️ Clipped Wings: Chapter Eleven

Clipped Wings: After living a life in seclusion due to an over protective father, you sneak away to experience life as it really is. Slowly building up the woman you always wanted to be, your quiet life is interrupted when you meet a rather elastic boy and his crew. This is just the beginning of trouble and your carefully crafted life starts to crumble around you. The past never really stays in the past, and now it has come knocking. In more ways than one.  

Warnings: Vee’s Anti-Hero Era Begins, Violence, Gore, Blood.

To Note: Dracule Mihawk x Reader, NAMED!FemReader, Some physical features have been given (hair & eye color).

Word Count: ~3.1k

Previous | Masterlist | Next

Three and a Half Years Later…

You trudge through dense foliage, the weight of the pirates' supplies digging into your shoulders. Your muscles scream in protest, but you bite back the pain, focusing on each step forward. The island, with its humid air and thick canopy, feels like a prison. Sweat trickles down your back, mixing with the grime from days of travel.

"Keep up, girl!" one of the pirates shouts, not bothering to look back. His voice grates on your nerves, but you keep your face neutral.

You catch a glimpse of their weapons gleaming in the dappled sunlight filtering through the trees. The pirates laugh and banter among themselves, confident in their superiority on this dangerous island. As for you? They see you as nothing more than a pack mule, useful only for carrying their gear and little else. It grates on you, but you hold onto the thought that they underestimate you.

"Faster! We need to reach the ruins by nightfall," another pirate barks. You nod silently, quickening your pace despite the growing exhaustion. You sure do feel like a mule at times though…

It is the thought of the Devil Fruit keeps you moving.

The whispers of its power reach your ears even through the pirates' crude conversations. You know what it could mean for you—strength beyond measure, a way to truly stand on your own against anyone who underestimates you again.

The leader of the pirates stops suddenly, raising his hand for silence. You halt immediately, muscles tensing as you strain to listen. A distant roar echoes through the jungle—a beast or something else entirely? You can't be sure. The pirates exchange glances but press forward with renewed urgency.

"Move it!" A pirate shoves you roughly forward. You stumble forward several steps, trying to regain your balance. You do. He glares at you and jerks his chin in the direction the others were walking.

Your violet eyes scan the path ahead as the group continues onward. You can almost taste freedom mingling with sweat and determination on your lips. If only these fools knew what simmered beneath your calm exterior—how every step brought you closer to finding that Devil Fruit.

When you had arrived at the dojo, you had no idea what to expect from your training nor what you would transform into. You'd been weak, naive, and dare you say it, helpless. That had all changed through rigorous and back breaking training. Training that left you curled up in a fetal position at night from the aches of training. But you had grown stronger, more confident, learned.

Then you had worked up the courage (or some call it idiocy) to enter the grand line in search of more strength. Having a strong body, smooth reflexes, and skills with swords and throwing stars only made you crave more strength. You just weren't strong enough. So you had gotten the idea of having your own weapon.

The Whip of Lothaine.

A mysterious artifact that you had read about flipping through a book one afternoon. It supposedly rests on an island known as Tako Island, a graveyard of thousands of pirates. There was no way you were going to try and retrieve such a weapon in your current skill set. So you decided to hunt down a devil fruit.

One foolish task to another, but you were determined. That is how you ended up with a crew of pirates searching for a devil fruit, acting as a pack mule.

You trudge on, the weight of the supplies a constant reminder of your place in this ragtag group of pirates. It will be worth it, Vee, you know it will. The path winds deeper into the island and the air grows even heavier with anticipation. You can't shake the feeling that something is about to happen.

A sudden squawk pierces the air, sharp and shrill. You freeze, every hair on the back of your neck standing on end. The pirates halt their chatter, heads snapping towards the sky as a flurry of movement catches your eye.

From the dense canopy above, a flock of aggressive, carnivorous birds descends upon you. Their talons are sharp, their beaks hooked and deadly. You've heard tales of these creatures—birds that can strip a man to the bone in mere minutes.

The pirates scramble, drawing their weapons and swearing as they try to fend off the avian assault. You drop the supplies and reach for your own weapon—a sturdy dagger you've kept hidden at your side.

One of the birds dives towards you, its eyes fixed on the exposed skin of your arm. You pivot, using your training to your advantage, and slash out with your dagger. The bird squawks in pain, veering away with a wounded wing.

You glance around, assessing the situation. The pirates are in disarray, their numbers working against them in the tight confines of the jungle path. You, on the other hand, are a singular target, nimble and quick.

So you move with precision, your body acting almost on its own as you duck and weave through the onslaught. Each bird that comes at you meets the sharp end of your dagger or the swift kick of your boot.

Despite the chaos, you find yourself in a strange rhythm, a dance of death with these feathered mongrels. Your heart pounds in your chest, but your movements remain calm and calculated.

A particularly large bird swoops down, its talons aiming for your face. You roll to the side, coming up in a crouch as you lock eyes with the creature. It's a predator, just like you.

With a swift, upward thrust, you bury your dagger into its chest. The bird lets out a gurgling cry before collapsing towards you. You push it over your head and to the ground, your knife sliding free of it's body. Your lift your eyes to take in the chaos in front of you once more.

The pirates are faring terribly, their numbers dwindling as the birds continue their relentless attack. You could leave them to their fate, slip away in the confusion. But something holds you back—the men could still be useful to you.

You grit your teeth, irritation bubbling beneath your calm exterior. The captain of the pirates, a burly man with a scar on his chin, struggles against two particularly vicious birds. You roll your eyes but move towards him, knowing you'll need his leadership—however crude—for the next leg of your journey.

"Get down!" you shout, and he barely has time to react before you throw yourself into the fray. Your dagger slices through the air, catching one bird across its wing. It screeches and flaps away, but another takes its place immediately.

The captain swings his cutlass wildly, barely managing to fend off his attackers. How exactly has he managed to become a captain? You focus on the second bird, using your agility to dodge its snapping beak and slashing talons. With a swift motion, you drive your dagger into its chest. It falls limp at your feet.

"Move!" you bark at the captain, shoving him towards the ruins' direction. He stumbles but catches himself, nodding in grim acknowledgment.

Together, you fight your way through the flock of birds. The ruins are close—just a few hundred yards ahead. You can see the crumbling stone structures peeking through the dense foliage. So close.

The captain rallies the remaining pirates, shouting orders as they make a desperate dash towards safety. You stay close to him, ensuring no bird gets close enough to inflict serious harm. A couple of scratches however…

You reach the edge of the ruins first, breaking through the tree line and into an open clearing dominated by ancient stone pillars and crumbling walls. The captain and the surviving pirates follow close behind, panting and bloodied but alive.

"Over there!" you point towards an archway leading into what looks like an underground chamber. The captain nods and ushers his men inside while you keep watch for any straggling birds.

Once everyone is inside, you follow them into the chamber, taking a moment to catch your breath. The cool air inside is a welcome relief from the oppressive heat outside. You’ve developed a distaste for jungles. The ruins provide temporary shelter, but you know it won't be long before you're on the move again.

You are leaning against a cool stone wall, catching your breath when the captain approaches. His eyes narrow as he takes in your calm demeanor, a hint of grudging respect flickering across his features.

"You're more useful than just a pack mule," he mutters, his voice carrying an edge of surprise. You bite your tongue, resisting the urge to snap back. Now's not the time for petty arguments. You need him, at least for now.

