#but like... i'm too sad about their so i don't want to (+ what post-canon lmfao)

[feuqueerfire]

Ever since I watched DFF ep 12 yesterday, I'd be doing my regular activities only to be hit with "my fucking White D:" thoughts in the middle

#dead friend forever the series #dff #dead friend forever #also teewhite like sorry but ep 11 teewhite made my brain melt #but idek what to think about when it comes to the ship like usually I'll play around with post-canon or missing scene headcanons in my mind #but like... i'm too sad about their so i don't want to (+ what post-canon lmfao) #i pretty much never think of AUs for these show characters but maybe for teewhite I'll just think of an AU where tee is a 'bad boy' in #the regular way that white was assuming he was when he pursued him and smoked pot with at work etc #feu rambles

[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.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fluff #tom riddle smut #tom riddle angst #(the trifecta) #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #ftltutbh

[certainlynotasimp]

Just A Bite.

(Miguel O' Hara x Female! Reader)

A/N: Hello~ I got another Miggy and Sunny post for my beloved readers, and I think you'll like it. I'm still working on the request too, but I had this idea and I had to write it. Also if you want to be notified about this series, please leave a comment on this post, and if you wanna read more then check out my master list.

Also thank you guys for 100 followers! I really appreciate you guys so much and I hope you all stay with me on this journey!

Warnings: Grumpy x Sunshine, Barley any use of (Y/N) ((Sunny is a nickname, not her name)), Female pronouns, Miguel being a teasing mf, Gwen being a snoopy spider, Establish Relationship?, Fluff, a little break in canon, and Google translate Spanish ((please give me critique if you guys are fluent in Spanish because I don't know how to speak it.))

Still haven't seen the movie yet so excuse any inaccuracies.

“So are they?” Jessica stops picking at her salad as the younger SpiderWoman peers over her shoulder.

Turning her head slightly, it didn’t take her long to discover what the young protégé’s attention is focused on. 

The signature blue costume hugged the tall Spiderman as he stood several feet away from them. His normally dangerous talons were hidden by the two trays of food in each hand. His eyes were narrowed in annoyance as he seems to be hyperlinked on something. It didn’t take long before Jessica figured out who she needed to spot as the source of Miguel’s irritation. 

The black and white costume of the tiny spider caught her eyes first before she realizes that Peter B. Parker had enamored her attention away from Miguel.

 Well, not so much him, but the one-month-old Mayday Parker had the Spider Society's sunshine orbiting around her. Her little hand grasps around the digit of an older woman as Sunny cooes. A look of awe and sadness filled her eyes as the whole world seemed to disappear around her.

“Are they what?” Jessica asks as she turns her attention back to her lunch, mildly groaning as her little bug certainly didn’t appreciate the diet their daddy put them on. 

“Is Miguel and (Y/N) together?” Gwen repeats her question as she analyzes Miguel’s body language.

It was odd to Gwen as Miguel appeared to be annoyed that he had to hold their plates while waiting on her, but he didn’t make a move to say to rush along the tiny spider. In fact, Gwen nearly choked on her drink as she sees the longing gaze in his garnet eyes.

“To be honest…” Jessica catches Gwen’s attention again as she starts packing away her now empty tray with trash. “I’ve been a part of the Society for a long time, but Sunny was here before I was. Her and Miguel are kinda a packaged deal, but I have no idea if they are together.” Gwen tilts her head with a confused look on her face. She knew the older Spiderwoman was one of the first members of the Society when Miguel created it, but she didn’t know the cheery spider was here longer than Jess. 

“She was here before you?”

“She was here before all of us.” Peter interrupts as he plops in the seat next to Gwen. The infant was now quietly sleeping against her father’s chest with webbing holding her up. Peter steals one of Gwen’s french fries off of her tray as Gwen looked annoyed by him. “Miss Sunshine was the first spider Miguel recruited from what I heard, and I should know.” He plops the fry into his mouth as he chats. “I was the second.”

Jessica chuckles at Gwen’s shocked face at the realization as to how long the futuristic spider man has had his cheery companion. “Little bit wants to know if the big guy and Sunny are a thing or not?” Peter raises an eyebrow as he teases Gwen, “Why? You got a crush on one of them?”

“Ew, no. They are old and I’m 16. It's just they are always together and they seem like a couple, but they don’t do normal couple things.” Gwen whines as her face burns in embarrassment.

“First off, they are not old.” Peter scoffs as he runs a hand through his own graying hair. “Miguel is 28 and Sunny just turned 27.”

Jessica giggles as a memory pops into her mind. The look on Miguel’s face when his smaller companion brought him a cake she made for his birthday will forever be Jessica’s favorite moment since joining this team. Well, the second greatest moment. The slight teary-eyed look the leader gave to the bouncing spider as he had to endure her butchering the birthday song was also very funny. At least she can cook better than she can sing.

“And adult relationships aren’t like the ones you’ve seen in high school.” Peter sighs as he remembers the regretful decisions he made in high school. “They aren’t gonna make out in the hallways or tell each other that they love each other every five minutes.” “So they are together?” Gwen slaps Peter’s hand away from her fries, which causes the baby to stir. Peter hastily bounces the baby as he throws Gwen a glare.

“Oh, I have no idea,” Peter answers honestly as Gwen plops her head on the table. “Why don’t you ask them?”

Jessica smiles fondly as Mayday stares at Peter as he finally starts eating his own food. Her hand wanders to the growing baby bump as she looks into Gwen’s frustrated gaze. “Never hurts to ask. But I suggest asking Sunny because Miguel will deny everything.”

~~~~

“Miss. (Y/N), are you dating Spiderman?” Gwen rehearses to herself as she wanders down the corridor, trying to find her cheery colleague. Gwen groans as rubs her face in frustration, hating all the ideas she came up with sounded childish. How do you ask a grown woman if she is dating her boss? Especially if you’re mutant superheroes who travel to different dimensions and fight anomalies in bright spider costumes.

Just as Gwen rounds a corner, a series of grunts fall into her ears as she draws closer to the combat simulator. One of Lyla’s ideas for the HQ was to include a training room with the ability to use advanced AIs to simulate how fighting in different dimensions. She also thought it would be a fun idea to make it a level system so Miguel can review their abilities and hand out missions appropriate for the skill sets. Gwen attempted to fight in there several times, but she always gets her ass handed to her once she reaches level 3. 

Reaching the door, she peers into the window and sees a disheveled Miguel as he stood in his spider suit in a barely lit simulation. His back to her, she can see his shoulders heave as he pants for a breath of relief in this difficult setting. Despite his lack of spidey sense, Gwen knew he was pretty agile and was one of the strongest Spidermen they had. His talons emerge as his mask disintegrates. His fangs shine in the dim lighting as he looks around the room, looking for something. 

Hunting for something.

She ducks when Miguel looks her way before peeking her head back up. Before she can realize what’s going on, a flash of white gets whipped at the menacing spider, causing him to shred the opposing webbing to bits. Miguel focuses on the direction the attack came from as a smirk rolls onto his face as he approaches his invisible prey. His eyes a dangerous red as his mischief and hunger grows at the anticipation.

“¿Dónde estás, mi pequeña araña?” The predator purrs as his gaze locks on a particular corner. Gwen could barely hear it, but a faint sound of panting, of his prey trying to catch her breath. “No me dejarías esperando demasiado, ¿verdad? Extraño desesperadamente tu dulce rostro, querida.”

Miguel saunters slowly towards the faint sound, a glint of victory shining in his eyes as the smell of her perfume floats into his nose. His smirk turns into a deviously sweet smile as he cracks the bones in his hand. “Especialmente cuando estás gimiendo tan dulcemente debajo de mí…” He mumbles as he finally lunges toward the corner. Gwen puts a hand in her mouth to hide the gasp as he pounces but tilts her head in confusion as his hunt turns sour.

Miguel looks equally stunned for a moment when he realizes that nothing was in his grasp. He pats around the corner to make sure before his hand gets caught on something. He growls as he tries to free his hand upon realizing that it was a trap. A flash of white traps the other hand to the wall above the other as the air rings with giggles. 

“Caught you, Miggy!~” A voice cheers from above as both Miguel and Gwen look up to the ceiling. In a faint glow of green, the victorious smile of the small jumping spider appears out of thin air. Unexpectedly, Miguel meets her smile with a warm chuckle as the hints of a smile appear on his face. “You certainly did, little one.” He sighs as the woman hops down and lands in a crouch position in front of him. Gwen smiles at the adorable display until the older woman leaned over to Miguel’s shoulder. Miguel flinches slightly with a flush of red covering his face as Gwen realizes what just happened.

‘Did she just bite him?!’ Gwen thought as she stared at the smiling duo in bewilderment. 

“Think its going to leave a mark?” He commented as he watches in amusement as his sunshine glares at him.

“It better! Yours are gonna take forever to heal.” She huffs as she stands up. Miguel rolls his eyes and chuckles at her attempt to appear annoyed. 

“It's not that bad…” “NOT THAT BAD?!” Sunny blurts out, interrupting the amused man.

The top part of her costume disintegrates, exposing her tank top underneath as Gwen had to stop herself from shouting in shock. Littering the small spider’s frame were 5 large bruising bite marks, each featuring two distinct puncture wounds. Gwen looks up at the panel beside the door and sees they are on level 6 of 1v1 combat simulation. The realization dawns on the teenager as her face turns an unflattering shade of red. Before she can witness anymore, Gwen teleports out of the corridor as the duo sees the flash of orange. 

“What was that?”

“I don’t know, but whoever it was is gonna be on trash duty for a month”

~~~~~

“So you ever asked her about if she and Miguel are-”

“No, and I’ll never try to figure that out again.”

~~~~~~

A/N: Please please let me know what else you guys wanna see or throw me some critiques. I love hearing from you all!!

~~~~~~

Taglist:

@ameliadraws 

@tojisrightnut

@whyareyoubored

@silly-lovestruck-em

@luvil1y

@chims-kookies

@himesuedi

@22carolina08

#miguel o’hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #spiderman #miguel o’hara #miguel ohara #spiderman 2099 x reader #spiderman into the spiderverse #spiderman across the spiderverse #spidey #fanfiction #fanfic #across the spiderverse #spider man: across the spider verse #into the spider verse

[weirdly-specific-but-ok]

post-s2. good omens mascot here, coping unhealthily.

This is the first proper post I'm writing since the audio breakdown, good thing I queued a POTC one last week, I suppose. Yes I slept through the entire day today, missed the theatre workshop I was supposed to attend and may or may not be listening to A Nightingale Sang in Berkeley Square on loop. Have an update on my coping because my social life and family are both Tumblr now:

Every song is about them now. A lot were before, but now every single one. Even an old Hindi song from a 1900s Indian military movie that I have not watched, by the way. But the lyrics (thank you Google translate) are: Everybody wants a handful of the sky, everybody searches for a handful of the sky, there is a world waiting to be hugged to the chest, the moon is a fair full of stars, but this heart is still lonely. And of course that makes me think of Crowley as the starmaker. Ow.

I made the very intelligent decision to rewatch the first three episodes of season 2, knowing what the Job minisode and the Edinburgh minisode do to me. I'll be here clutching Crowley, well, hugging him close to the chest, just like that song... ah, fuck, here we go again.

I listened to you all and am drinking a lot of water, since my tear ducts were emptied yesterday and now I'm unable to cry. I also ate too much chocolate.

I searched for sad Aziracrow edits and watched them. Don't look at me. I'm in a hell of my own creation.

I used too many emotions last night and now I feel hollow and achy. Maybe I should cope with humour and write the summaries.

Or maybe that will backfire and I will be filled with horrifying levels of emotion.

I slept. A lot. Many hours. Lots sleep.

So. Well. You know. Adopted child of divorce. You were all right, this is exactly like dealing with a breakup or divorce, but much more painful.

Someone please, please, please stop me from clicking the Crowley whump tag to find fanfiction.

I remember my initial Good Omens posts. I remember calling the fandom sad, desperate, queer and masochistic, and also pointing out how you all blame Neil and then sit and make headcanons that are a hundred times worse than canon.

I was so right. Look at me now, sad, desperate, queer and masochistic, making headcanons that are a hundred times worse than canon.

Wahoo.

#good omens mascot #good omens #weirdly specific but ok #good omens fandom #asmi #maggots #crowley #lgbtqia #aziraphale #neil gaiman #ineffable divorce #children of divorce #adopted child of divorce #ineffable husbands #go 2 #final fifteen #no nightingales #a nightingale sang in berkeley square #good omens 2 #starmaker #aziracrow #good omens brainrot

[bearlythere]

will not shut up about how bluey's 30 min episode gave us so much more lore and references to the real world

the writes really made so much literal and euphemistic use of the word "sign" in this episode

in chronological order! and spoilers below!!

do let me know if I missed anything out!

FRISKY AND RAD'S WEDDING!!!! in the iconic heeler house!!

bandit's bully bucky dunstan being the real estate agent selling his house

English sheepdog buying the bluey house (emigration - would be nicer if they got english voice actors to voice them though)

the bluey house was actually for sale on an Australian real estate website! and as per the time of writing this post, it's been "withdrawn from sale" - the bluey digital marketing team AMAZES ME.

I wonder which city bandit got a new job in - don't know if they'll explore that in future seasons

bluey's friend the brown dog (I'm sorry I don't know his name) having 2 mums!

winton talking about his divorced parents and the terriers' saying their mom likes winton's dad!!!

jack and his army interest! him and rusty playing army!!

the sitting in a tree, kissing thing that kids do

Jeremy the gnome

bobo being the car's name

frisky's licence plate being fr15k

the first time kids sit in the front seat of the car

police officers pulling people on the road over LMAO

rad's profile picture being him goofing around with his 2 brothers

how realistic it is trying not to lose someone you're following on the road

the butterfly from slide!! 🦋 it has a name! flappy!

everyone being afraid of the butterfly except bingo because we know she loves insects!

chilli reminiscing how she and frisky used to go to the lookout to "think" when we all knew she meant drink LOL

frisky's 3rd friend appears!

BRANDY IS PREGNANT???

the canon in d rendition as bgm

the busker being the priest??

also they got mort and maynard to come attend the wedding too!!

frisky's father is a typical surfer dude lmao

we see trixie standing amongst the girls during the bouquet toss. and then we see stripe come in to intercept the toss. does this mean that stripe and trixie are not married yet and have just been cohabitating? stripe grabs the bouquet and celebrates, but we see trixie face palm... what does this mean??

love the photo montage and the huge family photo, how it shows that you can't get everybody to be ready for the photo

AFTERPARTY

GRANDPA BOB WENT TO INDIA TO FIND HIMSELF 😭 man needed spiritual rediscovery

the busker is the music dj too!!

uh oh... stripe and trixie are fighting... perhaps it was about the bouquet toss? and we see socks playing with the cake toppers - possibly mimicking her parents actions

awww Radley quit his job so that frisky could stay in a city she loved ❤️

they brought back the music from dance mode!

NANA AND BOB FLOSSING!!!

chattermax randomly appearing 😭

bingo getting stuck in the railing again

bingo being sad because she has to move and lila won't be able to follow. which is also the moment I realised they won't be moving in the end, because of the montage at the end of daddy drop-off episode where bingo and lila grow up together and be friends "forever and ever and ever"!

the 2 English sheepdogs pushing their fluff away from their eyes to see haha

THEM SEEING WINTON'S DAD'S HOUSE WITH A POOL WHICH IS FOR SALE BECAUSE THEYRE MOVING IN WITH THE TERRIERS AND THEIR MOTHER!! THEY ALL FIT IN ONE CAR!!!

seeing the iconic bluey house empty, with spots where furniture used to be somehow makes me feel a little empty and nostalgic

the montage of them saying goodbye to their old neighbours, bandit having one last chat with pat, the girls and chilli saying goodbye to judo and her mum

Judo still has short hair!

chilli reminiscing the kitchen because bluey took her first steps there

WHO SANG THAT SONG IN THE END PLEASE RELEASE IT LUDO STUDIOS

THE SHEEPDOGS WENT BACK ON THEIR DECISION TO BUY BLUEYS HOUSE TO BUY WINTON'S DAD HOUSE

you can tell how much chilli didn't want to move as she was the first one out of the car running over to hug him when she realised bandit didn't want to sell the house anymore. and the shoulder shakes shows that she was fully sobbing too

iconic kiwi rug! loved the simplicity of the last scene, where even if there's nothing around you, as long as you're together with the people you love, eating the simplest meal, enjoying the moment, that's family.

#bear watches #bluey #bluey cartoon #the sign

[azrielgreen]

There's a reason I always moderate comments but i approved this one so people can see how truly vile it gets sometimes. I'm not arrogant. I don't think the way I write is better at all. Exploring them on an authentic level means exploring this, or any, version of them with wholehearted passion, not that this is the authentic interpretation of them. Writing intense stuff isn't a brag, it's a warning so people can be prepared for stuff like arguments and confrontations. I always over-warn for CW stuff so that, again, people are prepared. I never once have asked people to read it. It's just there and I've tried my best to a) write something i loved and b) thoroughly warn those who might read it. Any interpretation of the characters is valid and worth exploring. It's so sad to see a reeled off list of all the way Steve "should be" and the implication that nothing but strict canon adherence could ever be a passionate, worthy exploration. It's... only fanfic? It's not real. They're not real. Nothing is real and everything is possible and that's supposed to be what's fun about it.

I write the characters very intensely, so yes, they are often out of character, sorry for... warning about that? I write different backgrounds for them and play with the negative space of possibilities and potential and i do this with authentic curiosity and passion because I love doing it and i get very into it. Sorry for warning about that too, I guess? When I first started writing in this fandom, some people pointed out to me that I could CW warn for them being OOC and that was new to me, i didn't think I had to warn for that. I thought people would read the tags, like in other fandoms, and understand that the story would do different things with the characters but it became clear that this was actually solid advice as this was a fandom obsessed with "canon adherence" and policing. So I thought I would CW as thoroughly as I could so no one would be shocked or disappointed and then maybe they wouldn't leave an essay of hate in the comments.

But ultimately, people like this would only be satisfied if I deleted everything and stopped writing. I barely participate in this fandom as it is beyond answering asks and writing. I don't rec my own work. The thing i don't ever want, and this is why it was worrying seeing something like YD becoming "popular", is for people to feel like they *should* read my work without having gone and looked for it via the tags. Without having found it naturally, just by browsing and thinking "that's definitely for me". I've only ever posted for small rarepairs in the past so a couple of comments on a fic always made me so happy. I write for myself and the few others in the world who might like it. I have never written for an audience. If you don't like something I wrote, it's not for you. Genuinely. Move along to the next, no? That's what I would do.

This was so spiteful and targeted. YD is so old at this point, I just don't understand people who do shit like this. I don't bother anyone and I try to be here for anyone who needs me. I CW as thoroughly as I can. I don't think I'm better than anyone. I think every single iteration of these characters is worthy and valid and what matters is how fun they were to write, for the author. I had so much fucking fun with these stories that seeing this miserable little rant seems pointless to me. I don't care if you didn't like it. I don't care if it wasn't to your taste. Writing it was what I wanted. Sharing it is secondary, always. It's fanfiction, written for free in my spare time. I didn't take up space, I didn't trample anyone. There is no reason for this beyond spite.

I am sorry about the vest/jacket mixup, however. Truly, genuinely from the bottom of my heart devastatingly sorry about that. I know it'll take time for people to forgive me and maybe no one ever will, I have to make my peace with that.

