#this might be in reference to a fic I have brewing

[makethatelevenrings]

“Ghost scrubs his hands raw before touching his girl” “ghost wears gloves so the blood on his hands doesn’t taint her skin” ghost deserves a girl who licks the blood off his face and smiles

#cod fanfic #ghost x reader #simon riley x reader #this might be in reference to a fic I have brewing #and this fic might also be a poly fic #bc why have a love triangle when they can all just bone #BONE????? #simon riley x oc

[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

[forjongseong]

pine-fresh // jay (ENHYPEN)

pairing: slytherin!jay x gryffindor!fem!reader

genre: hogwarts!au, somewhat rivals to lovers, smut (minors dni)

warning: profanity, a lot of making out, fingering // word count: ~4k

summary: a dash of bickering and a whole lot of miscommunication in Potions class landed you and Slytherin's Park Jongseong in detention. did you ask for it? no. did you regret it? also, no.

author's note: at last, the Slytherin!Jay of my imagination has now, sort of, come to life...

ever since I came across that edit you see on the header, I've thought about him A LOT. now that his hair is actually silver, I have thought about him MORE. especially when @jaylaxies made this, which I thought about ALSO a lot... let's just say that Slytherin!Jay has been occupying my mind a lot more than I expected.

my knowledge on the HP universe is quite limited, so please excuse if some scenes don't seem too believable (like Snape somewhat being less strict here, or detention being scrubbing the bathroom). the title of this fic refers to the password that is needed to enter the Prefects' bathroom.

now, I know I say when I post oneshots I intend for them to be standalone fics, meaning that I most likely won't write a part two. but for this one??? if a lot of you like it, and a lot of you ask for it, I might be open to writing a sequel (once I conduct a lengthy research on Hogwarts grounds)

anyway, I hope you enjoy this little treat! I'm trying to shake off my writer's block, so please expect secretary!Jay to return soon.

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As your House’s Prefect and one of the smartest students at school, you thought it would be impossible to dislike a class. Getting good grades in almost every subject seemed to prove that you liked learning everything, but by God, you hated Potions. Other than the fact that the lessons took place in a literal dungeon, which made it colder than any of the classrooms above, you always had to deal with the unpleasant smell of whatever was brewing in the room. Add the inconvenient detail that half of the class consisted of Slytherin students, which was more than you could tolerate.

You did not know when it started, maybe since the Sorting Hat placed you in Gryffindor or when you witnessed one of your classmates getting teased by a Slytherin, but you had a strong aversion to anything related to that house. It became so bad to the point that whenever you got paired with a Slytherin for an assignment, all you wanted to do was to get the job done quickly for the both of you so you could leave the class as soon as possible.

“Miss L/N,” called Professor Snape. Your head snapped up and you locked eyes with him, somehow convincing him that you had been listening to all his instructions despite staring into the empty vials on your table. “Today you’ll be working with Park Jongseong.”

You nodded softly and once Snape turned his head towards another student, you made an audible groan and leaned back on your chair.

“You don’t sound so happy to be paired with me.”

Jay took the now unoccupied seat beside you and sat with a force that made his robe flutter. The flash of green caught your eye, and you hesitantly pulled your books to your side, making room for his on the table.

“I’ll handle the mixing,” you replied, completely unrelated to his remark.

Jay frowned before letting out a soft chuckle. “Wow, I guess you really aren’t in the mood today.”

You turned your head only slightly enough to shoot daggers at him with your eyes, and his response was just a huff to his face, messing up the silver bangs on his forehead. The sound of Professor Snape’s voice caught your attention, so you straightened up and listened intently, but also noticed how Jay was mimicking you. Once you were all instructed to begin, Jay grabbed his quill and started making notes for the recipe.

For the first couple of minutes, the process went well. You were mixing and adding stuff according to Jay’s dictation. However, after he misread the measurements for a certain ingredient, causing your brew to bubble uncontrollably, you began scolding him and blaming him for everything.

“What’s distracting you? How could you have misread that?” You half-shouted, a handkerchief in your hand as you attempted to clean up your surroundings.

“Maybe if you weren’t shaking so much when you’re holding the vials then I could have paid more attention,” Jay retorted, snatching a vial from your other hand to prevent more spills. “We should switch. You tell me what to do and I’ll redo everything.”

“That will take us even longer, and everyone else is already halfway done,” you complained as you looked around the class. You saw Professor Snape eyeing your table.

“Do you have another solution?” Jay asked, staring back at you.

You reluctantly agreed to switch tasks, but it turned out that Jay was worse than you. He kept spilling liquid, pouring more than needed, and overall causing more chaos than when he was just giving you instructions. Your grunts and groans were starting to gain the attention of the whole classroom, and by the time you were almost done, the bell rang.

The sound of your quill hitting your book was silenced by the footsteps of the other students exiting the classroom. They had finished their potions, and your table was literally the only one in the room that was still messy, with a mixture that looked too suspicious to be called a potion.

“I have been patient enough to let you two bicker the whole time, but for you to not finish making your potions,” Professor Snape said as he walked back to his desk, his cape almost floating behind him.

“Great, he’s gonna put us in detention,” you muttered to yourself.

“That is correct, Miss L/N,” Professor Snape continued. “Once you’re both done cleaning up your table, meet me in my office.”

The frown you wore on your face was so bad that anybody who saw you could easily tell that you were pissed, but between gathering the books and papers and wiping off spills with a cloth, you could have sworn you saw Jay smirking to himself.

---

As you placed a bucket of water in the middle of the Prefects’ bathroom, you sighed at the exhaustion that you felt despite not having even started your detention. You and Jay were both assigned to clean up the bathroom, which, despite only being restricted to use by the school Prefects, Head Boys, Head Girls, and Quidditch captains, was in an alarmingly grimy state.

You purposefully steered away from the side of the room with the toilet stalls and stood by the large, swimming pool-like tub sunken into the ground with bath taps surrounding it. The tub was drained, and you much preferred scrubbing it to cleaning all the toilets.

Jay was standing by the bath supplies on one side of the pool, staring at the different kinds of soap, bath oils, bath salts, shampoo, and conditioner. It took a while for him to realize you were glaring at him, basically waiting for him to start working already.

“Damn, it would be worth becoming a Prefect just to be able to use this bathroom,” Jay muttered, placing a small bottle of bath oil back in its place. “You must take baths all the time.”

You snorted, audible enough to make it echo throughout the whole room. “I don’t have time for baths.”

“Really? What a shame,” Jay sighed, rolling up his sleeves. “How long do you think it would take for us to finish?”

“If you keep using your mouth instead of your hands, probably a lot longer than I expect,” you replied without a pause, sounding annoyed.

Your snarky remarks did not bother Jay at all. In fact, it amused him, and the way he was laughing softly was not helping at all. He walked over to the stalls and finally began to work only minutes after you started.

“Today is really not your day, huh?” Jay’s voice echoed behind the stalls.

“Thanks to you, it’s not,” you answered, polishing one of the hundred golden bath taps that surrounded the tub.

“You know,” Jay started, only to pause to flush the toilet so he wouldn’t have to compete with the sound. “I have a feeling that you don’t like me.”

You rolled your eyes and moved your bucket to polish the other bath taps. Jay cleared his throat as he waited for your reply.

“Is it because I’m a Slytherin?” He asked. “I mean, it’s kinda unfair that just because I’m in this House, you automatically hate me—”

“I don’t hate you,” you finally responded. “Hate is a strong word.”

“Alright then,” Jay walked out of one stall and looked in your direction before entering the next stall. “So, what’s the story?”

You let out a heavy sigh and wrung out the cloth you were holding. It was a long story, you thought to yourself. You came from a family of Slytherins—both your parents and your older brother were—but since you were old enough to understand and remember things, you had always been the odd one out in your family. They would excel academically and go on to achieve things you never even dreamed of. Your interests were always different, and what got you far at school was thanks to your personality and smart work.

It was still a vivid memory to you, the moment you sat down and let the Sorting Hat analyze you. You thought you would hear a confident ‘Slytherin!’ from the Hat, but after a couple of seconds of deciding, it placed you in Gryffindor. Switching houses was never a thing, so you did what you could and made good friends, studied hard enough to make the professors notice you, and eventually, you earned the title of Prefect as you entered the fifth year.

Despite that, throughout the years in Hogwarts, you kept hearing and witnessing stories about Slytherins, how they always happen to achieve so much but at the same time are notoriously problematic. The house you once dreamed of being a part of quickly became one that you were relieved to be excluded from, but somehow, the longing remains.

Around your third year in Hogwarts, you began hearing chatter about Park Jongseong. He became popular, it seemed, after he was assigned to be the Keeper of Slytherin’s Quidditch team, and also after he had an insane glow-up. You then noticed that he was the quiet nerd who used to bury his nose in whatever book he was reading in a dark corner in the library, but since then, he had ditched his glasses and styled his luscious silver locks in a way that—

“Y/N, are you okay?”

Jay’s voice woke you up from your extensive daydreaming, and it made you realize you were polishing one bath tap for way too long.

“How long were you polishing that tap?” Jay asked, tilting his chin towards your hand.

His question spooked you, and you were beginning to think he might have heard your thoughts. You cleared your throat before moving to the next tap. “Not long, why?”

“Because I’m done with all the toilet stalls, and I noticed you haven’t moved an inch.”

Well, that’s embarrassing, you thought. How long exactly did you zone out for?

“Should I start cleaning the pool’s floor then?” He asked, fixing his folded sleeves before squatting down and then jumping into the empty pool.

“Sure,” you said, immediately picking up your pace and trying your best not to steal any more glances in his direction.

“Listen,” Jay began, both his hands firmly holding a mop. “You got really silent after I asked a question, so I’m sorry that I made you uncomfortable. We can continue to work in silence if that’s what you prefer.”

You smiled as you moved on to the next tap. “It’s fine. I was just tired.”

You refocused on your own task, determined to leave the bathroom spotless, but after a moment, you noticed Jay moving oddly around the pool floor, dragging his mop in a way that was not normal. When you lifted your head to look at him, you saw that he was singing, no, lip-syncing a song and using the mop as a mic stand, completely immersed in his imagination but being considerate not to bother you with noise.

At this sight, you burst out laughing. Jay stood up straight and turned his heel to face you, looking surprised.

“Please,” you said after you contained yourself, “do continue.”

“Miss Prefect,” Jay sighed, “this bathroom is way too huge for only two of us to clean. Do you think we can sneak out and get our wands from Snape’s office?”

You shook your head. “The door is locked with a password.”

“But you’re Miss Prefect,” Jay said, matter-of-factly. “Don’t you know the password?”

“He literally changed it after leaving us here with these cleaning supplies, Jay. I don’t know the new password.”

Jay paused and for a moment you thought he was figuring out a way to escape, when in reality, his stomach just did a backflip from the way his name rolled off your tongue.

“So, what you’re saying is there is literally no way to get out of this bathroom unless we finish cleaning it?” Jay asked.

“That is the point of detention, yes,” you replied, shrugging.

Jay groaned and turned around, pushing his mop and reluctantly continuing to clean the pool floor. You were almost halfway done with polishing all the bath taps, and you sighed as you looked at all the mirrors waiting to be scrubbed clean too.

After a while, Jay finished scrubbing the floors, and you began to wonder if you should have taken his work instead since the bath taps seemed like a never-ending task to complete. He loosened the tie around his neck and undid the first few buttons on his shirt, making you quickly look away.

“Should I help you with the bath taps or start doing the mirrors?” Jay walked over to your side before pushing himself up the edge and then standing up, towering over you.

“Mirrors, please,” you answered, this time tilting your chin to point at the direction of the sinks.

“Really? Because you seem like you’re taking your sweet time polishing all those taps,” Jay said, tilting his head to one side.

You looked up at him and he had this teasing, lop-sided smirk. Meanwhile, the unintentional doe eyes you were giving him made him almost choke on his own saliva.

“Just do the mirrors, Jay.”

You saw him smile the second you finished your sentence, and when he turned his back to you, it somehow looked like his shoulders were happy. He stood in front of the sink and did a quick count on the number of mirrors he had to clean. You saw him start from the far left, where one of the mirrors was cracked on the edge.

“Be careful with that one. Ravenclaw’s Head Girl almost—”

“Fuck!”

You heard Jay groan as he stumbled a few steps back, wincing in pain and shaking his left hand.

“Jay,” you sighed, standing up and throwing the cloth you were holding to the floor. “I didn’t even finish my sentence.”

You walked up to him and stood before him with your hand out. He looked at you questionably before lifting his left hand for you to take a look.

“Is it bad?” He asked, slightly looking away. “I don’t like the sight of blood.”

“That explains a lot,” you muttered, placing your hand carefully over his. “Oh, my God.”

“What? What is it?” Jay asked, his right hand shaking in panic.

“Your fingers are so thick and stubby, like cocktail sausages.”

Jay snorted before pulling his hand away and you giggled.

“It’s just a scratch,” you said in an attempt to calm him down. “You can carry on.”

“Well, do you have something I can use to treat it?” Jay asked.

You were already sitting by the edge of the pool to continue with your polishing. “Do I look like a walking first aid kit to you? Just spit on it and move on.”

Jay looked at you, unsure of your advice. He then turned around and decided to wash his hands with soap. The suds obviously stung, so he was flinching and wincing quietly, but he could see you giggling silently from your reflection in the mirror in front of him.

“Do you really mean it?” Jay spoke, looking at you through the mirror.

“Mean what?”

“That I have stubby fingers,” Jay clarified.

You were unsure what to make of his tone. He sounded curious but also hurt, or maybe…

“So what if you do?” You asked back, not paying attention to him.

The strands of your hair were becoming loose and covering your eyes, and you were dying to fix the scrunchie on your ponytail, but both your hands were wet and occupied with polishing. You kept huffing and puffing and even attempting to move your hair using the movements of your shoulders until Jay sneaked up behind you and tapped you on your arm.

“Here, allow me,” Jay said calmly, tugging on your scrunchie.

You sat up straight and let him pull your scrunchie off, letting your hair cascade to your back. He began brushing your hair with his fingers before gently bunching it into a ponytail. He skillfully tied your hair up into a bun that was less messy than before. You were about to thank him, but he moved from behind you and jumped back into the empty pool, standing in front of you and tucking the loose strands of hair behind both your ears.

His fingers brushed against your ear, and for a moment, you were lost in his eyes. The next thing you felt was his hand behind your neck, pulling you closer as he stood in between your legs, his lips crashing against yours. You sighed as you let yourself be enveloped in his warmth—his tongue tugging yours, his lips devouring yours, his palms pushing against your back, and his breath mixing up with yours.

You felt his hand travel lower down your back, settling on your ass before he pushed you closer to him, earning a soft yelp from between your lips. His mouth detached from yours only to give you a sly smirk before he dove back into you. Your hands rested comfortably on his shoulders as you gave into his every move, and when you felt one of his hands grazing the exposed skin of your thigh from the gap between your skirt and your knee-high socks, you gasped.

“Wanna see what these fingers can do?” Jay asked, speaking right against your lips.

Your eyes searched for his before you nodded a little too eagerly. He chuckled before sliding his hand between your legs and under your skirt. His fingers easily found their place on your clothed cunt, and despite his gentle moves, you could not hold in your moans.

“Jay,” you whimpered, hands bunching up his shirt.

“Oh, I like it when you say my name like that,” he teased, leaving a wet peck on your chin. “Can you say it again?”

He pressed his thumb on your clit before sliding it down your folds, and he could already tell that you were soaked. You were biting your lip, and he chuckled, bringing the same hand that was caressing you up and towards your chin.

“Come on, now,” Jay cooed. “Prefects are usually good students. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?”

His thumb slid upon your bottom lip, and you could almost sniff the scent of your own arousal. You were trembling at this point, desperate to feel more of him, so all you could give as a response was a nod.

“Say my name.”

“Jay—”

Your voice was muffled as he slid in a finger when you opened your mouth. You instinctively sucked on it before he entered another one, and then he hurriedly placed his hand back between your legs, pushing your panties to the side before easily sliding those two fingers inside of you.

“Jay!” You moaned loudly, spreading your legs wider so he could do whatever he wanted to do to you comfortably. Your fingers reached for the back of his head, pulling on his silver locks before you pushed his head to your neck. He began licking the soft skin under your chin before placing wet kisses down your neck. With one hand, you unbuttoned your top and pulled your collar open, giving him more access to your skin. He sucked on your collarbone softly and, at the same time, curled his fingers inside of you.

You repeatedly moaned into his ear, and at some point, you thought you sounded way too pathetic, but the way Jay was thrusting his fingers in and out of you and the way the squelching sound was echoing throughout the whole bathroom made you believe that the sounds you were making were actually quite tame.

“Jay,” you sighed. “Oh, my God.”

Jay lifted his head from your neck and flashed you a proud smirk before leaning in to kiss you again. You whined at the contact, and as your hands found his face, you began to caress him, pull him, and do whatever was necessary to send the message that you wanted him bad.

You felt the increasing pace of his fingers between your legs, and you began to feel the ache in your ass for sitting on the edge of the pool for too long. Jay pressed his thumb on your clit, and you threw your head back in pleasure, grabbing onto his biceps for support. When your moans started to sound higher and more in sync with the movements of his fingers, Jay leaned in and pressed his cheek onto yours before speaking right into your ear.

“Cum for me, will you?”

The deep tone and gentle vibration of his voice sent shivers down your spine, and with that, you finally reached your high. Your legs were shaking, and to soothe you, Jay began kissing your cheek softly. He kept kissing you and moving towards your lips, giving you a long peck before moving down to your chin and neck. He kissed the parts of your skin that were beginning to turn purple, and once he heard your leveled breathing, he pulled away to take a good look at you.

“Good girl,” he said right to your face.

You playfully, and very gently, slapped his face. He let out a wholehearted chuckle before pulling his hand from between your legs. Just seconds later, you heard the sound of footsteps approaching the bathroom door. Your eyes widened, and Jay quickly registered the situation. He fixed your collar for you to button up before he sprinted back to the mirror he was supposed to be polishing while you frantically searched for the abandoned cloth that you had been using the whole time.

“Why am I not surprised that you haven’t finished cleaning the bathroom?” Professor Snape stated after scanning the area. “It’s almost curfew, so wrap up and continue cleaning tomorrow. I’ll consider your detention done once this place is spotless.”

You stood up and observed as Professor Snape reached into the pocket in his robe and took out your wands. After he handed them over to you and Jay, he turned around without further question and left the bathroom. Jay looked at you, and you sighed in relief, almost collapsing to the floor because of your weak knees, if not for Jay holding you up by your elbows.

“That was too damn close,” you commented, standing uncomfortably since your panties were not fixed the right way.

“I’d say it was exciting,” Jay said, leaning into you and sniffing your neck.

“Jay, stop it,” you said, placing your palm firmly on his chest.

“That’s not what you wanted me to do when I had these stubby fingers inside you,” he teased, raising his hand and wriggling his fingers in front of your face.

You smacked his hand away, and he cackled, almost making the room shake from the echo.

“We still need to come back tomorrow and whose fault is that?” You asked, your back turned to him as you were tidying up the supplies.

“Fault?” Jay tilted his head. “No, favor. You’re missing the point. We get to come back here tomorrow.”

You stood up straight before turning to face Jay. He boldly took a couple of steps towards you, closing the distance and pulling you by your waist to press your body against his.

“Are you honestly telling me you’re not looking forward to it?”

With Jay’s arm firmly around your waist, the heat of his body against yours, his eyes boring into yours, and his silver hair messy from the way you were pulling on it earlier, there was no way you could lie to his face.

“Okay, I am looking forward to it,” you said after gaining enough courage. “Maybe instead of your stubby fingers, you can show me something else.”

Jay’s eyes twinkled at your daring tone, and you both chuckled before letting each other go, nagging at him as he collected your supplies while shamelessly ogling your body.

-END-

© forjongseong 2023, all rights reserved dividers by @cafekitsune

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!!! do NOT copy, translate, or repost any of my work to your blog or ANY other platform.

#writtenbynana #fic: pine-fresh #enhypen #jay #enhypen jay #jay enhypen #enhypen smut #enhypen jay smut #jay smut #jay enhypen smut #enhypen hard hours #enhypen hogwarts au #enhypen hogwarts #slytherin!jay #jay hard hours #jongseong hard hours #jongseong #jongseong smut #park jongseong #jongseong park #enhypen x reader #jay x reader #jongseong x reader

[harmonysanreads]

Hi Harmony! I just noticed that your requests are open and I decided to drop by with a small request I thought about for weeks.

I was thinking about Arlecchino for a while, and it made me ponder of the concept of Arlecchino with a darling on a reincarnation AU. Maybe Arlecchino has met her darling at such an inconvenient time, and every time that it has happened, only she remembers their past lives.

It probably goes to the point that Arlecchino starts devising ways to be able to keep her darling safe, because each time they would meet, her darling gets into an accident... And it would seem that each time she tried, then it would simply fail. And it would push to a point where she resorts to one of the more not so morally good methods.

I don't know if this counts as a req. or a brainrot, but I offer you this idea because I think it could be interesting to think about sometimes. You're free to deny it btw if its typical, hard, or overall you can't write it <3 I completely understand if that's the case.

(p.s.: this is the one running @yxstxrdrxxm BAHAHAHAHAHA I'm sorry if I haven't replied to your message during OLC, I dont know how to talk to you w/o sounding really awkward </3 also!! hydration check! Anyways thats all, have fun with the idea + I hope you have a great day Harmony :D)

Pantomime Of The Night

yandere!arlecchino x reader

cw(s) : yandere, vampire!arlecchino, mentions of blood, murder, slight gore, non-consensual touching, unbalanced power dynamics

wc : 2.1k

a/n: omg hiii! would you believe me if I said I was just thinking about you before getting this ask? also please don't worry about my message! i had a hunch that you might be in a situation of sorts. thank you so so much for requesting arlecchino because i've been itching to write for her for a long time! i decided to go with vampire!arlecchino for this because i thought it'd suit the reincarnation theme well. i hope you enjoy it<3

lovely illustration based on this fic by a lovely person <3 (spoiler alert!)

At the deepest hours of the night, even the innocent crackles of hearthfire sound as clamorous as gun-shots.

You're dazed by the flame's continuous dance until the aroma of freshly brewed tea reaches your senses and the servants have left. A sharp clank from Arlecchino's glass and the weight of her gaze prompt you to meet her eyes. The light from the fireplace casts shadows on the other half of her fair face, she seemed to have foregone her usual taught posture in favor of a relaxed one. One of her hands supports her cheek while the other holds the wine glass, the beverage within sloshes as the claw-like accessories on her fingers curl around the object.

Your side of the table is far more decorated, desserts that you've never even seen in your impoverished mortal life and that tea you've grown fond of over the course of your stay in her mansion sit appetizingly. All beckon you to feast, all seek to fan the flames of voracity and you offer but a thoughtless stare in return.

The master of the house seems to have noticed your lack of appetite as she finally breaks the stretched out silence, “These are all confectioneries of the highest quality from the town and as I recall, all of your favorites. But you give them no more than a blank stare... you've also not taken a sip from the tea. May I inquire why?”

The raspy tone of her observation has your arms covered in gooseflesh, though, you note she does not sound as confused as her words suggest. You can feel her onyx eyes gloss over every part of your person, inspecting and dissecting each and every visible clue. You swallow dryly, “It’s just that it's way too late in the night,”

“Yet you look as ready as ever to head out. Tell me, have you been anticipating my return, dearest?”

Arlecchino stares pointedly at your attire, likely referring to the traveling clothes you have on instead of the silk nightwear that she had gifted. Your shoulders tense unconsciously, there's something about the way she speaks at this instance that has your heartbeat crescendoing. The silver haired woman gives you a few more beats of anxiety, her talons scrape against the dainty glass.

“I’ve been informed that you have not eaten anything since yesterday.”

The words escape her painted lips easily, but they don't fail to send a jolt through your system. Throughout your stay, she'd never spoken to you like this, like you were one of her children who did not know better and decided to cross a line. That realization renders you further puzzled, you did nothing wrong to begin with, but her tone made you feel as though you were on the verge of doing so. You clear your parched throat and gather yourself to meet her eyes. This time, you do not allow yourself to wilt at the force of her burning stare.

“Arlecchino, I have something to tell you.”

The addressed woman straightens up at your sudden serious tone, her hand abandons the wine glass on the table and you inhale involuntarily at the scratches that now decorate the object, “I’m all ears, dearest.”

Your brows crease, as usual, Arlecchino is courteous, too courteous for someone who makes it obvious she's informed of something that she wasn't supposed to know. She's been like this ever since you and your travel-partner stepped foot in her ambiguous estate. Initially, you were touched by the hospitality she and her adopted children had shown you. Your greed lulled any arising suspicions, you neither questioned why she'd been so generous to a commoner with nothing more than fifty mora to their name nor did you bother to think about how she was affording all those gifts. You naïvely wished to believe in her kindness and that nothing was wrong about this house. But of course, self-woven deceptions last so long.

“Before you mistake me for being ungrateful, I did plan to inform you before leaving. Me and my friend are extremely thankful for the care your house has shown us, but we cannot stay in one place forever.”

“Why not?” you halt at her abrupt question but she follows up before you could even part your lips, “Have we lacked in any area to provide you with the adequate comfort? Have any of my children said something? If it's the latter, I'll apologize in their stead, they can be quite playful at times, I'm sure you understand.”

