YOU WHO WILLED THE SUN | Levi Ackerman x F!Reader x Erwin Smith (1/2)
Having had enough of your father pushing suitor after suitor on you, you make a vow: before the night is over, you will experience pleasure on your own terms.
But as the saying goes, forbidden fruit is the sweetest—and no fruit is more tempting than the one your two knights have to offer.
FANDOM: Attack on Titan
PAIRING: Levi Ackerman / Female Reader / Erwin Smith
CONTENT: 18+ - MDNI · Royalty AU, Inspired by HOTD, Attempted Assault (not by Erwin/Levi!), Period-Typical Sexism, Swearing, Hurt/Comfort, Drinking, Pining, Eventual Smut, Threesome, First Time
NOTES: Painting used in the header is by Hubert Robert (1733-1808), divider to seperate scenes is by @/strangergraphics.
WORDS: 5.5k
ㅤ ㅤ✶ READ ON AO3 / NEXT PART ✶
"Princess Reiss, her Royal Highness, First of her Name, and Heir to the Throne of Paradis!"
The attendant bellows out your many titles, the sound of which echoes in the great halls of your forefathers.
In the distance, a crowd has amassed where your father sits on the throne. All eyes turn as you step in, and you realize there was a reason behind your lady's maid fretting over your hair this morning.
Your eye twitches.
Another day, another suitor.
"This is Floch Forster, your Highness." The Hand of the King gestures towards your father's latest pick. "Lord of Utopia."
The man—Floch—runs a hand through his hair as you set your gaze on him.
He's tall, you suppose, and handsome enough. But he looks at you like some trifling prize to be won, and that makes your jaw tight. You will be Queen of the Realm one day—someone he owes allegiance to, not the other way around.
He won't do.
The meeting does not go well, and you send this Floch character on his way quickly enough. You can tell he's displeased, what with the way he bristles and huffs like a peacock, glares at the floor like it had personally insulted him. You don’t care; you can't imagine a union with a man like him—someone who'd never see you as his equal, but try to undermine your influence and power every step of the way.
Masculine arrogance truly knows no bounds.
In truth, the prospect of marriage has never appealed to you. If it were up to you, you’d ascend the throne by yourself, and rule without the presence of some man who'd expect you to push babe after babe from your womb. But, of course, as a woman, you have little say in the matter.
"I will not tolerate you not marrying, daughter," the King warns later on.
You're now dining with your father in the main halls—alone, aside from the presence of knights and servants. You pay neither your father nor them any mind, digging into your vegetables solemnly.
"Do you have nothing to say?" your father grumbles. "Nothing to apologize for? This is the third match you send away! Soon, the realm will run out of suitors."
You lift your cool gaze at him. You know your father means well by introducing you to suitors, that he loves you in his own way. But the way he keeps on pushing man after man on you is simply suffocating. If you were to ever marry, you would much prefer for it to be with someone you actually cared about. You'd want for things to happen naturally.
But the future of the realm, of securing a bloodline, waits for no one.
"I don’t see the issue here," you say. "I will marry when I find the right candidate."
"Yes, and when will that be? When I am dead and buried underground?"
You roll your eyes. "Really, must you be so dramatic, father?"
"You are the reason your father is so dramatic!" Now he stands. No longer is the look he sends one a father gives his daughter—no, this is the look that a king gives his subject. "My advisors tell me I am too lenient with you, but long have I ignored their plights. Now, I see that I have been blind."
"And what of my plights, Father? Do I have no say in my future? What if I wished to rule alone?"
"Your plights are of no consequence to the realm, foolish girl. A woman cannot rule alone." Your father’s jaw locks, tight as a bowstring. "You will marry before this year is over. Is that understood?"
You scoff. "You cannot possibly—"
"Oh, but I can because I am your king and when I speak, my word is law," he snarls, slamming a fist on the table. A jug of water tips over—neither of you pay attention to it. A servant scurries to handle the mess. "You either listen to me now, or I will force you down the aisle myself until you produce heirs of your own."