"Let's keep moving," you say, pushing off the wall and taking the lead. “Daylight’s burning.”

The ruins stretch out before you, a labyrinth of ancient stone corridors and hidden chambers. All riddled with traps of various means and ends. The air is thick with dust and with the way it clings to the surface of the walls and statues, it is clear no one has been down here in a long time.

The pirates follow closely, their eyes darting around nervously. The captain stays near you, his hand never straying far from the hilt of his cutlass. Jumpy bastard. Suddenly, one of the pirates ahead lets out a yelp. You turn just in time to see him step on a pressure plate embedded in the floor. A series of clicks and whirs fills the air—a sound that sends chills down your spine. How stupid are they?

"Scatter!" you shout, diving to the side as a series of arrows shoot out from hidden slots in the walls. The pirates scramble in all directions, some managing to dodge the deadly projectiles while others aren't so lucky. Blood is soon flying.

You roll behind a crumbling pillar, narrowly avoiding an arrow aimed at your head. The chaos around you is deafening—shouts, screams, and the relentless thud of arrows hitting stone and flesh.

"Captain!" you call out, scanning the dimly lit corridor for any sign of him. He emerges from behind a fallen column, blood trickling down his arm but otherwise unscathed. His eyes meet yours, and a silent understanding passes between you.

"We need to split up," he grunts, his voice laced with urgency. "The Devil Fruit is somewhere in these ruins and we can't afford to stick together in one massive group with all these traps."

You nod, your mind already mapping out the corridors ahead. "I'll take the left wing," you say, pointing towards a shadowy passage that disappears into the darkness. He nods curtly before turning and heading down a different corridor with the remaining pirates.

You turn to head down the passage you had indicated and begin to carefully slink along, each step soft and very carefully placed. The air grows colder and every creak and groan of the old structure makes your heart flutter in your chest. Don’t panic. Your thoughts flicker back to your training—the hours spent honing your reflexes and learning to trust your instincts. To wield a blade. Those skills are what have kept you alive int eh grand line. Trust them.

The passage narrows, forcing you to squeeze through a tight gap in the stone walls. With a little wiggle, you manage to slip to the other side. Here, the corridor opens up into a vast chamber filled with towering statues and intricate carvings on the walls. This isn’t just another room.

Your eyes scan the chamber for any sign of the Devil Fruit. You know it's here somewhere—the carvings on the wall are clear indications of it being here. So you carefully step further into the room.

A faint glimmer catches your eye from one of the statues' bases. You approach cautiously, kneeling down to inspect it closer. Hidden beneath a layer of dust and grime is an ancient inscription—one that hints at a hidden compartment within the statue.

You reach out tentatively, fingers tracing over the carved symbols. One feels hollow, perusable. With a gentle push on the symbol, a hidden panel slides open to reveal a small alcove inside. Your lips twist into a triumphant smirk for inside the alcove, a faint glow illuminates the small space.

Reaching inside, your fingers brush against something smooth and cold. Carefully, you pull out a fruit unlike anything you've ever seen. The Devil Fruit is blood red, shimmering with an almost ethereal light. Its surface is covered in strange, swirling patterns that seem to shift and move as you stare at them.

Your breath catches in your throat as you hold it up to the dim light of the chamber. For a moment, you can't believe your luck. After all the danger and hardship, you've found it.

But now you grapple with the enormity of the situation, your mind racing with possibilities. This fruit holds the key to unimaginable power, but it also comes with unknown risks. You don't know what power it will give. You hesitate, a flicker of doubt crossing your mind.

You need this, Vee. You need it's strength.

You bring the fruit to your lips, taking a deep breath before sinking your teeth into its flesh. And you almost spit the first bite out! The taste is vile—bitter and rancid, like nothing you've ever experienced. Dark red juice oozes out, smearing your hands and face as you chew and swallow with a grimace. Your stomach churns violently and for a moment you think you might vomit. The taste is overwhelming, almost unbearable. You gag, fighting back the urge to retch as you force yourself to swallow another bite.

How does anyone actually manage to eat these things?

Each mouthful is a struggle but you manage to keep it down. Your determination outweighs the nausea threatening to overwhelm you. Rancid juice flows down your chin, staining your skin and shirt. It looks like you've gnawed on a raw piece of meat, drank blood, tore into a human body with your teeth. Finally, after what feels like an eternity of choking down rancid fruit, you swallow the last bit with a gag.

You lean against the statue for support, panting heavily as you wipe the dark red juice from your mouth with the back of your hand. The taste lingers unpleasantly on your tongue, but you've done it—there's no turning back now. Gone is the ocean, forsaking you in exchange for the power you’ve gained.

You lean against the statue, making a face as the vile taste of the Devil Fruit still lingers in your mouth. The chamber around you seems to blur and sharpen all at once. Your senses heighten, every creak of the ancient structure, every distant drip of water echoing like a thunderclap in your ears.

The warmth spreading through your body intensifies, becoming a searing heat that pulses with every heartbeat. You close your eyes, trying to steady yourself, but the sensation is overwhelming. It's as if your muscles are waking up from a long slumber, twitching and flexing on their own.

The searing heat coursing through your veins starts to settle and you sag against the statue. Something happened. You swipe at your mouth with the back of your hand, smearing the dark red juice across your face and fingers.

A noise from the corridor draws your attention. The captain stumbles into the room, his face a mask of pain and exhaustion. Blood seeps from a deep gash on his arm, and he clutches his side as he limps forward. His eyes widen when they lock onto you, taking in your disheveled appearance and the crimson stains on your mouth, neck, and hands.

He halts, chest heaving with ragged breaths. "You... you found it," he manages to gasp out, his gaze flicking to the empty alcove and then back to you.

You straighten up, feeling a newfound strength pulsing through your muscles. What power you just received is still a mystery to you, but you certainly feel the change. You meet his gaze steadily, a silent challenge hanging in the air between you.

For a moment, neither of you moves. The captain's eyes narrow, suspicion and fear mingling on his bloodied face. He begins to realize what you've done—that you've consumed the fruit and claimed its power for yourself.

A slow smile spreads across your lips, a dangerous glint in your violet eyes. You take a step forward, your foot sliding out to a hidden pressure plate only a step away. How your body knew it was there is beyond your comprehension at the moment. “A pleasure working with you, captain," you say without breaking eye contact with the captain. Then you press your foot down.

The sound is immediate—a series of clicks and whirs echoing through the chamber as hidden mechanisms activate. The captain's eyes widen in horror as he realizes what's happening.

The clicks and whirs grow louder, reverberating through the chamber. You watch the captain's face contort with realization and panic, his eyes darting around for an escape that doesn't exist. He stumbles backward, but it's too late. Ancient mechanisms grind into action and two massive slabs of stone begin to slide together from opposite sides of the room.

The captain's scream echoes off the cold stone walls as he tries to scramble out of the trap. There is nowhere for him to run. You stand still, a smirk playing on your lips as you watch him flail helplessly. The slabs move inexorably closer, crushing everything in their path.

He raises his arms in a futile attempt to stop the inevitable. His eyes lock onto yours one last time, a mix of rage and desperation etched across his face. "You—"

His voice cuts off abruptly as the slabs meet with a sickening crunch. Blood sprays outward, splattering across the floor and your boots. The sound is brief but horrifying, a final punctuation to his existence. Good riddance.