Anyway, thanks for loudly projecting your feelings onto me and my work.

💜💜💜

[hugmekenobi]

Return to the Light

A Bad Batch Post S2 Oneshot

Gif by @spacemagicandlaserswords

Hunter x femaleJedi!reader

Summary: Being separated from one another had taken it's toll and the search had been hard but in all the darkness, a glimmer of hope remains

Warnings: Mentioned canon-typical violence, swearing, my made-up timeline, limited use of y/n, some choice interrogation techniques, sad flashbacks, mentions/descriptions of torture, mentions of death, mentions/descriptions of injury and sickness, reader is not in the greatest of headspaces and takes it out on Lyra, talks of self-sabotage/sacrifice and self-loathing, my interpretation of all things Force, dodgy Star Wars medical techniques, slight manipulation/miscommunication, kissing, overall a pretty angsty time but there's some fluff sprinkled in

Masterlist for S1 and S2

Word Count: 18.2K (don't look at me, idk what happened lol)

Rating: 18+

Author's note: Huge shoutout and thanks to my friend @burningfieldof-clover who supported and provided many helpful tips as I struggled though this!! And its finally here! I am so sorry it took so long but I hope you all enjoy it despite the wait! I have another one planned to follow that hopefully will not take as long haha so I'm excited to get to work on that too! Also praying that by posting this, I can manifest a S3 trailer haha

Nelvaan

Ever since the disaster of Ord Mantell and from the second they’d managed to flee; Hunter had been doing everything he could to find you and Omega again. He’d tormented himself with the various possibilities of what could be happening to the two of you. Every day he’d been apart from you both had seen him fighting with himself. Possible informants and Imperial soldiers he could cope with just fine, what had been proving to be a struggle was fighting the complete hopelessness that had overwhelmed him as the weeks dragged on with no sign or information on the whereabouts of either of you. Every failed lead had left the bitter taste of disappointment and there were times when he felt like he would be crushed by the weight each defeat brought.

Things had started to shift however when they came across the various wanted posters and holoimages of you that were strewn across the galaxy, particularly in the Outer Rim. So, when Echo had decided to do some work on his own and went back to working with his contacts within the Empire and reported back that you hadn’t actually been taken, he’d felt that flicker of hope he hadn’t been able to find for a long time and the plan changed. Echo would continue to utilise his allies in the search for Omega whilst he and Wrecker looked for you. Once Hunter had you back, the four of you would reconvene and find Omega.

To get to Omega, they needed your skills and… and Hunter just needed you but there were moments in the early stages of the search where it seemed impossible. Knowing you were out on your own helped with finding his way out of the darkness but knowing you were alive and finding you alive were very different things, the latter was proving to be incredibly challenging.

You may had stopped hiding what you were, but you were remarkably good at making an impression somewhere but still finding a way to go unseen. Every location they’d gone to, they’d been too late, and you appeared to have moved on. You never stuck around anywhere for too long and it was making things a lot harder.

The most recent trail of half-baked information he and Wrecker had followed had led them to this pawn shop- ‘Hidden Gems’. According to rumour, you’d been in asking about them, yet another piece of knowledge that only added to his frustration that they always seemed to miss you by a matter of weeks. Hunter opened the door, but the owner’s back was still turned to them as they pashed the threshold.

Kedrin heard the bell clang as the door opened and shut. “I’ll be with you in a flash.” He said as he finished writing up the recent sales. He closed the book and turned around with a salesman smile on his face, but that and his words of welcome instantly died on his lips as he saw who had walked in.

Immediately upon seeing these men, Kedrin was reminded of a description given to him a while ago by the Jedi everyone had been talking about and he did not want them here. He did not want to deal with this anymore. “Ah, well actually gentlemen, I was just closing up for the afternoon. You’ll have to come back.” He said, wringing his hands nervously as the bigger one split off and began wandering the shop whilst the one with the bandana stayed where he was.

Hunter leaned his back against the door and lazily played with his vibroblade. He knew by the beads of sweat on the owner’s brow and the anxious pounding of his heart that they were in the right place. “Where is she?” He asked, his voice low and hostile as he turned the sign from open to closed, his eyes never leaving the owner.

Kedrin retreated to behind the counter. “I um…” His throat was as dry as sand and he swallowed to get some moisture back so he could speak properly. “I don’t know who-” He cleared his throat again. “Who you are referring to. Perhaps-”

“There’s not point in lying to him. If I can tell you are, he definitely can.”

Kedrin’s eyes darted to the bigger one who had offered the advice, but he had to bring his attention back to the tattooed soldier who was staring at him with such cold and dark eyes that fear creeped up his spine, making his hair stand on end and goosebumps rise on his flesh.

“Where is she?” Hunter asked again as he pushed off the door and steadily walked towards the man.

“I’m- I’m afraid I don’t- don’t have the answer you seek.” Kedrin stuttered. As the soldier drew closer, Kedrin reached under the table and grabbed the blaster he kept concealed there. But, as he lifted it out, in the blink of an eye, the weapon was shot out of his hand and his head was smacked down and being pressed harshly into the countertop- a strong hand on the back of his neck reducing his struggles to break free to be no more than a pitiful effort. His resistance ceased altogether when he felt the sharp tip of a blade being pushed into the back of his hand and he cried out in discomfort as the metal broke the skin and blood began to spill from the cut but there would be no respite for him.

“Try again.” Hunter hissed as he brought his head down to the man’s level.

But all Kedrin could do was whimper in pain.

“She was here. We know she was here. Where did she go?” Hunter growled into his ear, applying more pressure to the point of the blade, ignoring the agonised yelp.

“I don’t know!” Kedrin protested in distress, his voice slightly muffled as his lips touched the cold material of the counter. He hated this part of the job, it wasn’t his fault he had access to other ports of information, it just worked out that way and for the most part he hadn’t gotten into too much bother. But ever since that Jedi woman had come to him with her threats, he’d vowed to himself that he would turn over a new leaf. He’d leave this element of his work behind, and he wouldn’t just be a pushover to whatever or whoever came in demanding his extra services. He felt the hand leave the back of his neck. He uneasily straightened up and tenderly analysed his injury on his hand but was grateful to see that it had felt and looked worse than it was. He took out a handkerchief from the lapel of his jacket and wrapped it up before he tidied his hair in an attempt to regain some calm and control over the situation. “Now, I ask that you leave this instance before I call the proper authorities.” He demanded, but he couldn’t shake the quiver in his speech which removed any forcefulness. He walked around the counter and gestured to the door.

Hunter ignored his requested. He simply took a step back and nodded sharply to Wrecker who cracked his knuckles and neck in intimidation.

Well, he could always start next week. “Wait wait wait! I actually might have something!” Kedrin back peddled fearfully as the larger one stalked towards him and grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket, raising him to his tiptoes. “My brother runs our partner pawn shop on Christophsis and he’s said there’s been Jedi activity there. Apparently, it’s been going on for a while now. Could be who you’re looking for?”

Wrecker glanced back at Hunter who signalled to him to drop the man.

Hunter silently turned on his heels and led the way out of the shop and back to the Marauder. He’d been powerless for far too long and had failed one too many times but that wasn’t going to happen anymore.

This time they weren’t going to miss you.

--

Christophsis

When the hour had finally got late enough, you grabbed your blaster and sheathed your vibroblade and made the final adjustments to your armour before you sneakily opened your door to dark and empty main room of the run-down apartment. You pulled your hood and mask up as you stepped out and headed for the exit.

You got as far as activating the panel for the door to open before the lights turned on.

“You’re going out again.”

You closed the door and huffed out an irritated breath. You swivelled on your heels to see Lyra standing in the doorway of her room. You tugged down your mask. “Yeah… and?”

“And I thought after the last time, you were going to take some time and-”

“You know I can’t do that.” You interrupted icily.

“You’ve barely recovered. I just think-”

“I’ve recovered enough.”

“It’s just one more night. If not for your sake, then do it for mine… please.”

“We’ve already settled here for you, didn’t we?” You retorted.

“After I begged you too! If it were up to you, we’d still be living on that hellhole of a ship and never staying anywhere for more than two weeks! And I don’t know if what we have right now is all that better!”

“I gave you an out months ago! Back on Ord Mantell and again on Corellia! You didn’t have to follow me!” You snapped angrily.

Lyra scoffed. “Corellia was when you finally deemed it fit to fill me in on the whole story after I saw you choke the life out of a man without laying a hand on him. I had known something was off in the weeks since Ord Mantell and then Corellia told me you needed someone. Forgive me if I wanted to stick around to try to help you!”

“I don’t need saving.” You said tightly. “And anyway, he got what was coming to him.” You said utterly uncaring with a simple shrug of your shoulders. “Now, can I go now? Are you done scolding me?”

Lyra looked at you imploringly. “Don’t you see what this is doing to you? You’re losing who you are and it’s-”

You couldn’t listen to the speech again. “I’m not doing this with you again, Lyra. Just go back to bed and I’ll be back later.”

Lyra looked at you in disbelief. “Later? Last time you said that I didn’t see you for three weeks and you came back tortured and half-dead! You’re no good to them if you die in the process of finding them!”

You just shook your head and lifted your mask and turned to open the door again.

“I can’t watch you kill yourself for this anymore.” Lyra said quietly to your back, her words laced with pity and sadness.

“Then don’t look.” With that, you stepped outside into the night.

--

Kirion stepped into the small kitchen in the back of his shop and sifted through the second cupboard. Instinct meant he didn’t need the light and he found what he was looking for.

“Trouble sleeping?”

Kirion yelped and dropped his mug. It smashed to the ground but that was not his concern anymore. The dark outline by the window was. “I don’t want any trouble.” His voice trembling.

“Do you know what they say about people who can’t sleep at night, Kirion?” You asked as you hopped off the counter, the yellow hue of the streetlights coming through the window illuminating your figure.

“N- no.”

“Plagued by a guilty conscience. The crushing weight of knowing you’re not doing enough, or you’ve gone too far can get to you. Or say, being a pawn shop owner intent on ripping everyone off for that extra bit of profit.”

Kirion cleared his throat nervously. He didn’t know how you knew that, but you’d gathered quite the reputation in the time you’d lived here, and he didn’t want you around. “Why are you here then?” He asked shakily. “Guilty conscience too?”

You laughed humourlessly. “You get the pleasure of my company because you have something for me.” Somewhere deep down, you had a different answer, but you wouldn’t allow yourself to bring that to the surface. It would get you nowhere.

“I don’t. I swear I-”

“Oh, this’ll go a lot better if you don’t lie to me.” You said, your voice hardening. You patted him roughly on the shoulder as you stepped past him.

“I don’t know if I have the information you’re looking for.”

“You know who I am?” You flicked the light on and waltzed into the storefront filled with clear glass cases with various pawned off items. Heirlooms, artifacts, jewellery, random items- all seemed to have a place here, whether they were genuine or not. You beckoned him to come in.

“It’s um kind of hard not to.” He wringed his hands anxiously as he followed you in and signalled to the front of the store. He took that opportunity to press the button under the table by the credit register.

You followed his stare and chuckled as you saw the backs of the posters in the front window. “I can sign one for you later.” You started scanning variety of items he possessed. “Quite the business you’ve got here.”

“Keeps-” He swallowed nervously. “Keeps the credits coming in.”

“Shame a lot of it is all garbage.” You smashed your elbow against one of the glass panels. “Anakin Skywalker’s lightsaber?” You snickered as you picked up the item and sure enough, you got nothing from it. “Please. Nothing here but a bunch of dressed up metal material and a design anyone with access to an old holonet could copy. Then again, you probably knew that, but it doesn’t stop you underpaying for it and then charging a steep fee for the poor sucker that falls for it.”

Kirion gulped as he watched you continue your assault on his store.

You shattered a few more glass panes with claims of ‘Jedi artifacts’ in them. “Some of this is just embarrassing. You actual convince people that this stuff is worth the price?”

“What do you want?” Kirion interjected swiftly as he saw you getting ready to break another one.

You paused your movement and angled yourself to face him. You mimed applause. “That’s the right question. See, you gave yourself away earlier, Kirion. I’d expect you to know who I am, but to know that I’m after information? You had no way of knowing that, not officially and it’s the fact that you do know, that makes you of use to me.”

“Of use?” Kirion repeated fretfully.

You stalked closer to the desk register, the broken glass crunching beneath your feet. “You run this place in a back alley and get everyone from all walks of life coming in here pawning off their shit that you then rip off, but I really don’t give a fuck about that. What I do give a fuck about is that you hear things. People will tell you their stories, the things they’ve seen and overheard in the streets or on their travels. You are a fountain of knowledge of the underground happenings in this galaxy. Or, at the very least, you know people that run in the circles that have what I’m searching for.

“I-”

You placed a finger on his lips to shush him. “Here’s how this will work: So long as you don’t lie to me, and you don’t call the Empire, I won’t hurt you and you get to keep your life. Are we clear?” You removed your finger.

“C-crystal.” Kirion stuttered, very much regretting what he’d done in the beginning of this meeting.

“Good.” You released a short breath. “Now, I’m looking for a group of clones. They don’t look like the ones you may come across these days, rare as that seems to be now. One wears a red bandana and has a tattoo on the left-side of his face. Looks like this.” You pointed to the white insignia on your top. “But it’s black. The other is tall and bald with a scar on his left temple and he’s blind in his left eye. Heard of anyone like that?”

“I don’t know. No one like that’s come here.” Kirion shifted his feet awkwardly.

You tossed your head back in aggravation. “I really don’t have time for this.” You summoned the Force and lifted him against the wall and started to compress his airway. “I told you; I don’t like liars.” You gave him a pitying stare as he couldn’t help but clutch desperately at his throat. “Wanna try again?” You relaxed your hold slightly to give him the chance to speak.

“Okay- they- they- could be- be- coming here.” He gasped.

“They’re coming here?” You double checked as you eased your grip and let him get his feet back on the ground.

Kirion panted as he felt the invisible hold around his neck loosen. “Yes, my other store got a visit from some men that match what you’re saying. The manager there told them there was a Jedi here and called me earlier to let me know they might pass this way. That’s all I know, please, get out!”

You narrowed your eyes at him because despite his now honest words, you could tell he was getting anxious, and it wasn’t all because of you now. It was then that you heard the familiar pounding footsteps grow closer and halt outside the front door. You released an exasperated sigh and tutted. “Kirion… I thought we had an understanding.”

“No- wait! I-”

You called on the Force and snapped his neck before he had a chance to finish his plea and a second later, you heard the door crash open.

“You’re-”

“Under arrest?” You finished as you watched Kirion’s limp body slide to the floor. You heaved a sigh and turned to face the squad of ten stormtroopers that were lining the rows and blocking the path between you and the door.

“Get-”

“On my knees? Place my hands behind my head?” You interrupted, boredom evident in your tone as you crossed your arms and leaned against the till counter.

The troopers faltered slightly at your blatant dismissiveness of them.

You pretended to look confused for a moment. “Now, I can never keep track of where the Empire is in that whole phasing out thing so I always gotta ask this- any of you got a CT number?” You straightened up and hovered your hand over your blaster. “It’s always much simpler when none of you do.”

“Last chance, Jedi!” One of them called out as they readjusted their stances.

You scoffed and rolled your eyes. “Yeah… you all say the same thing.”

--

You quietly walked into your place and pulled your hood and mask down, ignoring the sting of pain as the material caught on the cuts on the bridge of your nose and your lip. You ran your tongue along your mouth and could still taste the harsh metallic taste of blood as it continued to ooze from the wound. Your nose was also still bleeding so you turned on the dim kitchen light to find something to stop it.

“Thought you’d be outta here by now.” You commented cooly without looking up as you heard her door open, and the soft padding of footsteps walk towards you. You fished out a cloth and ran it under some cold water and wiped away the congealed blood on your face before you held it to your nose.

“We don’t have a ship anymore, remember?” Lyra reminded you as she sat by the small kitchen table.

You’d forgotten about that. After the two of you had found this place, you’d sold it to someone who claimed to have word from Hunter. Unfortunately, that had turned out to be a rather bad deal and it was your first experience of dealing with the Imperials stationed here. “There are transports.”

Lyra just shook her head at you. “You still don’t get it.”

“Don’t really see what there is to get. Just hop on the next ship outta here, I won’t stop you.”

“I care about you, dumbass. Whatever is happening to you, I can’t just leave you alone in it.” Lyra replied wearily. Part of her wanted to, she’d even started packing a bag this time, but after these months spent with you and especially after what you went through recently told her you were one step away from a full-on breakdown and whether you would admit it or not, you still needed someone.

You ground out a sigh and stared down at the floor. She kept doing this. She kept having that faith in you that you couldn’t see but you didn’t deserve it. She should leave, she’d be better off without you but you didn’t have it in you to give her that final push. So, you worked on freezing her out, pushing her away until she realised you weren’t good for her or anyone else. But she refused, she was still here with you, and you couldn’t fathom why.

“Did you get what you were looking for?” Lyra asked, deliberately avoiding asking the state of the people that had clearly got in your way tonight. She’d seen what you were capable of but found that living in as much ignorance as she could saved her a lot of trouble. That and reminding herself you were not yourself right now.

“Yup.” You rinsed out the cloth and got ready to move into your room.

“I need to check your stitches. You weren’t ready for a fight yet.”

You knew what she would find if she looked. “No, you don’t.”

“(Y/N), let me see.” Lyra caught your arm as you went to move past her.

You huffed out another irritated breath but took your armour off before you lifted your first layer over your head. “Knock yourself out.”

She pushed up your vest top. “Yeah, you ripped a few open.” Lyra winced as she saw the lines of blood secreting from the sore and irritated looking now open wounds on your back.

“It’s fine.” You said dismissively. The pain wasn’t bothering you. You needed to come up with a plan of how to know when they got here.

“It’s not. Sit down.” She insisted as she went for the medkit. She had gotten well-acquainted with the item over the months, the most recent incident in particular had really tested her skills.

You released a resigned sigh and sat across from her and let her start cleaning them and closing them up again.

“They’re coming here, Lyra.” You found yourself whispering into the silence.

Lyra paused her process. “You’ve been told that before. The same thing happened on Cermau a couple months ago and it didn’t pan out. You-”

“I know what happened on Cermau. This isn’t like that.” You said defensively. It had to be different. You thought to yourself. You weren’t sure how many more dead ends you could take.

Lyra finished up the last few stitches. “You can’t know that.”

As soon as you felt her complete that last stitch, you stood. “Yes, I can.” You grabbed your armour and strode had over to your room without another word and shut the door.

You braced your hands against it and took a few deep breaths. You did have a way you could do but it had been so long since you’d gone near it, and you didn’t know if you could cope with the failure it might bring.

--

You settled in the middle of your crappy bed, the mattress sinking to the bedframe beneath as you shifted around to attempt to find some level of comfort. When you had found what you figured would be the ‘best’ spot, you crossed your legs and placed your hands on your knees.

You inhaled slowly, deeply, blocking out all the distractions of your mind and the sounds of the late-night life outside, and closed your eyes. You reached into the Force but what met you wasn’t any familiar signature. It was scenes and voices that you had tried so hard to forget.

Flashes of the people you’d hurt… you’d killed.

All that happened to you a week ago.

Tech hanging below the rail car.

Plan 99.

Omega, unconscious and injured on the ground.

Such an exquisite creature.

The torture he made you go through... and enjoyed.