His threat hang in the air. You feel its weight on you, like physical chains summoned around your wrists. It makes you grit your teeth, setting your glare onto your curled fists laid out on your laps.
The tension could be cut open.
You push your chair back, the feet rattling against the stone ground, and stand up. "Fine. Breed me like a brooding mare, if that’s all you care about."
Your father grates out your first name. "And where do you think you're going? We aren't done."
"But we are!" You swerve your attention back on him, shooting him a look of absolute vitriol. You don't remember the last time you had such an argument with him. "I'm going back to my books, while I still have the liberty to read freely."
"Daughter—"
"—or will you take that right away now, too?"
At your words, your father's eyes gleam furiously. "This is not the end of this. You will marry, and if you don't make a choice soon, I will make it for you."
You say nothing in return, letting the echo of your scattered footsteps be the answer to your father’s penance.
As you exit the halls that night, you don't see the worried looks your two guards exchange as they follow you out.
You do not go back to your books.
As soon as you’re inside your chambers, you lock the door shut, only to hurl a nearby vase across the room. It shatters in a hundred pieces, but it gives you none of the relief you thought it might. With blood pumping through your veins; you heave like you just escaped an apex predator’s claws.
You grit your teeth.
It’s all so unfair. That your father expects you to fall back into line, to do as he says, simply because he commands it. Has he forgotten the child you once were, or does he simply refuse to see the real you?
Damn him. Damn this whole system that cursed you the moment you were born. Another princess might have wept or accepted her fate, but not you.
Tonight, you’re breaking free.
"Princess?" a concerned voice comes from the other side of the thick wooden door.
It is soon followed by two knocks, slow and firm. The voice belongs to one man, the knocks to another. Your guards.
"Leave me," you tell them. "I do not wish to be disturbed,"
The two men, Erwin Smith and Levi Ackerman, have known you since childhood . They understand you well enough to recognize that you're not actually fine, but thankfully, they seem to respect your need for privacy. Erwin lets you know they’re just outside the door if you need anything. You already know you won’t call for them.
Not tonight.
No, tonight, they can’t follow you down this path. Despite being lifelong friends, this journey is one you must make alone.
You eye the corner of your chambers.
There is a secret passage just behind the bookcase of your bedroom. It is not known by many—just you and your guards. It is the same passageway you would often take to meet Levi and Erwin in secret, to watch them spar on the training field, to talk about books and dreams when all still seemed within your grasp.
It seems you must grasp one more dream for yourself.
The streets of Mitras are lively in the evenings.
Filled with jesters and children, dancers and sell-swords, merchants and entertainers, there is much that is happening tonight. The thick stench of sweat and mud, the taste of tart pie and mead, the sound of songs and gossip. It paints a study in the everyday lives of common folks.
As you make your way further down the web of the city, you feel equal parts thrilled and anxious. This is the first time you’re out without your guards and you can’t help but feel bare without them. Clad in a cloak with a dagger and bag strapped to your hip, you know to remain prudent.
You’re on a mission, after all, one that is personal, and you do not wish to be stopped.
Sex.
The concept isn’t foreign to you. You know what coupling is; you’ve seen peaks of it in stories, You know that sex isn’t simply something that people do to procreate, but that it is immense pleasure. Men and women do it, but also men and men, women and women, and all genders that come in between.
You think that this is what pushed you to step out of the comfort of your room tonight. Pleasure, with someone who would be willing to do it for you—not because you must, but because you both want to.
Only now that you’re here, you hesitate. The Perfumed Quarters, where you now stand, carry the finest brothels. You’re certain that with the coin you carry, you might find one that would be discreet enough to give you the pleasures you desire.
Man or woman, you would have your pick.
But are you really daring enough to do this?
You close your eyes, fidgeting with your hands as you eye the entrance door. You had a glass of whiskey before leaving—some liquid courage for the road—but now... you suddenly wish you’d taken the whole bottle with you.