You stare dumbfounded at the sudden turn this conversation has taken, she wasn't supposed to behave like this. Why is she searching for a reason to make you stay when she should've been happy that a burden was about to be lifted off of her shoulders? Are all nobles this pushy?

“I—” you cut yourself off as the silver-haired woman leans in without warning, her shadow envelopes the delicacies laid out on the small table.

“Or… have you seen something?” she drawled.

You cannot hold back a flinch this time. A curse echoes in your mind at your stupidity, this was no ‘conversation’ to begin with ; this was yet another trap and you'd willingly played right into the palm of Arlecchino's hand. If there's one thing you've learned about this mysterious noblewoman, it is that she enjoys the process of dragging answers out of everyone. From the very beginning, she was aware of your scheme but, she chose to wear that mask of courtesy one more time and lured you out in the open, unguarded. If only your friend arrived to fetch you from your room at the right time, you wouldn't be in this messy situation.

Your eyes dart from her unblinking expression to the sharp accessories that adorn her gloved fingers and something about them forces you to reply quickly.

“No! I mean, you know that I'm a traveler, do you not? It's already been six months since we came to your estate, me and my friend were starting to.. crave that adventurous thrill—yes! We were starting to miss being on the road and decided to depart in the early morning.”

Once upon a time, your late mother had told you that some people in this world are like spiders. They're always at the centerpiece of their lair, leaving intricate translucent webs for unassuming prey to get tangled upon. Although the croaked warnings of your bedridden mother did not make much sense to the younger you, you understood now exactly what she meant.

“Incorrect. You were planning to escape with that friend of yours, weren't you?”

The hearthfire burns bright, shrouding Arlecchino's expression in shadows. The chilling octave of her voice defeats the warmth of the fireplace and has every muscle in your body stiffened. Escape? Her word choice never ceased to baffle you throughout this faux tea-party. She speaks as though you were her prisoner instead of a guest. She tilts her head and has the audacity to look betrayed as though you were a possession she held dear, and not a random human she decided to take pity upon.

Arlecchino runs a hand through her silvery hair with a sigh that actually indicates ennui and you bite back a scowl, “Honestly, I do not understand why you even befriended that thing. He's an obnoxious blabbermouth with a nose bigger than his brain. And he's loud, too. You've always preferred to mingle with level headed people with a sufficient intellectual capacity in the past and here you are, glaring at me as though—”

“Don’t speak like you know me!”

You pant after the force of that outburst, your voice ricochets across the walls of her room and further beyond. You open your mouth to continue but stop when you notice a strange flicker in the silver-haired woman's eyes. It's gone in a blink and is replaced with irritation just as quickly however.

“Oh, but I do know you. I know you better than you know yourself, in fact. I know that there are exactly 11 moles throughout your body, I know all your preferences and fears. Don't believe me? Did you really never stop to question how I managed to give you things that catered to your tastes? How I knew what you desired even before you did? Or were you so mesmerized by the words of that friend of yours to pay minimum attention?”

If the tone of a person's voice could kill, you'd be rotting in a ditch by now. You would've never believed someone could sound this malicious while not even raising their voice. You want nothing more than to shrink away but the adrenaline accumulated through your anger pushes you to keep digging your grave.

“And so what if that's exactly how it is? You have no right to have a say in who I choose to be ‘mesmerized’ by!”

A ‘ha!’ laden with disbelief escapes Arlecchino's lips. Fine silvery strands bounce at the mocking tilt of her head, “So what will you do now? Walk out of the gates with that waste of space like nothing happened?”

“Oh, you bet I will!” you fume, rising from the chair and turning on your heels. You barely take one step away from the table until the full weight of Arlecchino's malice crashes down on you and you remember something important.

“Arlecchino, where is my friend?”

The silver haired woman leisurely raises her wine glass at your stilted words, “In my glass.”

You swivel towards her, blinking several times as if to confirm you didn't mishear.

“Well, here and… probably in the stomachs of my pet vultures, excluding the carcass, that is. I'll admit, the taste is subpar compared to the trouble I went through. That thing kept on screaming until one of the vultures tore its heart out. Ugh, my ears are still ringing.”

Your wide eyes tremble towards the glass in her hand, the deep red liquid within sloshes to the direction of Arlecchino's hand ; paired with her words, your friend’s destiny becomes a no-brainer. All your wits abandon you in that instance and in a moment of sheer panic, you take a step back. Arlecchino promptly interferes with your plans, the door and windows close with no little sound and the table and your chair disappear without a trace—all in the snap of her fingers.

“What are you?”

You would've screamed if you didn't forget how to use your lungs. But then again, you doubt anyone would come to save you from her clutches even if you did. Your eyes connect to her onyx ones and in that moment, she appeared far less human than she'd been this whole encounter. Her pupils flash as two red xs and you feel an invisible pull tugging you to her side. The temptation dominates any coherent thoughts until you find yourself an arms length away from her seated self. Her claws dig into the flesh of your arm and yank you to her lap.

Free from the haze of that strange sensation, the first thing that permeates your senses is how cold Arlecchino's proximity is. Your palm meets her chest in a feeble attempt to push her away but all it does is stun you when you notice the absence of a heartbeat. You feel the sting of something sharp on your chin and waist, your eyes glance back and forth between the sources—dread pools in your stomach. Because of your closeness and the light from the fireplace, you're able to see that the sharp objects you'd mistaken for accessories are actually her nails and the gloves, her real skin.

Perhaps your trembling was so pitiful that Arlecchino could not help but soften her gaze, “Do you truly not recall?”

You look up at her, thoroughly perplexed. There's that previous glint in her eyes again but you've already accepted that understanding this woman was beyond you. One moment she accuses you as though you've been unfaithful, then she vividly describes how she murdered an innocent man and the next she looks almost… hurt?

“Recall what?”

The silver-haired woman’s red lips part and you gulp as unnaturally sharp fangs sneer at you. Albeit, she does not answer you and you wonder if you should get accustomed to playing mental gymnastics with her just to get a simple answer. Her talons let go of your waist and drag their up to your collarbone, creating a deliberate and irrepairable tear on your clothes. Her nails drum against your skin for three seconds before they latch onto your throat.

“Although, that'll no longer be an issue.”

She forces you to make eye-contact with a sharp tug on your chin, the color drains from your face as her cool breath washes against your skin. You open your mouth to say something, anything, but are quickly shushed as you feel her fangs sink into your lower lip.

“Because, we'll have ample time to get acquainted with each other starting from today.”

#requests: batch two #answered #yandere #yandere arlecchino #yandere arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x reader #arlecchino x you #yandere genshin x reader #yandere genshin impact #yandere genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin #arlecchino #the knave #genshin impact x reader #yandere genshin imagines #navxry

[raven-at-the-writing-desk]

The Current event makes me smile since it kind of confirms a headcanon I had that the Great Seven have animated movies based on them. Makes me wonder about the plot of the movies

Disney should get on the Twisted Wonderland AU Animated Remakes. What is Ursula was a good witch, what if Scar was right to take the throne and did he take it from Mufasa? (Or whoever is the stand in for him)

The Evil/Beautiful Queen...actually GOOD?

Yeah, it makes sense! Since the Great Seven are historical figures and the stuff of legends, surely there would be popular media made in their image. It’s like how the Disney fairy tales borrow from stories in the public domain or how there are historical retellings and reinventions (Hamilton, anyone?).

I believe TWST has mentioned films based on their own stories and history before too, but purely in the animated sense rather than live action. In book 3, Ace and one of the Atlantica Museum guards talk about an animated movie based on the tale of the mermaid princess and her prince; this movie is said to have come out ~30 years ago, which corresponds with Disney’s animated The Little Mermaid. Ace compliments the movie’s soundtrack too way to stroke your own ego, Disney/j.

Later on in Tapis Rouge, the characters discuss other films based on the Great Seven, including one Queen of Hearts movie. A Sea Witch movie is also mentioned; in it, she “goes gigantic” and also sings as she brews potions. The Octatrio quite enjoy this particular film.

(Side note: I don’t have the link for it anymore since it’s such an old post, but another anon once suggested to me that people probably also write fanfics of Neige and Vil since they’re celebrities… Think like “My mom sold me to One Direction?!” Wattpad kinds of fics, but replace One Direction with Vil or something.)

It’s… interesting this event specifically has Vil promoting a live action adaption of an in-universe animated film about the Beautiful Queen—an animated film which was the first full-color animated movie AND it originally released close to 90 years ago. They also reference the funding issues that Disney suffered while producing Snow White + inviting bank employees in to preview the movie to acquire more investments, stating that the studio that made the animated Beautiful Queen experienced the same. The in-game live action is even slated to come out “NEXT YEAR”. They’re not being subtle here with TWST’s references to their own version of the irl Disney Snow White (the live action is coming out in 2025, the OG is also almost 90 years old, etc.). I wonder if the EN server will actually get Tapis Rouge around the time of the irl release of Disney’s live action Snow White as part of a promotional campaign? 😂

UPDATE: There are even more not-so-subtle references to Disney animations in part 4 of the event, including discussion of cel animation, rotoscoping, adding blush to the characters, and how Disney brought in real animals/observed the “real thing” to help with animating similar scenes or subjects. They also cheekily say that most animation nowadays is CG 💀

I know some books under Disney publishing try to show alternate tellings or show the villains in a more sympathetic light, but I don’t know that they would ever commit to fully animating a film like that. It definitely would not happen in the style of traditional animation, Disney no longer seems well-equipped to handle that task 😔 I feel like it would also be pretty niche or might not get overwhelming positive reception with recent audience calls for “true bad guys” instead of twist or sympathetic villains (though I’m not sure what percentage of people watching Disney actually have this opinion).

I do wonder how those “AU” films would work though…? It wouldn’t be as simple as suddenly turning the G7 into “good guys”. The scenario and other characters would also have to drastically change. TWST doesn’t necessarily make the original “good guys” “bad” in a world where the villains are historical figures; we still hear plenty of positive or neutral stories about the achievements of the mermaid princess and other Disney heroes.

There are also times when the same story diverges into multiple separate stories that seemingly have no connection to one another. For example, there is a story where a princess marries a street rat (clearly referencing Aladdin) and they live happily ever after in spite of the difference in their social statuses. However, there simultaneously exists a story in which the Sorcerer of the Sands saves a princess from being deceived by a fake prince (also referencing Aladdin). The same goes for the mermaid princess (Ariel)—there is both a story referring to a “mermaid princess” who married a human prince and also a different story (clearly still pulled from the same film) about a mermaid who made a deal with the Sea Witch to find true love but broke her contract in the end.

Very cool idea, just not sure where it would lead or it it’s feasible or worth it monetarily for Disney.

#twisted wonderland #twst #disney twisted wonderland #disney twst #Vil Schoenheit #Evil Queen #Snow White #notes from the writing raven #fapis rouge in the shaftlands spoilers #Hamilton #Neige LeBlanche #twst en #twisted wonderland en #The Little Mermaid #Ariel #Ursula #Jafar #Aladdin #book 3 spoilers #Ace Trappola #Azul Ashengrotto #Tweels #Octavinelle #Jade Leech #Floyd Leech

[petrichor-idyllic]

aaaa this might be a really lame request, but would it be possible for a minho x reader where she splits up with him when brenda and thomas go back and instead of brenda getting bitten by a crank it was the reader (maybe she got bitten saving brenda) and how he reacts to seeing her get ill / recover? 🥲 seeing an active tmr blog the delivers such good content in 2023 actually made me gasp so like even if you don’t write this, i will be actively reading anything you write!

Oooo I actually really like this idea, of course I'll write it :))

Also I appreciate your continued support, you guys are the best.

Inaccurate dialogue to the films because I'm too busy to watch the movies for reference, but you get the jist.

IN ADVANCE OF GRIEF

MASTERLIST | MINHO MASTERLIST

SUMMARY: See above. Fem! Reader x Minho. Movie based fic. You came up with Teresa.

WARNINGS: Inappropriate language, you nearly die (again)(there's becoming a theme with my Minho fics)(I'm really putting this man through it), the Flare works differently in the movie vers. and all we get are the visual symptoms so I'm making this shit up, WICKED being WCKD because movie.

This wasn't meant to happen.

You just went after Thomas when he ran after Brenda - you couldn't leave him alone with a stranger.

And look where your kindness has gotten you. Biten by a Crank.

You're not really sure how it happened, but when that psycho tried to attack Brenda, you were the one to dive to her rescue. It's a blur, but once that glass broke and Thomas managed to catch Brenda, and you narrowly avoided death- you didn't even notice the pain in your leg.

It's fine.

It's no big deal.

You're probably immune.

You were in the Maze, after all.

The memories of waking up with an unconscious Teresa next to you are only from a few days ago, but now it feels like an eternity.

Though, you thought you were all immune. And look what happened to Winston.

You managed to hide it from your companions, only checking the injury when they weren't looking. But Brenda seemed to catch onto something not being quite right.

You lose Thomas and Brenda in the daze of a party you accidentally got dragged into, though you're pretty sure you see them kiss, (and Brenda get rejected,) before your body hits the floor.

"Rise and shine, shank," Minho gently pushes you awake as your eyes flicker up to meet his. He smiles at you.

Minho.

Minho.

You don't really know when your feelings for him started, especially since you don't think you've ever actually stood still. But whilst Teresa was unconscious and you were having some kind of mental breakdown, Minho made time to make sure you were alright - even with his ventures into the Maze.

Newt had his hands full running the place with Alby out of commission and Gally was throwing a paddy because Thomas had achieved the impossible. So, Minho and the Medjacks were the only ones around to keep you sane.

Maybe if you arrived at a different point, things would be different.

But they're not.

Thomas and Brenda are already awake. Brenda is sitting in a chair, looking forlorn and anxiously glancing at you. Thomas is talking to Teresa, which is also a bitter sight for Brenda.

"What happened?" You grumble, pushing yourself up on your elbows. You've been lying on a pile of cushions on the floor.

"You got wasted at some Crank party, passed out - the klunk you took was stronger than Gally's special brew," he snickers, offering you a hand to pull yourself up. Your eyes flicker up to his face and you smile.

He yanks you up and you stumble slightly. "Woah, easy, girly," he chuckles, placing his hand on the small of your back, stabilising you.

Your head feels foggy from the drugs, but your main concern is the throbbing sensation in your ankle. It stings and pulses, like something is living under your skin.

Minho notices your hesitance as your stomach drops.

You're not immune.

If you were, your whole leg would feel like it's covered in cobwebs and on fire.

Shit. What do you do now?

You don't want to worry your friends, they have enough on their plate. And maybe your body will take more time to fight the infection. Maybe it's too soon to tell.

You're lying to yourself, but it's all you can do.

"Hey, you feeling okay?" You force yourself to smile at him.

"Yeah, yeah, just a bit shucked up - where are we?" You look around the room as Minho lets go of you. There's a man tied to a chair in the middle of the room as Jorge yells at him.

"We found Marcus," Minho says simply.

"That's Marcus?" You and Thomas say in unison.

It's the same guy that spiked you earlier.

You step forward, a jolt of pain slicing you in two, making your leg twist awkwardly and your stomach flip.

"Shuck-! Christ, (Y/N)," Minho jumps to catch you before you manage to catch yourself. "Are you sure you're good?"

"Y-yeah," you try to push out a chuckle, but it comes out as pained. "Think I twisted my ankle before - nothin' I can't handle."

Minho looks unsure, his eyes flickering to your leg and then back up to your face. He can't show how much he cares.

How much he wants to say fuck this and just figure out a way to survive in the Scorch with you. You were gone for one night and now something's wrong - he knows it's wrong but he can't quite put his finger on what.

He's tired of fighting, of running, of everything.

But he figured things would be alright because he had you now.

Brenda moves to let you sit down in the armchair. She's seen it before, and if it were her in your situation, she wouldn't want everyone knowing either. And you proceed to completely zone out.

Too many thoughts swarm your head. Minho. The Flare. The state of your immunity. Who this guy is and how the fuck you're going to actually find the Right Arm.

That's a lot of ground to cover.

So, obviously, you steal a car. Marcus' car, to be more precise.

Bastard deserved it.

You all squeeze in the car, and you're stuck between Minho and Aris. Normally, being this close to Minho would send your brain foggy and have you blushing, but your body is literally rotting from the inside out.

The sickness set in pretty early into the car ride. Then the sweating and fever followed. You're struggling to keep your head up, which is less than ideal when you're trying to act completely normal.

But at least you're not walking.

So, you're less than pleased when you have to stop due to a pile of cars in the road.

You try your best to keep going, but everything everyone's saying is like static in your ears. Everything hurts, and it's a good thing Minho is paying attention when the gunshots start.

He yanks you behind a car with him and Newt - and he's not the only one noticing your state as Newt looks at you.

"What's wrong with her?" Newt asks, like you're not even there despite the current circumstances of being shot at.

"I don't know." Minho says bluntly, eyes scanning you as you lean back against the vehicle.

"You don't think-"

"Slim it, Newt," Minho snaps, "I don't wanna think."

"I'm fine," you say, adjusting yourself. "Just shucked up my ankle, that's all."

"Come on, get up! Up!" You jump out of your skin at the voices of two girls breaking your static state.

Who apparently knows Aris.

Small world, I guess.

Sonya and Harriet lead you through the mountains, shoving you into another set of vehicles and leading you to the Right Arm base camp.

By this point, the world is a blur and direction doesn't matter to you. You're just absent mindedly stumbling in the direction of sound and blurred images of your friends.

You hear Minho say something, touching your wrist but you yank yourself away as it feels like you've been burnt.

Harriet and Sonya introduce you to Vince, whose name you don't even catch.

He gives some speech about checking for infection and how he doesn't trust you all.

And that's when your body caves in and you hit the floor.

"Shit! (Y/N)!" Minho snaps, diving forward to catch you. His knees hit the floor, pulling your upper half onto his lap. He moves strands of hair out of your face - your eyes are sunken, and your face is sweaty, your eyes involuntarily rolling back into their sockets repeatedly as you desperately try to regain soke kind of control.

His heart sinks into his stomach. He knew. He knew something was wrong, and he just let it slide because you said so. And now look at you, crumpled on the floor, unable to breathe. You're seriously ill, and he did nothing to help.

"What's wrong with her?" Vince asks as the Gladers swarm you.

"What's wrong?" Frypan asks. "Minho? What happened?"

"I-I, I don't know," Minho stutters out, "I don't know."

The Gladers repeat your name and the world spirals around you. You look up at the boy who's cradling you.

This is it. This is how you die.

Minho's looking at someone else, his blurred face trying to make sense of everything. You reach out, your fingers brushing against his face - which is easier said than done with the awkward angle and your weak arms.

"Thanks, Minho," you whisper as he looks down at you. "You were always my favourite."

"Shit!" Vince snaps, making Minho jump out of his skin. Vince has moved the piece of cloth from your ankle, revealing the bite in your leg. "She's infected!"

The crowd swarms away as Vince pulls a gun out. Minho tries to shield you, shouting something you can't make out.

He's yanked away by some Right Arm members, fanatically trying to break free.

The Gladers, along with Brenda and Jorge beg for your life.

"Please," Thomas begs, "we can do something- can't you help her?"

"Yeah, I can put her out of her misery," Vince points the gun at your dying body.

"No!" Minho screeches. "Don't! Please! Don't!"

"Stop!" An unfamiliar voice says. "Let him go! Now. What's going on here?"

A woman, Mary, walks over, forcing the men to let Minho free.

"She's infected - we can't help her." Vince explains.

"No, but he can," she smiles at the boy, "hello, Thomas."

Everyone is left confused, but Minho is too busy on the floor by your body again.

Mary explains how she knows Thomas, and that he can make you better again, even just for a little while.

"Get your girlfriend up," she says to Minho, "come on, we'll help her."

"She's not my girlfriend," Minho huffs, slipping his arms under yours and pulling you up, before picking you up bridle style.

Mary looks at him, smirking. "Are you sure?"

He looks at Thomas who simply shrugs.

They follow Mary into the medical tent, Minho lays you on the bed, taking a seat on the far side as he gently plays with your hand. She sets up her equipment and takes blood from Thomas.

"Minho's also from the Maze - couldn't you take his blood?" The boy asks.

Mary sighs. "Well, I'm sure you know by now that not everyone from the Mazes was immune. And I don't know the status of your friends. But I know you are because we used to work closely. Minho's blood might work, but I'm not willing to risk waiting."

It makes sense, and Minho doesn't care about that.

She injects your arm with the serum. She rubs Minho's shoulder. "She should be awake soon. We'll leave you be." She gives him a reassuring smile. "Come on, Thomas. Let's give them some space."

She walks out the tent, but Thomas lingers for a second.

"Did you know?" Minho asks. "Did you know she got bit?"

Thomas simply shakes his head. "No, but I think Brenda did. She didn't seem as shocked." Minho doesn't bother looking at his friend, he just stares at you. "She's gonna be alright, yanno."

"Yeah, but for how long? It doesn't last forever." (Little does he know)

Thomas settles into a silence before sucking in a deep breath. "You love her."

"What?" Minho snaps to finally look at his friend.

"You love her, don't you?"

Minho's jaw tightens, his eyelids fluttering. He opens his mouth to speak, but nothing comes out, so he rubs his face with his hands instead.

"You love Teresa," Minho retorts, taking the pressure off himself.

Thomas scoffs. "Yeah - but at least I can admit it."

Minho presses his lips into a thin line. He doesn't exactly like being called out like that.

Thomas exits the tent, leaving him with you.

He looks at you. "He's right, yanno," he mumbles to himself. "I do shuckin' love you. How shucked is that? I've known you for less than a week, and I..." He trails off, not really sure how to put it into words, even just to himself.

So, instead, he leans forward, placing a kiss to your forehead.

Though, he did not expect your eyes to be open when he pulled back. Your eyes flutter, looking up at him. You smile.

"Hi."

"Hey," he chuckles, sitting back in his seat. "You scared the klunk outta me, yanno that?"

"I didn't mean to." You groan, trying to sit up. Your body still feels messed up and groggy, but it's still a massive relief.

"Woah, hey," he shakes his head, pushing you back down. "Take it easy, shank. You nearly died today."

"Yeah, well, it's not like that's anything new."

He glares at you, and you chuckle.

"What did you mean earlier?" He asks after a brief pause.

"Hm?"

"You said I was your favourite," you cringe at that detail. "And you said thank you. For what?"

"For everything," you respond simply. "You looked out for me, so..."

"That wasn't anything special."

"It was to me."

You turn on your side, resting on your arm as you look at him. There's something behind Minho's expression that you can't quite read as be stares at you. It fades as quickly as it came though when he resorts back to his sarcastic ways.

"So, am I really your favourite? Because you seem to like Frypan's food a bit too much."

"What? Fry's cooking is good - you shanks just act too high-and-mighty to appreciate his hard work." Minho fiegns offence, dramatically gasping and putting his hand to his chest.

"Hm, I don't know, there's definitely some favouritism going on there-"

"Slim it," you snort, before dropping your gaze and suddenly becoming serious. "You're my favourite, Minho. You always have been."

He struggles to fight the smirk that crosses his face. "But, I guess I'm yours too, eh?" You grin. "Since you love me, and all."

Minho freezes completely, his face dropping. He blankly stares at you for a good few seconds.

"Ah, shuck," you burst out laughing as his face turns red, his hands coming to cover himself and his embarrassment. "So, you heard me..?"

"Yep, I heard."

"Right, yep, cool - shucking brilliant."

You smile. You've just had a near death experience, so an accidental love confession really isn't fazing you at all. Sitting up, it hurts but you don't care as you throw your legs over the side so you're sitting directly in front of him.

You pull his hands away from his face, taking them in your own. His eyes meet yours and you smile at him. Leaning in, you kiss him on the cheek.

"I love you, too," you mutter, almost into him as you only pull away a bit. He scoffs, and it looks like he's about to say something but his words fail him.

So, he decides to do something else instead. He presses his lips to yours and you immediately kiss him back.

It's short and sweet, and you're both smiling as you part.

"I'm so relieved you're okay," he mumbles.

"I'm always gonna be okay," you kiss the tip of his nose. "I've got you looking after me."

Another cute piece for my main boy.

Requests might be lacking for a bit since I'm away for the next few days but I'm gonna see what I can do.

I hope you enjoyed :))

#🌿 petri writes tmr #🌿 petri writes #🍃 petri tmr #🌿 petri tmr minho #tmr fanfiction #tmr imagines #tmr minho #minho the maze runner #minho tmr #minho maze runner #minho tmr x reader #the maze runner

[cowgurrrl]

Marrow

Pairing: Joel Miller x fem!reader (plus platonic!ellie williams x fem!reader)

Author’s note: thanks for being patient!! I made a new graphic for the in-between parts of When You’re Lost in the Darkness/Look for the Light because I wanted to 😌 (PS this is somewhat of rewrite/reimagining of my first fic Everything Leads to You so if there are some similarities, iTS FINE)

Summary: “This was always going to happen. She’s been dead since the beginning.” - Oresteia as translated by Robert Icke aka the beginning of the journey

Warnings: discussions of Tess, reference to Adam, Joel being stubborn, talking to Ellie about mortality, references to a sexual relationship, the horrors of being seen by someone who could break your heart

"Stay here," you say to Ellie after a full ten minutes of waiting. He didn't even say where he was going. He just left without another word and expects you to be there by the time he returns, which is annoying in its own right.

"What? Where are you going?" Ellie asks before you can even take two steps in the direction he left. 