You take a step back, avoiding the spreading pool of blood as it seeps towards your feet. The room falls silent again, save for the distant dripping of water and the faint hum of power coursing through your veins.

With the captain gone, you take a moment to survey the chamber once more. The power you've gained from the Devil Fruit hums within you, filling you with a sense of invincibility. You feel stronger, faster—ready to take on whatever challenges lie ahead. And you will.

Wiping your blood-stained hands on your shirt, you turn towards the passage you came from and begin retracing your steps. The ruins hold many secrets yet to be uncovered, but for now, you've accomplished what you set out to do. Now onto your next goal.

The Whip of Lothaine.

Date Published: 9/22/24

Last Edit: 9/22/24

Previous | Masterlist | Next

[sterlingarcher23]

- Elumax -

Something that Season 4 manifested in the finale is Elumax - while even originally written as an Elmax only scene, that was changed and El and Lucas crying over Max and the reviving was then Elumax.

Basically, the original idea wanted to separate them to show who is the intended lover for Max in which realm. However, they kept the concept anyway:

El fights and saves Max in the nick of time in the mind.

Lucas does the same in the real world (otherwise Max would have a spinal injury if he wouldn't have caught her)

El is the dreamcatcher, protecting Max from the monsters within "If you touch her again, I kill you again."

Lucas is the protector in the real world "Don't touch her!"

Both are overpowered at first but found their strength to fight for Max.

Both have their own ways of love:

This is why Max can't feel or see anything - Henry stole love from her. He took away these abilities as Brenner explained - it just looks like an injury. Both abilities are important for the characters, symbolizing the way they mainly give and receive love (the final talk between Lucas and Max was by passing notes!) - so bestowing these abilities to Max is of great importance from a narrative perspective alone. ST has a countermeasure in the drawer to what happened and that's El (Please read my post about El & Henry build as foils) , one needs to read a bit between the lines but it is also right in front of us: forget traditional thinking.

(Side note: No one is confused about a psychic guy killing kids in their minds but as soon as it goes the other way, the reaction is "Nah, you can't do that magically." but they are okay with El reviving Max via mind over thousands of miles away. Makes sense. - They can and planed that long time ago.)

It's symbolism, the show is full of symbols and therefore getting these abilities symbolizes Max opening up to love, understanding and accepting who she is.

Of course it will come with a price tag. Because:

That price is someone elses life: El's (and maybe has already given a part of her life when she resurrected Max) - and Max will have a weak left leg, likely wearing a leg brace like her namesake Mad Max. (Foreshadowed in S3 in the shopping scene and in Will's painting). Her own ability of vision is gone but she'll have a substitute and likely will cover this condition with sunglasses as it will change her eye color like Will's changed. Possession is signaled by change in eye color. Max will however, unlike Will, be possessed by a benevolent force. But I digress...

Furthermore there was an interesting symbol smuggled in by the pinecone that Lucas holds while talking to Max.

It is one of the many "Neverending Story" references that are mostly about El & Max (the whole song is).

"In your hand the birth of a new day." = rebirth of Max, not just revival because El holds her hand later.

The pinecone is symbol for resurrection, eternal life and regeneration, enlightenment, the third eye and creativity. The latter is important in the mindscape and demonstrated by the fact that Max just altered her surroundings. Who can do that? She just knows, that she can. (and is able to walk across the borders between minds when a link is established when she entered the mind lair)

El herself is wearing a shirt with flowers on it throughout the finale.

The whole fighting for Max, the symbolism through the pinecone Lucas is holding and El's flower shirt, even the song makes it fundamentally clear where things are heading:

Max been reborn and Elumax as the Endgame.

Because:

"Someday love will find you. True love won't desert you. You know I still love you. Though we touched and went our separate ways."

And of course:

PS: Max is no damsel in distress or better won't stay that way. Once she's back, it's her turn to fight (with El's help) and we saw glimpses of that when she freed herself the first time and injured Henry. That was a teaser of what her role in 5 will be.

[thenightling]

Happy 30th anniversary to The Halloween Tree TV movie!

If you've never seen Ray Bradbury's The Halloween Tree it is really underrated.

The Halloween Tree was a novel written by Ray Bradbury in 1972 after he was disappointed by It's the Great Pumpkin Charlie Brown. He said, and I quote "The Great Pumpkin never showed up."

He originally planned for The Halloween Tree to be an animated Halloween special by animation icon, Chuck Jones, but the plans fell apart so Ray Bradbury published it as a novel instead.

Twenty-one-years-later in 1993 Ray Bradbury finally got his TV special as an animated movie from Hanna-Barbara / Turner / and Warner Brothers. It aired on TBS and for a few years after it was reshown on Cartoon Network.

In the 1990s you could buy The Halloween Tree on VHS tape and it came with a small, cheaply made, copy of the original novel. The video tape also included a Yogi Bear short about Yogi stealing a witch's broom to steal picnic baskets.

The plot of The Halloween Tree was this:

A group of teenagers plan on going trick or treating with their friend Joe Pipkin (Nicknamed Pip). When they arrive at Pip's house they see an ambulance and a note that indicates Pipkin's appendix has ruptured. At first the kids are very worried about their friend but then they think they see him running through the trees and think he has pulled some elaborate prank on them. They give chase and follow him to a spooky old house with a strange tree in the yard. The tree is full of thousands upon thousands of Jack-o-lanterns. Each jack-o-lantern represents someone who has died within the year. Here the children meet a mysterious man named Moundshroud (implied to actually be The Grim Reaper). The children spot their friend hiding and are startled to realize he's a ghost. Before they can adjust to this strange ripple in reality, their ghostly friend climbs up the Halloween Tree and steals the jack-o-lantern representing his own life. A strange wind comes and carries away their friend so the kids give chase. With the aid of Moundshroud the children travel through time and all over the world to find their friend. First they go to Ancient Egypt, then medieval UK, then France in the eleven hundreds, and mid-twentieth century Mexico. The children learn the history of Halloween and figure out who Moundshroud actually is.

The children each offer up a year from the end of their lives if their friend can live a full life with them. Moved by their loving offer to try to save their friend, Moundshroud accepts the offer (though this may be how he always intended for it to turn out). The children hurry back to Pip's house and find him there, tired, but alive and recovering from his appendix surgery. It's a very sweet story and it's narrated by Ray Bradbury, himself. Leonard Nemoy provided the voice of Moundshroud. Since the animated version was released on American cable thirty-years-ago and it was not theatrically released, a lot of people outside the US and younger people have never seen it. It is currently available for rent or purchase on Apple TV, Amazon, and Youtube. And you can buy it on DVD through Amazon.

For a made for TV animated movie it is surprisingly high quality. It won an Emmy. Ray Bradbury, himself, provided narration. I'm not really sure why it is not aired on TV anymore other than perhaps someone was worried that the cultural depictions might be seen as inaccurate and potentially insensitive. But I watched it pretty recently and it still seems pretty respectful. I love The Halloween Tree almost as much as I love Over the Garden Wall. Many people consider Over the Garden Wall to be a Halloween special too but in actuality it originally aired in November and was meant to bridge between Halloween and Christmas since it was inspired by early twentieth century Hallowe'en, Thanksgiving, and Christmas postcards. But both The Halloween Tree and Over the Garden Wall are very underrated. Here is the opening scene of The Halloween Tree. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Be8vfy2pOcY

[fancifulpurposelesslovely]

Andreil - Touch - The Raven King

Notes:

We’re starting with notes this time instead of at the end. I really enjoy the evolution we get in this book! The touching is a lot less one-sided, but there’s definitely a little more violence.