His words to Hunter- To lose one of your own, it must weigh heavily on you as their leader.

Omega being carried off.

Hemlock letting you and Hunter have one last goodbye before you were taken away.

I love you.

No, it was too much. You couldn’t do it. Your breathing was shaky as you tore yourself out. You wiped the cold sweat from your palms. “Come on, get it together.” You told yourself as you took a long calming breath. You needed to do this right.

You centred yourself and went again. Except this time, all you could see was a vast space of darkness. No light, no hope, only darkness. Was this to be your fate? To be tormented by the fact you had let yourself fall and there was nothing left for you. How could you find them in this? You had no light left in you to give.

Spark.

You felt yourself twitch in discomfort. You knew that voice. That name. Only one person ever called you that.

Spark, you’re still not focused.

Let go of your anger. You’re not as lost as you view yourself to be.

No, no it couldn’t be. How could it be? No, this wasn’t right. You pulled yourself out and you looked around your room in a blind panic as you fought to get your distressed breathing back under control.

But it was only you in there. How could you hear him? It had to be some trick your mind was playing on you. Payback for all you’d done.

You exhaled heavily and braced your hands behind your neck as you looked to the ceiling. You stood and paced the confined space, shaking your hands as if you could shake away the bad feeling sitting on your chest.

You sat back on the bed and rolled your shoulders as you found your focus again. Faint rays of sun now came through the cracks in your window along with the sound of rain pattering against the fractured glass, but the new time meant nothing to you.

You didn’t care how long it would take; you were going to find them.

--

Hunter and Wrecker walked out of the ship and departed the bay to enter the streets of Christophsis- the rain sliding down their armour as they moved between the crowds.

“Well, we’re in the right place.” Wrecker commented as he nudged Hunter in the direction of the first holoscreen that had your image appear and a quick look at the immediate buildings followed that theme since they all had multiple paper posters in their windows and on their doors.

Hunter swallowed tightly as he saw holographic picture of you. There’d been one too many ‘right places’ in his search for you. He wasn’t going to accept that philosophy until he had something more than a wanted sign for you. “Come on. We’ll start with Kendrin’s brother.”

--

“So, you’re saying you saw a figure head in that direction after the disturbance last night?” A trooper pointed in said direction as she questioned the current resident on her list whilst the rest of her squad proceeded to clear the pawnshop.

“This looks like her handiwork, Sarge.” Wrecker uttered from the corner of the street they were observing from as he studied the scene ahead. Squads of troopers had cornered off the street and where questioning the civilians that appeared to live in the neighbourhood. And being carried out on stretchers were the dead bodies of troopers, but not all had blaster burns on their armour.

Hunter nodded his agreement and felt his heart beat that little bit faster with the flutter of hope. “Come on, we can’t stay here too long.” He directed as he and Wrecker turned away from the pawnshop.

As Hunter began to track your movements based on what he’d heard the trooper say, this finally being the right location was starting to feel a lot more plausible now.

--

There it was! You saw that faint glimmer of light in all the dark. It had to be them! You could feel it!

You jumped from your bed and grabbed your top and armour, hastily putting them on as you opened your door and bolted for the exit.

--

The weather had taken a turn for the worst, but you barely registered the pouring rain as you left the building. Your clothes were already soaked but it didn’t matter, you were too focused on holding onto that feeling of them.

“You’re the Jedi everyone is searching for.”

You whipped out your blaster and turned in the direction of the voice.

“No, wait! I don’t mean you any harm!” She came out from behind the skip with her hands in the air. “My name is-”

“Don’t tell me.” You interrupted sharply as you studied the Twilek before you. “How’d you find me?” You asked coldly. You didn’t lower your blaster either.

“It wasn’t easy. I’ve been following you since I knew of your arrival here. I thought I’d lost you when you disappeared for those three weeks.”

The fact you hadn’t sensed her presence at all told you that you were not what you used to be. You never used to be so sloppy. “I can’t have you knowing where I am.” You rested your hand over the trigger.

“Wait!” She reached a hand out to you. “I haven’t told anyone, and I won’t. I just need your help!”

“My help?” You repeated. “I can’t help you and I’ve got somewhere to be so-”

“Please.” She begged. “My sister, she’s sick and we barely have enough credits to feed ourselves, let alone get medicine.”

“Not my problem, I’m sorry.” Satisfied though that she wasn’t a true threat, you put your blaster away and got ready to leave.

“It wasn’t my sister’s problem that she got caught in a blaster fight and her wound got infected! No one asks for that!”

That made you pause. You’d had your fair share of shootouts in this place but you’d also you’re your best to minimise the damage to outsiders. “Where was the fight?” You found yourself asking quietly.

“About a month ago by the old shipyard on the outskirts of the city. We’d been told we could find some cheap transport off world, but something went down with the Imperials stationed there and my sister… I didn’t tug her down fast enough. I didn’t know what to do and then I heard of the Jedi that had landed in Christophsis and I knew I had to find you.”

A month ago… but that was where and when you’d gone to sell the ship… where’d you’d first been ambushed by the Imperials… no, there wasn’t meant to be anyone else there. Maybe you could… no, you didn’t have the time. Your aim was always good, it wouldn’t have been your shot that hit her. “I can’t.” You said dismissively, but there was a fading sense of conviction in your voice. Some part of you wanted to do the right thing by her. But it wasn’t enough to stop you pushing past her.

“I thought Jedi helped people!”

You stopped in your tracks and made a noise of resigned frustration as you turned around to face the young Twilek. “Wait here.”

You hastily ran back into your building, silently entered, and grabbed a few spare medical supplies from your kit before you ran back out to meet her again. “Alright, show me.”

--

Your place looked like a luxurious penthouse compared to where this young twilek and her sister were staying. It was virtually a single room with cracks in the walls and ceiling and there was a distinct damp aroma in the air. It was no wonder that they wanted to leave this place.

You then saw the smaller and younger twilek lying on a small mattress in the middle of the floor. There were drops of sweat dotted across her brow and she was shivering uncontrollably.

You’d never wanted anyone innocent to be affected by what you were doing yet it had happened with Lyra and now this child. “I’m sorry.” You whispered to her as you kneeled down beside her. You saw the bloodstain on her clothing and delicately lifted the end of her shirt to see the wound on her hip being covered by nothing more than a ripped piece of a shirt.  

“Can you help her?”

You half- turned to face the sister who was looking on fretfully. “I can clean the wound and reclose it. After that, it’ll be down to her. But the fact that she’d held on for so long is a good sign. She’s strong, she should be okay.”

The sister sighed in relief.

You brought out the supplies and recleaned and applied to bacta before you re-dressed the wound. “Do you have water?” You asked.

The sister nodded and dashed over to grab a cannister. She passed it to you.

“Lift her head.” You instructed gently.

She murmured words of comfort to her sister as she propped up her head.

As tenderly but as effectively as you could, you pushed the pill past her lips and got her to swallow it down with some water.

When her breathing had grown more controlled and her shivering had subsided, you go to your feet. “I’m leaving you some bacta and wound dressings along with some pills that’ll help with the fever. That’s all I can do now.”

“Thank you.” She clasped your hand tightly. “I won’t forget this.”

“It’s better that you do.” You said grimly. “And once she’s better, if you still need a way out of here, use the actual transports off this planet.” You chucked a bag of credits on the ground before you walked out of the room.

You rounded the corner but swiftly pressed your back against the wall since there was a group of stormtroopers directly in your path. You would have no chance of finding them with those soldiers in your way. You needed to find a way around them and what better way to do that than going from roof to roof. You summoned the Force and jumped to the top of the building and got moving.

You would get a better view from above anyway.

--

When another small squad of troopers made their presence known ahead, Hunter signalled him and Wrecker to an alleyway out of the line of their sight. He knew they were close to you, but the Imperial presence was making it hard to track you effectively.

“We can’t keep hiding like this, Hunter.” Wrecker grunted in frustration.

“I know, Wrecker.” Hunter agreed, equally as irritated. “If I could just-” He stopped suddenly.

“Hunter?”

“Someone’s here.” Hunter muttered quietly as his hand fell over his blaster.

“You’re getting sloppy, Sergeant. I’ve been following you the past 3 blocks.”

The voice that he’d been longing to hear and that was so familiar, he’d recognise it anywhere. His breath hitched with the realisation at what this finally meant. Hunter took off his helmet and turned around to the distant sound of feet hitting a puddle in the ground. And it was you. Standing there before him. It was finally you.

“Hello, Hunter.” You said softly, so softly you could barely hear the words themselves due to the sound of your own heart thundering in your ears. If it wasn’t for the flash of recognition in his eyes or the way Wrecker’s jaw dropped as he propped his helmet atop his head, you wouldn’t have been certain that you’d said anything at all. You tugged down your coverings and let yourself be unprotected to the rain.

He felt like the air had been punched out of his lungs. Hunter dropped his helmet and something akin to a choked gasp fell from his mouth as he could at long last lay his eyes on you. He started to slowly walk towards you but that soon became a run, water kicking up against him, but he didn’t care.

Your feet slapped against the wet ground as you met him halfway and crashed into his arms with a thankful sigh and buried your face in his neck. Even as you held him tightly to you, part of you still couldn’t believe that it was him. You felt something swell in your heart, a feeling you couldn’t place but knew you hadn’t felt in a long time.

Did you deserve this? Did you deserve to have him back after all you’d done? Pushing the thought away, you readjusted your embrace as if you could somehow hold him even closer.

He twisted his hands in your clothing and breathed you in. He’d imagined this moment for so long. When things seemed too dark and hopeless, he’d clung on to this. To think about how it would feel to finally see you again. To hold you again. And imagination couldn’t compare to the utter joy in his heart that reality brought him. He almost didn’t want to let you go for fear that you could be taken away again but practicality took precedence, the two of you couldn’t stay this way forever, as much as he might want to.

Tears mixed with rain streamed down both your cheeks as you parted from one another.

You cupped his face in your hands. “You’re here? You’re actually here?” You murmured, your voice cracking with emotion. You’d driven yourself crazy with picturing this moment, you needed to make sure this wasn’t your brain’s idea of a cruel joke.

Hunter removed your hands from his face and kissed your gloved knuckles. “I’m here.” He whispered back, his breathing still shaky as he pressed pressing his forehead into yours.

“You’re here.” You repeated as you looked into his soft brown eyes.

Hunter’s thumb gently caressed the cut on your lip, and he noticed the other wound on your nose. “Did they-”

You pulled his hand away. “Doesn’t matter. This is all I care about right now.”

Before Hunter could push the matter, he felt his brother approach.

“And what about me?”

You glanced past Hunter to the indignant but affectionate voice. “Hi, Wrecker.” You met his open armed invitation and let him swing your around as he hugged you.

“Good to see you, (Y/N)!”

“How’d you find me?” You asked as he placed you back down.

“You didn’t make it easy.” Wrecker griped. “We always seemed to be two steps behind you.”

“I haven’t exactly been hiding though.” You disputed as you pointed to a discarded wanted poster on the ground beside you.

“Between the Imperials and dead end leads and your rather annoying ability to hide in plain sight, it was tough. We got a lucky break with a guy whose brother owned another pawn shop here. Saw the results of a fight and figured we’d finally caught up with you.” Hunter explained as he came to stand in front of you and took his helmet from his brother.

You gulped. You’d be careful to make sure the people you’d gone after had no one they’d be leaving behind. You didn’t realise you’d messed up with that this time. “He- he had a brother?”

Hunter tilted his head at the unusually emotive response. “Apparently but I’m assuming you had a good reason for ending it the way you did.”

You coughed. “Yeah, totally.” You straightened your back and changed the subject. “Where’s Echo?”

“Using his contact to try to get more intel on Hemlock. We still don’t know where he’s holding Omega.” Hunter kicked the ground. “Don’t suppose you have anything?”

“I wish I did but everything I gathered was either old or what we knew already. He’s good at laying low.” You seethed.

“We’ll get him, though. We have too.” Wrecker stated firmly.

“How soon can you leave?” Hunter asked.

“Um, well-” You cut yourself off as your sight drifted past Hunter’s shoulder to the end of the alley at the lone trooper that had a blaster pointed at Hunter’s back.

“Watch out!” You yelled as you pushed Hunter out the way of the incoming blaster bolt. You drew your blaster and fired a shot that landed in the centre of the trooper’s chest, and he dropped to the ground. But you knew, where there was one stormtrooper, there would be at least five more behind them.

“We need to move out.” Hunter urged as he got back to his feet and put his helmet on. “A firefight will draw too much attention.”

“No time.” You stated simply as you pulled your hood and mask back up.

“We’ve got more incoming!” Wrecker confirmed as he lowered his helmet and opened fire on the small squad of troopers that had arrived.

The three of you took cover behind a skip, only firing defensive shots back. You needed to draw the soldiers closer before going on the offensive.

When they had gotten close enough, Hunter threw a smoke bomb, the action allowing the three of you to advance and take out the troopers one shot at a time.

As the firefight continued, however, you began to feel unsteady on your feet and your movements felt unbalanced. Your tingling limbs ensured that your aim was skewed too. All that, combined with the wetness you felt pooling from your stomach meant the trooper had better aim than you credited them for- you’d been hit. You couldn’t afford to think about what this meant, right now, you needed to get outta here.

But you’d been distracted long enough for one downed soldier you’d dismissed as being a threat to come around and jab their blaster against your knee. You grunted with the impact but turned your blaster on him and he lay limp on the ground.

Hunter and Wrecker tidied off the few retreating stragglers. They could deal with this small group but anything more would prove difficult.

With the last trooper taken care of, you braced yourself against the wet wall. The fading adrenaline in your system now being replaced by agony and you ripped your mask down and took deep but laboured breaths.

“Their reinforcements won’t be long. We made a bit of noise.” Wrecker said as he holstered his blaster.

But Hunter wasn’t paying attention to what Wrecker was saying. His gaze was fixed on you and the way you were struggling to hold yourself up against the wall. “(Y/N), what-” He stopped as he saw the crimson drops that mixed with the rainwater drip from the hand pressed to your stomach onto the ground. No, no, no. He thought to himself. This couldn’t be happening. He couldn’t lose you when he’d only just found you again.

Your knees buckled and you fell to the ground, Hunter catching your shoulder was the only reason you were able to stay sitting up but without the distraction of the fight, the pain was overwhelming. Black spots danced in the corners of your vision, but you couldn’t succumb to them, not now. Not after all this. You tried to lift your head to speak but all that left your mouth was a tortured groan.

As collected as he wanted to be to deal with this, he couldn’t totally keep his panic at bay. His hands trembled as he attempted to get you to look at him. He delicately brushed some loose strands of hair from your face. “Sshh, I’ve got you.” He whispered tenderly, fighting to keep the worry out of his voice. What made it all the worse was that he knew this wound didn’t occur through the fight they’d just seen out, you’d been hurt shoving him out the way of that first shot that drew the rest of the stormtroopers in.

How could he have allowed this to happen? What good were his enhanced senses if he couldn’t protect the people he loved. You shouldn’t have needed to push him out the way of that blaster bolt, he should’ve known the trooper was there and now you were paying the price for his mistake.

“What can we do?” Wrecker asked quickly.

You winced and tried for words again. “Medical centres are a no. Where’s- where’s the ship?”

“Landing bay 6.” Wrecker replied.

You inhaled sharply. Your current state made things all too easy for the Imperials to catch you making your way there. “Too far. We- we gotta get to my place. She- she might kill me but- argh!” You broke off with a cry of pain as you reached a hand up to Hunter. “But it’s safe there and- and she’ll know what to do.”

“Hold on.” Hunter rasped as he took a grip of your forearm and signalled to Wrecker to keep an eye out as he pulled you to your feet.

You pressed your hand into your side with a pained gasp as Hunter put his arm around you and supported most of your weight and the three of you got on the move.

--

“This is it?” Wrecker asked- his scepticism evident despite the pressing matter at hand- as he stared at the condemned building.

“All the regular penthouses were taken.” You kidded before you swayed on your feet as a wave of dizziness struck.

“Woah, easy.” Hunter cautioned as he strengthened his grip.

“Second floor.” You hissed. “And mind the fourth step on the second staircase. Half of it is missing.”

“It can never just be simple.” Hunter grumbled anxiously as Wrecker opened the decrepit door to the building.

“Would it really be a reunion if everything went well?” You joked deliriously.

“Right now, yes I would definitely prefer it.” Hunter fretted as he saw your head dip. You were losing the battle of staying conscious with each passing second. The next time it happened, he wasn’t sure you would be able to lift your head again.

--

Lyra had barely any time to process the familiar people standing in her doorway as she answered the pounding knock. All she could do was stare at you, half collapsed against Hunter’s side, your hand cradling your stomach, and then her eyes caught sight of the trail of blood that had followed your path up. “What-”

“Hey, girl. Remember- remember how I promised I wouldn’t put you through something like this again? Turns out, I shouldn’t- shouldn’t have done that.” You said through gritted teeth before you stumbled as you tried to take a step forward, prompting Hunter to lift you up.

“Please.” The hoarse plea was all Hunter managed to say.

“Lay her here.” Lyra quickly stepped aside to let the three of you in and pointed to the couch.

Hunter hustled inside and delicately placed you on the worn soft. He took off his helmet and kneeled by your head and stroked your hair back from your forehead. “You’re going to be alright. You need to hold on for me, okay? I’m not losing you again.” He whispered against your temple before he left a light kiss on your brow.

“Good news, it’s not as bad as last time.” Lyra said as she examined the wound before getting up to go gather the medical supplies.

“The bar is rather low on that front, Lyra.” You moaned.

“Last time?” Hunter found himself asking as he tore his stare from your bloody injury to Lyra.

Lyra didn’t respond, she was too busy staring at the depleted supply of medical care. She took a deep breath and braced her hands against the countertop. “(Y/N)… what happened to the bacta?”

Seemingly forgetting that you were currently in severe pain and bleeding out, you went to prop yourself up but Hunter’s hand gently pushing against your shoulder stopped you. “Hey.” You protested wearily.

“You can answer the question like that.” Hunter chastised.

“The bacta?” Lyra pressed as she rifled through the other cupboards in case it had somehow been misplaced.

No, not yet. You told yourself as the black dots returned. You blinked them away and took a strained breath before you answered. “I- I may have given it away…”

“You-” Lyra had to take a deep, calming breath and pinched the bridge of her nose. “You gave it away? What in all the galaxy would possess you to do that?”

“Well, I saw someone in need and decided-” You broke off with another pained wince. “Decided to finally be a good citizen.”

Lyra released an exasperated sigh. “Do I need to remind you of your track record? You need bacta like the rest of us need water.”

“In my defence, I wasn’t planning on needing it anymore. This- this time really wasn’t my fault.”

“I quite frankly don’t give a fuck! You can’t just-”

“Can we do this later?” Hunter interrupted as he saw your face contort in discomfort. “Preferably when she’s able to hold a conversation without convulsing in pain?”

“I can run back to our ship and get some.” Wrecker offered as he lifted his helmet.

“Go.” Hunter said with a nod, but Lyra held out a hand to stop the bigger clone from going.

“She doesn’t have that kinda time. I can cauterise it the old-fashioned way, but it’ll just hurt like hell.” Lyra said with a grimace.

“That’s fine because I don’t think I’m going to be conscious for much longer.” The darkness encroaching on your vision was all too tempting and you were completely exhausted.