"To find Joel."

"He said to stay here."

"Joel says a lot of things." You roll your eyes. She didn't try arguing with Joel when he left, but here she is, holding you up. She better hope he's just down there fucking around and not in trouble. 

"What am I supposed to do if someone finds me?"

"No one's gonna find us out here."

"But what if they do?" She asks, and you can recognize the anxiety in her voice. She's a lot like Joel, you've noticed. Fierce and short-tempered but with lots of uncertainty brewing just underneath. You soften just enough to crouch in front of her and open your hand.

"You still got your knife?" You ask, and she nods. "Can I show you something?" She hesitates before pulling the knife out of her jacket pocket and placing it in your hand. You see why she likes it so much. It's a good size, sleek, and perfectly balanced. You open the blade and hold the handle firmly. "If they get close enough, jab at soft parts. Eyes, stomach, throat. It might not kill them immediately, but it'll distract them enough for you to run away and get our attention." 

"Same for Infected?"

"Same for Infected," you say. "Runners are just sick people. They have almost all the same weak points."

"Is it hard to kill them when you know they were people once?" She asks, and your mind immediately goes to that Shell station from all those years ago. Against your will, you remember his groans and the look in his eyes as he pushed you away from the last time. You clear your throat and close the blade to hand it back to her. 

"Not when they come after you first," you say. She eyes you carefully like she doesn't believe you, but you stand before she can see right through you. "Stay here. We'll be right back." She doesn't move from her spot as you walk away, but you catch her changing her grip on her knife to copy the way you held it. 

You find Joel on the river bank you and Tess passed more times than you could ever count. The water is clear and running without a care in the world. It would be peaceful if you weren't strategizing on how to have this conversation with Joel. It's necessary, but if you know him (which you do), you know it'll result in a fight. You decide to approach him gently with empty hands and a soft, if not a little pained, smile. He glances in your direction but doesn't acknowledge you as he reaches into the cold water and pulls a smooth rock from the bottom. He adds it to the stack right next to him and stares at it like it's something more sentimental than just a cairn. Maybe it is. He wouldn't tell you if it was. Not now. Not when Tess hasn't even been dead for twenty-four hours. Finally, he stands and turns to look at you.

"How's your hand?" You ask, breaking the unbearable silence between you. He looks between you and his stained, cracked knuckles and shrugs.

"Fine." He says, his voice deep and rough. You step closer to get a better look at his hand and fight the urge to reach for it to press around for the fracture you're positive is swelling under his skin. 

"You don't have to be a hero about it. I can wrap it."

"I said 'm fine," he snaps. You nod and take a step back. You know, from years of diffusing Joel's anger, this is a delicate dance. "Where's Ellie?"

"Right where you left her. I came down here 'cause I wanted to make sure you were alive." 

"You didn't have to do that."

"I wanted to," you say. The levity in your voice startles him into looking you in the eyes for the first time since you left the destroyed capitol building. The brown of his eyes feels especially heavy and sad, but you don't flinch. You rarely do with him. "Plus, I wanted to see if we could talk."

"Bout what?" He says like nothing in the past few days has been catastrophic enough to require a conversation. 

"About what you think Bill and Frank are gonna do." 

"Take her to the Fireflies or get someone else to do it."

"And if they say no?"

"They won't."

"How do you know?" You ask, and he rolls his eyes. "Frank's sick, Joel. Really, really sick. He can't just get in a car and take this girl to the Fireflies, and Bill's not gonna leave him."

"How do you know?" He accuses.

"Because I actually talk to them on the radio," you say. "From what he's told me, it sounds like Parkinson's or something. I don't know. I'm not a doctor." 

"Exactly," he agrees with enough tension in his voice to poke at the fiery anger in your belly. "Frank's fine. They'll set him up in the truck and drive her there." 

"What about Raiders? Or Slavers? Or what happens if they run out of gas and can't find more? Frank can't just walk her to Wyoming." 

"Bill'll figure it out." 

"If Tess were that sick-"

"Don't. Don't even start with that." He cuts you off, and you sigh. 

"Is this really how we're gonna do this? Just not talk to each other about anything? Keep our heads in the sand until it's too late?" You ask. "Keep lying to ourselves that everything's normal?"

"You were just fine doin' that not even a week ago." He crosses his arms over his chest and raises his eyebrows at you. You know exactly what he's referring to. It's a tangle of limbs and whispers of so fuckin' pretty, 's like you were made for me, just like that, but you remember. Of fucking course, you remember every time he made you his and left the marks to prove it. Of course, you remember looking at him the next day like absolutely nothing happened, like he didn't fall to his knees in front of you like you were some long-forgotten deity. You and Joel are not people who do long-term relationships, especially not with each other. Still, his comment feels like a jab at the way you got dressed and left not even ten minutes after he came. 

"A week ago, we didn't have a fourteen-year-old to keep alive," you say. He sucks his teeth and looks down at his boots; clearly not a fan of your redirecting. "We're already going west. We might as well just finish this out and get her to the Fireflies. I'll even let you knock a few around if you really want to." 

"'S that supposed to be some kinda incentive?" 

"If finding your brother and doing what Tess asked us to do isn't enough, then yeah," he tenses when you say her name. It hurts to know she's gone. It hurts even more to know she sacrificed herself so you three would have a chance. You'll be damned if you let her death mean nothing. "And if we get to Bill and Frank's, and they won't take her, and you still don't want to do this, I'll take her myself."

"Not a chance." He counters before you can finish your sentence. You fight a smirk, knowing you've got him right where you want him, and he sighs heavily. You know he would never let you do this by yourself. He also knows he can't leave you to go back to yet another empty apartment and wait for him to come back alive or never hear from him again. For all your fighting, secrets, and unspoken agreements, you think there's no one else in this world you know better than Joel. You hope he thinks the same about you. 

"We get to Bill and Frank's, and then we make a decision, but we gotta agree somehow. Fair?" He relents, and you nod. 

"Fair." 

"Anythin' else we need to talk bout?" He asks, looking at you expectantly. Yes, you think. We need to talk about what made you beat the FEDRA soldier to death. We need to talk about Tess. We need to talk about how far we're willing to go to get to Tommy and drop this kid off. We need to talk like real people and not the shells we've been. 

"No," you say. "Nothing else."

"Good," he nods and walks past you, his shoulder brushing yours as he does. "Let's get moving."

TAGLIST: @abbyhaslongshorts @moonandseatgr-yngf @kiwiharrykiwi @sumsworldz @myloveistoolittle @korynnekorynne @anavatazes (please let me know if you want to be added to the tag list/if I missed you!!)

#it ten pm in the uk so I’m posting this #when you’re lost in the darkness #look for the light #joel miller #the last of us #joel miller x reader #the last of us x reader #joel miller fic #joel miller the last of us #joel tlou #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x female reader #joel miller series #joel miller and ellie williams #joel miller angst #ellie the last of us #the last of us series #the last of us angst #the last of us fic #joel the last of us

[harrysmmm]

𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝟐 - 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐒𝐧𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐑𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬

Fanfiction:The Relics of Hogwarts (CLICK THE LINK BEFORE READING THIS)

Draco malfoy x Y/N Riddle (f!reader)

A/N: I wrote this in a day, who would've told me?? I'm so into this fic I can't stop writing it, it's crazy. Anyways, I wanted to thank you for the reception of Chapter 1, you guys overwhelmed me :). Hope you like this part, again, don't hesitate to ask me to put you on the taglist, I'll gladly do it. Love u all &lt;3

W/C: 3.6K

Taglist: @jay-isgay

masterlist here

The ravishing thunderstorms had turned into ballets of autumn leaves dancing around the dorms’ windows. Y/N was laying down in her bed; six forty-four on the clock even though her alarm had to go off at seven. It was not the first night she had woken up before time, her worries creeping in like a plague of lice. She had become fearful of the night because she knew she couldn’t avoid the pressure. Her entire life she had spent it looking for a big breakthrough that would quiet down her thoughts of not feeling enough; enough because she didn’t get to go to school like the other kids; enough because none of her parents stayed; enough because she couldn’t name a single person that had taught her love. Now, having a purpose to fulfill, an opportunity to be part of somewhere she belonged, she wished things were different for her.

“Already awake?” She heard the voice of Pansy.

Pansy Parkinson was one of the girls she shared a dorm with. She was someone she could talk to from time to time, although the conversation would not get deeper than academic and roommate matters. She met her through Draco, who she’d mostly spend time with during breaks.

“Yeah, the wind woke me up. Pretty harsh out there.”

“Yeah…” Pansy headed towards the bathroom with her uniform in hand.

“You showering this early?” Y/N inquired. The others were still sleeping.

“I wanna try this new spell on my hair. I feel like straight hair doesn’t do me good,”

“Aight.”

Y/N also got up from bed, checking her schedule and noticing that she had Potions the first hour.

 Potions was a tough course. Y/N had found herself studying the textbook in the afternoons, trying to be lectures ahead to get better in the potion-making. But it seemed like every student in class was doomed, including Hermione Granger, a Gryffindor student that Y/N came to realize from the first week that she was a brilliant witch. Surprisingly enough, the student that always passed with flying colors was none other than Harry Potter - surprisingly enough because he didn’t exceed in any other course. Professor Slughorn was a very enthusiastic man that supported everyone that wanted to take his class – although not everyone would get the same treatment, the man being quite elitist and prone to favoritism. Harry was, without the slightest doubt, his dearest pet.

“I was beginning to worry Miss. Diggory. Got lost in the scrambled eggs?” Professor Slughorn asked, turning round towards her.

She spent a little too much time reading about the potion they had to brew that day that she lost track of time. She knew she wasn’t a favored student in Slughorn’s eyes to get away with the delay.

“Sorry,” she whispered, heading towards Draco, Pansy and other friends of Draco.

“As I was saying, The Draught of the Living Death is a dangerous potion that must be executed with maximum caution. We don’t want to end up like Sleeping Beauty, do we?”

Hermione and Harry giggled. The others didn’t understand the reference.

“Muggle-tale, very silly of me…” the Professor laughed at his own gaffe. “Well, because this potion is quite complex to execute you will partner up with someone.”

Y/N instantly looked at Draco who was also looking at her.

“Harry… well dear Harry, I don’t think you’d need a partner to brew this but for academic purposes you will do it with... Miss. Diggory.” He glanced over at her. “He might also teach you punctuality Miss. Diggory.”

Y/N couldn’t resist raising her eyebrows and sighing. Harry swiftly glanced at her.

“You got the stinkiest of all” Draco whispered to her. He was leaning over the wall – a mischievous look on his face.

“At least he’s good,” she replied. She had shared some laughs about Potter with Draco and his friends, but she never really initiated them herself.

Draco sighed and rolled his eyes at her comment.

“Do you think the wall is going to miss you if you stop leaning over it, Mr. Malfoy?” Slughorn snapped. Draco heavily breathed and fixed his posture, waving his arms in a way of showing the professor that he was not dragging his back all over the wall anymore, “Good. You’ll go with Miss. Granger.”

“For fuck’ sake,” he whispered.

Y/N gave him a sympathetic smile and headed towards Harry who had already chosen a brewing table.

“Everyone, turn to page forty-seven of your textbook and start brewing. Off you go!”

Y/N flipped the pages to the one of the mentioned potion. She started reading.

Instructions:

Cut up one Sopophorus bean.

Pour in 250 fl.oz. of water and add…

She noticed that Harry was already grabbing some of the beans.

“You want to start cutting them while I pour the water?” she asked him.

“Sure.”

She grabbed the cauldron and headed to the sink of the classroom. A line of people was starting to form, Draco being before her.

“They also sent you off?” Draco asked her, having been kicked out by Hermione.

“I volunteered.”

“Right.” It was his turn to fill up the cauldron with water. She looked at him while he did it.

“Try not to start fighting dementors after spending time with Potter,” he playfully said while passing next to her after he’d completed the task.

“Shut up, Malfoy.”

He grinned at her.

She returned to her seat and placed the cauldron at the center of the table. She noticed that Harry was crushing the beans with the blade instead of cutting them.

“Doesn’t it say you have to cut them?”

“Yeah, mine says you should crush them,” he replied, not really looking at her.

“How so?”

“I don’t know.”

She kept on reading the instructions.

“You almost took my eye out, Granger!”

“I’m sorry, the beans are really slippery!”

Y/N looked over at Draco’ and Hermione’s table and left out a chuckle.

Harry grinned at her, also observing the scene.

“They would be better off if they had your textbook.”

“Yeah,” he replied, this time looking at her.

“Should we add the Infusion of Wormwood or does your textbook differ on that too?” she playfully asked him.

“No, go ahead,” he replied, more relaxed than at the beginning.

She added the ingredient and the potion started boiling, turning purple – which was exactly what it had to do according to the book.

“What now?” she asked.

“We have to stir seven times anti-clockwise, although we have to add a clockwise stir after every seven anti-clockwise – at least that’s what my book says.”

“You lost me at clockwise.”

Harry left out a loud laugh that didn’t go unnoticed among students.

“Harry, how do you do it?” Hermione asked him, stirring the potion while her hair was all tousled.

“I follow the book, that’s all.”

“Lend us your book,” said Draco.

Harry ignored him.

“I’m with Draco on this one,” added Hermione.

Harry kept ignoring them. Y/N did the same.

“Everyone seems jealous of you, where did you get that book?”

“The cupboard,” Harry replied while adding Powder Root of Asphodel to the mix.

“You think it belonged to a former student?”

Harry didn’t react at first, as if he was mentally debating to say something. He ended up saying it.

“It belonged to the Half-Blood Prince,” he replied, showing her the signature of the owner of the book written on the first page.

“Who is he?” she asked.

Harry shook his head showing her that he didn’t know.

They then proceeded to add the Sloth Brain, the potion looking accurate.

“You’re a relative of Cedric?” he asked.

Y/N was surprised he wanted to know something about her.

“He was my first cousin.”

Harry looked at her with a serious face. “Right.”

“You were friends with him?”

“Yeah, not the closest, but yeah,” he replied. Y/N could sense it was a sensitive topic.

Harry stirred two times clockwise and dropped the mixer.

“That’s about it,” he said, imploring of having finished the potion.

She raised her hand to call Professor Slughorn who was fairly surprised the two of them had already managed to finish brewing the potion.

“Well, well, well, let’s see what we’ve got here,” Professor Slughorn said, approaching the cauldron. Everyone was expectant of the result. He dropped a red leaf into it, and it immediately dissolved into the liquid. “Merlin’s beard, it’s perfect!”

Harry and Y/N smiled at each other.

“So perfect I dare say one drop would kill us all!”

Y/N looked at Draco and raised her eyebrows. The boy was standing up with his arms crossed - his platinum hair uncombed. He shook his head at her.

“Ten points to Gryffindor and ten points to Slytherin. Although I don’t know if Miss. Diggory was much of a help…”

“She was, Professor,” interrupted Harry.

“Well in that case, I’m eager to see your improvements, Miss. Diggory.”

Y/N softly smiled, giving a look to Harry who was also looking at her.

ྀ࿔

“She was, Professor,” Draco blurted out, mocking Harry’s words a few days later.

“For Merlin’ sake Draco, drop it,” Y/N snapped.

Blaise, Pansy, Draco and Y/N were headed to the Quidditch pitch. It was the first match of the season and students were eager to see the new signings play. It was also a very awaited match for the entire school because the rivals Gryffindor and Slytherin were playing.

The four of them were rooting for the green house.

“I’m just saying, it almost looked as if you two were actually having fun,” Draco continued.

“Whatever Draco, whatever,” she replied, tired of the blonde’s insinuations.

They arrived at the pitch and got front line seats - Draco nudging students to get ahead. In a matter of minutes, the two teams flew to the center of the pitch, the commentator introducing each of the players.

“The Slytherin team also recruited a new seeker – goodbye Malfoy, hello Harper!” Everyone started cheering the new signing.

Y/N looked over at Draco who seemed bothered by the comment. He had been the seeker for Slytherin since second year, but he had to quit the team due to the Dark Lord’s commended mission – although, he had told the other players it was due to an injury.

The game started. Gryffindor held the quaffle first, passing it among chasers – a Slytherin chaser checked one of the passes and got the ball. A Hawckshead attacking formation was created by some Gryffindors to intercept a green chaser from getting near the hooped goal posts. The latter still threw the ball towards the right post and, to everyone’s surprise, Ron Weasley, new keeper of the Gryffindor team, stopped it from scoring. The spectators vigorously clapped.

“Very good that Weasley guy, innit?” a Hufflepuff girl said out loud.

“I guess, yeah…”

The girl started yelling. “Woo-hoo! Slytherin! Slytherin! Come on, guys!”

“I thought you were rooting for Gryffindor,” Y/N asked her.

The quaffle was in Gryffindor’s possession now - Ginny Weasley achieving to do the Chelmondiston Charge and scoring in the middle goalpost.

“Oh, bloody hell!” the girl lamented. “I’ve always rooted for Slytherin before Gryffindor, I know some Slytherin people that I get on with – Gryffindors can be a pain in the ass when it comes to bragging about their team.”

The girl turned her head to Y/N’s direction. She was a little shorter, golden straight hair framing her face. Her hazelnut eyes were bigger than usual, giving her an innocent outlook.

“Is it true that you’re related to Cedric?” she asked.

“Yeah, we were cousins,” Y/N replied.

“He was friends with my sister – a truly nice guy,” she added.

Y/N gave her half a smile and focused on the game.

Both Harry and Harper, the seekers of the game, were unaware of the whereabouts of the golden snitch. Gryffindor was beating Slytherin by thirty points – that meant if Harper found the snitch they would end in a tie.

“You’re a six year, aren’t you?” The Hufflepuff girl asked Y/N.

“Yeah, you too?”

“No, I’m in year five.”

“What’s your name?”

“Mary. Mary Rookwood,” she replied. “Although I have nothing to do with Augustus Rookwood, just to be clear.”

“Who’s that?”

“A death-eater of You Know Who. He recently escaped Azkaban, you didn’t hear the news?”

“I must’ve heard it somewhere,” she replied. It felt strange to hear someone name her father outside of his own circle.

It seemed that Harry and Harper had already located the golden snitch. The both of them threw themselves to it, the green one occasionally cobbing Harry to slow him down.

The crowd kept chanting “Weasley! Weasley! Weasley!”. Apparently, the red-haired boy was killing the game, intercepting every attempt of scoring.

A few seconds later, the match ended, Harry having caught the snitch.

“And Gryffindor gains the victory!” the commentator exclaimed, being followed by loud cheers.

“How pathetic, Harper,” Draco snapped.

“I bet we would’ve won if you were still the Slytherin keeper, Draco,” Pansy said.

“You bet on that,” he added.

“You’re the only one that can face Potter in the pitch,” Mary commented, entering the conversation.

Draco stared at her skeptical but replied: “Not only in the pitch.”

Everyone started to stand up from their seats and headed towards the exit stairs – most of them disappointed with the results, looking forward to commenting on the match during supper.

ྀ࿔

Students ought to be in their common rooms at that time of night. Pansy, Blaise, Draco and Y/N were sitting on the couches of the Slytherin common room, talking out of their asses.

“You guys, I’m calling this a night,” Pansy said, standing up from the couch.

“Same here, I’ve got DADA tomorrow at nine,” Blaise added, joining Pansy.

“Y/N, you staying?” Pansy asked.

“Yeah, I’m not that tired just yet.”

“Aight, see ya.”

Both students went upstairs.

Draco waited until everyone got into their dorms and glanced at Y/N.

“You wanna do something fun?” he asked.

“I’m not playing Wizard’s chess if that’s what you’re implying,” replied Y/N.

“How about we sneak out?” The boy seemed more excited than usual.

Y/N sighed. “Draco, no.”

“Why not? Besides, I was a prefect – I’m sure they will let us go if they see us,”

“Where do you wanna go anyway?”

“There’s somewhere I wanna show you.”

Y/N kept staring at him, debating the pros and cons of the blonde’s idea. She knew that if she said no, they’d probably go to sleep – something she was not eager to do, fully aware that her anxiety would creep in again.

“Okay,” she ended up saying.

“Let’s go then.”

They both stood up and exited the common room. The school hallways were only lit by the full moon’s glare and the Lumos charm of Draco’s wand.

“Thank God, Lupin is not teaching here anymore. It would’ve been an interesting night,” Draco whispered.

“Why?” she asked.

“He was our DADA professor in third year – he was also a werewolf,” he added.

“Good Lord, they let him teach regardless?”

“Yeah, he was Dumbledore’s little servant. Also really close with Potter. He got away with everything until parents started to complain - my father started the fuel.”

“How rare coming from your father,” she snickered.

He giggled. Some footsteps went noticed from one of the hallways.

“Come on, over here.” Draco dragged Y/N to the boy’s bathroom that was a few steps away from them. They got in one of the cubicles and locked the door.

“You said it was okay if they caught us,” whispered Y/N, her face almost touching Draco’s due to the lack of room.

“I lied – we’re totally facing detention if they do,” Draco replied.

“For Merlin’ sa-” Draco placed his finger on her mouth to tell her to shut it.

“Who’s there?” Argus Filch, caretaker of the school, got in the bathroom. “I heard you whisper, come out now!”

No sound or move was made. Draco was biting his lips.

“Aigh fair enough, Mrs. Norris, go take a look,” Filch said.

Draco mouthed without speaking: “We’re totally screwed”. The cat started meowing in front of their cubicle, sensing both students.

“Good job, Mrs. Norris.” Filch caressed the cat. “Get outta there, you nasty little rats! I know you’re hiding in there!”

Y/N had an idea.

“Aguamenti,” she whispered. Water started flooding from the toilet and got to Mrs. Norris legs, who started vividly meowing at the contact. She flew away from the scene.

“Mrs. Norris, dear cat, wait!” Filch ran after her, leaving the bathroom unguarded.

“Come on.” Y/N opened the door and both students ran away.

“That was brilliant, Riddle!” Draco snapped.

“Don’t call me that, people could hear.”

“Yeah sorry, ‘m just used to it.”

“We should go back to our dorms before he’s back,” she pointed.

“Now? When we’ve already arrived at the place? Hell, no,” he replied.

She sighed but followed him upstairs.

The room was at the top of a tower. Students would study the stars and planets through their telescopes in Astronomy lessons – the starry view could enchant anyone standing there.

“Good golly,” said Y/N, clearly taken by the view. “This is where you’ve been spending time during your absences at dinner?”

“Mostly, yeah,” replied Draco, sitting down on a step, “I mostly think things through, you know, about everything that is going on.”

Y/N knew exactly what he was talking about. She sat down next to him.

“I barely get any sleep,” he added. “My mind constantly thinking tactics of how to… you know… kill him.”

“Yeah… that is a heavy weight I don’t think you should have to bear so young.”

“There’s no difference between teenagers and adults in our world, Y/N. You go from being a total useless kid to a highly competent murderer – that’s how it works.”

“I know how it works Draco, you’re not the only one that has their life at stake,” she replied, starting to feel the anxiety in her voice.

“Have you started looking for them? The relics, I mean.”

“I’ve been spending time at the library, but no luck so far. I’ve been thinking of switching to groundwork, and ask students first-hand,” she said.

“You should be careful with that, people-”

“I know Draco, no one will suspect,” she interrupted him.

“Fair enough,” he replied, stargazing. “I’ve come up with an idea as well.” He pulled out a folded paper from his pocket. He unfolded it. “I bumped into this spell when I was doing some research. It’s a spell that can bewitch an object and kill the person that touches it in a matter of minutes. I thought of putting the spell on a necklace and manage to give it to someone that would hand it to Dumbledore.”

“It makes sense. Just be careful the person-”

“The person doesn’t touch it themselves? Yeah, already though about that – you just give it to them in a secluded box.”

“Sounds twisted, but that’s what you’re striving for,” she concluded.

He nodded. They both kept gazing at the sky.

“Do you remember when we used to do this at home?” he asked her.

“Yeah, always begging Druella to stay the night at the Manor,” she added.

Both their minds drifted away to seven years ago.

“I found these in my parents’ bedroom.” The ten-year-old boy pulled out two rings from his pocket. “I think there is a spell put on them or something.”

The two rings had a snake engraved in them that would tangle with one another when the rings were touching each other.

“Which one do you prefer?” the boy asked.

“Mmm… this one.” She took the one on the right.

“Here you go.” He gave it to her. “I will take the other one then.”

Both of them put on the rings.

“I will wear it next year at Hogwarts, so everyone will ask me about it, and I’ll could talk about you,” he said.

“I wish I could go to Hogwarts with you, Druella says I wouldn’t be welcomed there,” she adds, with a pouting face.

“That is bullshit, they wouldn’t even know who you are,” he snapped.

“You will write me, won’t you?”

“Of course I will, every week!”

“Good because I want to know everything!”

“Also, my father told me that Harry Potter is coming to Hogwarts too.”

“Really?”

“Yes, I will give him the Malfoy handshake, we will be best buddies,” he said really excited.

“But we are best buddies,” she replied.

“But you are a girl, it’s different.”

“True.”

“Y/N, get inside, we’re leaving!” A voice interrupted the kids’ moment. Druella was calling Y/N to go home.

“You talk to your mother, I try to convince Druella to stay?” she asked.

“You got it,” he replied.

Both of them headed indoors, without realizing that two snakes were tangling with one another.

Seven years later, Draco and Y/N were stargazing in the Astronomy Tower, not really caring that once again, both snakes were tangling with one another in a beautiful, compassed dance.