This is where we start to see Neil treat Andrew more like a cornered animal than an active aggressor, and I love that for them

Andrew Touches Neil

Andrew must have felt Neil tense up; they were sitting shoulder-to-shoulder in the backseat of Andrew's car

Chapter One

.5

Chapter Five

.5a

1

Neil thought he'd feel better when Nicky had the phone, but the overwhelming sense of loss still knotted up his lungs. He tugged his hand free and took the bags of clothes Nicky had hooked over his arm. He didn't have to ask for the keys. Andrew pilfered them from Nicky's pocket and held them up in offering.

Neil grabbed them, but Andrew held on for a moment. Andrew leaned forward on his perch and smiled at Neil. "Hey, Neil. Honesty looks awful on you."

Neil wrenched the keys out of his grasp and walked away to the sound of Andrew's laughter. He didn't go back inside afterward, but they came out to find him not much later. No one mentioned the cell phone and, although Nicky kept shooting him worried looks in the rearview mirror, no one spoke to Neil on the ride back to campus.

Andrew put a finger to the underside of Neil's chin and forced Neil's head up until they were looking at each other. "On that day you're not going to run. You're going to think about what I promised you and you're going to make the call. Tell me you understand."

2

...So what happened with Matt?”

“Ask him,” Andrew said.

“I’m asking you.”

“I’d rather here how he tells it,” Andrew said. He slung a striped inmate’s outfit over one shoulder and detoured past Neil on his way to the front of the store. When Neil started to argue, Andrew hooked a finger under his chin and forced his mouth closed again with an easy jerk of his hand.

Chapter Ten

3

same touch:

"No, you have it backwards. I went to juvie because she wanted to adopt me. But she didn't give up on me. She thought a stable home could straighten me out, she said. Her biological son wanted to join the Marines after high school, so she even offered to reallocate part of his college fund to me. She wanted me to have a future. My own Stephanie Walker, of a sort."

Neil only recognized that name because he'd just talked to Renee. He nodded to show he was following. Andrew rocked onto the balls of his feet and reached for Neil. It was all Neil could do to not tense up when Andrew's hands wrapped around his neck. Andrew didn't hold tight enough to cut off his air but tapped his thumbs against Neil's throat in time to Neil's pulse. 

4

“No." Andrew tapped his fingers a little faster, an agitated rhythm completely at odds with the mocking

smile on his lips. "That's too easy. These kinds of secrets are not given out lightly. You know that. We calculate collateral damage and escape routes. We plan and brace for the reaction and fallout. But Luther did not tell. He chose to not believe me at all. And that's a thousand times worse, you see."

Andrew hummed tunelessly as he thought. The longer he was silent, the surer Neil was that he'd failed. Finally Andrew reached for him again. This time he hooked his fingers in Neil's shirt collar instead of going for his throat.

Chapter Eleven

5

She was looking forward to meeting you, but she won't tell me what she thinks of you. She can't, you see. But I know she likes you. Bee has a thing for lost causes."

"I am not a lost cause." Denial was automatic and a waste of time. Andrew put his hand over

Neil's mouth to shut him up and said, "Liar. But that's what makes you interesting. It's also what makes you dangerous. I should know better by now. Maybe I'm not as smart as I thought I was. Should I be disappointed or amused?"

The perfect retort burned Neil's tongue, but he kept quiet in case Andrew wasn't done rambling. The answer was there, right out of reach, close enough Neil could feel it, but too far for him to make sense of. Maybe Andrew felt it too, because even in his drugged haze he knew to shut up. The smile he flashed Neil mocked them both at that near-miss. He withdrew completely, leaving just the memory of his heartbeat against Neil's mouth, and spun away.

Andrew laughed and pulled a hand free of his pocket. He wrapped his fingers around Neil's throat, not tight enough to cut off Neil's air but snug enough to be a warning. Neil saw Wymack shift in his peripheral vision but trusted the man to stay out of their way. Until Andrew actually hurt Neil Wymack would let them fight this out on their own terms. Neil kept his eyes on Andrew's face and pitched his voice low enough to cut Wymack and Betsy out of the conversation.

Chapter Twelve

6

7

Andrew's fingers slowly tightened until Neil couldn't breathe anymore. He refused to shake Andrew off. The tightness in his chest started as simple discomfort but spread until it felt like every bone in his chest would break beneath the pressure. Neil's control started to crumble, no matter how fiercely he clung to it, and he'd just shifted to throw Andrew back when Andrew finally loosened his grip. Instead of letting go, Andrew slid his hand around back of Neil's neck and pulled him in close. He put his mouth at Neil's ear and lowered his voice, but Neil didn't have to see his face to know Andrew was still smiling. He could hear it.

“Trust you.” Andrew enunciated each word like he’d never heard them before. He laughed curled his fingers tight around Neil's chin. “You lie, and lie, and lie, and you think I’ll trust you with his life?”

Chapter Thirteen

8

Neil Touches Andrew

Neil dove forward and climbed onto the mattress at Andrew’s side. He reached over him, snagged the edge of the sheets, and gave a fierce yank to free it from Drake’s corpse. Neil only had the bloody sheet partway over Andrew before Kevin reached them.

Chapter Eleven

.5a-c

Andrew’s grin was wide and savage as he mocked his own pain. Neil wanted to tell him to hold still, but Andrew finally got himself upright. The sheet threatened to slip off his shoulders, so Neil wrapped it tighter around him. Andrew let him do it with a bemused look on his face.

“Hey,” Neil said, or thought he said. He didn’t recognize his own voice. “Andrew. Andrew, are you—”

He couldn’t ask if Andrew was okay. He wasn’t that cruel. He would beg Andrew to stop laughing if he could but every word he spoke threatened to set off his gag reflex. All he could do was hang on, fingers knotted in the sheet he’d gotten up to Andrew’s shoulders.

1

Aaron clambered onto the bed and reached for Andrew. Andrew tried moving out of his way, but that was finally too much for his stomach. Neil helped push him forward when he started choking.

2

3

"What in God's—" Luther started, voice hoarse.

"Oh, no," Andrew interrupted him. "No. Don't ask what. You know better. You know better," he said again, with heat. Andrew tilted forward as far as he dared. He started to sway, but Neil caught his shoulder to keep him from falling.

"Is this how you stayed quiet?" Neil reached up and took hold of Andrew's wrist. He couldn't feel the scars through the cotton sleeve but he didn't need to. He knew they were there. Andrew knew what he was talking about, judging by how still he went. His smile didn't even flicker but Neil wasn't fooled. "Did you do this so you wouldn't tell her the truth about her son?"

Mutual Touch

Chapter Eleven

1

He thought for a moment, then gave an expansive shrug and let go of Aaron. He peeled his armbands off one at a time and dropped them in Neil's lap.

He said something, but Neil didn't hear him. The pale shade of scarred skin was too familiar and too startling for him to not react. Neil grabbed hold of Andrew's wrist. He started to turn Andrew's arm over, sure he'd imagined things, but Andrew clamped his free hand down on Neil's forearm.

"Andrew," Neil started.

"Just so we're clear, I'll kill you."