"Hullo there, pretty thin’," slurs a voice close to your ears. The stench of alcohol that permeates makes your stomach wrench. The face of a man gazing at you greets you. The man smiles. "My, y'ar quite the sight. Skin like velvet..."
He reaches out to touch your face, but you flinch back.
"Dressed so prettily too... Are ya one of the whores working here, hm? An escaped rabbit from her cage?"
Your brows knit together. "You misunderstand, sire. I'm not a working woman. I simply—"
The man does not listen, seizing one of your wrists. Your brows scrunch low, and with your free hand, you slide out your dagger, showing him you're no helpless thing.
A callous bark rumbles out of him. "Is’tis part of the act, hah? The little rabbit has fangs, and I get to eat ya whole?"
Before you have a chance to show him just how real your fangs are, however, your peripheral catches a flash of silver. A long blade cuts the space between the two of you.
"Get your filthy hands off of her."
You freeze; you could recognize that baritone anywhere.
Sure enough, no later than a second after, you catch sight of Levi and his golden cloak. He’s the one delivering the threat, though you soon realize he’s not alone: Erwin, to his right, assesses the situation with a hawk-like gaze.
"Golden cloaked guards from the palace." The stranger's eyes are wide with fear as he stares back at you. "But that means, you must be..."
"No one you need to concern yourself with," Levi says dryly, stepping in between you and the man, "now, I won't repeat myself, if you wanna live—scram."
The knot in the man's throat bobs uncertainly, but he seizes his chance while he still can—he scurries away. You scowl, watching his retreating form. You know Levi only let him go to avoid needless attention, but that criminal deserved a lot worse than what he got. Under your rule, you'll make sure the people working the streets receive better protection.
You do not get time to contemplate this ethical dilemma for much longer, however, because you’re soon reminded of your guards' presences.
Levi's eyes narrow in your direction. "Explain."
"Not here." Erwin steps closer to you as well, looking over his shoulder. "We’re drawing unwanted attention."
Levi sheathes back his sword, his glare still set on you. "Fine. Let’s go then."
Despite their words, you stay rooted to your spot.
"It wasn’t a request." Levi turns, clearly exasperated. He grabs your wrist.
You grit your teeth. "I will once you unhand me."
Levi’s gaze levels with you, looking at you like you were glass. He finally releases you, but not without his own flair; he crosses his arms over his chest, staring at you like he expects you to make a run for it, to fight him on this.
You roll your eyes. How dramatic. Even if you could somehow outrun them, your interest for tonight has all but soured.
And so, you diligently follow them, with Erwin leading, while Levi walks behind you. Both of them are quiet on the walk back, the sound of their armors clinking through the cobblestone streets of the city. Neither wish to attract attention to the fact that they are escorting the future queen of the realm, heading straight into the castle's back way passage.
It is the calm before the storm.
"What the hell were you thinking, Princess?" is the first thing Levi says the moment he ceremoniously drags you into your chambers, hand firmly attached to your elbow.
Levi forces the cloak and weapon off of you, a glint in his eyes that makes it clear he's pissed.
You glare at him, ripping your arm away from him.
Out of your two guards, Levi Ackerman is always the one quickest to rile up. You think he has a bad temper and a mouth that ought to be washed with soap. For this reason, you often bicker with him, partly because you're often too prideful to admit defeat, but also because you secretly enjoy the banter.
Tonight, however, you do not have the will to fight.
"I do not know, Levi." You sigh, heading towards your vanity to place down your bag. "I just wished to wander by myself, I suppose."
"Into the Perfumed Quarters?" he grumbles. "Don't you know what business goes on in that part of town?"
You whip your head around. "Of course I know. I'm not an idiot."
"Really?" Levi sneers. "Could've fooled me, Princess."
He pops the p in your title, just the way he knows you hate it. Your eyes narrow.