ྀ࿔

She opened her eyes and realized she was standing in the living room of the Malfoy Manor. She noticed that red drops were clashing against the marbled floor coming from her arms. Engraved in blood it was written: “Find them or perish, only the heir knows where”. She heard her father talk to her while the room was flooding in her arm’s blood. He constantly repeated the words “Slughorn knows well, Slughorn knows well”. She was drowning in her own blood…

She woke up exalted, understanding that everything had been a dream. And although she knew better than that, understanding that her father had been communicating with her to tell her to do something, she left the interpretation for the next day, drifting once again to sleep.

part three

#draco malfoy fanfiction #draco malfoy imagine #draco malfoy x reader #draco malfoy x y/n #draco malfoy fluff #draco malfoy smut #draco malfoy x y/n riddle #harry potter fanfiction #harry potter imagine #hogwarts imagine #hogwarts fanfic #hogwarts au #slytherin

[elvisabutler]

watch the smoke pour out the doors

summary: elvis presley, the real elvis presley, not whatever they like claiming is the man should be dead. at the very least he should be looking about two decades older than the man in front of you. and yet. elvis presley wishes the las vegas hilton- formerly the international- was a pile of rubble or ash. he enlists your help after a chance meeting. fandom: elvis presley | elvis ( 2022 ) | austin butler rating: m pairing: elvis presley x female reader word count: 8012 warnings: major character death! choking. stalking behavior. the colonel being the worst. being trapped in one place. general depression. elvis is an asshole in this. fade to back sex ( p in v ). kind of yandere elvis? blood. vampire bites and general vampire shenanigans. mention of burn scars. fire in relation to buildings. excessive use of nicknames like lil bunny and spitfire. author’s note: heed that first warning y'all. this does not have a happy ending. i've had this brewing since september/october of last year and it's partially based on @venus-haze's vampire elvis headcanons seen here. so what really stuck with me in her comment about the fact that she took "I’ve been playing this mausoleum for 1,000 years" and ran with it. i took bits and bobs from her headcanons and ta da. also the fire i reference happening in 1981 did actually happen. i hope y'all like this even if this ending is a doozy. y'all know the drill real elvis or austin elvis can be imagined- if the moodboard didn't clue you in. also for musical vibes i have literally only ever really truly listened to meant to be yours from the heathers musical. also i did not add a tag list because this is- this is a fic and i was not about to make any of y'all tumble into it without wanting to.

Las Vegas is hot and is so sun filled that you hate it. You've always hated it but that might not have been the city's fault. Once upon a time you thought it would be your salvation but isn't that always the joke with everyone when it comes to the city. The salvation away from LA, because if you fail there Las Vegas will welcome you with open arms and remind you that what happens there stays there. It keeps you from going back to Memphis with your tail between your legs and being forced to tell your parents that you failed at your big dream. The dream that they supported you on but always figured you'd fail at. Your job pays the bills and you keep your clothes on, which considering the amount of bills you have, well that was a feat for you to achieve.

Working the front desk at the Las Vegas Hilton was challenging, mostly due to the customers with their requests that occasionally bordered on silly and nonsensical but you could handle it. It was nothing too horrible and there was certain pleasure in learning that you managed to pull off keeping some of the higher class- the celebrity clients happy. Of course, nights like this- busy nights with half your staff gone because of any number of problems- made you want to set fire to the building so that you didn't have to deal with this job. Your boss has you running around in what you swear is every direction until she physically stops you with her hands, gripping your shoulders and forcing you to stay put for just a minute.

"Elvis wants a delivery to his room." She says, her face twisting into one of sheer displeasure.

You raise your eyebrow and shake your head. "You mean the Elvis impersonator up in the penthouse. Why does everyone insist on calling him Elvis? We all know it's not him him- like-" The look she gives you is one you've realized means you need to shut up right in that exact moment because if you didn't you were liable to get yourself in a whole lot of trouble so you swallow the rest of your sentence and roll your eyes. "Got it, me and penthouse and his delivery of whatever to his room. Got it."

Your boss mouths a quick thank you before pointing to the kitchen area. It doesn't take you very long to reach there despite your heels and aching feet but it does take the kitchen staff a minute to realize you're standing there all gussied up ready to take whatever it is Mr. Presley wants. What he wants is apparently a feast befitting of a king- heh- and more packs of cigars than you thought one human being capable of smoking in any reasonable time frame but you remember those pictures of him back in the day. The pictures you'd see in your parents' house, in your grandparents' house of him smoking something. Maybe it was just someone who was honestly committed to the bit even if it meant wrecking their lungs and their voice. Once you actually manage to get everything, it's a surprisingly quick walk to the elevator and to the penthouse. For once your heels don't wobble as they have an annoying tendency to do so when you get this much stuff needing to be carried and you easily make it to the door of the penthouse and knock only to realize that your series of knocks have made the door open all on its own.

The room itself is dark, the curtains drawn so not even the light of the strip finds its way into it. It feels not like a tomb, you reason, with the temperature reaching levels that feel almost as if you've entered one. The cold wraps around you and has you shivering in your light blouse and work pants as you look for a free space, a table really to set down the items he requested. Your eyes struggle to adjust to the lack of light but you manage to avoid hitting anything and set the tray onto what you're mostly positive is a table- be it an end table or an actual dining table. You straighten up after you set it down and something feels off to you, feels as if you're being watched. That can't be though, yes Elvis- or whoever it's supposed to be up here had requested the items but that didn't mean they were stalking you from the dark.

Except the feeling doesn't go away and you know so very well that you ought to move, that you should get out of the room and back downstairs where it's busy and you don't feel the faint sensation of worrying that you'll be murdered. You don't though, it's as if your feet are firmly planted in that spot, like you want to see just why you're feeling this particular way. After what feels like an eternity you feel the air around you shift, a small gust of warmth pass by your back and that is the cue for your body to finally turn around. What you see when you turn around shocks you to your very core and makes you think you've got to be hallucinating.

It's like you've seen a ghost when you realize who you're staring at in the darkness of the room. There's always been whispers that Elvis is actually still alive, that he's alive and the person who's been recording the music and performing shows was still him. After all, despite so much information about his relationship with his manager coming out there was no lawsuit coming from the family and that had to mean he was alive. Looking at the man in front of you, looking at the parts you can see of his face that aren't obscured by a half mask over his face- you think they might be right just not in the way everyone assumed. After all, if you take off the mask, the man in front of you looks like he hasn't aged a day since about 1972 or maybe 1974.

Your parents had pictures of him plastered among the walls of your childhood home so you're familiar with the shape of his jaw, his nose and those eyes- those stunning blue eyes. You're familiar with all the facial features that make up one Elvis Presley and seeing them up close and personal as opposed to on stage? There's no mistaking who's in front of you. It's Elvis fucking Presley in the flesh, looking nowhere near the almost 60 he should be. His eyes though- the eyes you're looking at are just as stunning as the blue ones you've always heard about but you can see a hint of what looks like red in the pupil. It confuses you enough to have you moving closer to him to investigate. He raises an eyebrow and tilts his head.

"That's new. Most of ya jus' hide and run away like scared cats." He huffs, allowing you to step closer and peer at his eyes.

"Do I seem like most people, Elvis?" You ask, you accent thickening as your hand against your will finds its way to his mask-covered cheek in an effort to pull him closer, only to have him practically snarl at you and grab your wrist.

"Do that and I'll rip your throat out with my teeth." His warning is accompanied by his eyes narrowing and his canines finding themselves on full display, showing you just how dangerous he could be. Yet, you find yourself raising your own eyebrows.

"Ya mean like you've done with a lot of my former coworkers?" It's suddenly making sense, how a lot of the times girls who went up here wouldn't come back and would suddenly have family emergencies. "Ya said it yourself, most of us jus' hide and run away. Do I look scared?"

The laugh that leaves his mouth sounds downright evil and sinister, like he truly is a devil waiting to ruin anyone who comes near him and you can't help the rush of arousal and fear that shudders through your system. His grip tightens on your wrist. "Oh, darlin'. Ya don't look it but that heart o' yours. Oh, she's betrayin' ya like nothin' else. Tellin' me you want to bolt like a lil scared bunny."

You hate how you swear you can feel your heart jump at those words, proving him right in the worst sort of way. You want to argue with him, want to tell him that his hearing must be going off and he's hearing someone else's heartbeat but you know better- you know from the glint you see in his eyes that there isn't a chance for that lie to fly. Instead you purse your lips and move to pull your wrist out of his grasp. "I haven't yet. And ya haven't tried to kill me yet."

His grip loosens but he takes the opportunity to pull you closer just enough so when he leans forward his lips are brushing your ear as his whisper is practically a short brush of air against it. "Yet." Finally, he lets go of your wrist and steps away from you, his eyes darting to the tray you brought. "All in one piece. You are better than the rest of 'em."

If anyone else were to say that, if you had heard it from an Elvis that looked the age he was supposed to be and didn't look like Dracula you might have preened, enjoying the compliment for what it was. Hearing it from him? Hearing it from a man who you feel will murder you the second you turn your back? All that accomplishes is making you shiver in fear. When you look at his face you see a grin that tells you that's exactly what he wanted to see.

You realize in that moment that you need to leave, you don't know if Elvis is planning on trying to hurt you or if he's just toying with you. Either way it's- it sets you on edge enough that your feet that had seemingly forgotten how to move manage to remember how as you turn away from Elvis, not bothering to give him a response beyond what your body had already inadvertently done.

"There we go, there's that runnin' I'm used to." Elvis chuckles, allowing you to move further away from him slowly inching to the door. "Even if ya practically movin' slow as molasses. Scared but bein' smart 'bout it, ain't cha?"

An answer dances on the tip of your tongue, a joke or a quip about how you'd be a fool to turn your back on a predator or to bolt from a predator. Either way you'd be seen as his prey and arguably easy prey at that. The answer dies on your lips as you feel a rush of air by you and see Elvis opening and holding the door to his room open for you. His grin looks full of promise and is all teeth in a way that sets you on edge.

"Go on, darlin', I'll let ya go. Ain't like I can't find ya 'round here." His eyes rake over your form and you'd think you'd be disgusted as you normally are when someone looks at you like that. Instead you have to suppress the shiver of something that passes through you. "'Specially if ya do that."

You don't dignify his words with a response as you exit hearing some whisper of the word fun and a dark laugh. If the speed of your steps increase once the door shuts. Well, that was your own business between you and whatever God saw fit to abandon you just a bit ago.

As it turns out Elvis is a very persistent man- a fact not tempered and instead heightened by the years he's lived. True to his word, he did know exactly where to find you though actually meeting up with you seemed to be beyond his reach. No, instead you found yourself being bombarded with gifts. Gifts you'd think Elvis couldn't provide and yet there they were. You wondered just how he was getting these things to you but the thought didn't fill you with any sort of delight so you chose not to dwell. It all comes to a head when before your shift one night there was a new outfit on your doorstep. A simple red blouse with a black pinstripe skirt. That in and of itself wouldn't be a problem and yet the true issue was the note.

Took a guess on your size, lil Bunny. You can tell me if I'm right tonight after my show.

It is your size and you have idea how he could tell that let alone how he knew these were your favorite colors and that you favored pinstripes for your dresswear. If you dwell on it for too long some sense of fear and flattered feelings settle deep within your stomach.

The only reason you wear the outfit is because every other work appropriate outfit you have is currently in the wash. A fact that is true purely due to your own laziness and is something you want to curse yourself for. You consider actually going to the show, entirely aware that you could but you're loath to give him the satisfaction. Instead you wait until around the time the show ends to make your way to his room utilizing your ability to have extra keys of rooms to make your way inside. He's not there yet so you sit in a chair and wait in the dark. Dramatic, yes, but you figure it seemed fitting given the circumstances. Perhaps he might even respect the flourish of it, the flourish of you waiting for his own dramatic person in the dark as if he couldn't rip your throat out in an instant.

You almost doze off waiting for him but when he finally arrives he opens his door with a sigh, completely ignoring you before he walks slowly over to you, silent as a church mouse. He opens his mouth to say something as his teeth glitter in the light of the strip coming from the window but you cut him off.

"Is this all supposed to charm me?" A simple question but one that has him chuckling lowly as you try and get up only to be stopped by his hand on your shoulder.

"It working?" His eyes zero in on your skirt before he shrugs. "Fits you like a damn glove. Knew I guessed right."

"You guessed-" You try and take his hand off your shoulder before realizing it only makes him push down just that little bit harder. "I didn't ask for clothes or jewelry or- for you to even still be trying to talk to me. What do you even want from me? My blood?"

"If I wanted to suck ya dry of all your blood, I'd've done it already darlin'. Nah, that'd be a damn waste of a spitfire like ya." Elvis murmurs as his eyes trace your form. "Think we'll have more fun with you alive and me alive as I'll ever be. 'Less ya gonna tell me you've gotta death wish."

You scoff at him, your lips curling up into a sneer. "I didn't even know ya were honestly still alive, what makes ya think ya were a part of any death wish I might have?"

"The fact that your heart insists on goin' a mile a minute 'round me. Or when you shivered like ya did. Might not have realized I was 'round but now that ya do-" His tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Think ya'd enjoy dyin' with me drainin' the life from ya."

You shouldn't think the idea is enjoyable but you can't help the way your legs reflexively clench together. "Mr. Pres-"

"Elvis. Lil bunny, lil spitfire of a woman. You were waitin' f'me in the dark. Could've rushed in 'n torn out that pretty lil throat of yours 'fore I realized it was you. And wouldn't that've been a cryin' shame. Waste of a woman like ya."

It's flattering the way he calls you a spitfire and the way he leans close to you whispering it to you like a long lost lover. You reason your reaction stems from not being intimate with anyone for a while but truly perhaps it just is Elvis's natural charm. A shake of your head is all you manage to do before clearing your throat to speak. "Elvis. That- That was the point not- Ya needed to be caught off guard. Startled. And-"

The laugh he lets out is low and mocking. "Oh darlin' you wanted to surprise a vampire. You- God, you're somethin' else. Maybe- Stay here tonight. Don't got plans, know that."

The unfortunate truth of the matter that he's correct. You don't have plans but spending the night and staying there with him has you shaking your head once again. That is the exact opposite of anything you want to do. "No. Find- They'll send up another girl if ya ask them to or have- I don't know, I'm not staying here tonight."

His hand that's been on your shoulder moves to your neck and traces the lines of it gently as he leans forward and lets a nail act almost as if he's going to prepare it to be pierced by his teeth. "Not even if I have somethin' to tell ya. Somethin' interestin'?"

Your face perks up for a moment at the thought of just what he might want to tell you before you frown. "Not even- I want to go home Mr-"

"Elvis. Not. Mr. Presley. Not to ya." The words are growls in your ear and involuntarily your mouth opens up and lets out a soft whimper and whine. At the noise his hand moves to stroke your clavicle. "Just for tonight. Won't- Don't plan on doing what your body seems to want me t'do. Just wanna talk."

You use the fact that his hand isn't directly pushing you down to slip out of the chair. His eyes widen in shock before he moves to pull you into his arms. He doesn't bother to move fast, more preoccupied with seeing your reaction. You take a step or two back and he drops his arms to his side before motioning to the door. "'Nother night then, Y/N. 'Nother night." A beat. "I won't stop."

Whatever you want to say just comes out as a hiss of anger almost like you're a cat before you slink out the door. Once you're in the elevator you sink to the floor and try to steady your breathing, you try to tamp down on your arousal and try and ignore the part of your brain craving to find out just what he wanted to talk to you about.

That craving doesn't leave you and if you didn't know any better you'd think it was supernatural the way it worms its way into your mind and settles in popping up at the worst possible times. It only takes a week before you find yourself waiting for him in the dark again, wearing a pinstripe pair of pants and the red blouse he had given you. You don't mean to fall asleep waiting for him this time but you do, only to wake up when you feel the presence of something staring at you. By this point his show had been over for an hour and he's in a robe that looks- soft. "Rise n' shine, lil bunny."

You scramble a bit, shocked and mortified that you fell asleep before you look at Elvis who is just sitting casually as can be in a chair next to yours. Your eyes drift over him before you bite your lip. "I'm only here to- I want to know what ya were going to tell me last week. And I want ya to stop- I want to not have a bunch of gifts every day."

His shoulders move in a shrugging motion before he shakes his head. "I got no problem tellin' ya about it, but 'less you're gonna help, ya still gonna get the gifts."

"Why do ya- I don't want- That's not how you charm someone into helping ya." You cycle through words faster than you mean to, more confused than anything else at what he's saying. "What do ya even need my help for?"

It's a valid question, you figure, after all he's a vampire and you are still very much a human but he hums, waving off the question before moving his chair to face you and to essentially pin you into being stuck in your own chair. "It's how I figure you'll be charmed." He pauses. "Lil outta practice wit' th'other one. As for what I need ya help for-" He trails off and pulls off the mask obscuring part of his face to reveal a burn scar that is noticeable enough to have you gasping. "Need ya to help me avoid doin' this again. Don't feel like burnin' up like that on the other side. Let alone anywhere else."

Several moments pass before you finally find the words to articulate your question that aren't just straight confused noises. "Are ya asking me to help ya set fire to something?" He cannot be asking you to do that. You have to be dead and this is just a very vivid post death hallucination.

For his part Elvis nods slowly, looking you dead in the eye with the most laconic face as he answers you. "I'm askin' ya t'help me set fire to this place."

"The hotel?" Your tone shifts up about 2 octaves and you swear your voice just whistles instead of actually speak. "Where I work? Where you perform?"

That same laconic look doesn't leave Elvis's face. "The one I tried to set fire to in '81 only to burn half my face? That very one, lil bunny."

You can't help but laugh though it's not something normal and sensible that comes out of your mouth. No, it's a high pitched mildly terrified giggle that leaves your mouth. He's- He is asking you to commit arson with him. To help him set fire to a place he's performed at since the 1970s. That you work at. He cannot be serious. "You're- You're joking. I- I have Elvis Presley who is apparently a vampire stalking me so that I can help him set fire to a hotel because you fucked up the first time?"

The giggle is still there before his hand darts out and wraps around your throat, tightening just slightly. "Keep laughin' lil one. Keep laughin' and I'll rip that throat clean out. Won't even be recognizable."

His hand steals your breath away from you as you try to take a breath only to have him tighten it more. He- He won't kill you, you don't think, this is just to scare you, to make you want to do what he's asking for but your vision is starting to blur just a bit and you can't help the way your eyes are starting to roll back in your head before suddenly you can breathe. You cough a little violently as air rushes back into your lungs before you glare at him, pushing the chair back in order to stand up. "You keep threatening to kill me, ya sure ya want my help? I don't- I'm leaving. This is a joke. You're a joke just like ya were-"

In a rush Elvis has you pulled tightly to his chest, his arms snaking around you and tightening like a python. "Stopped being a joke the second this happened to me don't- Heard enough of that from all those goddamn tabloids and from the reports of my death."

You're going to die, this is how you're going to die. Not by starvation or homelessness or by some madman murdering you on the streets. No, you're going to die because a man who was a has been before he became a vampire and is even more of one now despite three more albums under his belt and another Grammy for that eighties gospel album. Still you have to fight him, he's not- if he wants your help he won't kill you. You're- he's obsessed with you, isn't he? Wants your help that bad?

"Elvis, I think you're just a lonely scared little boy in a man's- excuse me- vampire's body." You snarl, trying to wriggle out of his grasp, as if you have any chance of winning against a vampire with superhuman strength. As if you'd have any chance winning against him even if he was human. Elvis Presley never had been a small man and you had never been the strongest of women.

"And if I am? Ya gonna be my salvation? Gonna save me from this hell on Earth? This eternal damnation forced on me by a Dutch lyin' bastard?" He leans closer to you, his breath ghosting over your face, over your lips as he takes breaths he doesn't need to and as he watches your eyes have a fire in them that warms him from the inside out. "Gonna make me feel better about it, darlin'? Ya really think ya good enough t'do that? That I like ya 'nough for that t'work?"

"Ya haven't killed me yet." You spit at him, just narrowly avoiding actually spitting on him. "I'm still alive and ya seem pretty damn obsessed with getting me of all the people in this town to help ya. So, yes, I think ya like me just enough."

At your words Elvis's grip on you loosens and he steps back like you burned him for a moment before he practically hisses at you. "'m only obsessed 'cause ya seem like the only person who could do it." A beat and something flashes in his blue and red tinged eyes. "And ya- yer from home." Memphis is what he means but he doesn't think to clarify. He takes a step forward and grabs at your chin even as you let out a snarl of your own. "Ya hate this place as much as I do. And think ya'd like seein' it burn down 'round ya. Don't lie. Can tell if ya do."

A quick dart of your eyes to the side is all the answer you can give for a moment as you try to compose yourself. "Doesn't mean I wanna help ya. Doesn't mean I'm gonna help ya."

For the briefest of moments, Elvis looks human and looks like a little boy when he looks at you. He's- You recognize the look, it's almost practically begging. "Please. This place- it ain't good for anyone. Me, especially but can't tell me it's done a bit of good for anyone other than who owns it."

He's right, as much as you loathe to admit it and it shows in how you purse your lips. "I'm not- I ain't agreeing to this, but tell me just what your hairbrained plan is."

As it turns out, Elvis's plan takes until the break of dawn to explain and two orders of room service delivered by one man who goes back downstairs and a woman who- well, served as Elvis's food until she fell limp in arms. There was something enrapturing about watching the act, watching how her mouth contorted into one of pleasure as she came in his arms before you could slowly see the life drain from her until his mouth came off her neck with a pop and a squelch. When he looks at you his lips are covered in her blood and he can't help but give you a toothy grin. "Sounds like you're jealous of her and me. Can't risk killing ya but maybe- maybe soon lil one."

That morning you call in and dream of his lips against your neck and of the pleasure he'd give you because- he doesn't want to kill you. You'd just get all the joys of being fed from but none of the tragedy. If you avoid him that night, you blame it on your shift. He doesn't call you out on the lie.

Planning arson between two people, one of whom has a larger bank account but can't leave his residence and the other who has a smaller bank account but can roam as she pleases is harder than one would think. Yet you both persevere, meeting up every other night to gather the items needed. What's been tripping you up for ages has been the floor plans and it shows in how you've been getting snappier with Elvis each passing meeting. He gives back in spades, somehow being worse than he was your first and second meetings but tonight- tonight he seems a little melancholy and a melancholy Elvis is a very human Elvis and one you find- one you could see a future with perhaps. A twisted one but one that flutters into your brain on nights you can't sleep or nights you can sleep despite dreams of the two of you mouths red and snarling as you feed.

"At this point ya might as well kill me." Your accent has been returning with a vengeance the more time you spend with Elvis any acting classes you had to train it out of you falling by the wayside. "We ain't gonna find a proper floor plan and without that we can't-"

"Y/N." His tone is laced with a warning- don't test him, not tonight. "I got time- wanna get this done but 'nother week ain't gonna hurt."

"Says the man who hasn't fed from me and is gonna live forever." Your eyes are blazing when you look at him before you continue. "I wanna get this over with. Wanna have- Wanna see if you'll do somethin' if we get it done."

Elvis's eyes narrow looking at you for a moment before he rubs his hand over his mouth. "Oh. That's- Lil Bunny. That's the problem? Ya want me t'do somethin' to ya? Have my wicked way with ya?"

You can feel your heartbeat rushing in your ears before you can even articulate an answer. "That's not- Ya keep looking at me. Like- like I'm someone ya might wanna- No, I don't."

"Ya do." He moves to lean over your chair, putting your face at eye level with his chest. "Ya wanna know what it's like to be in my bed. Wanna know what it's like to please me."

You do, lord above you do. You're essentially committing a crime for him and for what? For the pleasure of knowing you've set fire to a horrible hotel? That you've freed him from this place? For nothing that gives you any satisfaction. "Is that so wrong? Ya won't kill me when there's a line of bodies I can probably trace back to your first year as a vampire. Ya won't feed from me because then where's your help for this silly scheme. Ya won't fuck me because-"

"Listen darlin, honey, satnin. I- I get a lil lonely up here. I know what ya gonna say- jus' leave but you've seen how it is." Seen how he can't leave the room for fear someone's going to actually realize that he's Elvis Presley and not some impersonator. Seen how people already mock the fact that he's still around- after all hadn't you? Seen how he looks out at the view of Vegas, almost wistful when he thinks you're not looking. "I haven't killed ya but- you're- ya remind me of how I was. Always been- the way I am but not not like this. Don't feel like ruinin' it is all."

His hand reaches out to touch your face and it's so gentle that you can't help but nuzzle into it and take a quick inhale of breath. "Elvis."

He hums, noting how your eyes shut and for the briefest of moments he remembers what it was like to have someone whisper his name like that. Like a prayer you're scared will float away and fail if you say it too loud. He's missed that, he's missed so much of what it was like to be human, to be able to live freely even if back in the day his freedom still had him confined. You just look so sweet nuzzling his palm, acting as if you're the love of his life, acting as if you belong there. Maybe that's why he had been cursed otherwise he doubts he would have made it to this decade or at least made it to this decade in a state you might have wanted him in. "Y/N?"

"Why are you being like this?" You whisper, still nuzzling at his palm. "You- From the stories I've heard you're- you've never been a completely good man. I haven't seen you be a good man."