“No, you stay awake.” Lyra ordered sternly.

Hunter and Wrecker turned their attention sharply to you.

“Come on, (Y/N). You gotta hang in there.” Wrecker urged as he reached over the back of the couch and placed a large hand on your shoulder.

“Sweetheart, keep your eyes on me.” Hunter begged as he saw them flicker open and shut but it was a battle that he knew you were going to lose.

You wanted to; you really did but you just couldn’t. You shut your eyes and embraced the peace of the darkness.

 “Hunter, she’s still breathing right?” Lyra asked as she picked up the last few things she needed.

“Shallowly but yes.” Hunter said with a thankful sigh.

“That’s good enough.” Lyra ran back to the couch and began to start to process of stabilising you.

--

You were in a dim corridor. The only light seemed to at the end of the long passageway. You made to walk towards it, hoping it would show you a way out but as you walked, it seemed to move away from you. You broke into a run but the distance between you and the light only grew. You paused your run as you thought about what this could mean. It was then though that a voice spoke up and a figure appeared next to you.

You won’t get to it.

You faced the figure. It almost sounded and looked like you but there was something off about it. There was a yellow shimmer in the eyes and the face was gaunt and mean-looking, with lips that seemed to be in a permanent sneer. The voice carried a cruel, sinister overtone that made your blood run cold and the hair on the back of your neck stand up.

It’ll keep staying away from you.

But why? You studied whatever it was before you as they circled you. When it walked, it was cast in constant shadow.

You think after all you’ve done; you can have that light back? You think you deserve it?

Before you could form a reply, your attention was drawn to a scene unfolding to your right.

Aww this was your first failure. But it brought me to the surface, so I remain pretty grateful.

Your breath caught in your throat as you recognised the moment. You saw your master completely surrounded by battle droids, taking hit after hit. And you saw yourself as a Jedi Knight sprinting to reach him. You went to turn away, but a strong hand grabbed the back of your neck, forcing you to keep looking.

There’s you. Being too late to save him. Do you remember the last words you said to him?

You did and they were words you had regretted ever since.

‘Stubborn, foolish, out of touch, old timer whose only purpose was to be a pawn for the orders of the Jedi Council’ I believe they were.

Stop it.

He died knowing you failed him.

You squeezed your eyes shut as you heard the final shot that sent your master crumbling to the ground.

You got a taste for it then.

Despite the fact you wanted to refuse, you found yourself opening your eyes to seeing yourself utterly decimate the remaining droids by your master’s dead body. You saw the merciless gleam in your eyes and the callous smile that graced your face as you destroyed them. You had enjoyed that. The scene finished with you repeatedly bringing your lightsaber down on the final droid, the blue blade moving in unrestrained fury. Why did you show me that? You asked bleakly.

But the darkness didn’t give you a proper answer. It only pushed an icy finger on your lips. Pay attention, we’re not done yet. It took you a while to accept that this was always in you. You worked on shutting me out. You managed for a while… but then she left.

You wanted nothing more than to leave this place and this darkness before you, but all control had been taken from your body. Your feet began moving of their own accord and you were directed to another moment on your left this time. You were stopped and the hand took a harsh grip of your neck again. You were forced to watch Ahsoka walk out the Council Chamber doors, with Anakin following her and then you viewed yourself in horror as you saw the rage written across your face and heard the venom in your words as you yelled at the Council. Had you really been that uncontrolled? That angry?

Even though you finally left those uptight pricks, you still insisted on keeping me hidden though. Rather irritating I must say. I wondered what it would take for you to accept me. And then he came into your life.

You were pushed along the hall again to the next part which was replaying your first interaction with Hunter and your chest felt tight. Leave him out of this.

Oh, but he’s the best part. Your figure taunted nastily.

The scene switched and were now being greeted with flashes of your intimate moments with Hunter. Enough.

The only reply came in the form was an unkind laugh.

Giving into that lust felt good, didn’t it? The possessiveness, the selfishness that came with having someone just for you was too enticing to pass up.

No, that wasn’t what it was at all. Stop.

You liked the feeling of knowing you could use that attachment to excuse any darker actions. You would be doing it for him, so it made it okay. It wasn’t love for him you were feeling, it was a love for the freedom to channel me that you craved. He was merely a convenient vessel.

No, you’re wrong! You insisted but your voice lacked conviction, everything was getting so twisted that you were now doubting the feelings you thought you never would.

The darkness just gave you a pitying look. Just keep watching and you’ll see I’m right.

So, you did. You were shoved further up the corridor to see you and the Batch together. Memories that you once would’ve looked back on in fondness were now tainted by pain and disappointment that you’d dragged them into your mess. The darkness took no notice of your distress, it just continued talking.  

Much to my delight, you grew to care for all of that group. I knew that attachment would lead to something marvellous for us and then it finally happened.

You moved along to the next scene and your breathing grew uneven as the image of Eriadu appeared. You couldn’t bear seeing this again but once more, you were left with no choice but to hear Tech say that dreaded plan and watch him fall to his death.

Of course, he was another one you were too slow to save but-

You wouldn’t hear this. No, we didn’t have the time. There was nothing I could’ve done. What happened was-

Oh, I know you tried telling yourself that, but my very existence tells me that you know if you’d allowed me in earlier, the situation itself wouldn’t have happened. You’d have killed Gerrera before he even had a chance to set those explosives off.

No, you’re wrong. You said through a shaken whisper, but you didn’t believe the words you were saying anymore.

Although I must say, I’m glad you didn’t quite give in then since I am rather pleased with how it all turned out. His death was the catalyst to a glorious chain of events. So much loss and broken trust. Finally, you had the reason to welcome me without restraint or regret.

You felt your anger rise as the voice kept talking whilst the scene changed from his death to Cid’s betrayal and Omega being captured and you being separated from Hunter. Nothing about that had been a blessing. It couldn’t have been. Shut up. You snarled. But the figure only smugly beamed.

There it is. There’s that power. You can deny it all you want but that was the best thing that happened to you. You let me in and from that point on, nothing stopped you getting what you wanted. And it felt divine. You know it did. Look at how formidable you are with me being a part of things.

You were dragged along the hall and all that appeared around you were the people in the galaxy you’d threatened, brutalised, and murdered. You had no other option but to watch and hear their tortured pleas and screams. You didn’t need the darkness to talk you through these this time, you recalled very clearly that during all of this, you’d felt not one bit of remorse. You’d thought they deserved it. You’d fallen so far, and a way back now seemed impossible.  

The darkness commented on a particular time where you were torturing a woman who’d been very difficult to track and get information from. Even when you did find her, she’d been loyal to the Empire, insisting you should’ve died with the rest of the Jedi traitors. You’d responded by cracking the individual bones in her fingers and hands before moving up to the bones in her arm. You’d broken her right clavicle before she’d finally told you what you needed to know. I particularly liked this moment. Do you remember how she couldn’t stand afterwards? All she could do was writhe on the floor in agony. Quite a humorous sight.

You remembered them all and it made you feel sick to your stomach now as you watched the endless stream of tormented and pained faces of people you had tortured and killed in your quest for information.

The last scene disappeared and despite the fact you had been walking along the corridor that whole time, the light had still remained far out of reach.

See? No matter how far you go, you’ll never reach that light. Why bother searching for it anymore? You know you’re better off alone. All you need is this power and you’ll be unstoppable. But since I know some part of you still cares for your clones, don’t trouble them with this. It’s not something that can be shared or fixed.  

The figure faded and you collapsed to your knees in defeat. You had succumbed to that darkness and hurt and killed too many people. You’d crossed that line, and you weren’t sure there was a way back for you and you wouldn’t take Hunter down with you. Or Wrecker and Echo. They deserved a chance to rescue Omega and set things right, and if being with Hunter meant that chance would be at risk, you wouldn’t take that from them. Even if it would kill you, it would be the last thing you did to protect your family. ‘No attachments. There is no emotion, there is peace.’ You had to finally listen to that part of the Jedi Code that you had fought against for years and… and you would let them go.

--

Once it seemed things were more under control, Wrecker broke the quiet. “I’m going to go keep watch.” He said before walking out.

There were a few minutes of silence, the only noise being the quiet hiss of Lyra sealing shut your injury now that she’d cleaned it.

“Didn’t know you had this skill set.” Hunter said into the quiet as he watched Lyra.

“I tell myself it’s not so different from stitching and making clothes. Plus, she kinda made it that I had to learn quick. There were just some things she couldn’t handle on her own.”

There was a dip in conversation again.

“I was sorry to hear about your kid... and Tech.” Lyra said quietly as she worked on you. She placed a bandage over your now closed injury and started to put away the medical supplies.

The mention of his brother’s name had him stiffening his posture. “Yeah, well, we’re going to find her.”

Lyra nodded understandingly before she indicated to you. “She’s been non-stop since Ord Mantell. She wouldn’t rest until she found you. Didn’t matter how dangerous things got, she wouldn’t stop.”

Hunter continued to stroke your brow. “She’s not the only one.”

“I almost wished she would. I thought the search was going to kill her. Especially after what happened last time.”

This wasn’t the first time she’d mentioned this now. And from the dynamic between the two of you since arriving here, he figured there was key subtext he was missing. He glanced over to Lyra. “What are you talking about?”

Lyra took a short breath. “It was a few weeks ago. She-” Lyra stopped as she heard you let out a soft groan.

“Hey you.” Hunter said softly as you slowly opened your eyes. “How are you feeling?”

You didn’t answer him. Whatever soreness you were experiencing wouldn’t come close to the misery your next course of action would cause you. “Thank you. Again.” You said to Lyra instead.

Lyra nodded. “I’ll go keep Wrecker company.” She said before grabbing her sniper rifle and making her exit.

Hunter brought his focus back to you and provided a supportive hand on your back as you sat up. “Take as long as you need. I figured once you’re feeling more up to it, you can say your goodbyes and leave with us. After-”

“You have to go.”

“Yes, I know…” Hunter said, tilting his head at you. “But you need a bit of time and-”

“No, you need to leave without me.”

Without you? No, you couldn’t mean that. “What’s-” He stopped for a moment to try and recover from the confusion your statement caused him. “What’s changed between that alleyway and now?”

You knew he wasn’t going to make this easy but every minute you had to do this was tearing you apart. “Everything has. The Empire knows what I am. It’ll add unnecessary heat.”

“We’ll cope.”

You swallowed harshly and grimaced as you readjusted your sitting position. “It’s not just that. Things changed when we got separated. I changed.”

“That doesn’t scare me.”

“It should. All I’ve done…” You trailed off and gulped. “I’m not who I used to be.”

 “I’ve done things I’m not proud of too. But we can-”

 “Hunter, I don’t belong with you anymore.”

Hunter couldn’t accept that. “You’re one of us. You always have been. Since the first moment you stepped in front of those droids on Devaron, you were one of us. I don’t understand why-”

“There’s someone else.” You blurted out and fuck you hated yourself for it. You knew by the way he recoiled from you and from deep hurt and betrayal that flashed across his face, you would’ve been better off hitting him. You knew you had to hurt him. Even if he left hating you, you could find a way to let him go. But you hated that you had to do it.

“There’s someone else.” Hunter repeated quietly, his throat bobbing as he kept his voice tight.

You had to push it. It was the only way, but it felt like your heart was being ripped out of your chest as you said the next words. You forced yourself to keep your voice cold and level. “I’ve moved on. I only needed to know that you were alive. And now I do. You can go now. Just leave and don’t think about me again. It’ll save us all a lot of bother.” You couldn’t face the wounded look in his eyes and you turned your own away from him and had to blink away the tears that threatened to fall.

Hunter clenched his jaw and swallowed thickly. “Look me in the eye and tell me that again.” He implored.

He knew you too well. You wouldn’t do it. If you did, he would know you were lying. So, you opted for something worse- you would manipulate his heart. “If any part of you still cares about me, you will go. That’s all I want now. I need you to leave. You’ll only be hurting me more if you stay.” You said firmly as you faced him again.

You sounded so sure, and even if he thought he could see something in your eyes that took the conviction out of your words, he’d never want to cause you pain, he wouldn’t be able to stand it. Better him be the one to take the hurt, no matter how unnatural it felt, no matter how much every fibre of his being yearned to stay by your side and work this out. So, Hunter got to his feet and walked over to the door. “Every part of me still cares about you.” He murmured back to you before the door opened and he walked out. He was walking out on you- something he thought he’d never do- and it left him feeling like he had a gaping hole in his chest.

--

As you heard the door shut, a broken sob left your lips and you let the tears fall.

--

“Where is she?” Lyra asked as Hunter came out from the door behind them.

“Keep her alive.” Hunter said numbly to Lyra before he walked away.

“Hunter-” Lyra started to say but the clone wasn’t stopping.

“Eh, well, I guess it was nice to see you.” Wrecker said hurriedly before he darted after his brother.

“Bye.” Lyra said with confusion as she watched the two clones go. She turned to go back inside and hopefully knock some sense into you.

--

You’d managed to drag yourself into the sanctity of your room, but the isolation wasn’t helping things. The regret you were feeling was overwhelming but what was done was done. You needed to stand by your choice, it was what was best for them, you just needed to learn how to cope. You needed something, anything, to distract your brain from the self-doubt running rampant in your head so, staying mindful of your wound, you tentatively sat back on your bed and closed your eyes, drowned out the pouring rain smacking against the glass, and found your centre again.

Not to your surprise, you were only surrounded by darkness. You’d let the last light in your life go, there was nothing left for you now.

Spark.

Not that voice. Not again, you couldn’t handle that. “No, I’m not doing this.”

Yes, you are. You need to listen to me, Spark.

You sighed and saw the figure of your old master appear in the vast space before you. “So, either I somehow took a turn and I’m dead or I’m hallucinating.”

Your master simply chuckled. Must it always be extremes with you?

“You taught me what I know, you tell me.”

Well, based off your past choices, I would say you’ve forgotten much of what I taught you.

“This is why you’re in my head? To lecture me about my choices? Yes, I broke the code, big whoop. I never liked it anyway. And now I’ve given into the dark side, sorry to have disappointed you.” You grumbled as you looked down at your feet.

He sighed. It hurt him to see you look so defeated, this wasn’t the young Jedi he’d raised. Evidently, you were going to need more help than he expected. This isn’t some meditative trick. I’ve always been with you, Spark, and now I’m with you because you need help. You’ve strayed from your path, and you need guidance.

“You’re a few months too late, Master.” The title came back into your vocabulary so naturally, you’d nearly missed the fact that you’d reverted back to your student/teacher dynamic so quickly.

That defeat you’re feeling is exactly why I’m here now. This dark side you seem to think is your destiny is not decided, but if you continue to stand by the decision that you just made, it will be. There’s a chance for you, Spark, don’t throw it away.

You couldn’t bring yourself to believe him. “If you’ve truly been around for all of this, you’ll know what I’ve done. You’ve seen what I’ve become. I wasn’t as strong I thought I was.”

You haven’t fallen yet. He reiterated. What you’ve gone through would wreck most people, the fact that you’ve only strayed from the light now is a credit to you. But this choice you’ve made to let them go is what will seal your fate.

“What are you talking about? I was on this path long before what happened on Ord Mantell. I saw it!” You said, your voice rising in frustration and distress. Why was everyone around you so insistent that you could heal from this? You’d shown your true colours years ago, you were only doing what you were obviously meant for.

He raised his hands to calm you. Spark, listen to me. You’re not-

“I had to let him go! I had to let them all go! You should be glad, Master! I’m finally following the teaching you worked so hard on getting through to me!” Your breathing grew more uneven and the word that left your mouth were filled with self-loathing, but you couldn’t stop them. “I’m damaged goods, I have been from the beginning, and I couldn’t bring him down with me! I couldn’t bring any of them down with me!” You felt tears slide down your cheeks as the emotion you had been trying to hard to push down came crashing to the surface.

And is letting attachments go part of the Jedi or Sith philosophy? He asked gently.

His genteel manner caught you off guard. You huffed out a quick breath. “Why does that matter?”

Answer the question, please.

You released an agitated sigh. “Jedi, I guess but-”

And let me ask you this, you said you saw what you’ve done? How?

You regained some composure. “I don’t know how to describe what it was I saw, but whatever it was took me down a lovely stroll through memory lane and I saw what I was. There’s no denying it now.”

It was starting to make sense to him now and with this new understanding, he finally knew the best way to help you. Yes, the dark side can be very manipulative that way. Especially when it knows there’s been pain plenty of pain and sorrow. It preys upon that and I’m just sorry it got to you before I could.

“What are you talking about?”  

What you saw, it wasn’t the whole truth.

Not the whole truth? “What do you mean?”

He looked at you with intrigue. What do you think I mean?

You inhaled deeply to find some patience. “Master, please. I’m not your padawan anymore.”

He bowed his head in acknowledgement. You’ll always be my padawan, Spark. But I understand this may not be the best time for one of my lessons.

Despite everything, the nostalgia his teaching persona brought you had you humming out a quiet laugh. “I guess working together on whatever cryptic lesson you’re going to impart on me will be fine, for old times sake if nothing else. Just don’t leave it all to me. I’m not clear-headed enough to do all the thinking.”

He nodded and smiled knowingly at you. It will be less cryptic that the lessons I used to give you. Let us begin.

You knew that gleam in his eye and you forgot that no matter how agitated or frustrated you’d been growing up as his pupil, he’d always found a way to put you at ease and you’d been more open to learning again. Even dead, he still seemed to possess that ability. And it was because of that, you found yourself getting ready to welcome whatever wisdom he felt could get you out of this hell you’d put yourself in.

Now, I understand that you are feeling a lot of guilt and self-loathing, correct?

Feeling it? You felt like you were drowning in it.

And you have convinced yourself that your clones, particularly… Hunter, isn’t it? He waited for your nod before continuing, are better off without you because you’ve done too much. Stepped over that line one too many times? A lost cause, yes?

“I guess you could say that.” You mumbled.

He hummed in thought before he spoke again. You mentioned something about you were this way from the beginning. Can you tell me to which beginning you are referring to?

You inhaled shakily. “I- I saw you die again. I watched myself destroy the rest of those droids in undisciplined rage and- and I was reminded of what I’d said to you.”

Ah yes, that was quite the day. Rather humiliating on my part, I must say. I should’ve just listened to you from the start. My we exchanged some choice words. He ruminated with a small chuckle.

You remembered him having a rather dry sense of humour, but this just seemed absurd. You’re laughing about this?! I was awful to you! I saw you die and all I could do was wreak havoc on a group of droids and I enjoyed it! I held your dead body in my arms and the last thing I had done was insult you and forget everything you’d taught me for some fucking battle droids!”

He held up his hands to appease you. You’re right, I shouldn’t have laughed but that wasn’t quite how it went.

You furrowed your brow. “What? I saw it! I remember it pretty clearly, even without the reminder. I’m haunted by it and you’re telling me that wasn’t what happened?!”

He shook his head. Not quite. Remember, the dark side has a remarkable ability to alter events to fit its needs. It only picks out the moments necessary to draw out those darker emotions. What you saw was true, from a certain point of view, but it didn’t show you everything.

“Then what am I missing?” You asked, desperation in your voice because if there was anything that could help ease the ache from that day, you needed it.