"Let her regain her breath, Levi," Erwin interrupts, effectively breaking apart this building feud. He's made sure to close every door, every window, shut. He sidesteps the broken vase, the pieces of which are still scattered by the entrance. "I'm sure there's a perfectly good explanation for all of this."
Erwin observes you, seeking to understand. He's different from Levi in that way. He's more patient, more calm than his counterpart. Still, under that mask of stillness lurks a cleverness that you've learned not to take lightly.
You hate this—hate that you've ended up caught red-handed by these two men, by your friends. How did they even notice you were missing? You thought you were being discreet. Knowing them, they probably defied your orders and checked on you, only to discover your treachery. You sigh, cursing yourself inwardly. Out of everyone who might have caught you, why did it have to be them?
This feels like a cruel joke from the Gods.
The three of you grew up together. First as a girl and two young squires, later as a princess and her two knights. Yours is a relationship forged in friendship, in trust, in loyalty. Where the princess goes, so does her two guards. There is no one she trusts more.
You've heard the whispers over the years. The words that rivals in court like to spin—those who'd rather slit their throats than see a woman like you sit on the throne. A whore, the little birds whisper. A princess that dared to lower herself by opening her legs not to one, but to both her guards.
None of it is true, of course.
But perhaps it is the spirit from earlier that emboldens you, but you find yourself wishing it were, to at least have this part of yourself that would be yours.
"Earth to the princess of the realm," Levi's chastising voice echoes in your ears, making you retreat out of your thoughts. One of your eye twitches as you glance at him. "What the hell were you doing tonight? Don't you know what those places offer?"
"Of course I know, Levi. Did you ever consider that I sought such an establishment for that exact purpose?"
"What?"
It is no secret that Levi’s mother used to be a prostitute. You know he doesn’t see the job of a working woman or man as lesser, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t look down on people who take advantage of workers and enable establishments from profiting off their labor.
It must bother him, your words.
You try to soften the blow. "I did my research, Levi. I picked one run by a woman, one that treats its workers fairly, with good compensations and living conditions."
"But, why the hell are you looking to... to go to a brothel? You've never… your chasteness—"
"Fuck my chasteness."
Levi’s brows knit together, though the rest of his face looks more in a stupor than anything else. You, on the other hand, are now filled with explosive rage.
"Why did you seek such a place, your Highness?" Erwin finally speaks up, his smooth voice easing some of the tension in your shoulders. "Why not talk to us about it first?"
Your eyes flicker towards him. There's Erwin. Level-headed, calm, clever Erwin. Always asking just the question you most wished he didn't.
"Because…" you hesitate, "because I wish to know what it is like. I wish for things to be my decision for once, to decide how and where I..."
You close your mouth, feeling yourself growing hot. You know you shouldn't say these words to them. A princess shouldn't want pleasure. A princess shouldn't sneak off to seek a brothel. And a princess should especially not discuss such matters with her two male guards.
"You could have at least asked one of us to accompany you," Erwin points out.
"Would you? Would you have let me go?"
At that, both your guards seem a little torn. Levi's eternal frown hasn't wavered, while Erwin's eyes are intently set on you, as if you were some great puzzle needing to be solved.
You swallow, sitting at the edge of your bed, interlacing your fingers into a knot.
"You heard my father earlier. Soon, I will have no choice... I will marry. And I know it is my duty, I know it. But the idea of someone forcibly taking this part of myself before I am ready to give it up makes me ill. So yes, I went into town. Because I wanted to find this side of myself on my own."
Silence falls. You feel their gaze on you, heated and intense. Their expressions tell you enough.
"You see," you say bitterly, "even if I had explained beforehand, you would have stopped me."
Steps usher towards you. In a heartbeat, Erwin is kneeling in front of you, eye-level with you. His gaze speaks of compassion, of soft understanding. "It is because we worry for you, your Highness. We've known each other since all three of us were children. We do not wish to see you harmed at the hands of a stranger."
For some reason, Erwin's words make you glance at Levi.