Another hand, his free hand moves to cup the opposite side of your face and forces you to look up at him. His eyes always such a stormy blue with that ring of red since you came across him have taken on a lighter hue and it takes your breath away as you feel his thumbs stroke your cheek. "Haven't had a reason t'be one. Look where it got me, satnin. Haven't pushed ya away yet, maybe you're- maybe you're the thing to settle this violent angry head of mine. So pretty- so gentle when ya wanna be. Let me take care of ya, hm?"

His hand moves away from you and you chance it almost in a trance before you look at him and bite your lip. "Take care of me?" The subtext is clear as your heart starts to race and your legs clench together.

What was the harm in treating you tonight? Maybe it would give you the right incentive to find the floor plans, to look harder than you had been. Maybe that was the real trouble you were having. You were too distracted by your desire and want for him. His hand moves down to your chest, undoing the buttons of your blouse slowly. "Take care of ya. Jus' for tonight."

That night you find yourself gasping for air, screaming his name, arching your back and snarling all at once. You find that when you leave you play with the bite mark on your breast and shudder remembering his words said against your ear more than once. "Might make ya mine if ya do well enough."

It still takes another two weeks to get the floor plans, the proper up to date ones. Two weeks of finding yourself in Elvis's bed with him teasing you and making promises about his plans for you and him. But, as it turns out someone had been wanting to get a room at the hotel and well, you did work the front desk so you could handle getting them some accommodations for a fee of course. Elvis wastes no time in opening up the plans when you arrive that night with them in your hand, holding a bottle of champagne for you and the number of someone you had met on the bus for Elvis to enjoy his own drink. After she's on the floor and you're nursing your second flute of champagne you feel Elvis behind you wrapping his strong arms around your middle and pulling you close.

"Gonna turn ya when it's all ash. Won't be stuck here any longer, can do what I want again. Take ya all around the world." He whispers against the shell of your ear, nipping once he reaches your earlobe. "You're gonna look so fuckin' gourgous feedin'. Vicious as ya are. Ya did so good bringin' me dinner too. Wish I coulda shared her wit' ya. Soon, lil Bunny, soon."

There's an alarm in your head that goes off at those words, at the way he coos them while holding you. They feel off- fake somehow and you down that second glass the moment he lets go of you. Had- You knew very well he wasn't a nice man, you've known this from the second you first spoke but he- there's no way he has any intention of changing you. He might be obsessed with you but that's because you've been the only person who can handle herself well enough to do this, hadn't it? You were going to get him to the finish line of burning down the hotel only to what burn with it yourself? Take the fall for a dead man? You file away the thoughts in your head for a later moment, if you thought about them now Elvis would know.

You smile at him almost saccharine. "Ya mean it? I'll be your vicious lil vampire queen?"

He grabs your chin and pulls you in for a kiss not caring that he still has a trace of blood on his lips. "The second it's up in smoke. Promise."

Liar.

Las Vegas in August is disgusting, better than some places in the United States, but it's still hotter than Hades and feels nearly as suffocating despite the lack of humidity. A fact you keep pointing out to Elvis as you both hold small cans of gas.

"Should've killed ya like the res' of 'em. No one would've missed ya. Jus' another lil' girl in Vegas runnin' 'round thinkin' she could make it big." You see a flash of his teeth and you figure it's supposed to scare you but at this point you like to think you know better.

"If ya killed me who would be helpin' ya right now?" The way you speak is practically a sneer but you can't help it, not with how he just somewhat threatened to kill you. "Hurry up, people are going to start coming back and I don't-"

"It's 11PM and they're in Vegas the hell are they-" He starts before he starts to trot off to the area he's most familiar with- the stages. "Meet me by the damn elevator."

An eye roll is the only response he gets as he leaves you to your own thoughts as you pour the can of gasoline in a line between the already waiting containers of it. If all goes well the walls of fire you and Elvis hope to create will have the entire building up in smoke in no time at all. It makes it so you both have to be quick on each floor but you had taken precautions for this. You knew every way to get down the floors as quickly as you could and Elvis wouldn't leave you behind. After all, he kept talking about his lil' spitfire queen. Kept cooing the words at you in between planning and buying the gas and finding yourself spread across his sheets or above him.

And yet something felt different, you had that same feeling you did when he talked about how gorgeous you'd look feeding. It felt off. You try to shake the feeling away as you two reach the top of the building, his penthouse suite and cover it in extra gasoline. He wanted every bit of this room demolished, nothing salvageable but to do that you are currently feeling faintly high on the sheer amount of gasoline in the room and wondering just how no embers from the cigar he just lit have fallen yet. You almost miss the words he says when he looks over at you. "Ready to run?"

A shrug is your only answer before you try and take a deep breath. "Get in the elevator first, then toss it."

He obliges, letting you go first with a flourish that rather than delight you has your hackles raising. "Ladies first."

Elvis Presley used to be a gentleman. Elvis Presley is not a gentleman any more.

Right before the doors to the elevator close Elvis tosses his cigar between the door and as they shut you feel the rush of heat from the roaring blast it caused. This is the only floor you have to take the elevator for and it makes each consecutive floor easier. You both light a cigar and toss before running to the next floor, rinse and repeat, rinse and repeat even as Elvis pulls you in for a harsh kiss his eyes blazing in the fire he had started with his cigar, looking practically manic with delight. The fire brings out the red in his eyes. It scares you.

"Calm down, Lil' Bunny. Almost there." He shouts practically sing songing the words as you rush down yet another flight of stairs to the second floor. "One more floor and you're mine. We'll be free. I'll be free."

There it is again, that nagging feeling that you're a means to an end for him. You brush it off one final time as you start to cough, the floors of smoke and blaring alarms of a sprinkler system that hasn't produced any water getting to you. "Jus' want this done, 'Vis."

Finally you reach the final floor, the bottom floor which is the most complicated. There's an extra exit, a fire exit in the stage area so you both agree that's the last room, that's the last place to be set ablaze and Elvis finds it almost poetic when he thinks about it. He stares at the doors for a moment before he enters with you, as if he thinks he has all the time in the world. He might, he might be able to run out of there fast enough but the smoke is starting to get to you and the heat from the blaze above and around you is making the area around you sweltering. "You said you'd turn me, Elvis. Once we get outside, right?" You have to shout before you cough over the roar of the blaze and how somehow it's starting blow toward you as you shut the door to leave you and him in the lone area not on fire yet.

The cigar in his mouth is lit and he contemplates knocking off the tip, letting it start to catch everything ablaze before he stops himself and nods. "Course, gonna do it the second you get some air in ya."

Your own cigar- the last cigar is lit and you're about to toss it before you stare at him, stare at him because that tone- that tone betrays his actual plan. "Why not now? I can- I can barely breathe in here, Elvis."

Those words have him tossing his cigar and have a whoosh of fire come up behind him as he walks towards you. "You'll be fine, lil spitfire. Y/N. You don't- Patience. Don't wanna rush forever."

Your mind goes blank as you drop the cigar you were holding and have to jump out of the way as a bit of fire starts to separate you and Elvis. He glances at the fire and growls, realizing he's very quickly going to be boxed in before he wooshes to a spot next to you. "Tryin' to kill me? 'Cause I won't-"

A crash can be heard of a bit of wood falling onto the stage and you jump before you cut him off. "Because you're not plannin' on it. Ya gonna- You're plannin' on killin' me, aren't ya?"

"Eatin' ya, actually. It's what ya wanted back when ya first saw me eat. Wanted to be fucked then sucked. I fucked ya now-" His words are cut off with a slap that he allows you to do because it gives him the ability to grab at your wrist. "Loose end, lil one. Either you go down for this or ya die. Gave ya the more pleasurable option."

"While telling me you were going to change me!" You snarl half running toward the door even as you inhale another bit of smoke causing you to cough more. "You- You've been usin' me this whole damn time! I- you said you'd make me your little queen."

He's faster and he has you pinned up against a wall as he feels the flames starting to inch toward you both and as you keep swallowing more and more smoke. "Ya called me a damn has been and a joke. Darlin' ya don't wanna spend eternity wit' me, ya jus' wanna run around spending an eternity doing whatever the hell ya want to do. Ain't gonna give ya something you think is a gift."

"You- I'm- I can't breathe." You choke out as you try and take deep breaths only to realize that the room is filling with grey smoke. He's fine because he doesn't need to breathe but you- you need air.

"Shame I didn't change ya before. Didn't give ya what ya wanted to use me for. Don't care 'bout me. Lil Memphis spitfire don't care 'bout the thing everyone loves 'bout the place. No wonder your mama and daddy don't want ya to come back." His tone is mocking as he keeps you pinned to the wall, despite inching himself closer to the door. He was going to escape and you were going to die by smoke inhalation if the fire didn't kill you first.

A breath of air enters your lungs suddenly as you find that Elvis lets you go, a bit of the fire catching onto his pant leg right as he reaches the door with you. You seize the opportunity and hit at the door with your body, trying to force it open as he steps on the offending burning fabric. even as another crash can be heard on the stage and you see more and more paint chips fluttering around both of you, or maybe that's ash you've never seen a fire this big. The door finally flings open and more fresh air for your lungs and to feed the fire. Elvis whooshes over to you and attempts to block your way out but for once you have the upper hand, managing to be on the outside of the building while Elvis is still just barely in there. He realizes his mistake, realizes what you just very well might do to him in an instant.

"Lil Bunny- I'll- Don't be rash. I'll do it. I'll do what I said I would." He coos even as the fire rushes around him, his hair becoming more messed up the more he stands there. His face getting more ashes on it the longer he stands there.

"Liar. Liar." You tilt your head and move to push him inside. "Pants on fire."

His eyes look down thinking you're telling him his pants are literally on fire and you take that as your opportunity to shut the door, locking it in a way only you know how. Within a moment he starts to push at the door.

"Y/N!" He shouts through the door. "I'll do it, just let me outta here! I'm- Ya don't want this on your conscious! I wasn't gonna kill ya! Baby- Darlin- Lil Bunny, let me out!"

"Not gonna believe a lyin' dead man, Presley!" You shout, knowing that you sound insane before you start to move away because he's right you don't want that on your conscious. You hear him shouting promises you doubt he'll keep and feel the fresh bite he had made on your chest burn as you walk away but you're able to fake being a victim among the crowd, the ashes covering your face and the way you keep coughing as the building burns and as you swear you hear a series of Southern curses in the wind.

The bite scars over and aches from time to time.

They don't find his body. You try and not let it keep you up at night.

#elvis presley x reader #elvis presley angst #elvis presley fanfic #elvis presley x y/n #elvis presley #austin elvis x reader #austin butler elvis x you #austin butler elvis #austin butler elvis x reader #austin elvis angst #austin elvis x you #vampire elvis #austin elvis x y/n #austin butler elvis fanfic #elvis presley fanfiction #ally writes

[messysketchyobeyme]

A Minor Lapse

Lucifer/Reader

Summary: What's a better excuse to take a break from work than an impromptu movie night with the love of your life?

A/N: This was written for @lavenderafterglow for the OM Secret Santa event by @omsecretsanta2022. This was fun :) Happy holidays!

By the way, MC was written with She/Her pronouns in mind! However, this fic was written in such a way that I happened to not use any gendered language to refer to the MC. Oops. Anyway, I just thought this might be something to keep in mind if someone other than the person I am gifting this fic to wants to read it.

Word Count: 3135

AO3 Link: [Here]

---

Lucifer prided himself on rarely making mistakes. His actions were cold, calculated, and made in the best interest of his brothers. Aside from a few notable exceptions, the important decisions in his life were made devoid of emotion. That was, until you came along, and flipped his entire world–and sense of self–upside down.

Falling in love with you was a mistake, but it was one of the few that Lucifer was glad to have made. He sat at one end of the couch with you curled up into his side. Your eyes were glued to the television, fixated on the black-and-white movie playing on the screen. Although Lucifer was the one who suggested the movie in the first place, he could hardly pay attention to it with you so near. He drank in your features. Even in the dark, he could make out the way your eyes lit up at every dramatic twist or how your lips would curve up at the jokes.

The movie was a Devildom cult classic that he and Diavolo would enjoy with a glass of wine during their younger years. It had been so long since then that Lucifer found he could hardly remember any of the plot or the characters. However, he wouldn’t dare to forget the set design with its elaborate outdoor scenes lined with hellish fauna or extravagant palace decorations. Despite the lack of color, the set glittered and gleamed with each shot. It was no wonder you were so mesmerized.

An imaginary weight dragged Lucifer’s eyelids down, so he reached toward the side table and grabbed the cup of coffee that you had specially brewed for him in his favorite mug. According to you, it served as an apology for dragging him away from his work. Lucifer suggested the movie, but you were the one who forced him to take a break in the first place. You were so insistent with your sweet words and pleading eyes that he couldn’t help but agree to pause his student council duties for a few hours to spend some time with his beloved. 

He didn’t need, nor want any sort of apology. Lucifer was more than willing to throw any task away at your bidding, but he had accepted your coffee graciously. He needed the caffeine to prevent him from conking out in the middle of the movie. Lucifer took a long sip and immediately winced at the bitter taste. He normally enjoyed his coffee as bitter as possible, but this was a little too much, even for him. 

Ah, it was hell coffee. He should have known. He drank some more, allowing the bitterness to overwhelm his senses.

You had only served him hell coffee once before you had started dating him. It was purely by accident, but the drink was as bitter now as it was back then, maybe even more so. Lucifer’s body warmed up as he traced the thinnest of cracks etched along the side of the mug. 

He wondered if you had brewed him hell coffee on purpose this time as a way to show your feelings. He set the cup back on the side table and glanced over at you. There was no knowing smirk or mischievous eyebrow raise evident anywhere on your face. Instead, you continued to watch the movie with an earnest grin, blissfully unaware of his longing gaze.

His arm was lazily draped around your shoulders, but there was a sliver of space between the two of you. That sliver could have easily been miles for what he was concerned about. 

You tucked your hands underneath your underarms and leaned into the crook in his arm. After a minute, you repositioned yourself, and, after another minute, you did it again. You were trying to be discreet about it, but Lucifer could feel you shiver from a mile away. He silently pulled you closer to him. 

For the first time since the movie started, you tore your eyes from the screen to smile sheepishly.

Lucifer said, "I want you to be comfortable."

You mumbled something that sounded similar to 'thank you' before resting your head against his chest. You were now so close that he could feel your body's steady rise and fall with every breath you took. It comforted him. He pressed his lips on the crown of your head, and you hummed in response. 

He was about to kiss you again when a song started blaring on the television. It was laden with static and just a tad too slow to be considered pleasant to human ears. However, the soft tinkling of the piano in the background never failed to tug on Lucifer’s blackened heartstrings. 

He did not have to look up to know that this was the ballroom scene where the demon and their lover danced their hearts out in front of a crowd of guests. Although Lucifer had always appreciated the movie’s soundtrack (he had a weakness for the classics), he had always made sure to take an extra long sip of wine whenever this scene had come on in the past. It was too cheesy for his taste with the gaudy dresses and overacting. He could never understand the appeal of dancing while everybody else does nothing but watch. Wasn’t there a better use of their time?

But now–

Lucifer caught himself staring at you again. He usually did it unabashedly, but now he was starting to get embarrassed. He took another sip of his coffee, allowing the bitter aftertaste to burn in the back of his throat.

He felt you speak rather than hear it. "That's so pretty," you said. Your cheek was squished against his chest, which muffled your words.

"It truly is." Lucifer wasn't referring to the movie.

…When did he get so cheesy? It was a mistake to watch this with you.

You nodded, "Yeah, I wish I could do that." You drummed your fingers against Lucifer's knee.

He frowned. "Do what?" The characters weren't doing anything of note to be envious of. They were just…dancing. The demon's dress flourished and swished with every step they took, and their lover was not far behind with their outfit sparkling under the light. Lucifer pressed his lips together. 

"Oh, you know…" you sat up, but you stared bashfully at the floor, instead of at him, "...dance." You scratched at the back of your neck when you finished your sentence, turning your head away from him.

"You don't know how to dance?" He asked. There was a hint of a chuckle in his tone, and he had already given up on hiding his smile. Lucifer hadn't meant to sound so amused at that tidbit, but you had caught him off guard. As he had gotten to know you over the years, you had become stronger and more talented than he thought any human was capable of being. During your time here, you learned how to wield your pacts, how to use magic, and, most audaciously, how to wrap one of Devildom's most powerful demons around your finger. He had never imagined that you didn't know how to dance of all things.

"No," you answered, "That's why I always hung out at the beverage table during Diavolo's parties." You picked at a stray thread on your shirt. Instead of snapping, it elongated, and you clicked your tongue.

"You told me you liked the punch."

"That too."

Lucifer laughed but had the grace to cover his mouth with the back of his wrist. You shot him an unamused look with a stiffened frown. That only made Lucifer want to laugh harder, but he maintained his composure after that initial moment of weakness. Lucifer stood up and held his hand out.

You recoiled into yourself, hunching over and bringing your knees together. "What are you doing?" You asked after a brief second of hesitation. Lucifer didn't miss the way your gaze shot over to the television.

"What do you think? I'm asking you to dance." He kept his hand stretched out in front of him.

You glanced back and forth between his eyes and his hand before shaking your head. "Oh, no, no," you said, "I could never. I'd probably just trip or trample over your feet or–" you let out a dry chuckle, "or do something else embarrassing." You were smiling, but it was half-hearted and wistful, utterly different from the blissful expression plastered on your face five minutes ago.

"You won't."

Your breath hitched. One side of your face was illuminated by the low light of the screen. He could see the demon and their lover reflected across your dewy eyes. The haunting music lulled in the background, filling the silence between you two. "Okay," you said, your voice was quiet, holding that vulnerability that captivated him. 

You tentatively placed your hand in Lucifer's. He wasn't wearing his gloves, so he was well aware of the warmth of your skin against his. Your palm brushed against his. Your touch was so light that you were practically hovering above his skin. Lucifer's fingers curled around your hand. You tensed under his grip as a reflex before allowing yourself to relax. Slowly, you stood up and held your other hand out toward him. Before he could react, you drew your arm back into yourself. Your eyebrows were furrowed in silent uncertainty. Lucifer placed his free hand along your upper back, near your shoulder. You stepped closer on instinct, shortening the space that separated you two. Maintaining eye contact, you hovered your hand over Lucifer's shoulder. The look in your eye silently asked him if you were doing the right thing.

Lucifer gave you a reassuring smile and nod. He trailed his hand from your shoulder to your wrist and guided your hand to its rightful place. You squeezed his shoulder for reassurance, and Lucifer held your back again.

"Follow my lead," Lucifer said as he began dancing to the music. He stepped forward, but you kept your feet awkwardly planted on the ground. He nudged you slightly. "Hurry," he tilted his head toward the television, "The song is about to end." He kept the sound of his voice scarcely above the macabre music emanating from the movie.

You bobbed your head and stepped backward, taking care to follow Lucifer's footsteps. He matched his steps in time with every note.  Lucifer led you around the room, dancing in circles. You kept your head down, and he wondered why you suddenly seemed so uninterested until he noticed you mouthing numbers. He raised an eyebrow. Were you keeping count of each step? How…cute.

He leaned in closer to say, "You have to look at me, dear."

You didn't move your head, but Lucifer noticed that you were now peering at him through your eyelashes. "I know," you responded, "I just don't want to step on your feet and trip you up." Lucifer spun you around, and you yelped.

With a small stumble, you landed back in his arms. "What did I say earlier? You won't," Lucifer said. You gulped in lieu of a reply. It was barely audible, but Lucifer could hear the way you sucked in a short inhale as he led you up and down the room. 

And then, you tripped.

Lucifer had taken a step forward, but you, mistiming the music, also stepped forward. You stomped on his toes, and Lucifer barely staggered back before regaining his footing. He quickly steadied himself and was about to grab your shoulders to steady you, too, when you slammed into his chest, sending him tumbling down. 

Seemingly by instinct, you jutted out your hands and grabbed him by the waist. Lucifer took a sharp, but imperceptible, breath once you caught him. He allowed himself time to blink once before smirking. You had dipped him. It was inadvertent, of course, but still shocking.

Lucifer brushed his thumb against your forehead to wipe the bead of sweat that threatened to trickle down the side of your temple. “And you said you didn’t know how to dance.” He hoped his smug aura would mask the sudden onset of tachycardia. 

Your face was pinched up into a tight grimace, which only worsened at his remark. Upon catching wind of your expression, Lucifer immediately stood up. That seemed to break you out of your stupor. 

“I’m so sorry,” with shaky hands, you smoothed down his collar that had partially popped up after the kerfuffle, “I didn’t mean to bump into you like that.” You began to dust off his shirt.

Lucifer tenderly grabbed your hands and pulled them off of him. “Hey, it’s okay,” he said. He was speaking softly but not quietly enough for his words to be classified as a whisper. 

“Alright, but I really am sorry.” You took a deep breath to, presumably, calm yourself down. After a beat, you chuckled faintly, “You should have seen your face.”

“What about my face?”

“Nothing!” you laughed out loud, “I mean, there was nothing. Your expression was completely blank, even as you fell.” You rocked back on your heels, “Though, I did hear you gasp when I caught you. What was that about, huh?” You beamed at him in such a way that Lucifer could only describe as endearing. 

Any retort he might have had died on his tongue. Instead, Lucifer gave you a helpless look. “You are far too perceptive...much to my detriment.” He let go of your hands in favor of cupping your cheeks, “But, I must admit that it’s one of the many things I adore about you.”

He felt you flush at the sudden compliment. 

The music shifted, and Lucifer took the opportunity to loosely wrap his arms around your lower back. “Shall we continue where we left off?” he asked. 

Your arms awkwardly hung in the air before finding their way around his neck. “I’d love to,” you said with a certain lilt that was absent before.

Instead of guiding you around the sofa and back, Lucifer swayed in place in time with the now even slower song coming from the television. You rested the side of your cheek against his shoulder. The sudden intimacy made Lucifer hold you tighter against him. He took note of the scent of your shampoo, searing it to memory.

"We should do this every night." When you merely hummed, Lucifer elaborated, "I mean, I can teach you how to dance. If you would like, the next lesson can be conducted in the privacy of my own room." 

You buried your face in his shirt. After a beat longer than he would have liked, you answered, “Yeah, I’d like that. I’d like that a lot.” You bit your lip. It was evident that something else was on your mind, but Lucifer didn’t pry. He kept holding you in his arms until you pulled away slightly to look him directly in the eyes. He tilted his head quizzically, which is what made you sigh. “Lucifer, are–” you paused, seemingly thinking about the best way to word your next sentence, “are you going back to work after this?”

Lucifer peered over at the forgotten, half-empty cup of hell coffee he had left on the table. It hadn’t been long enough for the drink to be cold, yet, but it was probably lukewarm at this point. If someone did not know where to look, they would hardly notice the crack that ran up and down the mug. He had no idea how it broke: he took the mug out of the cabinet one day, and the crack was there. Not that he was expecting anyone else to, but nobody had dared to confess to the crime. Lucifer supposed that was due to the fear of the punishment that may arise, which he fully intended to dole out, until he realized the cup was still usable. 

That mug was his favorite for a reason: it was one of the first gifts you had gotten him as a couple. He could hardly throw it out, so he continued to use it for his breakfast coffee, late nights in the office, and pick-me-ups on especially emotionally taxing days. You never commented on the sudden crack, but he did catch you throwing a few curious glances in his direction whenever he would drink from that cup. You stopped after a few weeks and even started to use the same cracked mug to surprise him with a midnight brew in his office, just like you did tonight.

He turned his attention back toward you. “No, I changed my mind,” he pressed his forehead against yours, “I would rather spend the rest of the night with you.” 

“I’m glad,” you said, “You’ve been working hard lately. You deserve a break.”

You took advantage of the proximity to give Lucifer a chaste peck on the lips. He was hardly satisfied with how short it was. Lucifer caressed the sides of your face and pulled you in for a kiss. Although he was the one that initiated, you still stole his breath away. You ran your hands through his hair and sighed in contentment. 

A tinkling of laughter echoed behind you, causing you to jump back. You whipped your body around in the direction of the sound. It took a second before your eyes settled on the television. The ballroom scene was long over, now replaced by the characters, still in their gowns, drinking tea in the garden. 

You rub your upper arm and let out a small, sheepish laugh of your own. “Oh, I completely forgot about that movie,” you shook your head.

“That’s surprising. You were so enthralled by it earlier that you could hardly take your eyes off of the TV.”

“I suppose I got distracted by something a bit more interesting.”

Lucifer gestured toward the sofa. “Would you like to continue our little movie night?” he asked. As much as he enjoyed dancing with you, he couldn’t forget why you were here in the first place.

Without further prompting, you flopped back down in the spot he was pointing at. “Of course,” you said, “Hey, after this movie is over, can I play one of my favorites?”

He pretended to contemplate your request, “Hmm, a movie from the human world.” He sat down next to you, “Sounds fascinating.”

“Oh, it’s so good. You’ll love it!” You scooted over so that you were practically sitting on top of him. 

Lucifer smiled involuntarily, which was something he always did when you got excited. “Alright, alright.” He wrapped his arm securely around your waist. You leaned your entire body weight against him, resting your hand on his thigh as if it belonged there. Warmth radiated throughout his chest, causing his heart to swell. Lucifer needed to make mistakes more often.