I wasn’t dead when I hit the ground. Fret not, no amount of medical attention would’ve saved me. He interjected hastily as he saw the panic that graced your face. Although the sadder truth is I did in fact die in your arms but… He angled his head to catch your eye again as you had shied away from him upon hearing that. He started again, but your last words to me were not fuelled by irritation or cruelty, you apologised for what you said as well as how you handled those droids. You told me that I was the best teacher you’d ever had, and you promised you would continue to work on what I taught you and to make me proud. That was the last thing you said to me before I passed on. And I can honestly say, Spark, that you kept your promise, despite how it might seem currently.

You went to speak but found that you didn’t have the words. All these years spent being tormented by a memory that in fact had another side to it, could that be right? Seeing it again had made it seem all the more true but there was nothing but sincerity in his face and voice as he told you this. He wasn’t looking to feed you a false narrative, there was no vindictiveness in his tone.

You don’t have to believe me immediately, I know things have been tough but we’re going to go through this and I’m going to help you see the truth, okay? He said tenderly.

You could only nod.

Okay. He straightened up. I’m going to make an educated guess and say that if that incident was the starting point, the next situation would’ve been that unfortunate time with Ahsoka and the Jedi Council and also the day you decided to leave?

You gulped and found your voice again. “Um, yeah.”

And I expect you were shown yourself in an untamed rage with little concern over the words you used?

You gave a stiff nod of your head.

Uh huh, well, once again, you were shown a manipulated memory created from shame. You were unhappy, and I can’t say I blame you, they really fucked that up if you pardon the phrase.

You couldn’t help but snort at his gentlemanly manner and you were reminded of the many telling offs for language you’d received growing up.

And while you were disappointed in them and frustrated, you never lost control of yourself. Your voice was raised but level. You were clear in your points, and you never said anything untoward save for some unsavoury language sprinkled in. He watched you impart the familiar eye roll as he said that last statement, but he took that as a positive sign. Your attachment to Ahsoka didn’t cloud your judgment, your decision to leave was made with a steady heart and a focused head. And I watched you do it and I knew it was the best decision for you. It did set things in motion, but they were good things for you, Spark, and it’s important that you realise that again. He looked at you earnestly.

You held his gaze, and, in his eyes, you saw the master that had been with you through thick and thin. The master that had put up with your questions and doubts about the Jedi Order that the Jedi Council could hardly tolerate. You saw the master that had mentored you and fought by your side for years. He was one of the people that had known you best. He wouldn’t lie to you, and you felt your heart opening up to what he was saying to you.

Shall we continue? He asked after giving you a minute to process.

You shook your shoulders and exhaled heavily before you looked at him and give him a single, firm nod.

--

He had taken you through various events bit by bit. Pointing out that elements that demonstrated you were still being pulled towards the light. Things like you would’ve either left or killed Lyra the second she’d gotten you out of Ord Mantell and her use was over. Things like you wouldn’t have offered so many opportunities for people to talk to you before you injured or killed them, you would have hurt them first and asked questions later- killing and pain had never been your first port of call. And any firefight that ensued, when possible, you made sure you remained the primary target and civilians would be out of harms way.

Concern for others and worry about the consequences of your actions… Sith and dark side users tend not to feel or allow for these things. He surmised.

Even if what he was revealing to you was the whole picture, there was still the pressing matter of how you’d been in the recent months. “But Eriadu and everything that followed after… I let something in, what was it if not the dark side?”

He gave you a sympathetic smile. You had never experienced loss and betrayal in such quick succession before. What you let in was the anger and anguish you were feeling which you weren’t trained to handle properly. The more you went on, the more those emotions twisted your brain which allowed the darkness to creep in and make it more effortless to act on said emotions. It was easier for you to get what you needed with your emotions being what they were, and you didn’t have to think about who was getting hurt. You got a rather bad case of tunnel vision- you were doing bad things for good reasons, but they were not senseless acts of violence.

“But I have done so many bad things.” You said with self-directed disgust.

Yes, but what you can do now is work towards finding that line again. To finding that control you had in the past. You’ve been on that path since this morning, the self-awareness of what you’ve been doing wasn’t present in the months before today. However, you cannot get back to that place alone anymore, you’ve changed since you left the Order and most of it was for the better, but more attachment means more support. You will not be able to find that balance if you let your family go. He said with a sense of urgency. He needed you to grasp what he was telling you, no matter how unnatural it might feel.

Your pulse quickened. Surely, he wasn’t suggesting what you thought he was? “What are you saying, Master?”

Do you know where your nickname originated?

Confused as you why this was suddenly relevant, you angled your head at him. “I always figured it was because word spread that I made my lightsaber slightly wrong the first time and nearly set it on fire when I first ignited it.”

He chortled. That acted more as a visual aid and a helpful addition to the true origin.

“Then where did it come from?”

He took a deep breath. In the weeks leading up to the time for us to choose a youngling to take under our wing, you caught my eye from the start. It wasn’t just your natural ability with a lightsaber or your quick grasp of the Force, it was how you interacted with the people around you. During the trials, you had a heightened care for how the others were performing and you aided them whenever you could without a second thought. It made you more focused, more effective. You were unique from your peers in that sense and in a way that I’d never seen before, and I knew I had to get to know you more to understand what it was I was picking up on.

“Yeah, I remember. I’d never expected someone to choose me so eagerly, especially since my disciplinary record was far from perfect, even at that age.” Youreminisced with a sigh.

Yes, my fellow Jedi were surprised at my decision, but there was just something within you I had to see for myself. As we got to understand each other and I could officially begin your training, I watched you continue to demonstrate this quality and I could feel it residing in the Force within you. You had this spark, this fire that drove you which would worry even the most disciplined Jedi Masters but with you, it was as much a part of you as the Force was with the rest of us. You were completely at peace with it, and it was something you probably didn’t realise was so rare. You could feel attachment without rejecting the light side of the Force to do so.

So, the name made a bit more sense after all these years, but you still couldn’t see why this was being brought up. “Okay…”

He could tell you were still hesitant to all this. Do you know which General had the most victories with the fewest casualty numbers? Quite a feat to have during war time I might add.

You huffed a heavy breath from your lips. “I have no idea. The war was such a mess and there were so many of us that it was hard to keep up with the results of each battle.”

Fair point. He conceded, but that doesn’t change the answer which is that it was you.

You were taken aback for a moment before you thought back to that period and part of it did make sense. Many of your strategies had seen you take on the most dangerous elements for the sake of the clones in your battalion despite protests from them, your master and pretty much everyone that was involved, but all that mattered to you was that they worked, and you did what you could to protect everyone else.

He knew you enough to recognise that face and he figured whatever it was you were thinking about would relate to his next question. And which General had the most visits to the medical wing? Another impressive award. He added with a hint of disapproval, his mask of control slipping slightly as he frowned at the memories of the countless notifications he’d receive of your admittance to the healing wards of the Jedi Temple.

You cringed as you remembered the fact you had been on a first name basis with all the medical personnel. “I did.”

He nodded. Attachments didn’t bring you down, they lifted you up. Their most negative consequence in that period seemed to be the recklessness they gave you- and my hair greying faster than I would’ve liked. He couldn’t help but say before he continued, but they didn’t unbalance you like they did most of us. And it is on that point my dear Spark, that I failed you.

“Failed me?” In what galaxy could he have possibly failed you when you were the one that had forgone all you stood for and was one slip away from total self-destruction.

When it became clear to me that this was indeed one of your best qualities and strengths, I was thrilled! It presented a challenge for me as you Master that I was looking forward to exploring! Your emotional attachment to people and causes was one I wanted to teach you to manage, not forbid. Your love and care didn’t make you more susceptible to the dark side and its dangers, it drew you closer to the light. That fire that burns within you isn’t a threat, it’s your way to become something greater. But the Council… He trailed off with a regretful sigh. They rejected my proposal that I mentor you in this way. So instead, as you got older, I worked on forcing you to dampen that flame within you but- He stopped for a moment and chuckled wryly. As you may remember, that was when the root of our conflicts started. Foolishly and rather selfishly-and this is an example of how even those of us that followed the Jedi Code to the letter slip from time to time- you passing your trials into Knighthood gave me profound relief. Not only did it mean I could see you become the Jedi you were always meant to be, but it meant my duty as your teacher was over and I could stop doing something I was against. But I shied away too much and stopped teaching you altogether, had I just been less of a ‘pawn of the Council’ as you quite rightly put it, what you’re experiencing now could have been avoided.

You took a moment to let his words sink in, but you wouldn’t let him blame himself for how you’d behaved in recent times. “I still made the choices to hurt those people, Master. You’re not responsible for my actions.”

Perhaps not, but I could’ve done more to make sure you were better equipped to deal with the loss attachment could bring rather than just tell you to stop feeling it altogether. Not that you listened to that anyway. He added with a slight grin.

You allowed yourself half a smile at that before his face turned sombre again.

But I should’ve stood up for you and for that I’m sorry.

You bowed your head in acceptance of his apology. “But what does all of what we’ve talked about have to do with where I am now?”

Everything I’ve shown you, everything you’ve felt in these recent months illustrates someone who had to cope with a tremendous amount of grief when they had been told their whole life to not feel or get attached. Even with your strength and abilities, Spark, that was a big ask, your actions, and the internal conflict you’re going through is an understandable outcome. But even in dealing with that struggle, you were never purely evil or sought to abandon your Jedi teachings. The only time I grew truly worried before now was whatever you did a few weeks ago. Even I couldn’t see you; it was like the very light around you was getting snuffed out. Care to tell me what you did?

You shook your head adamantly.  

Very well. As I was saying, all you’ve learned, all you’ve done and means you can heal from this. You are not a lost cause, not a source of darkness and despair. You are good at heart, Spark!

But Master, I-

No, don’t talk yourself out of this. Really think about what I’m telling you. You never abandoned Lyra, you did your best to ensure no civilian would be caught up in your fights, you offered chances to those people before you hurt them. And you were able to sense Hunter and Wrecker arrive. That source of light wouldn’t have shown itself if you were too far down that dark path.

Maybe so but-

He wouldn’t let you second guess yourself anymore. And when you realised that they were indeed on this planet… what did you do first?

You pondered for a moment before you remembered. I helped those sisters.

And when you found one another, you felt alive and hopeful again but because you’d been lost and confused for so long, it got manipulated into that guilt and regret and hurt you are experiencing right now that has left you exposed to this darkness. But before that, you were ready to free yourself of it, whether you truly realised it or not.

“Right…” You said distantly as you were slowly starting to understand what revelation he was guiding you towards.

I can see you working it out, you’re almost there. He encouraged.

Each lesson and aspect of this entire conversation began to click into place. “So, you’re saying that Hunter’s my light? He’s my way out of this?” You uttered quietly.

Isn’t he? He challenged with a supportive smile. And I believe he too made that fact very clear before you sent him away.

“I thought that was what I was supposed to do.” You said in dismay as your mind finally began to listen to what your Master had been telling you and you gained some proper clarity. What had you done?

He looked at you fondly. You were always a bad student when it came to applying and learning the history of our Code, it would fit that the first time you apply the philosophy to your life would be the poorer choice. They never unbalanced you, Spark. At the very least, they’re your way of staying true to the light side and your dark side knew that, hence it’s enthusiastic efforts to turn you.

You hid you head in your hands in embarrassment. You wouldn’t know a right decision if it smacked you in the face.  

Oh, and with regards to Cid and Hemlock, I leave that side of things entirely up to you, with your family by your side, I know punishing them however you like won’t ruin you.

“Thanks, Master.” You replied, a smile in your voice.

Not every Jedi gets the chance at a family, Spark, don’t throw it away now.

You glanced up in time to see him fade away but what was around you wasn’t pure darkness anymore; rays of light had broken into the gloomy space, with more fighting to get through.

--

You opened your eyes sharply and wiped away the damp residue of the tears that had escaped your eyes from your cheeks. He was right, they were the light in your life, and you’d been so stupid to let them go.

Ignoring the lingering pain of your injury, you hastily got to your feet, grabbed a couple bags of credits, and left your room only to be greeted by the disappointed and unhappy face of Lyra. “Hey, I was just-”

“You need to go after them. I’m sorry but I’m drawing the line here. I have not watched you put yourself through hell and risk your life month after month to find your family again only for you to throw it away for some stupid, fucked up, self-sabotaging reason! If you let them go, it will destroy you and as someone else who cares about you, I cannot allow you to do that! They’re your family, you need them, and they need you. And your kid needs you, you can’t just stop! And Hunter… that man is so in love with you it’s sickening, and you are as equally disgustingly in love with him! Whatever is holding you back, the two of you can get through together!”

“Lyra-” But she held up a finger to stop you.

“And you don’t need to worry about me, I will be fine. I’ll get a job and might even find a place that’s not a condemned building to live. You have to go!” She finished with a nervous exhale as she awaited your reaction.

“You’re right.” You agreed.

“Yeah, I am and- wait… what?” Lyra stared at you, shocked.

“I’m going after them.”

“You are?” She double checked.

“Yup.”

“Oh, thank fuck!” Lyra exclaimed before she darted forward and wrapped you up in her arms.

“How long were you coming up with that speech?” You kidded as the two of you hugged.

“For however long you were holed up in your room.” Lyra said with a laugh. “And in case you didn’t listen to that, I had my rifle set to stun and was fully prepared to drag you.”

“Glad we could avoid that.” You replied drily. “Also, ‘sickeningly in love?’” You quoted.

“I meant that as a compliment. Most people can only dream of that.”

You managed a short laugh. “I was an ass to you.” You mumbled shamefully.

“You were, but you were going through a lot.” Lyra said kindly as she removed herself from your hold.

“I was broken and hurting but that wasn’t an excuse to treat you how I did and I’m so sorry. I’m truly grateful for you and your friendship and well, just everything you’ve done for me. I won’t ever forget it. There are some spare bags of credits from those jobs I pulled whilst we were on the move in my bedside drawer, take them. And if there’s anything, and I mean anything you need, I will be there. You only have to get in touch.” You passed her the details of the Marauder’s comm channel.

“Go get ‘em.” Lyra said with a grin.

You gave her one last quick hug before you ran out the door, concern for your injury was pushed far to the back of your mind. You only prayed to the Force that you hadn’t left it too late.

--

“But I still don’t understand why we’re going without her. What you’ve said makes no sense.” Wrecker questioned as he followed Hunter up and down the Marauder as he got stuff ready for take-off.

“Not my problem, Wrecker. I don’t really want to relive it all again so that it makes sense to you.” Hunter said gruffly as he avoided making eye-contact with his brother and instead focused on keeping himself busy.

“She met someone else and you’re basically doing the whole ‘if you love someone you let them go?’”

“I guess that about sums it up.”

“That’s bullshit.”

“Wrecker-”

“I’m sorry, Sarge, but it’s true.”

“You weren’t there. You didn’t hear her.”

“She can’t have meant it! She still has your insignia, if there was someone else, why would she keep that?!”

“Wrecker, drop it.” Hunter said sharply. His brother’s insistence that you were making all this up was only rubbing salt in the wound.

“We’re really just going to leave and forget about her?”

“Yup.”

Wrecker just couldn’t accept that. “If you love someone, you fight for them! Otherwise, what’s the point in what we’re doing right now, why should we bother going after Omega?”

Hunter paused his pacing by the doorway and released an exasperated sigh. “What do you expect me to do?”

Wrecker went to speak but changed his mind as to what he was going to say as he saw the figure in the background. “Actually, I don’t think you’ll have to do anything.” Wrecker said, looking past Hunter’s shoulder.

Hunter turned to follow his gaze and that was when he saw you. Standing in the torrential rain a few feet away from the steps to the Marauder, was you and you were obviously trying to catch your breath.

--

You started to speak before you caught your breath, so your words were leaving you in a desperate and winded manner. “I was always a bad student.” You raised your voice over the sound of the pouring way. You wiped some drops away from your face, a futile gesture given the intensity of the downpour, but the motion assisted in grounding you for this moment.

Hunter studied you from afar for a second, unsure as to why you’d started this way.

Sensing his uncertainty, you cleared your throat and started again but your words still spilled from your lips in a nervous ramble. “So, it turns out I was always a Jedi who developed attachments and love for people, but apparently that’s a pretty strong and unique quality and applying the Jedi philosophy of ‘letting attachment go’ is a mistake and- and it felt like one. I have such a poor grasp of that concept that even when I went to use it properly, I got it all wrong. I was always a terrible student but for once, for once in my life, I have never been more grateful for it.” Your voice quivered as you said these next words. “I love you! I love you so much it hurts but it’s the kind of hurt that I can’t imagine not having in my life. You, this team, are what keep me balanced and alive, and I was stupid to think letting you go was the solution to everything I have done!”

Hunter could feel his heart thundering in his chest as he listened to what you were saying.

“Finally seeing you again made me feel hope and brought a newfound sense of purpose in my life I didn’t think I’d have again but it got all twisted, I let it get all messed up! I saw you and Wrecker, and I felt that love again and it terrified me at first! I had been acting out and miserable for so long that I didn’t think I deserved to feel this way again or that I should burden you all with my past. I needed to be punished and this was the best way I could think of. I allowed whatever darkness that had been driving me for that period we were apart to convince me that you were better of alone and I had to say whatever I could to get that to happen and for that, I am sorry!” You were in full flow now, all the emotions you’d been supressing came crashing to the surface and for once, it actually felt good. You weren’t existing as a husk of armour anymore.

Hunter couldn’t stand the gap between you anymore and he got his feet in motion. He needed to be near you, he needed to hold you again. You didn’t seem to notice his movement though because you carried on talking.

“There was never anyone else, there could never be anyone else! You’re it for me and this-” You stopped and gestured to the half white skull insignia on your top layer. “When I had this and said that you were a part of me, I truly meant it! Even when we weren’t together, that feeling never faltered. Half my heart beats for myself and this family I was fortunate enough to find. The other half beats for you! You are so deeply engrained in my very being that when I didn’t have you, I could hardly call it living! And then I got you back, and I was flooded with all the emotions I’d been missing since that day we were separated, and they collided with everything I’d done wrong, and I just panicked! I entered self-sabotage mode and thought letting you out of my life was what I had to do! I ruined one of the few remaining good things in my life and was preparing myself to let it be so. Thankfully, it was pointed out to me just how incorrect I was and I’m sorry!”

Hunter kept slowly walking down the steps towards you, the heavy rain instantly cascading down his face and body, but he didn’t care. His sole focus was on you now and the words you were saying. The words that were now healing the open wound he’d had since leaving you in that run down apartment.

“I need to come back. I need to be with you and I’m sorry I got everything so wrong! I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you, but you have to let me come back!”

“Yes.” He said as he continued to shorten the distance between you both.

“This family is the light of my life. You are the light of my life. So, either, let me come with you or just shoot me because without you, without this squad, I am just a shell of a human being and I’m done feeling like that now! You have to let me come back!”

“Yes.” Hunter said again as he stopped in front of you.

“And I-” You cut yourself off as you finally registered what he was saying and that the space between you both was now only a matter of inches. “Really?”

Hunter nodded and his hand fell to your waist whilst the other cradled the side of your face.

“I didn’t mean it. I’m sorry.” You whispered softly as your hand rested on his now unarmoured chest and you got utterly absorbed in the feeling of his heart pounding beneath your fingertips- each beat emphasising that this was real, you were actually with him now- and you had no doubt that he could pick up on the way your own pulse was racing.

“It’s okay.” He breathed. “I love you too.”

“I love you.” You croaked out again as you felt the emotions rise in the back of your throat.