Chapter Twelve

The iron in his grip was at complete odds with the drugged smile on his face. Andrew wasn't bluffing. If Neil didn't let go fast enough Andrew would break his arm. Neil loosened his grip but spread his fingers as he did so. He felt the slight dip and bump of destroyed skin beneath his fingertips and felt his stomach drop. Andrew wrenched Neil's hand off his arm, but he did it in a way that kept his bared forearm turned toward himself.

2

Betsy nodded and went inside. When she was gone Andrew tried again to get his hand free. Neil still held fast. Andrew turned a look on him that was too amused to be exasperated.

Neil couldn't believe her. Chocolate wasn't a fix-it; it wouldn't make any of this easier to stomach. Except a moment later Andrew dragged Neil's arm around where he could get a look at Neil's watch and said, "You think of everything, Bee. We'll be in soon."

"Better luck next time, Neil," he said. "I warned you once already, didn't I? I don't feel anything."

"Anymore," Neil said, barely a whisper. The old scars up and down Andrew's wrists were evidence of how far Andrew had to fall to hit this point. Neil finally let go of him and let his hand fall limp to his side.

…Who will take care of Kevin if I'm gone? I can't trust him wandering around here by himself, and Coach can't be with him all the time. Kevin's kind of a full-time job."

Chapter Thirteen

3

"We'll take care of it," Wymack said.

4

"Oh, come on, Coach," Andrew said. "You've got to do better than that. Try again; I'll wait here while you think of something more convincing to say."

"I'll watch him," Neil said.

Kevin turned to stare at him, and Andrew pushed Kevin out of the way so he could see Neil better. Neil had startled the smile off Andrew's face with that, but it was back in a heartbeat.

"You?" Andrew asked. That was all he said, but that one word said enough.

Neil didn't respond, content to wait Andrew out. It didn't take long. Andrew took a couple quick steps his direction and shoved Neil as hard as he could. Neil knew it was coming and tried to brace for it, but he still stumbled back a couple steps. One of the strangers started to speak, likely trying to call Andrew to order. Neil saw Wymack move in the corner of his eye, maybe waving the intervention off as unnecessary, but he didn't dare take his eyes off Andrew to check. When Andrew pushed him again Neil caught hold of his arms and pulled Andrew with him.

Neil waited, but Andrew didn't let go. With so many people watching them Neil couldn't lift his shirt. He did the next best thing and dragged one of Andrew's hands under the hem. He pressed Andrew's palm to the ugly scarring across his abdomen. Andrew's eyes dropped to Neil's shirt like he could see Neil's marred skin through the dark cotton.

Andrew's fingers twitched against Neil's skin. "Someone lied to me. These ouches feel a little rough for a child on the run."

[bizarrequazar]

GJ and ZZH Updates — April 02-08

<<< previous week || all posts || following week >>>

This is part of a weekly series collecting updates from and relating to Gong Jun and Zhang Zhehan.

This post is not wholly comprehensive and is intended as an overview, links provided lead to further details. Dates are in accordance with China Standard Time, the organization is chronological. My own biases on some things are reflected here. Anything I include that is not concretely known is indicated as such, and you’re welcome to do your own research and draw your own conclusions as you see fit. Please let me know if you have any questions, comments, concerns, or additions. :)

[Glossary of names and terms] [Masterlist of my posts about the situation with Zhang Zhehan]

04-02 → Beijing Stars and Rain Education Institute for Autism posted a PSA spoken by Gong Jun for World Autism Day. [subbed video] He also donated 30k RMB in Junweixians’ name.

→ ELLEMEN posted a teaser image for their photoshoot with Gong Jun that would release the following day. Caption: “@ Gong Jun Simon’s world and life don’t have so many reasons. He is straightforward, sincere, and optimistic, and he has cast off the ‘gaze’ projected on him. He is also one of the staff on the set, chatting with people around him about work, life, and hobbies.”

→ The Instagram posted eight photos of “Zhang Zhehan”.

→ Gong Jun’s personal Weibo reached 20 million followers.

04-03 → ELLEMEN posted the cover for their issue featuring Gong Jun. Caption: “Mentioning the journey along the way and the dramas he’s participated in, @ Gong Jun Simon’s words are full of his own understanding of the characters and the handling of the characters when acting. His narration is more like a piece of travel notes, without flashy rhetoric, without thrilling turning point, just counting people and events calmly. Now he is an actor, and an actor is just one of thousands of professions. He is still exploring, and he only knows about ordinary life.” This was reposted by his studio with the added caption: “Everything is luxuriant in spring, boss @ Gong Jun Simon together with the vegetation grows wantonly in the vast environment.”

→ ELLEMEN posted eleven photos from their photoshoot. Caption: “Pulling away from the world of @ Gong Jun Simon, and then entering the world of characters, there are chances beyond the setting. He has starred in many film and television works, and he has a richer experience as an actor in the process of precipitation. In and out of the play, he hopes to keep his original intentions. It is because of his ‘love to travel’ personality, just like his eyes, which are always as tough as before.”

→ Gong Jun posted six of the photos to his personal Weibo. Caption: “Grass and trees are friends, thanks @ELLEMEN” He also posted seven to his Xiao Hong Shu, caption: “I seem  like a potted plant” and eight to his Instagram, caption: “Planting grass!” (slang for selling something)

→ ELLEMEN posted a video from their photoshoot with Gong Jun. Caption: “In addition to calmly switching between roles, @ Gong Jun Simon can also treat life calmly. He is not afraid of being busy, and between the tight schedules of various work, he is also planting life. It is a blessing to have something to do and something to look forward to. In those spare days, you may see Gong Jun who is cooking, exercising, traveling by car, and traveling, all of which are his well-known ways of relaxing.”

→ Gong Jun’s studio posted a video of behind the scenes footage from the photoshoot. Caption: “Smell, the fragrance of grass and trees; smell, the color in the bush. Boss @ Gong Jun Simon listens to the sound of spring and sways and grows.” BGM is Stacking by Dylan Sitts.

→ Gong Jun’s studio posted a douyin of behind the scenes footage from the photoshoot. Caption: “Feel the breath of spring, boss @ Gong Jun Simon is in harmony with nature.” BGM is Jumpin’ In by Oh The Larceny. 

04-04 → 361° posted a photo ad featuring Gong Jun. (1129 kadian) They later also posted a second one.

→ CCTV posted a promotional image featuring Gong Jun for a celebration of Sichuanese poetry that would release the following day for Qingming.

04-05 → CCTV posted the video announced the previous day, wherein Gong Jun recites Li Bai’s poem Climbing Mount Emei. This was reposted by his studio with the added caption: “The prosperity of spring, stepping into the pen and ink. Boss @ Gong Jun Simon talks about the beauty of his hometown in poetry, and appreciates the beauty of Sichuan.”

→ A Chinese whaler made a series of posts revealing that she was one of the people who has been photoshopping Zhang Sanjian photos, and that she was aware the entire time that this was harmful to Zhang Zhehan. Her confession resulted from her being fed up with the scam gang complaining about her edits and deciding to quit. She subsequently abandoned her account.

→ Charles Guo Puyuan, the photographer for the ELLEMEN photoshoot, posted nine photos from the shoot including one that had not been in the official release. It was noticed that some of these also seem to be less edited versions. 

04-06 → It was announced that Go Fighting! Season 9 will begin airing on 04-16.