#Obey Me #Obey Me Lucifer #Obey Me MC #Lucifer x Reader #Lucifer/Reader #Fanfic #Reader-Insert #omsecretsanta22

[ghost-proofbaby]

GHOST'S "OPEN BAR" 3K CELEBRATION

as a way to say thank you and show my appreciation for hitting 3k, i decided it's about time for a party around here... don't y'all? and what better way to get a party started than to get a little boozy! (haha get it? BOOzy? because ghost? no? okay i'll stop.)

THE RULES: below the cut will be a fun menu filled to the brim with delicious drinks! send me an ask with your order, and as long as it follows my general rules, i'll whip it right up for you! the idea here is each drink represents a different general trope, and you fill in the blanks with a character of your choosing (see below) as well as general ideas! below will be examples of requests. i will being doing as many of these requests as possible for this week, from april 3rd (today) to april 8th. starting april 9th, i have a different fun week planned for us to keep the party going, and will announce it on sunday <3

WHO I'M WRITING FOR: eddie munson, steve harrington, spencer reid, and joel miller. you must specify the character in your request, or i will not complete it.

EXAMPLES OF REQUESTS: "hi! can i get a filthy martini with eddie munson? maybe some overstimulation involving toys?" or "can i get a flute of champagne with joel miller? maybe what the end of the day looks like in the QZ!" you can get as specific or as vague as you'd like! these are just examples :-)

also, before we dive in, i've also filled this post with easter eggs towards just a few of my favorite fics/authors (and a couple of my own). i have added a link over each reference in case any of them catch your eye. i wouldn't have hit this milestone without all of these wonderful people who inspire and support me, and there was no way i wasn't sending a nod their way during this event. i love y'all endlessly <3

alright, onwards with the party bus, friends!

THE MENU:

🥃 WILLOW'S OLD-FASHIONED: angst

long week? a new job babysitting a rockstar that just cannot and will not behave? has that blonde coworker you just wish you could slap into the next week gotten on your final nerve? look no further! sit back and cry relax with one of our famous old-fashioneds!

🍷 ASH'S SPECIAL: hurt/comfort

whiskey and bitters not your cup of tea? be still your old heart! no worries! relax like the world's ending from your long week with a good book and a glass of our famous Sauvignon Blanc instead!

🥂 FLUTE OF CHAMPAGNE: fluff

sip on some of our top shelf Dom Perignon and get lost in the bubbles! this classic will have you feeling so good, it's almost as if you've traded bodies with your arch nemesis in a freaky friday ordeal. just don't think too hard about his... mechanics below the belt... or this drink might be a boner killer. let the good times roll!

🍸 FILTHY MARTINI: smut

feeling dirty? look no further. here at ghost's, we've got you covered with one of our dirty, downright filthy martinis. disclaimer: we are not legally responsible for you getting colorfully intimate with your friend's dad or if you end up in a 3-film-box-set porno deal. yeah, our lawyers make us put those disclaimers now. keep it in your pants, folks!

not looking to get tipsy tonight? no worries! check out our extended menu options - we've still got you covered <3

☕ CUP OF SUNSHINE: mutual pining

get it hot! get it iced! get it fresh! as long as you get it before it's gone! wake yourself up with a cup of our coffee brewed in-house. cream and sugar available upon request. (hot and dirty sex in the back room not available upon request.)

🥐 KARMEN'S CROISSANTS: exes to lovers

be sure to grab a snack during your night out! these croissants are absolutely to die for (just don't fall for your reaper, folks!). enjoy this lamented pastry in our favorite armchair by the window while enjoying one of our many books laid out for your pleasure!

easter eggs i'm unable to tag (aka banner):

the "yes" policy

and my own twenty-four hours

also, filthy martini is fully a shout out to the legend behind the man of the hour who has inspired a large majority of these fics as well as my own - mr. joseph quinn himself. may all his martinis be the absolute filthiest.

once again, thank you all. i will never know how to repay the kindness showed to me, so i will do what i do best - write. also, please keep in mind i have no idea how many requests i will receive. my hope is to complete as many as possible without driving myself to absolute madness; please be kind and patient with me <3

#3k celebration #eddie munson #steve harrington #joel miller #spencer reid #aaaaaah what am i getting myself into oh lord #i really do love all of you thank you for being so nice to me haha #i'll be making an official rec list of all my favorite fics soon #this is just a taste

[fazedlight]

mel!!! your cat grant & max lord interlude ficlet got me to thinking - i was wondering if you had any thoughts on if they had kept maxwell lord in national city when lena luthor had arrived, what would that look like if he were a ‘tech industry’ foil instead of/in addition to morgan edge?

Oohhh yes!!! (Ficlet for reference.)

I honestly really liked Maxwell Lord’s character on the show. I was not digging the Max/Alex romance that seemed to be brewing (I just don’t think it’s possible for Alex to develop interest in someone with such clear disregard for her sister), but I really liked him being the tech foil. I think he makes a far better one than Morgan Edge, who was just a boring old out-for-himself psychopath.

Maxwell Lord, on the other hand, did feel driven by a mission. He had a deep distrust of the government due to his parents’ deaths, and I do genuinely believe that he wanted to do good in the world. But unlike Kara, he is much more cynical and practical in his approach. And much more willing to allow for collateral damage.

It kind of reminds me of the difference between Lex and Lillian. Lex is just power tripping (Jon Cryer absolutely kills it in this role, otherwise I’m not sure I’d like Lex nearly as much as I do). But Lillian is the much more interesting Luthor villain, because she genuinely thinks she’s doing good for the world - her view of the “world” is just very narrow, because it only focuses on humans, and she’s perfectly fine being a bigot. If we take it a step further with Lena’s villain era, she really served as an anti-villain - Lena’s cause was fundamentally good, but her methods were deeply misguided.

I’m trying to imagine how Max and Lena would’ve gotten along. I think, like with the Daxamite invasion where Lena and Lillian kind of team up, we could see reluctant teamups between this pair as well. But unlike Lillian, Max doesn’t really have a reason to hide the truth of Kara’s identity from Lena. Would she have figured it out sooner? Would he specifically have left clues that led Lena there?

He might even have walked in assuming that Lena knew, before realizing that she really didn’t. And from there, maybe he would’ve driven a very different type of wedge, maybe try to sow distrust. Canonically he starts out as a powerful business man, and eventually becomes involved in Cadmus...

Hear me out, but it might’ve been interesting to watch Maxwell Lord sliding into darker territories (working with Lillian, Cadmus, etc) and trying to take Lena with him. We know he’s attracted to powerful women (like Cat), and he’s smart enough that Lena might’ve found him initially interesting (like, let’s be real, this would’ve been a far more interesting romance arc than Lena/James… though in this case, I’m imagining more of an antagonistic FWB where Lena starts to see some of his points).

Lena would never join Cadmus, she’s not anti-alien. (Max might not be overtly anti-alien, but it's not important enough for him to avoid either.) But she has blind spots that it takes time for her to see (eg the alien detector), and maybe she feels more and more sympathetic to Max’s positions over time.

That puts Kara - who is more than a little in love with her best friend - in the tough spot of knowing that Max joined Cadmus, knowing he’s basically trying to seduce Lena into darkness (Kara is definitely not jealous about his other successful seduction nope nope nope it has nothing to do with that!!), and while she knows Lena would never set out to cause harm... she’s falling into a trap.

So what does Kara do? She tells Lena she’s Supergirl, and Lena now knows that both her best friend and her fuck-buddy-sometimes-romance have been lying to her all along.

I’m not imagining a villain era for Lena here, because I still think that was mostly prompted by Lena’s murder of Lex (you can see a clear delimination in my fics of when she is vs. isn’t angry about the secret, and when her anger is vs. isn’t leading to a villain era).

But she might try to go it alone, close up again and avoid people. She’d dive deep into her lab work, trying to cure cancer or something, improve humanity without interacting with anyone. The lab is safe. Science doesn’t betray you. Statistics don’t lie to you. (Statistics do lie, but she has character flaws.)

She’s content to live her life as a science-inventor-hermit…

Until Kara shows up bloodied at her door, and says “I need your help”.

#I didn't mean to get all “IN THIS ESSAY I WILL-” but I did whoops sorry #supercorp #asks #anonymous

[literallyjustanerd]

Scenes From The Caf Hall

So I had a lot of ideas for fun clone shenanigans but none substantial enough for full fics, so I put them into a sort of montage of moments I like to believe have gone down in the GAR caf at mealtimes. No consistency in timeline, just some harmless clone fun. Enjoy!

Note: one of these scenes references there being an abundance of Chancellor Palpatine biopics in the Star Wars universe. I saw someone mention that that would be funny in a text post once but try as I might I cannot find who that was. If you know what I'm talking about please let met know so I can credit them for the inspiration!

“I’m not kriffing drinking it, Fives. I won’t do it.” Fives lets out a low, pained groan as he drops his tray on one of the benches, head lolling back in a heavy circle over his shoulders. “Then don’t,” he says, for at least the third time. Echo pays him no mind. He may as well be speaking to himself. “Why would they change it? The one good thing I could count on every day, but no, let’s take that away, too. Kriffing Republic budget cuts. Kriffing quartermasters…” Hardcase is already grinning when he joins the two, watching in amusement as Echo’s rant fades to a low, sharp muttering. “What is it this time?” he asks, sounding almost excited. Echo is too busy stabbing at his salad like he wants to draw blood to answer.

“They changed out the brand of tea in the stores,” Fives says, head propped up on his fist. A hand slapped across Hardcase’s chestplate accentuates his feigned shock. “Not your precious Tarine!” he gasps. “What would they ever replace that with?” Oblivious or uncaring of Hardcase’s mocking tone, Echo’s fury is reignited. “Generic brand.” He spits the words like poison and scowls at the taste they leave in his mouth. Like they’re profanity. Which is ironic given how he continues; “I’ll be karked nine ways into the void before those shabuire make me drink the osik’la generic brand.” “Nobody’s making you drink it, Echo,” Fives reminds him, though by now he’s resigned, fully aware that he is little more than background noise. Echo growls at his tray. A couple of nearby shinies speed their steps to hustle past their table.

“Personally, I could never taste the difference,” Jesse pipes up. He’s so unfazed by the scene that nobody had even noticed him sit down. Fives sighs. That was not the right response. “The difference is night and day!” Echo blurts, voice surely close to reaching the upper limits of pitch. “They’re making us drink dirt water!” “Not making you,” Fives mumbles. “We lay down our lives for their war every day and this is how they repay us?” “Bit dramatic.” “We work our shebse off and you’re telling me I can’t even get a decent brew after an eighteen hour shift?” Fives pauses, tilts his head. “Yeah, no, okay. That’s fair.” At last, Echo acknowledges his presence in the form of a single, righteous nod.

Across the table, Hardcase flashes that look like a child about to poke a sleeping loth cat. “Why not just drink caf instead?” Echo falls deadly silent, eyes narrowed to a slit. His response is whip-fast. “Why don’t I just shoot you right here?”

***

“Telling you, things got wild that night. Don’t remember most of it, of course, but man, it was fun.” Waxer’s pride swells at the awed gazes across the table. His new 212th vod’ike, the gold on their armour barely dry, eyes wide with awe and demanding to know more of their superiors’ exploits. It’s like a drug, the wonder and admiration, and by now the 212th veterans know the best way to get it. Battle stories were great for gaining respect, sure, but if you wanted to really wow your rookies, stories of shore leave misadventures were far more effective.

“We woke up the next morning in a motel room on the lower levels,” Boil recounts with a grin. “No clue how we got there.” “What about the twi’leks?” one shiny demands, on the edge of his seat. “The ones from 79’s, what happened to them?” Waxer and Boil share a smirk, and Waxer delivers the kicker. “No idea,” he chuckles. “But they each left one of their numbers written on our vambraces.” “I really oughta call him sometime,” Boil muses. “See if they’re free again for this New Years’.” “She really was something else,” Waxer affirms. The shinies have gone silent before them, smiles wiped clean and suddenly sitting bolt upright. It takes the lieutenants a painfully long moment to realise why.

“Sorry to interrupt, troopers,” Cody says from behind the pair, sending bolts of ice through their veins, “but this wouldn’t happen to be last New Year’s you were talking about, would it?” Waxer and Boil both fall over themselves, mumbling sheepishly in the affirmative. “Interesting…” Cody hums. “Because I seem to remember things taking place differently.” “O-oh, is that… Is that right, Commander?” Waxer sputters, and tries immediately to move the conversation on. Cody doesn’t let it. “That’s right. As I recall, the two of you had to be carried out of 79’s well before New Year struck, and sent back to the barracks in a cab, drunk off your sorry faces.” Boil swallows audibly. He too is cut off when he tries to speak. “Can’t remember which one of you it was who was crying at the time, though.” His face is trained, his smile thoroughly measured, though his amusement is still glaringly clear. “Strange how our memories play up, isn’t it?”

He leaves it at that, and turns to walk away. One of the shinies, evidently a bold one, pipes up from the table, much to the horror of his batchmates. “Commander,” he calls, and Cody pauses in his step, turns back to face them. “How would you know what happened that night, unless… unless you were at 79’s, too?” After a moment’s pause, Cody merely flashes a grin. He turns to walk away, throwing one last comment over his shoulder: “Welcome to the 212th, boys.”

***

It’s been on Jesse’s mind for a while, but only now does he get the chance to bring it up. “There are three pieces of cake on your tray,” he says. Kix doesn’t look up from his work, datapad in one hand and sandwich in the other. He looks tired, but then, Kix always looks tired. “Very observant, vod. Good job.” “You got out of night shift last week.” “Mhmm.” “And I don’t think I’ve ever seen you on fresher duty.” “Okay?”

Jesse rolls his eyes, peeling the lid off his preserved jogan fruit. As if to illustrate his intended point, another trooper passes by their table and surreptitiously slides a pack of biscuits across to Kix like it’s a drug deal. When Jesse’s raised eyebrow gets no response, he clears his throat pointedly. Kix finally stops tapping away at his pad. “Why does everyone keep giving you their stuff?” Jesse demands. He doesn’t like the responding smirk that passes across Kix’s face. “Why do you think?” he asks, amusement tinging the edges of his words. Jesse sighs, lacking the energy to play this game. “Would I be asking if I knew?”

The look Kix gives is weary, bemused. He drags a hand over his eyes and takes a short, sharp breath, then begins. “Being a medic sucks.” “…Uh-huh?” “Long hours, always on call, the datawork never ends. People expect me to heal three-inch stab wounds in three minutes.” Jesse’s brow furrows, hoping there’s a point to this beyond his brother’s bitching “I’m… sorry?” “But as much of a pain in the gett’se as it is,” he says, finishing the sentence around a mouthful of cake, “being in charge of keeping all you di’kute alive it has its upsides.” Jesse can only roll his eyes. “Quit being so mysterious and get to the point.” Kix sighs sharply. “Jesse, I haven’t paid for a drink in over two years.” But the dots remain unconnected, Jesse’s expression still perplexed.

Begrudgingly, Kix sets the datapad down on the table and adjusts so he’s fully facing Jesse. He scrolls back on the pad through a plethora of files until he finds one. Jesse suddenly feels like a cadet again, called into his sergeant’s office. “0742 hours. Morning after last year’s Festival of Stars. You presented to medbay. Do you remember what for?” Kix needn’t have asked the question: a searing flush has already flooded Jesse’s skin, one that draws a sadistic grin from his vod. “Don’t worry, I’ve seen it a hundred times before and since. Never in that place, though...” Jesse’s head is in his hands as Kix continues. “Didn’t know how you’d managed it at first. Course, you told me the whole story. Spotchka and pain meds are great at loosening tight lips.”

“You kept that on file?” Jesse says in a strangled whisper. Kix shrugs, unfazed. “I’m required by Republic protocol to keep a record of all assessments and procedures carried out.” Jesse’s eyes fall to the extra cakes on Kix’s tray. Kix’s smile grows, tapping his datapad proudly. “And I carry out a lot of procedures.” Jesse curses under his breath, eyes wide in the dawning realisation. “How much dirt do you have on us?” he breathes, caught somewhere between awe and abject horror. Leaning his elbows on the table, Kix raises an eyebrow and grins.

“All of it, vod. You boys are animals,” he chuckles. “The things I’ve seen…” “You mean like—” “Whatever you’re thinking, it’s worse.” “What about—” “Worse.” “You don’t mean—” Kix leans further forward over the table, tilting his head down at Jesse. “Worse.”

Jesse swallows, leans back in his seat and acquiesces to Kix’s warning look. As much he itches to dig further, he knows Kix is probably doing him a favour by keeping the details obscured. “So. There you go. Maybe I get out of fresher duty. But with what I see on a daily basis, I think I’m within my rights to a few gratuities in exchange for my discretion about certain topics,” he says. “Like someone’s very inventive use of contraband fireworks…?” An uncomfortable silence falls between them, dragging on until Kix finally breaks it, eyeing Jesse’s tray. “Say, that jogan fruit looks—” Jesse’s handing it over before Kix has finished the sentence.

***

“Eight times in the last week he’s lost it. Three in one day, once. One of these days I’m going to weld that blasted saber to his hand.” Rex is slumped in his seat, shaking his head at the table. His brothers all murmur their commiserations around him, in various states of consciousness. Beside him, Cody jolts upright after almost falling face-first into his mug of caf for the fourth time. Ponds puts down the spoon he’s been using to mindlessly stir his porridge for the last ten minutes straight. “Least your general lets you have fun. General Windu makes us do weapons inventory and maintenance in every single minute of free time,” he grouses. Rex huffs. “I wish General Skywalker would order us to do weapons maintenance. I’m the only reason anything gets done in the 501st.” He gets a few affirming moans, half-hearted complaints about their own generals neglecting the more unglamorous responsibilities of commanding a battalion.

“You all have it easy.” It’s Fox who throws in next, hauling himself up from where he had been splayed across Wolffe’s back. He waves away the answering protests with a lazy hand. “Didn’t you go to the theatre last night?” Bly retorts. The disdain in his voice gives away his expression, which remains unseen; he’s on his back on the floor beside the table. The jab gives Fox a sudden burst of vindictive energy. “I did, Bly. I did go to the theatre last night. And do you know what I saw?” he says. “I saw another kriffing biopic on Chancellor kriffing Palpatine’s noble and heroic rise to power.” He spears a fillet of grey meat on his tray. “If I have to sit through another minute of some actor the Chancellor wishes he looked like making an empowered speech about the sacrifices he’s made for his people, you’ll all see me at the tribunal when I’m court marshalled and decommissioned.” The others say nothing, dredging up little more than sympathetic winces or groans. A few note that Fox’s hair seems just a little greyer than it did the last time they met up.

“General Kenobi jumped off a cliff on our last assignment on Onderon,” Cody offers a short time later to break the silence. He’s barely lucid enough to mumble the words. Nobody is at all surprised by the report. After a long draw from his caf, Cody continues, seeming bored by his own words. “Found him at the bottom totally unharmed and petting a bogwing. Asked him how he knew it would be there and let him ride it down, and do you know what he said?” The vode raise their weary voices to join him in chorus for the answer: “He didn’t know it would be there.”

Silence again. Someone snores, though it’s impossible to tell who and nobody can be bothered to try. Those awake enough to think straight mourn the state of the evening so far. It was a small miracle that this many of them were all in the one place to begin with. They’d planned for drinks at 79’s after dinner. And maybe they’d still rally and somehow make it out there. Maybe, with enough caf and the GAR’s famous resolve. But for now, they’re a sorry sight to behold. Soundly and thoroughly defeated. “Why does General Yoda talk like that...?” It’s Gree, his voice a pained whimper, muffled against the table. The question is directed at nobody. “Nothing he says makes any sense. He doesn’t need to talk like that.” Bly’s hand appears from below to pat his vod’s shoulder. With a shaking breath, Gree asks it again, barely a child’s pitiful sob: “Why does he talk like that?”

A little more moaning later, they seem to come to the consensus that their Jetiise (and Chancellor) were just confounding and infuriating by nature, and that they were tragically and inescapably doomed to a life dealing with their bantha shit. “They’re hopeless,” Ponds sighs. “Ridiculous,” Bly agrees. “Children,” Rex laments. “Maniacs,” Cody says, with finality in his tone. A voice rumbles from across the table – the first time that night Wolffe had made it known that he was awake at all. “What did you say?” Rex yawns. Wolffe raises his head. “I said, speak for your kriffing selves.”

***

The table in the corner of the caf hall may as well have a reserved sign on it. It does, in a way: Wrecker carved a crude ‘99’ into one of the benches months ago. The regs tend to steer clear, although on days like these, Echo can’t really blame them. He hears it before he sees it, the first signs of an argument beginning to escalate. “Get out of my face before I blast yours off,” Crosshair snarls.  Echo almost turns and walks away. But someone will need to be around to pick up the pieces if this all goes sideways. He steps through the remaining crowd to find his place at the end of the table. Opposite him, Crosshair is hunched over like a wolf with its hackles up. Tech is beside him, one finger poised delicately approximately an eighth of a centimeter from Crosshair’s shoulder.

“I will,” he says, “the moment you explain why you are so put out when I, clearly, am not actually touching you.” The plastic fork in Crosshair’s hand snaps. “How long?” Echo asks with a heavy sigh. Hunter, eyes occupied sharpening his knife, replies, “Going on fifteen minutes.” “Think there’s a point?” Hunter shrugs, slots his knife back into its sheath. His eyes flick from Tech to Crosshair, to Wrecker, who is watching the stalemate with rapt attention like it’s a nail-biting bolo-ball match. “Supposedly it’s a study on patience and stress levels,” he says. “But he hasn’t done it with anyone else. You know, Cross did trash his goggles last week.” Echo nods vaguely, sipping his tea and watching the rest of the exchange play out with distant disinterest. It would be imperceptible to the regs passing by, but Echo catches the slant in Tech’s tone, the tiny quirk in his eye. He’s enjoying this.

“Are you trying to get yourself killed?” “I don’t know what you mean. I’m still not touching you.” “Knock it the hell off, or you’ll wake up tomorrow to all your datapads melting in the kriffing furnace.” “I'm not touching you, though.” “This isn’t a joke. I—” “Not touching you.” “Hunter!” Crosshair hisses, shifting away yet again. He’s crammed onto the last three inches of the bench now, but Tech advances quickly to narrow the gap. Hunter cocks an eyebrow. “Oh, no. I’m not getting anywhere near this one.” “Some Sergeant you are.”

Echo tries to tune it out and enjoy his stew, as the threats grow increasingly crass and Wrecker eagerly demands the two get on with it and fight already. How they could lose themselves so shamelessly in such childish antics he does not know. He turns his gaze to the rest of the caf, the grid of tables packed with troopers he’d rather be sitting at. Though as he watches, he soon spots a table in the opposite corner of the hall; two shinies are locked in a fierce arm wrestling match, vode around them whooping and jeering. A few troopers at another table take turns lobbing berries in the air and trying to catch them in their mouths. More than one table has a perilous game of five finger fillet going. He looks back to Tech and Crosshair, inching towards all-out war, and lets his thoughts wander back to his old squad. Nights spent in this very same caf, breathless with laughter as Domino squad tried to one-up each other with outlandish dares. Lobbing wadded-up napkins into their commanders’ drinks. Sneaking behind the serving counters to steal extra desserts. Echo himself had definitely had his moments, dropping ice cubes down the back of Fives’ blacks when he wasn’t looking.

Across the table, Crosshair is reaching the end of his rope. “Are you all just going to sit there and watch?” he seethes. Echo feels a wry grin pulling at his lip. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says glibly. “He’s not even touching you.”

#star wars #star wars: the clone wars #sw tcw #sw tcw fanfic #star wars clone troopers #clone shenanigans #okay hang on here we go #arc trooper fives #arc trooper echo #arc trooper jesse #clone trooper hardcase #clone medic kix #clone trooper hunter #clone trooper wrecker #clone trooper crosshair #clone trooper tech #clone trooper waxer #clone trooper boil #commander cody #captain rex #commander bly #commander gree #commander ponds #commander wolffe #commander fox #i think that's eveyone #drabble

[jplupine]

Day 5: Byakuya Kuchiki ~ Heavy Petting

Pairing: Byakuya Kuchiki x Wynter Hughes [Nonbinary OC] Word Count: ~3.7k Date Published: October 5, 2023 WARNINGS: 18+ MDNI, Tengu!Byakuya, Sub!Byakuya, Small Dom/Big Sub, Exophilia, Cuddling for Warmth, Masturbation, Vaginal Fingering, Handjob, Heavy Petting, Praise, Teasing, Hair Pulling Note: Terms such as pussy/cock/dick/etc. get used. Wynter also uses the term 'birdie' to refer to Byakuya. If that makes you uncomfortable, you might want to skip this fic.

Summary: Wynter encounters a tengu after getting lost while hunting an oni....

You can also read it on AO3!

Kinktober 2023 Masterlist

  Sitting at the low table as the scent of tea drifted toward my nose, I watched the man pour the freshly brewed tea into two cups. But....did he really count as a man? He had a set of multi-colored wings resting on his back and a red mask over the top half of his face indicative of a tengu.

  He'd found me wandering in the woods and brought me back here since I was incredibly lost. I'd been following a blue oni that had been terrorizing a village and somehow ended up on some mountain with the trees colored by autumn.

  "What is your name, human?" His voice was low and smooth.

  "Wynter." I answered as he passed me a cup. He clearly had been trained in etiquette and was graceful in his movements. "What's yours?" I asked out of curiosity and to try and continue the conversation. He seemed to hesitate and think about it before answering.

  "Byakuya."