“You never stopped being a part of me either.” He murmured, his breathing heavy as his self-restraint was hanging by a thread, but he needed you to be sure. “Can I-” Hunter started to ask as he angled his head and slowly brought his lips closer to yours.

“Yes.” You cut him off. If he didn’t kiss you now, you felt as though you might stop breathing.

Hunter swiftly bridged the remaining distance and the dread he’d been experiencing at the idea of never finding you, at the idea of leaving you behind instantly evaporated in this moment as he finally placed his lips on yours.

You sighed into the sensation of experiencing this again and what began as hesitant and careful, soon became a kiss between two people fuelled by passion who had been apart for far too long and who would never be apart again. You wrapped your arms around him and pressed yourself against him.

Hunter first made sure he held you securely in his arms but as the kiss progressed and both of you became more immersed in feeling each other once more, his hands started caressing everything he could find. The actions elicited a small but desperate noise from you which he already felt drunk off of and he needed to hear more of you. The rain that had once felt like a harsh cascade of cold, damp water now felt gentle and tepid. He got utterly absorbed in your warmth and he tasted the water on your lips, but the interference didn’t bother him, he just relished the feeling of having you back in his embrace again.

You faintly registered the sun breaking through and the rain lightened in its deluge as you kissed him. If it wasn’t such a perfect moment, you might’ve laughed at the cliched nature of it all, but you were too caught up in this feeling that you ignored it. You threaded your fingers in his hair and lightly tugged, soliciting that raspy and familiar groan from him and your stomach fluttered at the feeling.

Unfortunately, you couldn’t ignore your current injury any longer and you felt it strain as Hunter held you tighter to him in response to your actions.

Hunter forced himself to pull away upon feeling your wince, his chest heaving as he worked on getting oxygen back into his lungs, but you interrupted his incoming question by continuing to plant light, affectionate kisses on the rest of his face and he couldn’t help the low but happy laugh that he let out. He lightly grabbed your shoulders and took a slight step back to take you in. The way the sun fell across your face had his breath catching in his throat. Your eyes were bright and looking at him with an adoration that he knew was reflected in his own gaze and the blissful smile on your lips beautifully captured the feelings of this moment. He rested a hand on the side of your face.

You looked into his own shining dark brown eyes and leaned into his touch with a soft and content sigh.

Hunter continued to slowly caress your cheek. “Not to disrupt your healing journey, but I have to ask… where do you stand on Cid and Hemlock?”

“Oh, don’t worry, they’re getting fucked up. I have permission on that front.” You said with a decisive nod. “I just have to watch the line with those that aren’t exactly personally involved.”

Not going to question where this permission came from exactly, he was just grateful whatever had happened, had brought you back to him so he just focused on the last part. “I can help with that. And you can look out for me too. We don’t have to do this alone anymore.”

You gave him an agreeing and grateful smile before you planted another tender kiss to his lips and grabbed his hand as the two of you walked back to the ship.

“This you officially back with us now?” Wrecker asked with a grin as you stepped aboard.

“You won’t be able to get rid of me.” You replied with a small smile as you gazed around you. There were times where you had felt uncertain as to whether you would stand amongst these comforting and familiar walls again, and your senses were flooded with the memories you had created and shared here. You swallowed harshly as you saw Omega’s and Tech’s spaces, but you regained your composure as you walked along the hallway. Your hand traced along the bunk you shared with Hunter and a soft sigh left your lips as you were instantly reminded of the slightly more personal moments you had experienced there.

It felt good to be home.

“Ready?” Hunter asked as you finished in the cockpit. He came beside you and wrapped an arm around your waist and pulled you tight to him as Wrecker put the ship in hyperspace.

You nodded. “Let’s go get our girl.”

Next Oneshot>

Tagging: @noeasyisnoisy, @fuckoffthanos, @tpwkcalli, @graciexmarvel, @arctrooper69, @nightmonkeysstuff, @brujaporfavor, @flyingkangaroo, @sunkissedclones, @ladytano420, @keep-calm-and-drink-caf, @yyourmotherr, @xxeiraxx, @dragonrider9905, @skellymom, @lokigirlszendaya

#the bad batch #the bad batch season 2 #the bad batch s2 #hunter x reader #hunter x female!jedireader #hunter x fem!reader #hunter x female!reader #sergeant hunter x reader #sergeant hunter #hunter tbb #hunter the bad batch #the bad batch hunter x you #hunter x y/n #tbb hunter x reader #the bad batch fanfiction #star wars #angst #fluff #friends to lovers

[machiroads]

Don't look, i'm about to overthink this panel

Long post under the cut.

Notwithstanding that I can't figure out what's going on with Aizawa's legs here because he's twisted around or something—it's a good panel. Look at them, they're adorable. 11/10 no notes.

Actually that's not true I have so many notes.

Will someone also please get this man a blanket for god's sake

I'm going to unpack the implications here from two perspectives: Aizawa telling Eri he got hit by a truck, and Eri trying (and failing) to save Aizawa.

Tis But A Flesh Wound

Aizawa tells Eri he got hit by a truck, and a common interpretation I've seen of this is that nobody told her what happened to him. I don't necessarily think this is true, because:

A) She rewound Mirio the day before the raid

B) She was watching the fight on TV with All Might.

Canonically, she is at least tangentially aware of what happened. Aizawa also knows that she's at least somewhat aware of what happened, vis-a-vis excerpt A.

I've also seen the interpretation that Aizawa is trying to obfuscate the truth about his injuries from her (presumably because the quirk-deleting bullets were created from her blood), but again, she was watching the fight on TV.

The most rational (hah) explanation is that he's just back on his bullshit, lying to children for his own amusement.

which is. hysterical.

Anyways, onto item 2!

The Deus Ex Machina

As we saw above, Eri rewound Mirio the day before the raid. I am not a scholar of the BNHA timeline, but I did do some research while I was writing Nine Lives. My understanding is as follows:

The Shie Hassaikai raid is sometime in September

The Jaku raid is at the end of March

Mirio corroborates these two points when he arrives at Jaku, noting that he's been out of the game for about 6 months

Post-Jaku is where the timeline gets weird.

Tartarus is breached the night of the raid on Jaku and Gunga

Midoriya is brought back to UA about a month after that

The Star & Stripe fight happens the day after that

The day after that, All Might reveals they have at least a week to prepare for the final battle. Aoyama is revealed to be the traitor on the same day.

In summary, the final battle happens somewhere in the ballpark of a month and a half to two months after Jaku / Gunga.

With the timeline sort of squared away, let's move on to the interpretation I've seen some readers make, which is that Eri didn't have enough energy to rewind Aizawa. The translation of Ectoplasm's dialogue has varied between the original leaks, the fan scanlation, and the official release, leading to some ambiguity of interpretation here, but there are a few different reasons that this doesn't make any sense:

Based on the timeline outlined above, where Eri successfully sends Mirio back 6 months on the day before the raid, it doesn't really make sense that 0 to 2 months later, she couldn't hypothetically rewind Aizawa by 0 to 2 months after he loses his leg and eye. Eri's power is wishy washy at best, but this seems like it's entirely within the realm of plausibility if Aizawa wanted to be rewound.

From a storytelling standpoint, what's the point of rewinding Aizawa to de-nerf him for the final battle if him and Monoma are ultimately removed from the fight via Sad Man's Parade anyway?

My interpretation is that this doesn't actually have anything to do with Eri trying and failing to rewind Aizawa, but rather she's trying to go rescue Midoriya and help him the same way that she did during the Shie Hassaikai raid.

The inference Ectoplasm is making is that it's too late for that, because she's at home watching the fight on TV rather than already being on the battlefield. This was also the case at Jaku, where she was canonically watching the fight on TV with All Might. She must have seen Aizawa go down and wanted to go save him, but it was already too late for her to try to help.

There's an entire separate essay worth of discussion on why Aizawa continues to live with one leg and one eye (both from a canon and a meta perspective), but I won't get into that here.

In conclusion:

This panel is fucking adorable

Aizawa continues to lie to children for fun and profit

Eri is baby and is physically perfectly capable of controlling her power at this juncture, she's just geographically removed from the action because she's like seven years old

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk

#BNHA #Aizawa Shouta #Eri #MHA Spoilers

[burst-of-iridescent]

I'm writing this as a big Katara stan. I just found out that a new film about an adult Gaang is planned to be released, and Katara, like Aang, will be given a leading role there. I am so excited and glad that finally Katara will be given due respect as a character!

But for some reason, after searching on Tumblr, I saw joy about a new film in the entire Atla fandom except for our zutara community. on the contrary, there is a lot of discontent and bitterness. But why is that? Is it because zutara won't be in the movie? Well, yes, zutara is a fanon ship, it will never be anywhere but our fanfics and fanart. But after all, Zutara is not in the original ATLA show, and we still love it! This is no reason not to rejoice at the opportunity to see our favorite characters on the screen again, to see Katara again (God, I'm screaming with delight😍😍😍😍). Yes, there is a chance that the writing will be bad, but there is always such a chance before the release of any film. I'm just so happy to see Katara again, and the whole gaang too, and her new design for this movie seems so great to mе!

i mean this genuinely, anon: i love that you love katara so much, and i am really happy for you that you're looking forward to the new movie. i truly hope you enjoy it.

i don't want to speak for the rest of zutara fandom, but i can't share your feelings because - to put it point-blank - i don't trust the creators with katara's character. ever since they lost their writing team, nothing they've created post-atla has proven to me that they understand katara's character, or how to create a good arc for her. it's telling that the only post-canon comic featuring a decent story for katara (katara and the pirate's silver) came out in 2020, twelve years after the original show ended (and which was also, notably, the first comic that bryan and mike were not involved with).

i'm sure some people are salty that they won't see canon zutara, but personally i'm relieved that i won't have to see bry.ke ruin romantic zutara like they did with their friendship post-atla. i'm sure they'll do their damnedest to fuck up what remains of zuko and katara's platonic relationship in the new movie, which is why canon ended for me with the final agni kai. no magic pointy rock or canon ships in this household, thank you.

i wish i could share your excitement for the movie anon, but i just don't have faith in bryan and mike to do justice to the characters (especially zuko and katara) after everything they've said and created over the last decade. like really, calling zuko a bad boy in the year of our lord 2023? please watch your own show.

besides, nothing they can do for katara in this movie will retcon what they did to her in LOK. i already know she ends up as a sad, lonely housewife without any real power, impact or legacy; that can't be changed, no matter how they try to "fix" it. it looks like the movie has been delayed so my hope is that it just gets cancelled in production. atla has been milked to filth anyway; leave the og characters alone and do something new with the universe, or just let it rest in peace and find another story to tell.

#anti bryke #anti kataang #anti atla movie #zutara

[commander-rahrah]

I'm excited to read it too! I'm glad you find it interesting! Don't worry about your post because long! Your thoughts are so interesting!

I agree that Astarion would have to come to terms with Reader/Tav's boundaries too since it works both ways! I definitely feel that Astarion would be too lost in drinking from the blood of a sentient creature to notice the signs.

He would feel ashamed when he's aware of their fear yet they still chose to offer despite that might made him feel like he manipulated them like Cazador did to him 😭

What his excuses are if they try to offer in the early days makes sense! He would be too ashamed & terrified to have such a vulnerable conversation with them yet 😞

He would feel safe enough to bring up their fear after he confessed about everything. He would make it clear to them he doesn't want them to suffer by making them do something they don't want to like he did especially after how much they have helped him & how important they are to him 😭

He would respect their decision if they said it's too much for them. He would support everyone's personal choices & autonomies even though the concept is still new to him 😤

He would need an explanation if they insist on feeding him regardless of their fear. They would explain that not only do they trust him, they love him more than they fear it 🥹

He would only accept if they establish some ground rules 👍 like he did when it comes to physical intimacy & sex which is healthy for both of them!

I know it's unrelated but thank you for adding this because you described me pretty well 🤣 I would definitely react to even the smallest of cuts so Astarion quickly but gently sucking it & giving a small kiss on it would be a fantastic distraction 😳

You're welcome! Thank YOU for entertaining me & sharing your thoughts! I'm glad you enjoy putting Astarion and Tav/Reader in all these different scenarios too 🤍

Here's my idea that I would love to hear your opinion! Just to let you know this is quite self-indulgent XD How would Astarion react to GN! Reader/Tav actually had suspicions that he's using them but still chose to believe that he's not. So when he confessed he manipulated them, they're even not angry at him.

They're sad for how much & how long he has suffered to be the way he is now, but they're also genuinely hurt that he did take advantage of their trust in him. They don't blame him but they admit it still hurts and wants some time alone to process it.

After leaving them be, they would go to him when they're ready to talk to him. They would tell him how grateful they are that he chose to come clean with them despite knowing how it would be easier for him to keep quiet for it, and thanked him for trusting them enough to be honest with them.

What do you think of it? I'm curious :3

Hi Anon! Sorry for the super late response, I let this one stew for a little while in my brain and the other night I had this dialogue idea and couldn’t resist writing a little scene about it tonight! I hope you enjoy ❤️

I envisioned this scene happens half way through his confession, and then imagined the rest of the conversation about intimacy and boundaries would happen afterwards! It’s about 1100 words, and canonical Astarion backstory warnings apply — trauma, dark thoughts, etc.

.·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨:·..·:¨༺ ༻¨

“I just — I feel awful." Astarion’s throat worked silently, his eyes glancing down to his boots. "Look, I had a plan. A nice, simple plan — seduce you, sleep with you, manipulate your feelings so you’d never turn on me. It was easy — instinctive. Habits from two hundred years of charming people kicked in." He finally looked up at your face, studying intensely for your reaction. 

“I—oh,” You pulled your hand away from him as uncertainty flooded your features. He saw your eyes dart back and forth, but they weren’t studying him. No, you were lost in thought. “Oh.”

Astarion licked his lips, his hands ringing together in front of him nervously. “You have every right to be angry.”

“I’m not angry. I thought we… I don’t know what I thought.”

The rest of what he had planned to say vanished out of his mind. Instead it started to betray him, a cruel voice whispering about how he knew you would react like this. Did he really think it would go well?

His pink mouth hung open as he scrambled for what to say, trying to think of how to make this better. But he’d done enough already, hadn’t he?

You crossed your arms over your body, your cheeks flushing deeply. “I feel a bit like a fool. None of it was real, the whole time?”

“Not the whole time,” He confessed as soft, vulnerable moments with you flashed in his mind. The very moments that made him start to drop the act. “It hasn’t been as of late, but before… in the beginning, up until recently, yes.”

His red eyes followed your throat as it bobbed up and down before flicking back up to your face. Your eyebrows were furrowed, your mouth a sad pout.

“Tell me what you’re thinking.” Astarion whispered, not daring to move forward.

“I’m thinking… I need a moment.” You admitted, already looking behind you and away from him.

His heart sank, but he nodded. “I— okay. Of course.”

And then you were off, your head down as you stalked away from the edge of the beach and back to the warm glow of camp.

He stood there stunned for a moment, before turning around to stare at the dark, choppy waters in front of him. Hundreds of scenarios began to dance in his mind — what if you went back to the camp to tell the others? Would he be met by pointed blades and blazing spells? He imagined being kicked out, staked, cursed, roasted alive with fireballs. Hand delivered to Cazador as extra punishment for his sins. Anything his twisted broken mind could come up with played like a messed up vision.

Astarion didn’t even try to stop the repetitive dark thoughts. It was what he deserved.

Eventually, the vampire slinked back into the camp some time later — once the sky was inky black and the moon was the only light to illuminate the way back to his tent.

“Hi.”

The sound caused his ears and shoulders to perk up instantly. You were sat in the grass and dirt outside of his tent, your arms wrapped around your knees and pulled to your chest.

“Hi.” Gods, he sounded breathless. But he couldn’t see any weapons or angry barbarians or wizards nearby. That was a good sign, right?

“I wasn’t sure when you’d come back.”

He cocked a brow, “I figured you wouldn’t want to see me again.”

A sigh escaped your lips, “Astarion, don’t be dramatic. I asked for time to think — not for you to leave.”

He blinked at your sharp tone, but nodded his head in slight defeat. “You’re right. And you waited for me because—?”

You brushed off your clothes as you stood up to his height, “I would like to finish that conversation, if you’re ready.”

Well, there was no denying the inevitable.

He nodded his head solemnly, stepping forward to open the flap of his tent and inviting you in with a wave of his hand.

The privacy his tent offered was slight, but this late in the night he knew most of his companions would be fast asleep. Quickly lighting a lantern, he joined you on the fabric floor.

His half-dead heart was thundering, the thrumming sound echoing in his pointed ears that he almost missed your quiet voice.

“I understand.”

“What?” His brows furrowed, looking at you with confusion.

“The stories you’ve told me… your scars… I understand why you did it, why you felt the need to do it.” You explained, your voice and eyes tender as you looked at him in the low light. “But you manipulated me, Astarion. You took advantage of me, toyed with me and my emotions to get what you needed. That hurts.”

Astarion’s stomach twisted into a hard knot, “I know.”

“But you also didn’t need to tell me any of this. You could have kept pretending, kept up the charade until we faced Cazador… But you didn’t. Why?”

Now it felt like his stomach was crawling up his torso and into his throat. Gods, what was this feeling? Why did you do this to him. “That’s what I was trying to tell you before. I failed with my plan. It felt apart the moment I realized… that I had fallen for you.” He admitted, but his fluttering heart made more words stumble out of his mouth. “And I know you probably don’t believe me, why would you after everything I just told you. Trust me, nobody feels more stupid about it than I do.”

You cut off his rambling, “I don’t think it’s stupid. I think that’s probably the most honest you’ve been with me since I’ve met you,” You said earnestly. “It would have been a lot easier for you to keep on pretending, wouldn’t it? Pretend I’m just another mark, another means to an end to get through the day.”

“I don’t want easy… I don’t want to just get through the day. Not anymore.” Astarion whispered across the small tent, staring intently at you.

You cocked your head slightly in question, “And what do you want?”

“I want this, I want us — to be real. You deserve something real.”

“So do you, Astarion. You deserve something real.”

Your name escaped his lips as a choked sob as overwhelming wave of emotion settled over him. “I don’t even know what real looks like. How do I give that to you if I—?”

“Do you trust me?”

The vampire nodded through his tears, “Yes.”

“I trust you,” You said softly.

“After everything I’ve done?” He croaked, waving his hands dramatically, “You’d trust a monster—“

You grabbed onto his extended fingers gently, squeezing them. “Yes, even then.”

He looked down at your hands touching, before intertwining his pale fingers with yours carefully. “Maybe you are a fool.”

You let out a breathless laugh, the sound waking up something in him he’d long thought dead. “Maybe, I am. But you fell for me, so what does that make you?”

Astarion’s mouth twitched up until it match your smile, “The luckiest vampire alive.”

#commander-rahrah answers #bg3 astarion #astarion ancunin #astarion fanfic #bg3 fanfic #Astarion X reader #astarion x gn reader #astarion x tav #astarion x gn!tav

[streets-in-paradise]

Third Fate - Achilles x Fiancee!Reader

Requested by Anon

" Hey, I found your tumblr and I'm loving what you do here, mostly troy. I don't know if you're getting requests, but if you are, you can make one for Achilles based on that scene where he's told he can go and win glory in battle and have his name spoken for centuries or he can stay and be loved, have children, wife? I would love to see Achilles receive more love, with a wife and children. Feel free to make any changes you want, thank you very much in advance."