Levi clears his throat, a pout forming on his lips. "Princess, not every lover is created equal. You should... you deserve to know someone who pleases you."
Something heavy fills in your chest.
"And a brothel wouldn’t give that to me?" you ask in a crestfallen tone. "Aren’t they trained in the art of love-making?"
"That is not for us to say, or to judge," Erwin answers. "But it doesn’t stop us from worrying."
You stare at your bare hands, reeling them into a fist over your lap. This whole situation feels so deeply unfair.
"Tell me, why must my body simply be used for breeding?" you ask, more to yourself than to anyone else. "Why must my value only be placed for what’s between my legs?"
Erwin stands back up, his presence a warm shadow on your side. To your surprise, both he and Levi take a seat next to you, with you in between them.
"Princess, it is not for us to voice what is right or wrong." Erwin places a hand over yours; it sends jitters straight to your stomach. "But we wish for you to be safe."
Next to you, Levi interlaces his fingers on his laps. His nails are so clean and well-trimmed, even when compared to your own. How gentle his fingers look, amidst a sea of armor. You wish he'd place one of his hands on top of yours, just to feel both his and Erwin's touch at the same time.
"You have known me since I was young," you say instead. "Don't you grieve for who I used to be? Who I could have become? Why must I let some stranger do what he likes with me—"
You stop talking, feeling nausea churning in your belly. Clearly, you’re saying things you shouldn’t.
But this is Levi and Erwin. Somehow, with them, words always come out easier. With them, things have always come easier. Natural.
"Princess." Erwin squeezes your hand. You still don’t look at him, but you admire his broad fingers, filled with scars that speak of past battles. "You know we will defend you no matter what. If your future husband forces you—"
"But what if I never want him? What if I want you both instead—"
You don't finish your sentence. Sandwiched between them, their breaths caressing your bare skin like silk, it's hard to think.
To your surprise, Levi is the first one to speak up, "Finish what you were about to say."
Your eyes flicker to him. He's close. His gray-blue eyes are relentless and charged, defying you to speak, like a great storm gathering in the distance. And his lips—
Are moving.
"Tell us," Levi says again, grating out your name.
But you've never been one to say what you want directly—you've never been allowed to. Now that Levi is asking you to tell him, you hesitate. You raise a hand to your face, concealing your shame. "I'm sorry. I know that the two of you are, well, together. I don't know what's gotten into me. I don't know why I'm saying these things to you."
You know what the two of them are. Lovers. You know it to be true, because you see the way they look at one another, the way they talk. You’ve long felt envy in your heart—not at one of them in particular, but wishing you could be a part of it. Wishing that they would embrace you with open arms.
The truth is, you love them. You’ve loved them for a long, long time.
And you suddenly wonder: was this what you were seeking to find tonight? Did you simply search for them in others?
"Princess, we've both—" Erwin's voice beckons you back to the present. Your gaze falls on him. He tilts his head, smiling softly. "We have long known how we both feel about you. If duties and titles were shirked away, don't you know what we would have done by now?"
It is a bold thing he is saying—what a guard is saying to his princess. He could be exiled for such a statement, or worse. But Erwin has always been a bold man, one that takes gambles.
You just never thought you'd actually see the day where he would take a chance on you.
Before you can move, fingers slip between your own, filled with questions. You watch as Erwin carefully runs his thumb over your knuckles, gently turns your hand on his lap.
Instinctively, your head turns towards Levi, afraid that you'll find betrayal on his face for the way his lover is touching you.
Wrong.
Levi's eyelids are half-lidded, an intensity to his expression as he assesses your every movement. It turns the spikes in your belly to butterflies.
"I..."
"Just say it." Levi inches closer. "Just give us the command."
But you do not wish for this to be a princess' command. You wish for it to be a woman and two men, bound in pleasure and feelings.
"I wish for your touch," you hesitate, "but not because I command it, but because you wish for it. Otherwise, let us never speak of this again. We can forget and—"
You mean to stand back up.