  "And where am I?" I carefully picked up the teacup and paused to watch him take a drink first. Once he did, I tasted the tea. It was warm and mellow with an herbal scent.

  "You're in the Spirit World. I advise you to stay here until I can return you to your world. It is not safe in this world for a mortal to wander." His eyes dropped to my sword. "Even if you are carrying a weapon."

  "You'd really let an armed stranger stay in your home?"

  "If you were aware of who I am, you would know you stand no chance of harming me."

  "Because you're a tengu?"

  "Because I'm a noble with more power than a mortal such as yourself could muster." His voice was steady as he looked at me. He was so matter-of-fact.

  "How long will it take for me to get back home?"

  "A few days. I'll have to fill out paperwork and go through the proper channels of opening a portal back to your world."

  "I'm assuming just opening portals is frowned upon."

  "It is for humans."

  "Great." I sighed.

  "How did you get here?"

  "I was following an oni."

  "You're a hunter?"

  "Sort of. I get some extra money getting rid of yokai attacking villages." I replied before taking another drink.

  "And only those that attack villages?"

  "I'm here now, aren't I?"

  "You did try attacking me in the forest."

  "In my defense, I thought you were going to eat me then." I waved my hand, and Byakuya scoffed. His pale lips curled in a smile, and I could already tell he was pretty under his mask. "Think that's funny, do you?"

  "I don't eat mortals that reek of sweat and grime." His voice didn't falter at all while he was smirking. Grabbing the front of my yukata, I pulled it up to sniff it.

  "Oh." Was all I could say as my eyebrows rose. I really did stink. "I have been hunting that oni for quite some time."

  "I'll have a bath run for you." Byakuya stated before taking a drink from his cup.

  The hot water was soothing my aching muscles as I scrubbed away the dirt from my skin. I washed from head to toe and made sure to get under my nails as well. It felt so good to bathe in a big tub and with such fine soaps.

  I had definitely lucked out having Byakuya being the one to find me. A tengu, and nobility no less, that was willing to help.

  Sighing when I finally got out of the water with pruned fingers, I grabbed the plush towel hanging from a rack to dry off. I'd been given a clean yukata as well that was a few sizes too big but would work for now. Pulling on the plain black fabric, I got dressed before exiting the room.

  Byakuya was already waiting in the hallway with his hands in his sleeves. He glanced down at me before turning away.

  "This way. And stay close. Others here may not take kindly to your presence."

  "Would they kick me out?"

  "They would eat you." His response was blunt, but I appreciated it. "In here." He slid open a door, and I saw that it was a bedroom. I walked in, and Byakuya watched me closely. "You know nothing of nobility, do you?"

  "Not really. Why?"

  "Your behavior. You've even turned your back on me several times now."

  "Oh. Well, I'll be gone in a few days. Try not to take it personally, I'm just a street rat commoner after all." I chuckled before pausing when I saw all the things in the room. From the desk to the wardrobe and other small items and furniture decorating the room told me this was not a guest room. "....Whose room is this?"

  "Mine." Byakuya said while shutting the door.

  "I thought-"

  "I told you, some here will try to eat you, Wynter. So long as you're near me, that won't happen." He then seemed to get irritated when he saw the futons set up next to each other. "I told them to put it in the corner." Byakuya muttered before softly sighing.

  "Hey, I don't stink anymore. It should be fine."

  "You're still a mortal."

  "So?"

  "What makes you think I want you that close to me?"

  "You don't have a lot of friends, do you?" I questioned, and he seemed surprised. "C'mon, they were nice enough to do all this for you. Just think of it as a sleepover." I then set my sword down next to the smaller futon.

  "I can smell how nervous you are, Wynter. There's no need to pretend you're not."

  "Yeah, well....it's more for me. Maybe if I pretend I'm more relaxed, I might actually relax." I muttered while pulling back the blanket. "I'm in the fucking Spirit World. That's wild enough."

  "I see." Byakuya looked at me for a second before reaching up to take off his mask. It clicked as it came off from the red piece that had the mask's horns and circled around his head. And, sure enough, he was a beautiful man underneath with red markings over his eyebrows and at the outer corners of his eyes.

  He set the mask down and began to take out his hair ornaments. I simply watched out of curiosity as I sat on the futon. His wings loosely hung from his back as he took off several layers and went around the feathered appendages.

  Byakuya finally came toward his bed when he was stripped down to the base layer of his clothes. He didn't say a word as he laid down under his blanket and tucked in his wings close to his back. He laid on his side facing away from me, and I scoffed.

  "Thanks, by the way."

  "You're welcome." Byakuya responded with a quiet voice, and I laid down while rolling onto my side with my back facing him. It was silent in the dark room, and I curled up under my blanket from the chill that settled in.

  I could only assume Byakuya didn't notice because of him being a tengu, but the cold mountain air filled the room. I thought the blanket would be enough to keep me warm, but it wasn't. I couldn't get to sleep and started shivering with my hands tucked under my arms and my legs pulled up closer to my chest.

  I was tired from traveling and the hectic day I had, but it was impossible to get comfortable enough to sleep. The temptation to snoop around for another blanket crossed my mind. However, I didn't think Byakuya would appreciate waking up to me rifling around in his things.

  A heavy sigh came from behind me before my blanket was moved and an arm snaked around my waist. I was pulled back until I was near another body and a blanket dropped over me. Before I could say anything, Byakuya was talking.

  "I can't sleep with your teeth chattering."

  "It's autumn in the mountains. It's freezing in here." I retorted and could feel the warmth from his body seeping through my clothes.

  "Are you still cold?"

  "....Not really." I cleared my throat while looking at the wall straight ahead. Byakuya sighed and pulled me closer. With my back against his chest, I could feel his body heat even more. I could also feel his breath hitting the back of my head as his wings shifted to get more comfortable.

  Byakuya left his arm around my waist, and his breathing slowed as if he was drifting off to sleep. And now that I was warm, my eyelids were becoming heavy. So what if a tengu was cuddling me? I was exhausted.

  Falling asleep had been much easier once I was no longer cold. However, I woke up sometime after and didn't feel as if I'd gotten much sleep. It was still dark in the room as well, so it was still nighttime.

  As clarity came to my tired mind, I could feel panting against the back of my neck since Byakuya had his face pressed into my hair. I groggily wondered if he was having a nightmare from how he breathed and shook. His hand was even gripping tightly to the front of my yukata.

  Slowly blinking, it was perhaps from how I was still half asleep that I decided to roll over and offer Byakuya some comfort. I just closed my eyes and slid my arm over his side while laying close to still be warm. I was going to go back to sleep, but something felt off.

  It was too quiet now.

  Byakuya's panting had immediately ceased and he was tense. Gradually opening my eyes to check on him, I saw that his eyes were wide open and his cheeks were dark. His pale eyes looked nearly black from how wide his pupils were, and he seemed shocked.

  Even if I was half asleep, I wasn't an idiot. Looking down, I saw one of his hands pressed against his pelvis with a bump sticking out between his fingers. Byakuya seemed to snap out of his shock and quickly rolled over while wrapping his wings around himself out of shame.

  "You picked me up in the woods 'cause you're a pervert, huh?" I popped off.

  "I-I am not!"

  "You were masturbating behind me while I was sleeping."

  "That's not-"

  "Do I look like an idiot? Don't answer that- You'll probably say yes." I quickly added while propping myself up on my elbow. "What happened to not even wanting me near you?"

  "Go back to sleep."

  "Do you have a human fetish?"

  "No!" He snapped at me as he tensed even more. I felt a smirk pull at my lips. "Just go back to sleep."

  "Why? So you can finish masturbating?"

  "No."

  "Fine." I laid down close to Byakuya's back and dropped my arm over his side.

  "What are you doing?"

  "It's even colder than earlier." I replied while having my chest flush against his back. He was still so tense and no doubt embarrassed. His feathers lying against my arm were also incredibly soft almost like silk.

  I couldn't think of any other time a situation like this would happen, so I decided to take advantage of it.

  There was a patch of skin on the back of his neck visible from his hair parting, and I brushed my lips against it. Byakuya's wings shivered, and I licked.

  "What are you doing?"

  "Giving you what you want."

  "I didn't say I wanted this." He muttered as my hand drifted down his torso without him stopping me.

  "So, what? You clinging to me while touching yourself is just a coincidence?" I questioned as my fingers slowly drifted over his erection. His breath faltered, but he still didn't push my hand away. "You're so warm." My voice was low as I pushed even closer to his body and trailed my fingers closer to the tip of his cock.

  Byakuya's hips bucked into my touch, and it was then that he grabbed my wrist. He took in a shaky breath and took a second to gather himself.

  "I am nobility, human."

  "So?"

  "I can't do this."

  "Why not?" I asked, and he sighed with frustration.

  "As the head of my clan, I cannot risk a bastard tarnishing my name." His words made my eyebrows raise. "I know what you are, human. I can smell it."

  "There are other things we can do, then." I licked the back of his neck again, and his breath faltered. "I can still help you with this." My finger traced along the shaft of his cock, making his wings shiver. Sliding one of my knees between his legs, I felt his grip on my wrist tighten.

  "What....What do you propose?"

  "Just touching. You won't have to worry about any bastard then."

  "Why would you want to do such a thing?"

  "Because you're helping me, and I'd like to show my gratitude. You're also a very beautiful man, Byakuya." My tone was close to a purr, and when I said his name, he pressed my hand against himself.

  I stroked his dick through his clothes, and he slowly started to relax. His hips began to gently rock into my hand as I kissed his neck after sweeping his long hair out of the way. Byakuya grunted when my fingers went over the tip of his cock.

  He then rolled over with his wings out of the way to hold me as he ground his hips into my hand. His hand was in a tight fist as he held the back of my yukata, and I kissed just beneath his jaw. He swallowed before leaning his head back to give me better access to his throat.

  Byakuya had been so blunt and cold earlier, I never would've expected this to happen. Kissing down the side of his neck, I slipped my hand inside his yukata and found that he didn't have any underwear on. Byakuya's breath wavered as I wrapped my fingers around his cock.

  "You smell so good...." He spoke barely above a whisper, and I smiled against his neck.

  "Is that why you couldn't keep from touching yourself?"

  "Yes." Byakuya's throat bobbed from him swallowing. His hips bucked as he grunted.

  "You can touch me." I muttered, and he gently grabbed the front of my yukata to pull it off my shoulder. His lips brushed down the side of my neck as his warm breath fanned over my skin. Byakuya trailed his hand down my side while kissing my shoulder delicately.

  He found the knot of my belt and untied it before sliding the fabric back to expose more of my chest and torso. His warm palm was against my bare skin and pushed lower to grab my hip. I stopped stroking to undo his belt as well, and Byakuya pulled away from my neck to look down at my body.

  He said nothing while running his hand down my hip and thigh. Byakuya grabbed the back of my knee to pull my leg over his before his fingers trailed up my inner thigh with a feather-light touch.

  "How do you have so few scars?"

  "I'm good at my job." I replied while opening the front of his yukata to see that he was toned and lean. "I thought nobles lazed about all day having others do things for them." My hand went down his abs, and his wings twitched.

  "Don't compare me to mortal nobles. I'm a warrior still." Byakuya's hand hesitated at the apex of my thighs before touching me. His fingers slid against me from the wetness that had accumulated, and he closed his eyes for a second while letting out a slow breath.

  My hand reached the base of his cock as his fingers pushed between my lips. Byakuya's fingertips gathered up slick as they stroked back and forth. When he finally pressed against my clit, I softly moaned.

  "You sound sweeter than I imagined." Byakuya muttered into my skin as his lips brushed up the side of my neck. He kissed just beneath my jaw while rubbing circles over my clit, and my hips bucked when he added pressure.

  Stroking his cock made him grunt near my ear. He was so hot and hard against my palm, and my thumb swiped over the tip, smearing precum across the head. Byakuya groaned before nipping my ear with his surprisingly sharp teeth.

  His fingers slid back and pushed inside. I moaned since he had already started curling his two fingers. There was something about Byakuya as if he craved to touch and to be touched. His hesitations were gone as his face was now right in front of mine.

  Our noses touched before his lips ghosted across mine. Byakuya slightly tilted his head and kissed me. His soft lips only intensified the pleasure as sparks danced across my skin. As he kissed me, his other hand slid into my hair to cradle the back of my head.

  He leaned forward, deepening the kiss as his tongue slid into my mouth and the butt of his palm pressed against my clit. I moaned, and Byakuya devoured the sound. I nearly forgot to keep stroking his cock had it not been for the buck of his hips.

  Wet sounds mixed with moans and panting filled the room with the occasional rustle of Byakuya's wings. His tongue caressed mine with a gentle hunger that made me feel weak. My hips rocked with his hand, and he pulled away from the kiss with a bridge of saliva stretching between our mouths.

  "More." Byakuya muttered.

  "What?"

  "More." He pushed me back while moving on top of me with his wings spread and stretching across the room. Byakuya was panting as his long hair spilled over his shoulders. He had a predatory gaze, and his cock was leaking more precum.

  His hips lowered toward mine, trapping his cock between his pelvis and my pussy. He faltered from feeling the heat and wetness against him. Byakuya ground his hips into mine, rubbing his shaft against my clit.

  Draping my legs over his hips provided a better angle, and he moaned as his wings twitched. It took what little self-control I had left to not flip him onto his back and start fucking him. He was just so gorgeous, and I was throbbing as each sound he made went straight to my core.

  Reaching up to cup his face in my hands, I guided him down into a kiss. He pressed his body against mine while still rutting and grunting from the wet friction against his cock. Byakuya found a steady rhythm that felt good for both of us, and my fingers slid into his soft hair.

  "Go a little harder." I panted, and he obliged, making me moan.

  "You're a hunter yet allow me to do this?" Byakuya muttered while looking at me through half-opened eyes.

  "I told you, I only go after the ones terrorizing villages."

  "Would you come for me even if I didn't accost villagers?"

  "Why? Would you like to see me again?" I smirked, and he groaned.

  "Yes."

  "I think that's just your dick talking."

  "I don't care." Byakuya panted while shaking his head. "You don't know how long it's been since I've been touched." He grunted and kept grinding his cock between my wet lips. "Nobility bullshit." His cursing took me by surprise, and I brushed my thumb over his bottom lip.

  "We're breaking rules, aren't we?"

  "Many."

  "Oh? Mr. Proper really is a bad little birdie." I smirked as his wings flapped when he groaned.

  "I....am a noble."

  "And look at what you're doing with a human." I had a teasing tone while playing with his top lip with my thumb. Seeing his sharp teeth, I heard a sound akin to a growl coming from his chest. Byakuya licked the pad of my thumb before gently nipping. "I wouldn't mind helping you relieve stress, Byakuya." I purred his name, and he shuddered.

  "You're more dangerous than I had expected."

  "You know....if you can find contraceptive tomorrow- Ngh~!- you can actually fuck me." I said, and Byakuya's hips bucked.

  "I'll let the house now I'll be educating you in our etiquette in the morning."

  "That eager?"

  "I can feel how hot....and wet you are. It's so hard to not just push inside." Byakuya groaned as his wings shivered. "I want to listen to you really moan."

  "I can't wait." My response made him smirk, and I was melting beneath him. The way his lips curled upward and his eyes were so full of lust as his cock rubbed against my clit made my heart flutter.

  I could get used to being Byakuya's secret fuck.

  There would definitely be perks that came with it too. A hot bath, a warm bed, and good sex.

  "Pull my hair, birdie." Byakuya did as told, fisting his hand in my hair and pulling to make my head tilt back. I moaned, and his mouth latched onto my neck. We were chest to chest as he kissed and licked my throat.

  My toes curled as my back arched with my thighs squeezing his sides. Byakuya was clinging to me as he rutted and groaned. Even his wings couldn't stay still as they began to twitch and shudder more.

  He was finally getting close and pulled away as his wings were slightly flapping. His hands gripped the futon beneath me, and he was groaning with his mouth wide open. Byakuya looked divine as he came, cock twitching and spurting cum all over my stomach. He kept thrusting until the last drop dribbled down the head of his dick.

  Byakuya barely moved as he was panting just to shove his fingers into my pussy. I jolted and moaned, and he was pumping and curling his fingers with the sole purpose of making me cum. When his thumb pressed against my clit and rubbed in circles, I shuddered and came around his fingers.

  He had me ride out the waves of my orgasm while prolonging it as long as possible. As I was trying to catch my breath and feeling utter bliss, Byakuya was looking down at me.

  "Dangerous, indeed." He muttered before leaning down to lick some of the cum off my stomach while making eye contact. I smirked and brushed my fingers through his hair to get it out of the way as I watched him clean his mess.

#31 days of bleach #byakuya kuchiki #exophilia #tengu!byakuya #bleach smut #sub!byakuya #bleach #byakuya kuchiki smut #sub character #sub!character #bleach fanfic #oc x canon #kinktober 2023 #lemon #Wolf does fanfic

[emotionalcadaver]

Part 19: In the Bleak Midwinter

Fandom: Peaky Blinders

Pairing: Tommy Shelby x Grace Burgess x OC

Summary: Curse or not, Tommy can't stop blaming himself.

Word Count: 3,297

Notes: Warnings for depictions of grief and references to canonical major character death.

Masterlists: Main • Series • Fic

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Chapter 6: Cursed

Dusting off her hands, Lucy looked out over the lake where they had set up camp. A fire roared to life in a small pit Johnny had dug, and they had clothes strung up on a line they’d tied between two trees. The horse had been released from the wagon to graze for a while and rest, happily munching on grass in the clearing behind them. Going to the fire, she crouched down to stir the soup they had brewing in a pot, watching the tendrils of steam rise up from it, to curl high into the air. Tommy was standing near the edge of the lake, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he stared out over the water, deep in thought. 

“Soup will be ready soon,” she commented to him as he turned around to walk back to the wagon. He just nodded, sending Johnny to go tend to the horse as he approached the wagon where Charlie was sitting, playing with little sprigs of mint that Johnny had given him. Lucy could hear the soft rumble of his voice as he began to talk to Charlie, sitting down in the wagon with him, but couldn't quite make out the words. Johnny came raging over after a few moments, agitated that the horse wouldn’t come to him. Giving the soup one final stir, she pulled the pot away from the fire so it wouldn’t burn, straightening and stretching her back, watching a family of ducks drift peacefully across the water. With a heaving sigh she headed back to the wagon and her boys.

“You watch him,” Tommy was saying to Johnny as he rose from the wagon to go tend to the horse.

“I will,” Johnny approached the wagon, peering in at Charlie. “Oh, yeah? Huh?”

Tommy shot her a partially panicked look and Lucy managed a tiny smile, patting his shoulder as she passed him.

“I got him,” she reassured.

“Thank you.”

Nodding, she climbed into the wagon. “Come here, cutie,” she scooped Charlie up to sit in her lap, smiling softly to herself at the way he reached up for her red curls. “Johnny, could you put that soup into bowls for us?”

“Sure,” he looked mildly relieved to have gotten off the hook from babysitting. He moved away from the wagon, then paused and came back. “Listen, Lucy, ‘bout what I said earlier…”

She raised an eyebrow, wondering if Tommy had said something to him about it. “Don’t worry about it.”

“It’s just…you spend so much time with us men, sometimes I forget…”

“That I’m actually a woman?” she asked, smiling faintly. “Like I said, it’s fine.”

Johnny hesitated, then shrugged. “Alright,” he headed over to the fire and the soup.

“Did you have a good chat with Daddy?” she asked, turning her attention back to Charlie. He squealed, still trying to grab her hair, leaning back against her chest and smiling up at her. “Made something for you,” from her pocket she pulled out the little wooden horse she’d spent a good portion of the trip whittling, taking care to make sure every edge of it was smooth so that Charlie wouldn’t get any splinters when he held it. She’d made dozens of little wooden horse figures for him at this point, not any one the exact same as the others.

At the sight of it, Charlie made an ecstatic sound, taking it from her with his chubby little hands and rather predictably immediately stuck the horse’s snout into his mouth. She snorted, kissing his cheek. 

“You have fun with that one now, kiddo.”

Charlie leaned against her chest, happily playing with his new toy as she held him, looking out over the lake, rocking them both mindlessly back and forth.   

“Mama?” Charlie asked suddenly, looking around like he expected her to materialize somewhere. A lump built in Lucy’s throat. So thick it felt that it might block her breathing.

“No, honey,” she stroked a few wisps of feather-soft hair away from his eyes. “I’m sorry. It’s just me and Daddy, now.”

He looked up at her with wide, confused eyes.

“But we love you very much, and we’re gonna try our best, okay?” she felt her voice break at the end, and Charlie looked at her with alarm, chubby hands reaching for her face. It was only then that she realized she’d started crying. She wiped hastily at her cheeks, smearing the tears away. Charlie squealed, and stretched up, patting her cheek a little awkwardly with one of his small hands. Lucy laughed tearfully. “Thanks, sweetheart.”

He wrapped his little arms around her, as best he could, wooden horse still clutched in one hand, and laid his head on her chest. And all of a sudden there was a lump in her throat for a very different reason as she hugged the little boy back.

When he had been born, she had been afraid that he wouldn’t like her. That the relationship she had with both of his parents would confuse him, and he wouldn’t bond with her the same way he did with Tommy and Grace. But he had taken to her almost instantly, cooing up at her and trying to snatch fistfuls of her red hair while he blinked up at her with big blue eyes. 

And credit had to go to both Tommy and Grace for helping to further foster the relationship, actively encouraging her to hold and play with him any time she wanted. 

She loved him so much. She just hoped that as he got older, he continued to be as accepting of her and her relationship with his father.

Charlie was beginning to grow heavier against her chest by the time Tommy came back to the wagon. His head was downturned, just staring at the grass as he walked, but when he looked up and saw her and Charlie in the wagon, the tortured expression on his face softened, stepping up to sit beside her.

“I think he’s about ready to go down,” Lucy told him, stoking the back of Charlie’s head. Tommy nodded silently, eyes looking them up and down. Johnny came over with two bowls of soup for them, and it took some awkward maneuvering for her to set Charlie down on the makeshift bed they’d made for him in the back of the wagon. He made a little cooing sound as she set him on the blankets, then settled, wooden horse clutched to his chest. Lucy kissed his cheek.

“Sweet dreams, Charlie.”

Crawling back to the entrance of the wagon, she sat down next to Tommy, who handed her one of the two bowls of soup currently clutched in his hands.

“Thanks.”

He just wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer until she was tucked firmly into his side, pecking the top of her head. She felt his ribs expand with his breaths, before he spoke in a small, soft voice.

“Thank you for loving him,” he whispered. Lucy looked up at him, brow furrowed slightly. The mere idea that she wouldn’t preposterous to her.

“Of course.”   

The arm around her shoulders tightened as he leaned in closer, lips brushing lightly over hers. She let her eyes flutter closed at the kiss, humming and chasing him a little even after he pulled away. Leaning with her head in the crook of his shoulder, she cozied up closer to him, allowing the heat of his body to seep into hers as they both ate small spoonfuls of their soup, watching the sun slowly start to sink behind the trees.

∗ ∗ ∗ 

It was dark, the moon having settled high up in the sky, the buzz of insects and the sound of nocturnal animals rising from their dens all around them. 

The feeling of drunkenness had settled in just as the moon had started to appear over the tops of the trees, his mind fuzzy as he sipped and sipped and sipped from the bottle Johnny had handed him. 

“What the hell is it that you even want from the Boswells, Tommy?” Johnny asked from where he was sitting by the fire.

“Absolution, Johnny,” Tommy slurred, tipping his head back to stare up at the stars. “Absolution.”

Lucy was still curled warmly against his side, only taking tiny sips from the bottle when he offered it to her. He felt it as she shivered in response to the air around them cooling from the lack of sunlight, and he squeezed her closer. Johnny eventually stood, to stomp out what remained of the fire, and Lucy pulled away, checking on Charlie one last time before she started to pull out the blankets they’d brought with them. Finishing off what little remained in the bottle, Tommy set it aside to climb in after her. They settled down beside each other, Charlie nearby and a blanket pulled over both of them. Johnny popped in briefly to snag a spare blanket, before returning outside where he intended to sleep under the stars.    

Stretching out on his side, Tommy stared at the wooden wall of the wagon, Lucy’s back to his front. His arm was around her waist as he held her under the blanket they were sharing, her head tucked under his chin. He could smell the distinctive rose scented perfume she almost always wore, burying his face deeper into her neck in an attempt to allow it to flood all his other senses. Maybe even distract himself from the pain in his heart, or the guilt torturing his mind.

One of Lucy’s hands fell onto his, stroking. “Are you awake?” she whispered into the dark of the wagon.

“Yes,” he mumbled back, being careful not to awaken Charlie. 

For a moment, she pulled away from him and he almost cried out, but then she was back, having only moved to turn herself over so she was facing him, an arm curling around his waist while she cuddled closer to his chest. Tilting her head up, she caught his lips in a kiss and he cupped the back of her head, pulling her closer to tangle their legs together. Curling his body around hers like he could somehow shield her from the entire world. Her hand was pleasantly cool where it landed on his cheek, stroking back and forth over the small scar there as they kissed. 

When they parted, he pressed another kiss into her forehead, holding her as close as he could get her in his arms.

She was the only real comfort he had from the storm of heartbreak, grief, and guilt. The only one who understood. Charlie was too young, and the rest of his family had never really warmed to Grace like he had hoped they would.