→ 361° posted a commercial featuring Gong Jun.

→ 361° posted a photo ad featuring Gong Jun.

04-07 → The Go Fighting! Weibo posted teaser images for its season 9 cast.

→ Gong Jun’s studio posted a vlog from his trip to Thailand. Caption: “Follow boss @ Gong Jun Simon into the jungle and mountain stream, listening to music and the sounds of nature~” BGM is บ้านจัดสร by Wave and So, and the songs Gong Jun sings are 山川 by Li Ronghao, 心墙 by JJ Lin, Special Person by Kalil Fong, Ordinary Day by Mao Buyi, Cheerleader by Omi, 只是计划 by 逃跑计划, and his own song 春意福盈.  Fan Observation: Zhang Zhehan sang a bit of Special Person during a livestream on 2021-05-28.

→ Charlotte Tilbury posted a teaser featuring Gong Jun for their ad campaign that would release the following day.

04-08 → Charlotte Tilbury posted a commercial featuring Gong Jun, later followed by two photo ads [here] and [here].

Additional Reading: → Bluebird is organizing a charity drive to Educating Girls of Rural China for Zhang Zhehan’s birthday, please consider donating if you’re able! → A reminder that Harry is putting together a video of wellwishes for Zhang Zhehan’s birthday!

<<< previous week || all posts || following week >>>

[thatforgottenbasilisk]

the unofficial adventures of the unofficial archive group chat

Chapter 1 (AO3)

Originally posted on 1/22/2024

Summary:

TIM TAM TOM: martin you do not owe him an apology

TIM TAM TOM: i think you promoted yourself to his best friend actually

sash (❁´◡`❁): He's going to be asking you out any day now

TIM TAM TOM: married within the year

sash (❁´◡`❁): However I wouldn't bring up spiders again with him he's got the 'intense arachnophobia' note on his employee file

mahtin: He showed you his file?

sash (❁´◡`❁): No

mahtin: Oh

OFFICIAL archive discord

#general

hibitchcus flower just slid into the server.

hibitchcus flower just changed their nickname to TIM TAM TOM

Turbo nerd as in the movie joined the party.

TIM TAM TOM just changed Turbo nerd as in the movie's nickname to sash (❁´◡`❁)

sash (❁´◡`❁): Acceptable only because of the kaomoji

Good to see you, Blackwood, Martin

TIM TAM TOM: ugh god marto please tell me you just made that account 5 minutes ago

Blackwood, Martin: I'm sorry I've literally never heard of Discord!!

sash (❁´◡`❁): Give him a break he probably thought it was an official work thing

sash (❁´◡`❁): Directly affiliated with the Magnus Institute, London

TIM TAM TOM: please sash no jon references this early in the morning

Blackwood, Martin: It's 11:30?

TIM TAM TOM: if it's the AM it's too early in the morning

sash (❁´◡`❁): You voluntarily wake up at six, don't act like you're one of us

Blackwood, Martin: You're a morning person?

sash (❁´◡`❁): He goes to bed no later than 10 pm except for on special occasions

TIM TAM TOM: why would you call me out like this

TIM TAM TOM: im wounded

Blackwood, Martin: You should be

sash (❁´◡`❁): You should be

TIM TAM TOM: youre ganging up on me already i see how it is

TIM TAM TOM: also your name is giving me hives

TIM TAM TOM just changed Blackwood, Martin's nickname to MARTY PARTY

MARTY PARTY: Now I'm getting hives

sash (❁´◡`❁): You can change it in the top left corner

MARTY PARTY: Thank you!!

MARTY PARTY just changed their nickname to mahtin

mahtin: There, more acceptable

TIM TAM TOM: what did i JUST say about jon references

mahtin: You don't pronounce the 'r' in my name either? Nobody does? This is London?

TIM TAM TOM: yeah but jon is the most intense about it

sash (❁´◡`❁): MAHTIN YOU FORMATTED THIS INCORRECTLY!! JAIL FOR A THOUSAND YEARS!!

TIM TAM TOM: MAHTIN THE STANDARD WAY THAT WE FORMAT THINGS HERE HAS TWELVE-POINT FONT, NOT ELEVEN!

sash (❁´◡`❁): MAHTIN I DO NOT CARE IF YOU HAVENT DONE A REPORT LIKE THIS SINCE YOUR MASTER'S THAT YOU GOT TEN YEARS AGO! I'M GOING TO BE A BITCH ABOUT IT ANYWAY!

TIM TAM TOM: MAHTIN!

sash (❁´◡`❁): MAHTIN!

mahtin: I mean, to be fair, I truly haven't got a clue on how to do half these reports and follow-ups

mahtin: It's been too long since I've done anything outside of, you know, Library Things

mahtin: I don't blame him for being frustrated sometimes

TIM TAM TOM: once you get used to it its not hard at all

TIM TAM TOM: esp since you did it in uni all u gotta do is dust off them memoreez

sash (❁´◡`❁): Jon is unecessarily dramatic and mean about it though

TIM TAM TOM: ^^

sash (❁´◡`❁): He's like that with most things, though, so it's fine

sash (❁´◡`❁): He doesn't mean anything personal by it

TIM TAM TOM: we only bully him a little bit for it

mahtin: ah

sash (❁´◡`❁): ... 'ah?'

TIM TAM TOM: ??

mahtin: I see

mahtin: I may owe him an apology?

sash (❁´◡`❁): You what

TIM TAM TOM: im torn

TIM TAM TOM: on the one hand hell yeah lets go marto my man

TIM TAM TOM: on the other hand jon? is he okay? did you actually hurt his feelings ? the only reason hes not in the discord is bc hes fucking insufferable rn and also bc electronics dont like him-

mahtin: I could tell you what I did? To make you not torn?

TIM TAM TOM: no

mahtin: Well I'm going to say it anyway to determine if an apology is in order

sash (❁´◡`❁): Yes go ahead don't let Tim convince you otherwise

mahtin: Well

mahtin: I may have started a bit of a fight with him?

mahtin: Might have implied that he didn't pay attention in Uni?

mahtin: I was completely pulling it out of my arse but I was tired of being corrected on a bunch of little things like I'm SORRY it's been over TEN YEARS since I did ANY education

mahtin: So I dug in my heels on some inane little thing and now it's kind of. On sight

mahtin: This has been going on for a few days now? I'm surprised nobody picked up on it honestly

mahtin: I mean who has an argument about spiders? Even most arachnophobes agree that the jumping ones are cute! They're small and fuzzy what's not to love!