But a warm hand—Erwin's—snakes up to the back of your neck, forcing you to turn in his direction.
And then his lips meet yours.
He kisses you.
He kisses you and your mouth parts in surprise, feeling a buzz of energy vibrate across your body, a path of tingling sensation scattering upwards like dozens of tiny birds flapping their wings. Erwin's kiss is chaste and innocent, like a schoolboy kisses a crush. Soon enough, he leans away, vibrant blue eyes gauging your reaction, and when you stare at him, he smiles.
He should have known you’d want more. You’re a spoiled thing, after all, used to the finer things.
Which is why you grab him by the collar and demand another kiss.
Erwin's chest vibrates as he chuckles, and his hands gently fall on your waist as he reciprocates the kiss. His lips open up to you, like a flower blooming under the sun. His thumb fumbles with the thick of your dress, a gentle sigh escaping his lips as you lean away.
A lopsided grin graces his lips and you can't help but return it.
"Forgetting about me, already?"
You turn to Levi, amused at his sudden impatience. He's got a brow raised, staring at both of you with a slight pout on his lips. The sight makes you stare back fondly.
"I would never," you promise.
Levi’s flicker to your lips.
Where Erwin was bold and self-assured, Levi seems more prudent, like he thought you might catch on fire if you touch him.
And so, you make sure to set you both ablaze by pressing your lips to his.
For a moment, nothing happens, Levi just sits there, frozen.
And then, like a lever pulled abruptly, Levi's hands move to cup your jaw, his fingers winding into your hair, along your scalp. His restraint slips past him as he slides his tongue into your mouth, warm and alive.
And oh... your mind reels from the sensation, so different to Erwin’s softness. Levi tastes like black tea, the kind you always see him drink each morning. Levi pushes into you, making you bump against Erwin’s broad chest, and your heartbeat soars the moment you feel Erwin’s steady hands on your shoulders.
Who knew that kissing could feel so lovely, so intoxicating? Who knew what it would be like to feel the embrace of two lovers, of the two people your heart has yearned for?
Levi groans against your lips, his fingers cupping the valleys of your cheeks. Your movement pushes you further onto Erwin, forcing him to lie down as the bed creaks under your combined weight.
When Erwin chuckles, his husky voice vibrates against the back of your skull.
"Ngh —s-slow down, Levi," you huff. "I'm suffocating here."
"Can you blame him?" Erwin says languidly, the back of his fingers brushing across your exposed forearms. "You're a delight."
Levi finally slides away, his blown-out pupils taking in the sight. You, all disheveled, resting against Erwin, whose eyes gleam with knowing pride, with love. The knot in Levi's throat bobs. What a sight he has in front of him, for only him.
With a swift hand, Levi undoes his cravat, neatly folding it and placing it on the nightstand. When he comes back at the end of the edge of your bed, he stands there, assessing you with hawk-like seriousness.
Shyly, you offer him your hand.
He takes it.
Without saying a word, you guide him back to his seat, nudging Erwin upright with your other hand. Slowly, you intertwine their fingers together, overlapping them on your lap. You watch with evident admiration at the marvel of golden, calloused skin blending with slender pale fingers, the expanse of their knuckles filled with scars that's a testament to their pledges as your knights.
A smile creeps on your face. Both your lovers watch as you lean back, propping yourself on your elbows while they stay seated upright at the edge of your bed.
"Now it's your turn," you tell them with a smile, "… if you want."
Understanding flashes on their faces, though it manifests differently for each of them. On Levi, it comes across as perplexed hesitation, looking from you to Erwin, like he didn’t think you'd want to witness this. Erwin, however, seems to have seen this coming.
His mouth twitches as he bends down to capture Levi's lips with complete confidence.
Levi outright melts into Erwin's touch.
You'd long imagined the two of them like this, kissing. Hands exploring one and another, lips moving in perfect accordion, eyes fluttering shut. But seeing it now, shared with you… it’s something else.