“I don’t think I would have survived any of this without you,” he whispered. Lucy’s eyes were like twin green jewels gleaming at him sadly in the dark, her face close enough to his that he could count the freckles on her cheeks. 

“You’d have been okay.”

He shook his head. He wouldn’t. He would’ve fallen completely apart without her. 

Lucy’s thumb was stroking between his shoulder blades. “Are you ready for tomorrow?”

Sighing, Tommy distracted himself by curling his fingers around one of her hips. “No,” he shuddered involuntarily at the thought of what Madame Boswell might say. Unsure which of the two potential answers to his question he even wanted to hear.  

He had the sapphire stored away in a box within a box in the back of the wagon. No way in hell was he letting anyone else touch it. Not even Lucy.

Especially not Lucy. 

Just the idea of losing her too had him squeezing her a little tighter to him. Lucy continued to stroke his back, pressing a kiss to the hollow of his throat.

“Try to rest, love,” she said, softly.

“I can’t sleep,” he admitted, swallowing as he stared up at the wooden ceiling of the wagon, suddenly feeling panicked at the possibility of being left alone with his own thoughts.

“I know. Me neither,” she nuzzled closer. “But try to rest anyway.”

Nodding, he buried his face in her hair, attempting to allow the feeling of having her so close to soothe him enough to relax. “I love you.”

“I love you too,” she was still stroking his back, and he focused on that, allowing just the light touch to occupy his mind rather than the dark, creeping thoughts of guilt and grief that were waiting to consume him whole the first chance that they got. 

To remind him that Grace was dead. Gone forever. 

He knew that Lucy placed the blame mostly on John and the Changrettas. And he could see why. John had made stupid, terrible decisions. And the Changrettas’ responsibility in the whole affair was obvious. 

But it was not John who had declared that they continued to escalate and take the Changrettas’ pubs. It was not John who hadn’t been fast enough to pull Grace out of the assassin’s line of fire.

It was him. And no matter what Lucy said, nothing would convince him that there wasn’t something else he could have done in response to his brother’s foolish actions. Something more he could have done in that split second he saw the flash of the gun in the assassin’s hand before it went off.    

Grace was never coming back. 

And that it was all his fault.  

∗ ∗ ∗ 

The few dried, orangish brown leaves left on the tree branches shuddered with the wind, trembling eerily above them. The expanse of the vast, green clearing stretching out in every direction. Fog rolled in from the hills, and Lucy for a moment felt like she was in one of those Gothic novels she had read a few years back, when she’d been on a kick for those types of stories.

The wind was biting and cold, nipping mercilessly at her cheeks and piercing through the material of her coat. Shivering, she looped her arm with Tommy’s, pressing in closer to his side while they watched the wagon approach them. The horse drawing it pulled to a halt, and Johnny and a woman leapt out. Johnny strode past them without stopping, climbing further up the hill to wait until they had finished their discussion. Madame Boswell approached them more slowly, picking her way carefully across the grass and rocks until she came to a stop in front of them.

“Thank you for your time, Madame Boswell.”

“I heard someone shot your wife,” she said without preamble, eyes almost pitying. Lucy watched her with what she imagined had to be a dulled, exhausted expression as she made an offer of soldiers which Tommy dismissed. When he moved to reach into his pocket, he gently shook her off of his arm. Not unkindly, or because he didn’t want her touch, she knew. But because he was terrified of her even touching the blue sapphire that he pulled from his pocket. When she’d offered to grab it for him that morning from the box within a box she knew he’d stored it in, he’d all but had conniption. Complete with a shout of terror and a hand seizing her arm to pull her away and towards him. Like he was trying to physically protect her from it. 

He handed the stone, still on the silver chain he’d had it attached to, over to Madame Boswell. 

Lucy watched the old woman carefully, as Tommy questioned her about whether or not she would take it, looking for any sign of alarm or fear as she held the huge stone up to her eye.

“My wife was wearing it the night she was shot,” Tommy said, eyes downcast. “And I lie awake at night, at four in the fucking morning, and I blame myself for her death. I pushed some people too far.”

Now that the sapphire was no longer in his hand anymore, Lucy curled herself back around his arm, giving him a small, comforting squeeze as if that would somehow help to banish away the guilt she knew still ravaged his mind. 

“You want me to tell you this jewel is cursed, and then her death won’t be all your fault,” Madame Boswell was looking at him knowingly.

Tommy glanced around the field, lips parted. “If I believed in priests, I would confess and ask for forgiveness, but all I have is you, Madame Boswell,” he looked at her levelly. “I have a son. I have business. I need to get some sleep.”

Lucy stroked her thumb over the thick fabric of his coat covering his bicep, where her hands had nestled. Madame Boswell’s eyes, very briefly darted to her face, and Lucy tried her hardest to relay her thoughts to her.

Please.

“It is cursed,” she said, finally, nodding with sympathetic eyes. “I feel its curse burning through my hand.”

Lucy let out a small exhale of air. Tommy stared at Madame Boswell, then nodded, once. Without a word, he spun on his heel, and started to walk away. Lucy loosened her hold on him and let him go, still standing in front of Madame Boswell as she watched him begin to climb the hill towards Johnny. 

“Bless you, Tommy Shelby. You’ll have good fortune from now on,” Madame Boswell called after him.

“If you have any sense,” Lucy started, pausing and wetting her lips as she stared at the sapphire. “You’d throw that stone into the river.”

Madame Boswell looked at her with wise old eyes.

“Don’t let anyone ever wear it.”

Satisfied to have said her piece, and figuring that was warning enough, she turned and followed Tommy up the hill, half jogging to catch up to him and Johnny.

“All religion is a foolish answer to a foolish question,” Tommy was saying in response to Johnny’s earnest questions.

“What does that mean?” Johnny sputtered.

“We’ll go and get Charlie from the camp. He’ll have learned enough bad habits by now. You can drop us to the train station,” Tommy pulled out a cigarette from his case. “And Johnny-boy, if I were you, I’d come back here tonight later on. It’s gonna be one hell of a big fucking party.”

Johnny shook his head from where he had climbed back up into the wagon. “Your man’s lost his fucking mind, Winters,” he said to her. Lucy chuckled, pecking a kiss to Tommy’s cheek as she passed him, before taking Johnny’s offered hand to help haul her up into the wagon.

∗ ∗ ∗ 

Polly and the girls in the office all stared at them as they stepped inside, striding through the double doors and towards Tommy’s large desk at the end of the room. Lucy made herself comfortable in one of the chairs across from him as he sat down behind it. A moment later, the women followed them in with some papers he needed to sign.

Lucy lit a cigarette, foot tapping impatiently against the floorboards. It wouldn’t be long now.

As the women filed their way back out the door, Tommy’s eyes raised to meet hers. She could feel the very beginnings of adrenaline flooding her system. The chains that she’d kept her rage and grief tethered with were straining. As if the monsters she’d locked up knew that soon they would be released and allowed to run free.

Tommy blinked once at her, understanding. Silently, he rose from his seat, looking taller than normal, and picked up the picture of Grace and Charlie he kept on his desk, crossing the room to place it away in a drawer. Then he held out a hand to her. Lucy swallowed hard, setting her cigarette between her lips, and took it.

Thank you for reading! Please consider leaving a comment, reblog, or like. I always appreciate feedback and love getting the opportunity to interact with you and hear your thoughts!

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Masterlists: Main • Series • Fic

#tommy shelby #tommy shelby x oc #peaky blinders #lucy winters #lucy winters x tommy shelby #lucy winters x tommy shelby x grace burgess #lucy winters x grace burgess #grace burgess x oc #tommy shelby x grace burgess x oc #in the bleak midwinter

[hollandorks]

shadows in the night

battinson!bruce wayne x f!reader

chapter three

summary: more than a year after the events of middle of the night, y/n and Bruce are happily engaged and working to lower the amount of crime in Gotham. However, a new killer calling himself the Riddler has other plans for their happiness…set during the events of the movie, mostly canonical, some changes made to fit the story

a/n: Time for another chapter! Trying to stick to a twice a week schedule for now until the draft of the fic is completed! I’ll be going on vacation starting this Sunday so I’m not sure when ch 4 will be posted. I’m going to try to make time to post while I’m gone though! Also, yes I am randomly changing the setting of the house around to make it not be the tower but still fit with the movie! 

If you feel like supporting me further, donate to my ko-fi! You can get either a teaser for the next chapter (for lower donation amounts) or the entire next chapter (higher donation amounts). Find more info and the link to my ko-fi here!

Series Masterlist

word count: 3448

She really had a bad feeling about this. Something was brewing in Gotham, and Batman was at the center of it all.

The roar of Bruce’s motorcycle preceded him into the Batcave by several minutes. The bats that had settled after y/n’s earlier entrance now took off again, screeching and chittering in a familiar rush of noise. 

She wanted to ask Bruce a bunch of questions, but she waited while he removed the motorcycle helmet, set aside the backpack with the cowl in it, and walked over to the workstation that held the screen. 

He took out the contacts and earpiece and set them both in their proper place. 

His shoulders were tense. His face was drawn and tired. 

Y/n tried really hard not to chew a hole in her lip. 

“I can hear you, you know,” Bruce murmured as he started his routine replay of the night. On screen, a subway station materialized, a gang of men in weird face paint watching him from a distance. 

“Hear what?” she asked with a frown. She hadn’t sighed, had she? She was trying to be patient, but– 

“Biting your tongue and trying not to ask a million questions.” He gave her a small lift of the lips that could have been a smile. 

She smiled a little sheepishly. “Sorry.” 

He brushed one knuckle against her cheek and pulled his latest journal closer. “You watch, I’ll write.” 

She nodded, glad that the curiosity burning a hole in her chest would soon be eased. Bruce reached around her and turned up what she referred to as his “moody writing playlist,” which was mostly a bunch of Nirvana. He always listened to something while he wrote and watched the replays of his night. When she’d asked about it, he’d said it helped him to get his mind off of things, helped him focus his thoughts more objectively by not getting as caught up in the recordings. Without the music, he was too focused on the recordings when he wanted to be shedding the Batman for the night. 

As Bruce started scribbling furiously, she watched his night unfold across the screen. The face-paint guys were getting their asses kicked. 

“I’m vengeance,” Bruce’s voice said on the screen. 

Y/n couldn’t help it. She snorted. “You’re so dramatic,” she teased, earning herself a small smile from Bruce as he wrote. 

She watched him take her call the moment he’d finished kicking those guys’ asses, watched him meet with Gordon and receive the news about the interim mayor. 

“Unbelievable breaking news this hour, everyone,” the GC1 anchor said from behind them on the screen playing the news. Y/n hit pause on Bruce’s recordings to listen. Might be better to ease into it before she watched the crime scene footage. “Interim Mayor Don Mitchell, Jr. was found murdered last night inside his home in the exclusive Crest Hill district.” 

A woman’s voice chimed in. “Exact details of the crime still have not been released, but a citywide manhunt is already underway as police and FBI search for the brazen killer. And this certainly is not the first time Gotham has been rocked by the murder of a political figure. In fact, in an eerie coincidence, it was 20 years ago this week that celebrated billionaire philanthropist Dr. Thomas Wayne and his wife Martha were slain during Wayne’s own mayoral campaign. It was a shocking crime that remains unsolved to this day.” 

She and Bruce both froze. He reached over and turned off the music. He was trying to downplay it, but she could see how his whole body tensed. How every single part of him was suddenly focused on the news. 

The news anchors continued. “Don Mitchell, Jr.’s political career was especially notable for his tough war on drugs when he and city police launched a major sting operation, resulting in the arrest of notorious mafia crime figure Salvatore Maroni with what, to this day, remains the biggest drug bust in GCPD history.” 

The elevator rattled to a halt and Alfred came limping out. 

The news reporter continued, “Don Mitchell, Jr. has had such a successful run as interim mayor that he had planned to–” 

Bruce and y/n both turned back to the replay of the night while the news played on. 

“I assume you’ve heard about this,” Alfred said as he handed Bruce a glass of green juice. He patted y/n on the arm. “I didn’t know you were back, dear, or I would have brought some down for you as well.” 

Y/n glanced suspiciously at the juice. “That’s alright, I ate at the restaurant.” It was a lie–she’d completely forgotten until that moment to eat. She’d been too worried about Bruce, too caught up in working to keep her mind off of what was going on. 

On the screen in front of them was a man with his face completely wrapped in duct tape. 

“All this blood’s from his head?” Gordon asked on the video. 

Y/n swallowed. Bruce was tense next to her. She had no idea if it was because of the murder in front of them or the mention of the anniversary of his parents’ murders, or both. 

A second detective on screen answered Gordon. “Most of it’s from his hand. Thumb was severed. Killer may have taken it as a trophy.” 

Y/n swallowed again and averted her eyes as Bruce’s lens went to the aforementioned severed thumb. 

“He was alive when it was cut off. Ecchymosis…around the wound.” Bruce’s voice on the video, this time. 

“Nerd,” she muttered, elbowing him. She couldn’t help it. He was on edge, and she wanted to make it better. It worked, a little. He at the very least rolled his eyes as they continued to watch the crime scene unfold. 

After a couple of minutes, Bruce printed out a copy of the card the killer had left him. 

“I don’t like this,” she said softly as her eyes skimmed over the words. Bruce started scribbling furiously on the printout. He lies still. She had no idea how he’d figured out the riddle so fast, and in front of a bloodied body no less. Sometimes she forgot just how smart he was. 

Alfred’s gaze darted between Bruce writing and the screen, where Gordon was holding up an envelope that was addressed to Batman. “The killer left this for the Batman?” he asked incredulously. 

“Apparently,” Bruce muttered. 

“You’re becoming quite a celebrity.” 

Y/n kept quiet, eyes fixed on the screen, brain whirring. This wasn’t good, she thought for the hundredth time. She had a really bad feeling about all of this, and she couldn’t shake it. Now that she was seeing what Bruce had seen…

“Why is he writing to you?” she and Alfred asked at the exact same time. They exchanged a sharp look. 

Bruce was unphased. “I don’t know yet.” 

There was tension in Alfred’s eyes. He was as freaked out as she was, y/n realized. And Bruce was acting like nothing out of the ordinary had happened. 

“Have a shower,” Alfred said authoritatively. “Our accounting friends at Wayne Enterprises are coming for breakfast.” 

Y/n and Bruce both jerked their heads towards Alfred. 

“Here? Why?” Bruce demanded. His shoulders were even more tense than before, if that was impossible. She gently laid a hand on the crook of his elbow. She could feel the hard edge of the suit armor beneath the jacket. 

“Because I couldn’t get you to go there,” Alfred snapped. Usually Alfred wasn’t like this but this new killer had them all so immediately on edge she knew he was struggling to control himself. She knew what they were all thinking about–another case, another murder, another mayor. It was like it was still haunting them, even after more than a year. 

“I haven’t got time for this.” 

“It’s getting serious, Bruce. If this continues, it won’t be long before you’ve nothing left.” Alfred’s fists clenched. 

“I don’t care about that. Any of that.” 

Y/n tried very hard to disappear into the shadows like Bruce did so well. She didn’t want to be a part of this argument.  

Alfred’s voice was calmer now. “You don’t care about your family’s legacy? About your life with y/n? Your future?” 

“What I’m doing is my family’s legacy. If I can’t change things, Gotham will destroy our future. If I can’t change things here, if I can’t have an effect, then I don’t care what happens to me.” Bruce clenched his jaw so tightly she was sure it would break. 

“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Alfred said a bit sadly. It’s what y/n was afraid of too, though she didn’t chime in. This was between the two of them. 

Bruce gave a humorless smirk. “Alfred, stop. You’re not my father.” She couldn’t help her wince at the words. 

Alfred’s expression closed off immediately. “I’m well aware.” Her heart squeezed at the obvious pain in the older man’s eyes. 

“Bruce–” she said, but he smacked a button on the computer to print something and stalked off to the elevator. 

She and Alfred shared a look after Bruce was gone. 

“I’m sorry,” she said. “He–” 

“You don’t need to apologize for him,” Alfred said softly. “He’s right, I’m not his father. But…” 

“I know,” she said. But Bruce needed someone to look out for him. “He’s being a dick. I’ll talk to him.” 

Alfred gave her a small smile. Behind her, the computer was still playing Bruce’s night. A shift in Alfred’s expression had her turning to look at the screen.  

On the screen, a young boy sat alone on a bed. 

“We really gotta go, man,” Gordon said on the recording. 

Alfred closed his eyes and sighed. 

“Oh,” y/n said, suddenly understanding Bruce’s mood a lot better. 

The boy had found his father.

Just like Bruce had seen his parents get killed, almost exactly twenty years ago. 

Once, when she was recovering in the hospital from the events of the gala, Alfred had told her that Bruce blamed himself for the murder of his parents. He’d only been a kid at the time, but apparently that hadn’t mattered. It’s what had started him on this whole journey to becoming Batman. 

Her heart broke for Bruce all over again. 

“Let me–Let me talk to him,” y/n said as Alfred picked up the card and the cipher Bruce had printed. 

“Thank you, dear,” Alfred murmured. They shared another look. Without saying the words, she knew Alfred’s heart was breaking all over again for Bruce, just like hers was. But worse, because Alfred had lived through it, too. She squeezed his arm on her way to the elevator. 

–

Upstairs, Bruce was coming out of the shower, towel slung low on his waist, hair dripping water down his scarred and muscled chest. Normally, the sight would have driven her to distraction–and maybe into action–but her mind was too full of too many other things. 

“I’m sorry,” she said to him. “About–what you saw at the crime scene. I know–” 

He brushed past her to the dresser. 

“I know it’s hard,” she continued obstinately. “But you should be nicer to Alfred. He loves you. We both love you.” 

“I know,” Bruce snapped. He abruptly softened. He rested one clenched fist against the top of his dresser. “I know,” he said again. “I’ll–I should apologize.” 

“Yeah, you should.” When his head snapped up, she smiled so he would know she was being purposefully hard on him. 

“I don’t–why are the accountants coming here?” he asked suddenly. He yanked on a pair of pants. 

“Beats me. Although I probably pay about as much attention to this stuff as you do.” She shrugged. It was the truth. Wayne Enterprises had never particularly fascinated her, although Alfred had told her she would own shares of it when she and Bruce got married. She didn’t care about it, partly because Bruce didn’t care about it. She understood where he was coming from downstairs. The money didn’t matter. Helping Gotham mattered. Being together mattered. If they were broke and had to live under a bridge, she didn’t care, so long as he was with her. 

“We should probably go downstairs,” Bruce said as he blindly grabbed a shirt from the dresser. He seemed a little less tense and a little more guilty now. 

She tugged on his wrist as he walked past her. He stopped and looked down at ther. He softened further as he studied her. Her thumb stroked over the soft part of the inside of his wrist. 

“Hi,” she said with a soft smile. “Feel like I didn’t actually get to say hi to you yet.” 

“Hi,” he murmured.

She stood on her toes and kissed him lightly. “I love you.” 

“I love you.” He squeezed her hip with his free hand. There was a storm in his blue eyes, but it dimmed, just a bit, as he stared down at her.  

“Come on, Alfred might not be your dad, but he might still spank you.” 

Bruce snorted and followed her out to where Alfred was waiting in the large study on the other end of the second floor. They’d had a giant table put in so they could work at the same time, or use the separate desks in the space if they didn’t. Usually it was Bruce who spread papers across the entire surface, but she’d done the same thing when she was first launching the Gotham Project. It was a makeshift study and a smaller version of the library upstairs all rolled into one. 

Alfred’s preferred music–classical–drifted down the hallway to meet them. 

“Some fresh berries there,” Alfred said without looking up. Still mad, y/n thought with a grimace. Bruce idly lifted a blueberry to his mouth as he peered over Alfred’s shoulder at the cipher. 

Y/n excused herself to the kitchen to make coffee, leaving Alfred and Bruce to it. She hoped Bruce would apologize, but she wasn’t holding her breath. Even now, even after everything, getting Bruce to talk about his feelings was like pulling teeth and herding cats at the same time. Painful and impossible and sometimes not worth the hassle. He was most open with her, but with Alfred…it was hard to break old habits. For both of them. 

As her coffee machine percolated happily, her phone chimed with an alert. The accountants had been let in the gate and were making their way to the manor. 

She grabbed her coffee cup and went to the front door, glad she had dressed a little better than Bruce had as she greeted a couple of really professional looking accountants. She led them into the formal dining room–a room they had never used in all of her time in Wayne Manor–where breakfast was already waiting. 

“I’ll go get Mr. Wayne,” she said to the accountants, hustling out before she could get caught in conversation. “Please, help yourselves.” 

“The accountants are here,” she said to Alfred and Bruce when she re-entered the study. She tried really hard not to laugh at Bruce wearing sunglasses inside, but didn’t quite manage it. He sighed softly. He knew exactly what she was smirking about. 

She started silently praying that she, too, didn’t have to sit in on what was going to be a deathly boring meeting. 

“Go on, then,” Alfred gestured at Bruce. “Let’s go have breakfast. Y/n, you should get some sleep.” 

She opened her mouth to ask how he’d known, but then realized it was Alfred. Of course he knew she hadn’t slept, just like Bruce hadn’t slept. 

“Have fun.” She winked at Bruce, who winced. She was immensely glad she wasn’t to be included. 

She glanced at the cipher, now covered in letters, before immediately giving up. She wasn’t good at those sorts of things. 

After a few minutes, her curiosity got the better of her, and she wandered downstairs towards the dining room. She wasn’t going to eavesdrop, exactly, just make sure Bruce wasn’t causing a scene. That’s what she told herself, at least, as she clutched her coffee tightly and stopped just down the hallway out of sight. 

“–won’t sign a prenup. Everything is hers, whether I’m alive or dead. In fact, when we get married, she can have my shares in Wayne Enterprises. I don’t care. Everything I have is already hers, if she wants it.” 

Well, she thought drily. Looks like he’s causing a scene already. 

Then the words sank in. 

This meeting was about her. About getting Bruce involved in the company, but also ensuring that the company was safe from her. An oily feeling slithered slowly down her spine. Her gut clenched. Even as long as they’d been together, they thought she was going to steal the company and the Wayne money. 

But Bruce wanted her to have all of it. 

She flushed. 

“--be hasty, Mr. Wayne,” Alfred was saying in a soothing voice. “We’ll just add that to your living will, and then we’ll add her name to the shares upon your marriage like we discussed.” 

Bruce’s voice rose and fell again, interrupted by that of the accountants. 

Y/n really shouldn’t be eavesdropping. She crept back to their bedroom with her coffee and climbed into bed in the dark. The curtains were drawn, as usual, and she didn’t even bother turning on a lamp. As soon as Bruce was done, it was time for bed. 

Everything I have is already hers, if she wants it. 

She knew he loved her. Knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. But something about those words in particular caused warmth to surge through her while a lump formed in her throat. He was telling that–and vehemently–to official Wayne Enterprises accountants. 

It wasn’t much longer before Bruce came stomping into the room, shucking his shirt off as he went. He was muttering to himself, clearly worked up. 

“Hi,” she said. She set her empty coffee cup on the nightstand. 

He looked up guiltily. Even in the dark, she could tell he was flushed. “Oh–were you sleeping?” 

“No, your hissy fit was keeping me up.” But she smiled. He rolled his eyes. 

Bruce slid into the covers beside her and yanked her almost roughly to his bare chest. “They think you’re after my money,” he said angrily. 

“Oh, I am,” she said. 

He ignored her and continued on, “They want me to sign a prenup and they want me to keep you from owning shares of the company. At all.” His body was tensing more and more by the second. She knew that this, on top of everything he’d seen last night, was too much for him. “I don’t even–” 

“Shh,” she said. “If it makes everyone happy, I’ll sign. I don’t care about the money. We could live under a bridge for all I cared, as long as you were there. And as long as I had access to coffee.” 

She kissed the underside of his jaw. He relaxed marginally. 

“I’ll sign the whole goddamn company over to you right now just to spite them,” Bruce muttered. “You’d be better with it anyways.” 

Y/n stiffened. “I really don’t want that,” she said a bit breathlessly. It would be a nightmare, to say the least. 

“You’d be so good at it. I’ve seen what you’ve done with the Gotham Project in less than a year and–” 

“Okay, but Bryn and Ollie keep that place running, for the most part. Hey, maybe we should give Wayne Enterprises to them.” 

Finally, Bruce relaxed into her touch, and laughed. “I would really consider it, if it wouldn’t give Alfred an aneurism.” 

She huffed a laugh at the thought. “Yeah, let’s keep Alfred healthy. Between the two of us, he already has high blood pressure.” 

Bruce nuzzled his face into her hair and took a deep breath. Then another. Slowly, they both relaxed into each other’s warmth until their breathing matched. 

“I’m…scared,” y/n finally whispered. She hid her face in the space Bruce’s neck met his shoulder. She breathed in the scent of him. “I don’t like that this guy, this killer, addressed a card to you. And with Mitchell–” 

“I know,” Bruce murmured. “I’ll figure it out. But after you get a few hours of sleep first.” 

“Me?” she asked. One eyebrow quirked upwards even though he couldn’t see it, as tucked underneath his chin as she was. “I’ll sleep if you do.” 

She started to pull away but Bruce tightened his grip. He sighed. “Fine.” 

“Good, I was about to threaten you if you didn’t give in.” 

“Mmm.” 

She grinned. He was already almost asleep. 

She let his quiet breathing soothe her until she too fell asleep, cradled in his arms.

Next Chapter

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