TIM TAM TOM: martin you do not owe him an apology

TIM TAM TOM: i think you promoted yourself to his best friend actually

sash (❁´◡`❁): He's going to be asking you out any day now

TIM TAM TOM: married within the year

sash (❁´◡`❁): However I wouldn't bring up spiders again with him he's got the 'intense arachnophobia' note on his employee file

mahtin: He showed you his file?

sash (❁´◡`❁): No

mahtin: Oh

TIM TAM TOM: if sash says dont bring something up w someone it means she hacked into somewhere she shouldnt and saw things nobody wanted her to see

TIM TAM TOM: she does that with everyone btw

sash (❁´◡`❁): It's easier to just look at the 'phobia' part than dance around like "hey, most people at the Fear Research Institute are absolutely fucking terrified of something, which club are you in? what should I not talk about with you?"

sash (❁´◡`❁): It's EFFICIENT and not personal information in the FEAR RESEARCH INSTITUTE it's basically an icebreaker question in Artifact Storage

sash (❁´◡`❁): For example

sash (❁´◡`❁): No clowns or mannequins with Tim

TIM TAM TOM: or creepy dolls

sash (❁´◡`❁): Or creepy dolls

sash (❁´◡`❁): I'm fine with pretty much anything in all honesty but I'll let you know if that changes

mahtin: Does my file say anything? I don't remember what I said my fear was

sash (❁´◡`❁): Yours was something existential like 'loneliness' or something like that

sash (❁´◡`❁): I don't tend to get that deep with my coworkers so if it's not going to come up in conversation I don't put in as much effort to remember it

mahtin: ... Interesting

mahtin: I don't remember what I said my fear was but I'm fairly certain it was something concrete

mahtin: Might've been snakes? I used to be scared of snakes for a while

mahtin: Then I got a part time job at a pet store for some extra money and their snakes were cool so no more of that

mahtin: But I was only asked the fear question once? During my interview?

sash (❁´◡`❁): ... Weird

TIM TAM TOM: ... indeed

[darklydeliciousdesires]

The Dream - Chapter Eighteen.

Huge thanks to everyone for your kind comments and reblogs! I’m so thrilled you’re enjoying the story :)

Previous chapters - Prologue  One  Two  Three  Four  Five  Six  Seven  Eight  Nine  Ten  Eleven  Twelve  Thirteen  Fourteen  Fifteen  Sixteen  Seventeen

Tag list - In the comments, please DM to be added/removed (note: those not engaging will be automatically removed from the tag list, FYI)

Words - 2,577

Warnings - 18+ content throughout, minors DNI!

“And where were you last night?”

At hearing his sister-in-law's question, Angel smirked immediately while standing in his kitchen, waiting for the coffee pot to fill. “Well, Keri arrived yesterday afternoon, so put two and two together.”

Sharise raised an eyebrow. “I really should have guessed. So, will you be making an appearance tonight? I want to meet this new girl of yours!”

Speaking of the new girl, she wandered naked into the kitchen to find him, eyeing him with a sensual grin, crouching to undo his jeans. Oh, how glad he was her shyness was very much a thing of the past. Comfortable Keri was the very antithesis of shy.  

“Yeah, we’ll be there,” he spoke, Sharise continuing about something else as he looked down to watch his cock vanish in Keri’s mouth, working him fully hard in an impressive time.

“Mmm, so fucking big.” She moaned quietly, Angel trying his best to sound normal as his conversation continued, biting his lips together to prevent a moan escaping his mouth.  

“Uh huh... right... he did? Tell him he, ah, yeah... Sharise I gotta go. Later.” Putting his phone down, his eyes fell to her, fingers combing through her hair. “You’re bad.”

“Mmhmm,” she confirmed, her lips sliding all the way to the base of his cock, pulsing around him. “But that’s how you like me, isn’t it?”

“Ain’t even gonna front,” he groaned, watching his cock vanish once more. “You naughty as hell, and I fucking love it. What I’d love more though is to bend you over something and fuck you. Get up.”

She shook her head. “Not what I had in mind. I’m thirsty.” A minute, maybe less later, and he was quenching that thirst, shooting his load straight down her throat, Keri straightening, kissing his chest before sauntering out. “I’m going for a shower.”  

He made up his mind in about five seconds that he was, too.  

“I still can’t believe this happened sometimes, you know,” she told him, standing beneath the water, all clean and fresh, happy to get a little dirty again as they exchanged kisses, Angel’s hands gripping her ass. “Or that I get all these gorgeous muscles to play with.”

He chuckled, hands sliding up her back. “Yeah, same. In fact, I don’t think I’m done with playing everything you got goin’ on yet, you know.”  

Her teeth closed softly over his nipple, giving it a little tug. “Good.” Her eyes smouldered with desire at him, the lack of contraception in their location driving them out of the shower quickly, barely drying off before they were on one another again, wet bodies slithering together upon the bed, the heat from a thousand suns roaring between them. Nothing in their dreams could have alluded to, or even prepared them for a second over how well matched they were sexually.  

“Shit,” she panted, propped against the pillows, her mouth agape as she watched Angel utterly ruin her with his. “I swear, nobody has made me come so quickly with their tongue before!” He smiled up at her, sucking upon her swollen clit, two fingers burrowed deep within her, working her with the kind of skill that sent glimmers skittering through her as she ascended sharply, her thighs brushing his face as she cried out.

He pried it from her with long, firm licks, fingers rotating inside her ceaselessly, smiling against her soaking folds as she came apart, immediately pushing him up and over onto his back, straddling his hips and sinking down on him with a sigh.

Angel immediately raised an eyebrow. “Erm, aren’t you forgetting something?” He looked down to where they were fused and back up at her. “I like you a fucking lot, but I ain’t in the market for babies just yet.”

“Well, I’m on the pill, so if you can assure me that you don’t have anything that’s going to make my pussy fall out, then it’s fine,” she spoke, making him snort softly with laughter.

“Hand on heart,” he began, placing his palm upon his chest, “I actually don’t, which is unconceivable with the amount of barebacking I’ve done in my time.”

She cringed a little. “Yeah, same. I haven’t always been careful. I’m mostly pretty good there, but yeah, sometimes a little careless.”

“If we did, I guess we’d just be two dirty hoes sharing our crotch rot together, huh?”  

Stopping her gentle undulation on top of him, she burst into hysterics, resting her head to his chest as she laughed. “Oooh, keep laughing. Feels good around my dick when you do.” Her giggles only escalated more. “Fuck, yeah you keep doing that. Damn, girl.” She attempted to sit up and continue, but the look on his face had her in pieces, laughing hard, leaning down to him.  

“You’re so silly,” she giggled, kissing him. “I love you so much.”

“I love you, too.” Her heart fluttered madly, no nerves, no moment of ‘oh shit, is it too soon after only dating for three weeks?’ It was nothing but joy and complete confidence that together, and in love, was exactly where they were meant to be. “Come on!” he suddenly yelled, smacking her ass. “You need to get to riding me into this damned bed, because shit, you’re too fucking good at it.”  

As she complied, her hips rotating against him in a figure of eight while slowly bouncing on his cock, he continued to heap praise on her, how good she was at fucking him, exalting her beauty, how much he loved her. Keri ate it all up, feeling like she had moonbeams bursting through her, so happy, and so very content at that moment as she speared herself on every last inch of his cock, the wide drag of it opening her up deliciously.  

Pushing her feet flat into the bed, she began grinding down on him with vigour, Angel holding her waist to keep her steady as he assisted with bouncing her on his cock, moving his thumb to drag sparks of heat upon her clit as she clutched his forearms, crying out as she came hard, reducing him to a trembling wreck soon after.  

“I think we need another shower.” he panted. She definitely agreed. While both of them could have happily spent the day in bed, they did actually get dressed and head out, Angel taking her to get lunch before showing her round Santo Padre a little, also stopping for dinner later in the evening.  

While he was distracted by the appearance of an old friend and catching up, Keri took the time to read her messages, laughing quietly at one she’d received from Frankie.  

‘DID YOU RIDE THE BEARD YET THO BEETS?’  

“Frances, you’re too funny.” she muttered, tapping out her reply.  