Hi, anon! I got this way sooner than what i expected because I was really in the mood to write it. The bittersweet mix of angst and fluff was exactly what I wanted to get into this week. Hope you will enjoy it :)

For a lenght concern i kept it in a pre war, pre marriage discussion of the prophecy. If once you read it you happen to like what i wrote here let me know and I can post a continuation showing what happens next ( i originally planned to do so, but it became too long so i prefer to save that for a second part)

Word Count 3.200

Warnings: Standard Achilles sexyness ( no smut, but if you watched the film you understand what I mean with this.) Some aspects of both, the canon of the film and the source material it is based on, were changed to fit the request in my envision of the story.

Summary: Terrible news disrupt the eve of your engagement to Achilles. He is called to fight in Troy and the spectacular war that the gossip foretells seems to be the destiny of greatness he had always dreamed with, but the price he has to pay for it is his happiness with you. The three days ultimatum Odysseus gave him is his moment to decide, but he won't do it without you.

Note: Inspired by two prompts by @creativepromptsforwriting

Prompt 1014 - " Well, the prophecy was a bit unclear about this part."

Prompt 1010 - " Let's not worry about the future. Let's just take this one kiss at a time."

"I like how that sounds."

Tags: @mysticaldeanvoidhorse @helie-brain

There was no easy way for him to explain to you what he had just found out. After Odysseus arrived bringing the news of the war in Asia you were already sad thinking of the distance that would keep your fiancé far away from you for an uncertain amount of time, but the real hardships surpassed your expectations. The whispers of fame claimed the conflict escalated enough to become the greatest war your world had ever seen, but you still imagined it as one war like many others he fought before. No matter the challenges found in battle, Achilles would always return to you. 

Except that he wouldn’t,not from Troy. His mother told him of an old prophecy announced before his birth assuring that war would be the peak of his consecration as a hero, but the price for this glorification was his death. From this fact fate allowed him only two options of choice. He could either stay in Greece and be loved during his lifetime knowing history would forget him, or go to Troy to make his name immortal facing his doom. 

To the end of his tale all you could do was cry, convinced that you were losing him forever. All your plans faded in just one instant, the life you dreamed together was gone. 

“ I’m not dead yet, look at me.” He sweetly mocked you. “ How can you be so sure already that I’m here to tell you I’m abandoning you to get myself killed?” 

You could tell he was trying, but that wasn’t making it any better. 

“ If you don’t go, you will regret it. “ Was your dry comeback. “I know you, Achilles. You live to fight, staying away from the battlefield feels to you like a punishment. I can never keep you for long, not even when war calls you to fight other greeks. Why would it be different this time? You were born for this war, not to labrate the fields and raise goats. If Troy is the fate of greatness that you deserve, I can’t ask you to abandon this life purpose for the sake of our wedding.” 

Despite how much he loved to see people worshiping as a hero, he was very aware to be a man in your eyes. Your approach was realistic and showed how well you knew him, much better than some of the men bleeding with him in war. If you fell for him, you did it knowing what to expect. Begging him to change his nature to fit the requirements of peaceful domesticity was never in your plans and you wouldn’t try it even if you were desperate. 

That didn’t mean he wouldn’t be able to surprise you on occasions, exactly as he did when he proposed to you freshly arrived from the victory against King Triopas and his giant Boagrius. 

“ Do you think I wouldn’t give it all away for you? Then I guess you don’t know me as well as you claim. “ He teased you with insistence. “ I can do well raising horses, I have some magnificent ones already. Do you know that horses are one of the most remarkable exportations of the trojans? If their city gets sacked by greeks and I manage to buy a few of theirs to mix with mine we would get an excellent rare breed. “ 

You cleaned your face and warned him against the mockery. 

“ Don’t play with me! With the memories of your proposal still fresh, fate demands me to let you go. Being your wife is my dream, but I can’t have you knowing I would be destroying everything you worked so hard for. The immortality of your name is a cause bigger than me, the happy marriage we could have had or the children I could have given you. It can’t be a coincidence that this war gets unleashed precisely now, just as we are taking the first step to formalize our union.” 

“ They are pressuring me to choose, it’s true, but the load of this decision lies in the fact that I want both more than anything.” 

Achilles interrupted himself to take your hand, inviting you to abandon the distance you were forcing ever since he began to explain the situation. 

“ I need you by my side, it’s the only vulnerability I have ever allowed myself. A glorifying death doesn’t scare me, but surviving far enough without you would be torture.” 

Your lips parted in sincere amazement for that confession, so unusual of him. 

“ A slow agony. If the war doesn’t kill me first, lovesickness will.” He continued. “ The comfort of lonely men fighting in foreign lands is dreaming with their distant wives at night, the hope of returning to them makes life bearable. I would not have this, from the moment I would board my ship I will be aware you are lost to me. All I would have is the wound of my pierced heart still bleeding love for you and plenty of time to wonder how wonderful it would have been to make you mine… Sooner or later I would lose my mind. Knowing glorious death would be the only comfort already promised to me, I would roam the battlefield searching for it. It’s most likely I would perform incredible acts worthy of being remembered, but I would do it as the insane man who is desperately looking for the warrior meant to kill him. The poets would write for centuries about the madness of Achilles.” 

“ Aren’t they singing that already? Many people have described you as a madman.” You teased him, unsure of how to comfort him. “ Not that I mind, but that is a fact.” 

“ They have no idea, unfulfilled passion would consume me in such an incredible way that Paris would feel a reasonable man hearing about me.” 

He dragged you even closer so he could hold you in his arms and you fell for his touch chuckling sweetly. 

“ Would you be competing against both princes at once while fighting the trojans?” 

“ The warrior prince and the lover boy wish they could compare to me, I win in each one of their expertise areas. “ He followed your provocation, then whispered at you. “ I fight as fiercely as I love. “ 

You bit your bottom lip to avoid an audible response, but your flustered face was speaking for you. For an instant you felt as if nothing had changed between you and you have never heard the terrible omens. 

“... Maybe that’s why no woman is meant to have you, the great goddesses would be jealous. “ You theorized out loud while caressing his cheek. “ It’s too much, like Icharus flying too close to the sun… Although I would be lying if I deny I would gladly burn and fall for you.” 

Achilles stopped the flow of words taking your breath away with kisses that numb your senses, but not your mind. He had the habit of expressing important things in short, ambiguous phrases or not saying anything at all. When the hungry kissing began to escalate and you felt his hands roaming the sides of your body you understood that was his answer. If he would be saying goodbye, he would at least try to keep himself distant to make it easier for both of you. Given that his involvement on the war would ruin your chances to formalize, he would be encouraging you to find someone else. 

 He was pulling up your skirt slowly, evidently searching for the heat underneath. The opposite of what you would need from him if he would be about to leave you, so you stopped him right away because you realized what that meant. 

" This isn't the time to act impulsively. I know you love me as strongly as i love you, but you have to choose what truly matters the most to you. If you decide to stay, others will be making history and maybe the pleasures of the thalamus will not be enough to cure the resentment for what you will be missing. Think carefully, hearts can change and the future wife you adore now can one day become the load that brought you down. " 

Although a sensical objection, that didn't seem to preoccupy him much. 

" Never, you were made for me. The omens were very clear, staying grants me a blissful life with you for the price of letting my name fade. I have only two options: be loved and forgotten or waste my life following the fool's orders until death will reward me with immortal glory. Between spending the rest of my life with you or with Agamemnon, I think it's clear where I would rather be. "

The sacrifice was too great, ultimate proof of his love for you. Behind that relaxed phrasing Achilles attempted to de-dramatize giving up his biggest personal dream for the one you shared, what you still considered wasn’t fair. 

Responding with an equal offer was not only what your heart began to crave, but an alternative solution neither of you had considered. 

“ There has to be another way, your mother never said what I must do in all of this.” 

He wasn’t sure of where you wanted to point, but began to suspect it. 

“ Well, the prophecy was a bit unclear about this part.” 

The mischievous happiness renewed in your eyes let him know you had just found hope in the most insane of places. 

“ Don’t give me that look, this is what happens for leaving you a while alone with Odysseus! Now you think you can outsmart destiny and find me a third end.” 

You smirked with pride before presenting your idea. 

“ I can’t interfere with yours, only my own. If no part is clearly stated for me in this sacred command sent to you, then nothing stops me from choosing one. Instead of having you abandon your dream to stay with me, I’ll follow it with you.” 

His eyes were wide open staring at you, disbelief making him feel you were then playing with him. 

“ Are you telling me we could just get married and board the ship to Troy the morning after our wedding night? What kind of honorable nuptials would that be? When all the wives of the country would be giving their farewell to their husbands, would you follow me like slaves are meant to? War holds no virtuous position for a woman to occupy, it would be a stain to your reputation your parents would curse me for. “ 

“ If your baby cousin can go, so can I.” You justified yourself.” To stop me you will have to stop Patroclus and we know that is not going to happen.” 

The exactitude of your threat made him feel frustrated. Not because he wouldn’t love having you with him, but since he was refusing to publicly humiliate you like that. All Greece would know you were going to be the only wife following her husband to Troy for unexplainable reasons and they could judge your morals. Decent wives were meant to wait for their husbands and take care of their homes, not let passion distract them from their social duties. War camps were masculine places meant to be despised by the women, since their only female presence was typically in a state of degradation. Besides, Helen had already caused a moral breach shaming the greek concept of marriage and that was the reason pushing the fight. People would be judgemental of your relationship, they would question you for immorality and him for lacking authority to make you stay like a normal wife should. 

He wasn’t thinking about him anymore, of protecting his name and the weight of his masculine prestige. He was extremely worried about you and the consequences it could bring when he wouldn’t be there to protect you. 

“ Do you sincerely want to go to Troy and watch me die?” 

“ It’s still better than watching you sail knowing you will never come back.” You terminated in response . “ I have heard the city is built to withstand a ten year siege, enough time for us to have a life together before destiny will reclaim you.” 

Arguing with you was hard, even if the idea was insane you would find ways to make it sound logical. 

“ A camp on the trojan beach is no place to start a family. “ He replicated softly, just letting you know he was trying to make you understand you couldn’t ask that. “ What are we going to do when the children come? Because they will, eventually. If you become my wife no omen of death is going to stop me from making love to you.” 

You smirked innocently, ready to deliver a justification. 

“ I'm not naive, Achilles! Do you think I don’t know what happens in those camps? Captives get pregnant all the time, so it's not impossible to go through it there. It may not be ideal, but I can make it. If you would leave me here and break our relationship to protect me from your fate, you could still put a baby inside your finest war trophy girl.” 

“ And who said I’m leaving?” He questioned you. “ I’m not doing it and I am not breaking up with you. Now stop with this nonsense, my wife can’t be giving birth surrounded by death.” 

“ But trojan women can? Because births aren’t going to stop there. “ You insisted, sitting near and acting as if you were two civil parts on a trial. “ Hector has a baby boy, if he can be a father in this mess so can you.” 

The provocation made him hold a groan, but he turned back and kicked the nearest surface as a frustration release outlet. 

“ It’s different for him, his wife is a princess and they have a city to defend. “ He tried to articulate in fast speaking, doing all he could to not show signs of anger growing because of your stubbornness. “ I don’t want you to have the life of a war captive, to denigrate yourself for me.” 

It was very sweet, you were feeling his pain but he had to understand yours too. 

“ As long as you are still breathing I will not accept a life without you. When the time comes I will embrace grief, but I’ll cry for you as your widow. In the meantime I don't want no one else, I’ll have the ground of your tent as thalamus and I’ll have your children.” 

He gave a few steps towards you, presenting one more solid concern. 

“ What will be of all of you when I'm gone?” 

That should have been a strong preoccupation making you desist, but it didn’t. 

“ We will be alright. They will inherit your share of the sacking, we know your death is linked to the fall of Troy so I can assume we will win something. Given that the House of Aeacus would possess fresh new heirs to renew the bloodline, I may even be able to bargain with Agamemnon the throne of Phthia for one of them. He hates you, but he would not be politically capable to refuse if you become the maximum fallen hero of the war he just won.” 

At that point he felt true powerlessness because he just couldn’t convince you out of it for your own good. 

“ They can’t grow in a warzone, think of the ruthless people they will become.  Those kids would not know any better until it would be too late for them. I don’t want a soulless soldier as heir, people saying Achilles’ son has surpassed the brutality of the father.” 

“ Let our little monsters run free through the camp, they will turn out fine if we guide them right. “ You imagined out loud, not scared at all by the dark warning. “ I can’t wait to see them messing around, you will be in tears the first time one of them will grab a wooden sword trying to copy their father.” 

Illusion was starting to make his negative stance harder to maintain, he loved what you were saying. It sounded so wonderful that he couldn’t help find some sensical feeling in it. There was only one detail you haven’t solved for his resistance to fall completely. 

“ How would I fight the enemy worried for you? You will be the only married woman around thousands of men and although I'm terrifying to most of them, I can’t keep control at all times. Some of those men will not be myrmidons, they will not know who you are.” 

“ That’s the best part: I’ll keep Patroclus bussy.” You announced with excitement, knowing well he wouldn’t resist it. “ I know you don’t trust him in an open battleground yet, but he would not accept being left behind so you have to take him or he would never forgive you. With me on board you have a safe mission to give him that would keep him away from combat but still make him feel a hero. By the time you will judge him ready to charge into battle my presence will be naturalized and his vigilant eye won’t be needed anymore.” 

Hope was truly hitting him because he started to feel as if the crazy plan could work if you all would make it work out. Most of the persons he loved the most could be with him for the rest of his lifetime, making the surviving gap before the consecration worth living. His little cousin, his best friend and his wife along with his future children all gathered like some warrior family. 

A taste of happiness before the end, walk the two roads simultaneously into a third fate. 

“ Blessed be your stubbornness, you wonderful woman! “ He praised you, surprise making his attitude switch as he rushed towards you. “ How can you be in every detail? You are insane, but I love you. I don’t deserve you, I can’t believe this.” 

He made you smile and by that point you knew you were about to win. 

“What exactly? My incredible ingeniousness, my gorgeous looks?” 

“ That you love me so much, '' He admitted, then picked you up bridal style. “ That you will be my wife and I will brag about having you to both greeks and trojans. I will not rest until you will be the most honored person in that camp alongside me, your sacrifice will be part of my legend and maybe that will be my start to repay you. “ 

His immense gratitude was making you chuckle due to the unusual intensity, but he wouldn’t stop. 

“ I’ll love you to my last breath, I promise you that.” 

You were all smiles while caressing the strands of hair falling at the sides of his face. 

“That’s all I want. No other payment you can offer matters to me because my will for sacrifice comes from love, just like yours.” You purred blissfully. “ Let’s not worry about the future, let’s just take this one kiss at a time.” 

Mesmerized as he was, he replied against your lips. 

“ I like how that sounds.” 

#troy 2004 #achilles #brad pitt #achilles x reader #brad pitt x reader #troy #troy (2004)

[olderthannetfic]

https://olderthannetfic.tumblr.com/post/739381076510785536/so-it-seems-our-flag-means-death-has-not-been#notes

I liked OFMD and I'm sad it's not getting renewed, but I agree that the fandom was especially toxic, even by the standards of currently popular slash-heavy fandoms. I wanted to read fic after s1 ended the way it did, and I read a little bit, but along with it having all the tropes that I can't stand in a lot of what is currently big with the MSF crowd (and that I'd been happy to have a reprieve from in my current main M/M fandom), the toxicity of the online fandom discourse made me quickly realize it was one that I was going to discuss among my current-friends-from-other-fandoms who also watched it, and my sister who watches it, and pretty much ignore the rest of the Internet. It was such a perfect storm of everything awful, from people who are overly invested in it to an unhealthy degree (I think I realized I wasn't gonna be active in the larger fandom around a month or so before the s2 renewal announcement, when I saw earnest PSA tweets telling people to "stop threatening suicide in HBO's replies if they don't renew OFMD"), to bombarding and parasocial obsessions with the creators and actors, to all the classic "anti" and purity police crap that plagues anything that gets popular on here.

The fandom it reminds me the most of, honestly, is Yuri on Ice fandom at its peak in early-mid 2017. Again, a show I love, but a fandom I absolutely do not miss. In some ways they are kind of similar shows: ones with canon M/M romances where they were not billed as that, and they were hinted from early on but people didn't trust it due to years of dealing with queerbaiting, where that sort of thing slowly crept up on people and then became the defining feature of how it was discussed everywhere. I wonder if there's a particular level of insanity that that type of thing breeds in its fans - or maybe, more broadly, "canon M/M with a large female fanbase." Like, you don't see this kind of thing in canon M/M stuff that's mostly watched by queer men rather than women, but there are shades of the insanity I also remember from Glee fandom (I was more active on the F/F side of things there, which had its own unhinged drama, but the Klaine vs. anti-Klaine stuff was so explosive that it was hard not to notice it if you were anywhere in that fandom, like a mushroom cloud in the distance). But YOI and OFMD do seem very... singular in the particular kind of obsession that they generate.

And I really wish people would shape the fuck up, because if they're going to act like this over and over again, that's just going to de-incentivize showrunners to make shows like this for that audience.

Driving Con O'Neill off Twitter was one of the worst parts of it, too. There was something so refreshingly earnest about how much he embraced the fandom, even the weirdest parts - saying with regard to NSFW fanart that "art is art" and retweeting stuff like his character in a crop-top that said "babygirl." It was so nice to see an actor who didn't usually have that kind of following embrace it wholeheartedly rather than steering clear. ....And then people had to be awful and creepy and obsessive and he left Twitter. I bet he's going to be a lot more skeptical of dealing with fans in the future!

--

It's not just the canon m/m aspect: it's the wholesomeness.

Yes, yes, they're all evil pirates, I agree, but watching S1 did give me the feeling of something that was supposed to be very progressive and light-hearted in particular ways. I don't think that's bad, but it does tend to attract some very over-sensitive fans with some very rigid expectations.

It's sadly par for the course that one of the random side character actors is the fun one and people are jackasses and desperately want the leads they ship to be the fandomy ones and/or just start creeping on any actor they can get a reaction from.

[jewishvitya]

Rowling had nothing to do with Legacy and I think most people forget that. She wasn't even consulted. WB bought the license and the devs did whatever they wanted. "Sirona" is a beautiful, feminine Celtic name associated with healing, and "Ryan" is an extremely common Irish surname. I feel like people are looking for reasons to be offended, especially when it comes to trans characters and antisemitism. The goblins are not and have never been Jewish stereotypes. They're a fictional race. They're based on Tolkien's goblins and old English folklore dating back to the 1400's, where they have always been depicted and small, ugly, and greedy. Rowling herself was shocked by the antisemitism rumors and staunchly stated they weren't true. Just like the rumors saying lycanthopy is a metaphor for AIDS. Just... who thinks of this stuff?

What's really sad is people have argued that Sirona was never meant to be trans, but a male character that the devs rendered to look "more feminine" at the last minute. People have made fun of her voice and said it's "too masculine", so obviously WB just hired a man to voice her and changed her gender later. But that's not true! Her VA is actually a trans woman and the backlash against the character must be devastating to the VA.

Okay, so, I don't think you're here in good faith. You're here to be dismissive. But I'll reply anyway, just in case I'm wrong.

One thing at a time.

I'll start with the one point you made that I agree with: the VA. She doesn't deserve to have her voice scrutinized and criticized. That's horrible, no one deserves that. I did see - and share - the misinformation that Sirona Ryan was voiced by a man, and I regret that. I edited it out of my post as soon as I knew, but this is tumblr and unedited versions do go around. I hope more people will see that corrected, and leave the VA's voice alone.