‘Beard ridden? Check. Cock ridden? Check. Totally in love with the man? Check.’

The two ticks turning blue alerted her to the message being seen, Frankie replying in gif form, the characters from the sitcom Seinfeld all dancing with excitement, their arms aloft.  

‘GET IT GIRL! So happy for you!! We’ll do dinner here on Monday, just us four girls so you can tell us EVERYTHING! Buzzing with excitement for you, now you go enjoy your weekend! All the love! Xxx'

While she was replying to her message, pausing to tell Angel’s friend it was nice to meet him before he moved on, she replied to a message from Ash, then noticed she had an Instagram notification, Angel tagging her in a picture.  

‘I ain’t great at photography like my girlfriend is, but when the subject is so beautiful, it ain’t hard.’ It was a picture of her pausing in replying to Frankie, looking out across the street and smiling into the sunshine. She loved it, and the tags he’d used even more. #allmine #shesthefuckingbest.

“You’re adorable,” she cooed, Angel grinning.  

“Shhh, don’t you be telling nobody that. I got my street cred to think about.” His wink had her laughing, thanking the server when a plate was placed down in front of her. After they’d eaten, they headed straight for the yard, EZ and Sharise sitting outside of the clubhouse, the latter on her feet immediately to greet Keri with her usual warmth.

“Hello, Keri,” she spoke, sweeping her into a hug, Keri noting how nice she smelled, like vanilla and cherries. And weed. “It’s really nice to meet you after all we’ve heard. This is my husband, EZ.”

He got up, giving her a little hug and kissing her cheek, telling her the same, Keri immediately feeling very welcomed by her new boyfriend’s family. And then the others, one of whom was just as high energy as she’d expected.

“Oh, it’s the Utah girl!” Coco shouted, striding over and kissing her cheek. “Hey mamacita, how’s it going? You want a shot? Let’s have shots, man! Oh, I’m Coco, by the way.” She was immediately dragged inside, looking at Angel with raised eyebrows as he followed her in, shaking his head. Even if the girl wasn’t his, Coco had to impress. Inside, she was swiftly introduced to Bishop, Taza, Gilly and Creeper, the only other guys around, being furnished with a beer by Angel, and one of three shots by a very enthusiastic Coco.  

“So, you take photos, right? I seen your shit, it’s badass, girl!” he began. “Y’all need a model? I’m offering if you do!”

Angel snorted amusedly. “She don’t wanna crack her camera lens.”  

“I’ll bring my camera down at some point, so yes you can. You’re all certainly very interesting subjects, that’s for sure. I could get some good stuff,” she replied, taking the shot and sinking it, Coco smiling tauntingly at Angel, the smugness radiating off of him.  

“See, mano, see? Your girl wants to take my picture!” Angel just shook his head and grinned, knowing he didn’t really need a comeback for Coco’s razzing, remembering of course which one of them had spent most of the morning getting fucked into the bed by her. Taking a plentiful supply of beers, they headed back outside, Angel and his brother falling into conversation, EZ moving so Keri and Sharise could sit and get to know one another, the women sharing stories from their lives as they chatted.  

“It was always risky, especially for me as a black woman and how we are viewed by the system. I know of guys from my old hood back up in Englewood who are doing ten year stretches for being busted for what I would sometimes only sell to one person in a regular evening. I grew, too. Well, my dad did, but he taught me how to cultivate the plants correctly. He used to put them in the greenhouse with all of his chilies and tomatoes.  

“He never used lamps, because that’s how the cops bust you. They can use thermal imaging to find places of high heat and then raid your home. An old buddy of mine got them all swarm his house one time because of that, but he wasn’t a grower. The officers nearly fainted when he led them into his spare room and showed them the wall-to-wall vivarium's full of snakes and spiders! It was their heat lamps the thermal imaging had picked up on as a source of suspiciously high heat. They left pretty quickly when he reached into Hallow’s viv and got her out. She was his prized specimen, a gigantic, goliath bird eating spider. I swear for lord, she frightened the living fuck out of me!”

Keri was fascinated by Sharise’s story, nodding engagingly all the way through as she heard her background in how she’d ended up in the cannabis industry, now obviously a legal owner and operator. “Oh, I love spiders! They’re so elegant, really fascinating creatures.”

Sharise crinkled her nose a little. “Girl, I’ll leave that to you. They give me the creeps. And your man over there? Terrified. Any other insect and he has no issues, but spiders? Forget it. Angel can’t cope.”

“I heard my name,” she man himself called from across the table, eyes widening. 

“I’m just mentioning to Keri about your profound arachnophobia,” Sharise informed him sweetly, beginning to chuckle at his frown.

He snorted, swigging his beer. “It ain’t that bad!”

EZ immediately interjected. “Oh no? You almost passed out when you found a black widow in your helmet one time.”  

“Yeah, those things can kill you, though!” he cried, shaking his head, EZ looking at the rail suddenly and reaching out to grasp, the arrival of a large, common spider perfectly timed.  

“So, you’re good with this guy, then?” Opening his hand, it began to run up his fingers, Angel out of his seat like a rocket.

“Get the fuck outta here with that shit, bro!” Immediately, EZ got up, securing the spider once more and suddenly running for his brother, Angel tearing off the porch and hurtling out across the yard, EZ gaining on him with ease, being the quicker runner. “EZ I will fucking cut you, get the hell away from me!”  

“Oh my god!” Keri cried, she and Sharise falling apart, their respective guys vanishing in between the piles of metal, Angel making a whooping noise that pushed her into absolute hysterics. “I feel like I should go and save him.”

“Oh, baby girl, he’s had this coming since the scorpion incident,” Sharise hissed, drying her eyes as she straightened up, reaching for her drink. When Keri wore an expression of inquisition, she embellished. “EZ is scared shitless of scorpions, but Angel is fine with them, much to my husband’s detriment. He picked one up by the tail a few weeks ago and put it right on his chest when he was passed out. EZ had about four consecutive heart attacks after he’d been prodded awake and saw it sitting there chilling on him.”  

“Reminds me of those guys from Jackass. My stepdad introduced me to those movies recently, and they’re hilarious,” she replied, Sharise nodding.

“That’s exactly how they can be when they get playful. He’s the worst,” she exclaimed, just as Bishop walked out, flashing them a grin of pure pearly whites.

“I’m the worst for what, sweetheart?” he asked, curious.  

“Punking the guys,” Sharise snorted with laughter, the president’s grin widening even more.  

He looked nothing but proud of himself. “Gotta keep ‘em on their toes.” Just then, Angel came hurtling towards the clubhouse, Bishop raising an eyebrow as he skidded to a halt beside him. “Spider?”

Angel pulled his gun, pointing it low. “Imma fuckin’ blow a hole in your foot if you don’t stop with that shit, Ezekiel!”

EZ couldn’t keep his laughter in, looking on at his wide-eyed brother, who was standing, out of breath, pissed off and not afraid to show it. “I don’t even have it any longer. I was just chasing you for the fun.” He opened his hand to reveal there was nothing there, Angel muttering cusses in Spanish, throwing himself back down into a chair again.  

It was a fun evening for Keri, getting to know the people closest to him better, and witness the hilarity that was her boyfriend’s fear of certain eight-legged critters. She did wonder how much energy he’d have, after being chased by his brother. As it turned out, he had more than enough left to do a very thorough job of railing her into the bed throughout the early hours of the morning.