Now for the mess you threw at me.

Hogwarts Legacy is related to Rowling by virtue of existing within the world she created. It's still her goblins, since she gave her permission to create this, and she let it be added to the canon.

Rowling's world is the context.

I don't care that she wasn't consulted about the details, that just means the other creators are bigots too. When you build within a world that has such large issues, where so much time and effort was devoted to highlighting and criticizing those issues, and you create a story that continues all the problems from the original canon and adds to them - that's a choice that I have a right to criticize. They had the benefit of being a google search away from knowing how to be respectful about all of this, and they did the opposite.

Sirona Ryan IS a beautiful real name, that's not the issue. I already wrote this post where I tried to explain the reaction, but I accept that maybe my feelings about this name come from cultural ignorance. If that's the case, I apologize, and I'd love to be corrected.

My real issue with the game is the antisemitism.

You say "folklore dating back to the 1400's" as if that's far too old to be influenced by antisemitism. Fun fact: antisemitism is older than goblins. Antisemitism is literally millennia old. At least as old as Christianity, which is the root of many antisemitic ideas. It's older than many European mythological creatures, and it infuses a lot of European folklore and mythology, down to the depictions of witches with their pointy hats. Stories about goblins being used as a way to dehumanize Jewish people is not new. And using a fictional race of non-humans as stand-ins for real groups of marginalized people - either intentionally or not - is a very common practice in storytelling. Most fantasy races have those roots to them. But even then, where, in the original lore of the goblins, did they control the banks?

It doesn't matter if Rowling was shocked by the claims of antisemitism and it doesn't matter if she denied them. The reality of her story is that she created an antisemitic depiction. I can believe that it wasn't her intention, but that doesn't mean it's not what she did.

You don't get to look at an antagonistic group that embodies EVERY SINGLE TRAIT THAT WAS ASSIGNED TO MY PEOPLE TO DEMONIZE US and tell me that's not antisemitic.

I already made this list, but let's do it again. All antisemitic traits that can be found in Rowling's goblins. I'll break it down to the original book canon, the movies, and the game.

Books - Rowling's actual canon:

Short, with clever swarthy faces, sallow skin and pointed beards

A guttural language

Ruthless and known for their greed

Pursue someone who owes them money with violent threats

Have cultural differences that make them impossible to trust

Harmed by dark wizard but still suspected to support them

Only worth associating with for their metalworking and control of the economy

She placed a goblin's rebellion in 1612 - the same year as the events that led to the Fettmilch uprising, which resulted in pogroms and Jewish deaths. Rowling stated that wars and political unrest parallel between the muggle world and the wizarding world as the two societies influence each other

The most prominent named goblin character, Griphook, betrays Harry. Harry is a Christ allegory - literally sacrifices himself to save everyone, and then comes back to life

Movies:

Hooked noses - the best known antisemitic feature

A six pointed star in the building they chose for the bank - I don't believe this was intentional, but it's an unfortunate choice and they could have covered it

Here end the parts I blame on Rowling directly. And the game was built on these foundations.

Game:

A historical time frame of pogroms, where our people were murdered in large massacres that often had support from authorities

Explicit ties between the goblins and the dark wizards

Aiming to undermine wizard society - the goal assigned to us in every antisemitic conspiracy theory

Kidnapping of children for their magic - literally just look up blood libel

A character says the goblins can't appreciate art. It’s absurd to say considering the quality and coveted status of goblin-made artifacts. In the real world, this is a claim that was made against Jews by the Nazis (and it targets other groups hated by white supremacists as well)

A ram’s horn artifact that strongly resembles a silver plated Shofar - a Jewish ritual item. Said horn is from 1612, from the same rebellion mentioned above. According to the item’s description, it was blown to rally the goblins and to annoy witches and wizards. It was stuffed with gorgonzola to mute it, a specifically non-kosher cheese (most kinds of cheese are kosher). It's so disrespectful I still don't have the words to fully convey it

Whether you want to acknowledge it or not, those traits became associated with Jewish people as a group through hateful propaganda. Putting all of them on a non-human race isn't better. It just adds to the dehumanization of it. It's not just Rowling's fault. That's shared by every single person who had a hand in the creation of this story. For the issues in the game, I blame the people named here more. I see no reason to extend grace to far-right bigots.

But to focus on Rowling. You brought up lycanthropy. You seem to think we made up the idea that it's a metaphor for HIV. We didn't. She said that. In the ebook Short Stories From Hogwarts of Heroism, Hardship, and Dangerous Hobbies - she said that. She said it before that, on Pottermore.

Lupin's condition of lycanthropy (being a werewolf) was a metaphor for those illnesses that carry a stigma, like HIV and AIDS. [...] The wizarding community is as prone to hysteria and prejudice as the Muggle one, and the character of Lupin gave me a chance to examine those attitudes.

This is a quote of her thoughts. It still exists on Lupin's page on her Wizarding World website.

And it's actually a pretty good example of how it's absolutely possible to be awful about depicting a stigmatized minority through a fantasy stand-in.

HIV+ people are stigmatized through no fault of their own. But in her books, it seems reasonable for the wizards to fear werewolves. And she did that, she made prejudice reasonable. We have: Remus Lupin, a named werewolf who is good and kind, and tries to avoid hurting people. Even then, he nearly does cause harm more than once. He turns in front of our heroes and spends a night loose in the forest. He tells the heroes that as a student, he almost bit people while out with his friends. So even while well-intentioned, he's a danger. That means we don't have a single safe HIV+ allegory in her work. The other named werewolf is Fenrir Greyback, who intentionally targets children to turn them young and raise them to hate the society they came from - which is fucking homophobic, whatever she intended, because of the way HIV gets associated with homosexuality. And the rest? A whole community of werewolves who side with the Death Eaters.

Did she mean to make a whole community of marginalized people into wizard Nazis? I DON'T CARE. SHE DID THAT.

I don't care to argue about her intentions while writing the text. I can't read minds. I can read the text she wrote. I can see what was put into the game that was added into her world. I can read about the history of my people and their persecution. I can see how disturbingly similar this game's story is to the propaganda that led to my grandparents suffering through the holocaust and losing their families to it.

If she cared about the antisemitism in her works, she wouldn't just act horrified and say "No, of course I wasn't being hateful to Jews!" - she'd look at whatever she lets people put into her IP, to prevent further harm. I do blame the other writers of the game more than I blame her for that plot, but it's not better that she gave her approval without being consulted. It's her IP, it carries her name, she gets royalties, it's her responsibility.

And at the very least, she doesn't care about antisemitism enough to worry about minimizing harm. I know that, because I know her friends. I know TERFs and Gender Criticals. Rowling saw an anti-trans event with white supremacist speakers, and she chose to criticize the counter-protesters. She went out to eat with Maya Forstater and Helen Joyce, who participated and spoke in events organized by Posie Parker - who explicitly includes far right groups in her events, and shares platforms with white supremacists. Rowling bought merch from Posie Parker. She wrote about Magdalen Berns as a "brave young feminist" - as if she didn't push the antisemitic George Soros conspiracy theory and share Breitbart articles. She praised MATT WALSH. The people she associates with now, read from Mein Kampf in their rallies.

She didn't put the antisemitism in the game, but she's very comfortable with antisemitism. Don't tell me she was horrified by the idea that her goblins could be called antisemitic. She just didn't want the label applied to her. If you willingly associate with Nazis, you're a Nazi. And enough of her friends don't seem to mind that.

I stand by what I said: playing this game, even pirated, is like printing out an antisemitic caricature and hanging it on your wall, saying “well, I didn’t pay the artist, I just like this art.”

#riki babbles #hogwarts legacy #antisemitism #homophobia #JKR doesn't care about Jews #She just likes invoking the holocaust #HP #JKR

[veespee]

Hey!! your writing is AMAZINGGGG and I love how you view characters.

Do you have any headcanons for vinnie everyman?

MOON!!! HI HI you are literally the reason why i made this account and started taking writing seriously,,, sobbing rn

i was planning on making a post about Vinnie but i couldn't come up with any interesting ones, so here are some that i brainstormed. sorry if there are any mistakes, i wanted to make them close to canon but i put some of my theories in there too :)

Vinnie Everyman Headcannons

-(this one's kinda sad so apologies) He sees Evan through HABIT, and HABIT through Evan. Basically: when HABIT jokes with Vinnie, he sees Evan. He sees his jokey and rowdy friend at that moment. But he has to remind himself; that's not Evan, that's a monster. But. When HABIT left Evan's body for some time, Vinnie could only see HABIT. He tells Evan that he doesn't think he's a monster, but i believe in the back of his mind, there's some bitterness. He knows this isn't Evan's fault, but he's still frustrated. He's so confused, no one's giving him answers. Except for HABIT.

That's why i think he's disappointed in a way, he wants HABIT to stay in Evan's body. HABIT is useful, although destructive. He doesn't like HABIT, he doesn't want to like HABIT, but he still needs him. He needs someone to tell him what to do, a higher being that knows more than him.

-^ continuing that, that's the reason why he didn't take Corenthal's warning seriously. He believed HABIT over his own father, biological or not, figure because HABIT is so knowledgeable. He thinks HABIT is so wise, and that's what HABIT wants Vinnie to believe. It feeds his ego, and he keeps Vinnie under his control.

-Also, it's not really hard to be manipulated by HABIT. He talks and acts like he's wise and knowledgeable, and honestly, he's good at it. Vinnie's intimidated by his threats, but also follows him around like a dog. Again, i'm repeating myself, but he's so infatuated with HABIT cause he feels like he's the only one that can answer him. And HABIT keeps him around to feed his ego, and to get his plan going.

-Furthermore, I think his relationship with Corenthal is SO interesting. Although i think Corenthal in general is such an interesting and underrated character, but that's a whole another post. Now, for this one I'll go a bit far from canon, but these are HCs so i guess that's the point lol: Basically, i think Vinnie DOES see Corenthal as a father figure, but he has complicated emotions. He distances himself from Corenthal, possibly out of just bitterness. Now i'm talking about the YouTube iteration, not Fairmount or Princeton, so that means that Vinnie has his own biological parents. However, Vinnie's memory got wiped (i mean, he knows he has parents and siblings, but he can't remember anything about them) so who's the only one he can remember? Dr. Corenthal.

Corenthal falls under someone I believe Vinnie gets attached to; someone who's wise, knowledgeable. He's a doctor, and a much older man, and he knows a lot about the boys' situation. We don't see a lot of interactions between them, so I'll just use my imagination for this part, but i believe that Vinnie is bitter because of how little Corenthal has said. He knows the Doctor knows what's going on, yet he's such a mysterious figure. He only appears a handful of times, and the other information they have about him are from old letters he had written. So Vinnie must be thinking, why isn't he helping? Why isn't he protecting us, if he has so much knowledge? So when Corenthal does contact him, he's suspicious. He doesn't believe him, instead, he believes HABIT. HABIT's there for him, even in a twisted way, and Vinnie believes that there's no way he's being lied to. So when Corenth tries to open Vinnie's eyes, he keeps them shut, and stays blind to HABIT's manipulation. Thus, resulting to Vinnie's death. Thus, resulting to another iteration where Corenthal can't save his children.

alright that's all :3 thank you for reading and thank you Moon for the request!!

#slenderverse #request #slenderverse headcanons #vinnie everyman #headcanons #vinny emh #vinnie emh #vinny everyman #analysis #hcs #habit emh #everymanhybrid #emh #habit everymanhybrid #spotify

[jacksprostate]

With every passing day I'm less convinced of the narrator's feelings about Marla being in any way romantic lol. Obvious disclaimer this is one of many interpretations that can be done of the book, if you like to interpret it that way good for you, I support all interpretations with textual evidence and there's obviously some that way — but anyway, like.

He has no joy about it lmao there is no happy delight.... You expect me to believe you are in love with her when your thought process is essentially "Tyler loves Marla which. I guess means I do? And well, I guess I don't want her to die in my bullshit. I like you enough to not want you to die because when Tyler abandoned both of us I stopped viewing you as as much of a threat to my rabid bond with Tyler"

Like. I do think he cares for Marla. Likes her. But I do not think he Likes her.

And to me it is interesting and depressing. Tyler is his power fantasy. This fantasy where he can access the power of being a man attracted to women — well, if his brain can manage to fuck women while deeply delusional, maybe he can manage it! It legitimately reads kind of like he thinks he's been cured of something. And there's so much reason for him to feel that way — most especially, we're treated to an in depth look at how deeply shameful he feels about things that in any way tie him to homosexuality. He has such a complex about AIDS, he covers a birthmark on his foot just in case seeing it would mean someone thinks he's gay and dying. Maybe it's my own experiences letting me read more into it but he is so deeply repressed it's sad man. Even your power fantasy can't escape it. But also, that in itself makes sense, too. Being attracted to women puts him on top of the hierarchy, frees him from subjugation and the deep literal closet he's in as a gay man. It's not exactly the same as being attracted to men as a woman, which, while resulting in avoiding homophobia, puts you at direct risk for misogynistic intrapersonal violence lol. So. Tyler is free, and he is not. Tyler does not have to worry about dying in people's eyes.

Anyway you have all that, you have the intense homoeroticism of fight club in general (elaborate rituals, etc), literally everything about how he talks about Tyler, and you have the fact that just like. Honestly!!!! Where is the joy!!! Obviously it is extenuating circumstances because of the whole deal but his narration distinctly sounds like someone who just like. Oh yeah that's my good friend... Marla... yeah I guess I like her. We hang out and she helped me shoot myself

I do think post canon they end up having some sort of weird sad sex thing but that shit is not working longterm. Plenty of people have said it before and better but both of them want Tyler instead. Which in itself is an interesting dynamic.

Depending on how much autonomy and personhood you allot Tyler, too, it's interesting. In the narrator's eyes, everything for Tyler ties back to Marla. The one thing he has that the narrator simply can't. In the narrator's eyes, he outright states Tyler formed to do what he couldn't (engage with her romantically). Of course you can interpret that as him being inhibited in some other way, but... idk man.

#fight club

[maxphilippa]

An small Knife Character Analysis.

"There's more than one ways to be an jerk."

Haven't been too focused on this guy due to my brain going bonkers on Mic, but I had some thoughts right now and I want to share them with you.

Kind of a long post but! It is worth it!

Something about him just wanting intimacy- craving it, wanting to be able to communicate his true feelings without being seen as a weakling or even as an hypocrite of sorts. Thinking how he really is deep down insecure (according to the ii site) and used to project that on the contestants. How he takes so much distance from them but still shows that he really cares about those who are vulnerable.

But no one has, ever listened to him. Perhaps because they're too into their own problems.

Perhaps because he never let anyone get to his heart.

Not even to Pickle.

Of course he softened up to him and shows his most genuine self when it comes to both Pickle & Mic, but...

He wasn't able at all to be vulnerable completely.

But. It's also how he does show that weakness with Mic-

He tells her that what Trophy did to him hurted his feelings. Hurting a jerk's feelings is a very big thing. But here's the thing; Knife represses those feelings and keeps the act no matter what.

But he still failed himself.

"I won't get involved", he got involved with Microphone and told her his own pains.

The whole talk he had with Suitcase- the "bunch of jerks" part. How he seems to be even angrier than Suitcase was at how Nickel was acting towards her.

How bitter he was with Trophy when he said "You're a jock and I'm a jerk" once BB defended him.

How hurt he was when Microphone still defended Taco.

How... how he told Pickle that if he held onto the past, he would never be able to grow and get better on the end.

In a way, Knife is a really good friend, a very smart player and a very clever guy.

He's too emotionally aware to let his feelings weight him down or interfere on his game- even if he's hurt by those whom he thought of as close (Microphone), even if he messed up things for someone he cared about (Suitcase).

In a way. I think that Knife does mean what he says to them. He does mean it a lot.

But, I also think that he may be saying what he wanted to hear when he needed that same type of comfort.

He feels alone. And he hasn't connected with anyone properly to say the least. Sure, cracking jokes, being teammates and encouraging them is something. But actual friendships?

Knife doesn't really. Have them. At all, at least.

You could also argue that it is because most people at the hotel are jerks- which made things more difficult for him. But having Pickle made things easier too.

If it were on canon terms- the good relationships he does have are with three guys, and he stopped talking properly with one of them, and two of them are at the Hotel now

He cared, but now they're not there anymore.

He cares so so much about everyone, but they're all so self centered- too into their own for him to actually get around their heads. He can't get that connection at all.

But.

Do you also realize how Knife's friendships are all with emotionally driven, emotionally vulnerable characters?

Whether they're good or bad emotions doesn't matter. But they don't truly think before acting. Which is the complete opposite of what Knife does.

But the best relationships he has are just so sad.

Nickel? He thinks too much and won't take in count the feelings of others- thinks too much on what could be the best for his team instead of what they truly want. He's shit at emotional stuff. Not like Knife.

Suitcase? Too emotion driven. Always wanting to make excuses- always wanting to be on good terms with everyone. Thinks with her heart most of times, and is scared to speak up her mind.

Microphone? ... She's his complete opposite. Loud, vulnerable and wants to be recognized for who she is. She's selfless. She's always thinking on what is best for others, and then thinks of herself. Heart driven.

Pickle? A sweetheart, naive but kind. Thinks of his friendships too highly, and is unable to let go of the past since it still hurts like hell. But he does want to get better. Heart driven.

Knife truly only got intimacy with Pickle and Mic.

But.

Who's to say that he isn't longing to be his true self?

Who's to say that he just doesn't want to cry his heart out and scream for days in the end?

Who's to say that he doesn't feel responsible to some degree?

He was always there for others.

But he never let himself be the one to be taken care of.

And I think that's just very important for his whole arc.

He is so emotionally repressed that he just wants to be there for those that need help too- he doesn't want them to feel alone. Even if they're stubborn as fuck.

So that's ALSO why Taco and Knife CAN'T even stand eachother.

Not only because of what Taco did to Pickle.

Knife is too emotionally aware.

Taco isn't.

Taco made both Pickle and Microphone like they were worthless due to her lack of understanding at emotions and such.

And you know what Knife did? He made them FEEL better.

He made sure they knew that they weren't broken- that they're not a mess, that they're not pathetic or a failure. That they're okay. That they will be okay with time.

That they should be kind to themselves.

Knife isn't kind to himself by any means.

So that's why he calls himself a jerk! He's being a jerk to himself in many ways!

Not letting himself form true friendships at all (he only truly did form one with Mic at the end since, she was out of the game and such), not letting himself show that he is in fact hurt, covering his sadness/pain with frustration or anger, doesn't let himself be vulnerable in the slighest, hides his own feelings all the time, doesn't show that he does also infact feel out of place on his team

Doesn't let himself show how much he craves company.

Because that's not what a jerk is.

But there's only so much he can truly do about it.

End of Analysis.

#inanimate insanity #ii #inanimate insanity invitational #inanimate insanity knife #Inanimate Insanity microphone #inanimate insanity pickle #inanimate insanity suitcase #inanimate insanity trophy #Inanimate Insanity taco #inanimate insanity nickel #ii knife #ii microphone #ii pickle #ii suitcase #ii nickel #ii taco #ii trophy #btw this isn't a hate post to taco. she is very well written but she's also a shit friend in canon. just wanted to clarify! #osc #object show #max overanalyzes characters