You love them. You love them so very much.
Because there’s so much adoration, respect, and mutual understanding to be seen here. Erwin’s patience, taking and enjoying, contrasted with Levi’s desire to be filled and devoured, all in the span of this little shared space that now belongs to the three of you.
When they break apart, you're certain your eyes are hazy with desire.
"We got a bit carried away," Levi mutters.
You hum. "I liked it."
A hint of pink kisses his cheeks.
He moves away before you can tease him further.
"So we're really doing this?" Levi grumbles. His eyes gleam on you, dark and heady. "It is a sacrilege, what you are doing, Princess. You are debasing yourselves with two people who are far beneath your station. We are not worthy to defile you."
You frown, looking from him to Erwin, searching for an answer on how to make it right. Erwin’s face is blank, and you understand it has to be you who convinces Levi.
You reach out for his hand.
"Levi," you say softly, sliding up next to him. As you speak, Erwin's fingers brush the nape of your neck, as if to praise you for this step. You look into Levi’s eyes, earnest and true. "In this life, there aren't many things that will be mine to pick. So, please... would you be mine?"
Levi melts at your platitude, before he glances away.
"The two of you are the same," Levi mutters beneath his breath. "So damn corny."
You let out a chortle that sounds more disbelief than it does laughter. Levi and his wild tongue. You still think it ought to be washed by soap, though you suppose that it’s got its charms.
Levi leans back, removing his shoes. Next to him, Erwin chuckles, reaching to unclasp his own armor. Like a giddy young girl, you help them, picking up each piece of worn leather and laying it at the base of the bed, making sure it is all neatly ordered for them to easily dress afterward. Once finished, the two men then take their turns disrobing the outer layer of your dress, with Levi grumbling, "how do you even breathe in this thing?" until you are clad in nothing but your chemise. You shiver. This is the barest you've ever been in their presence, a vulnerability that feels both thrilling and intimate.
For safe measure, you lock the doors—this time, you know no one will interrupt. Only you, Erwin, and Levi have a set of keys.
When you turn back around, Erwin and Levi are both gazing at you, their eyes charged with an intensity that makes your chest lock. They inspect you like you inspect them, their eyes sweeping over your form. A lifetime of knowledge, of love, of duty, and honor, hangs behind this moment, this relationship. It pulses in the air, a recognition that this, right now, is a turning point for all three of you.
༄ synopsis: reader is a princess, alone, sans her guard. as they grow up together, they grow apart, but loneliness is a curse, and yearning makes one weak. especially when the princess begins to resort to the only source of connection she has left, her hands, leaving her guard haunted by her breaths, the sound of her hands underneath the sheets and the begging whisper of his name into her pillow.
༄ tags: MDNI!!, 18+, knight!levi, princess!reader, angst, slowburn sorta, childhood friends to lovers, lots of whispering, smut, smut warnings under the tag!!
༄ authors note: heavily heavily heavily inspired by this post. read it at 3am yesterday and immediately began this. been in such a creative slump lately, so here we are. also started gooning to anime men now. pushing 30. whatever. enjoy!
༄ word count: 4.4k
༄ smut warnings: lots of kissing, slight dom/sub dynamics, virgin!reader, virgin!levi, creampie (i cannot write anything without inserting a creampie moment, apologies :/ they're awesome), just some good old fashioned loving, confessional fucking
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The dark, grey stone quarters that encased you were a prison. Kept safe inside, protected only by a boy your age. He slept in a small room behind your quarters - separated by a wall of stone - woke before you, and slept long after you had lost consciousness. Although young, he was vigilant, his eyes trained on you as you peaked out your window. He’d stand beside you, scanning the garden below for abnormalities, listening as you told him about the dandelions you’d requested be allowed to grow freely.
“They’re beautiful, a bulb of miniscule strands, that blow away in the breeze if you wish hard enough.” You’d smiled, eyes fixated on the small flowers. “But they’re never truly gone. The strands are seeds, they’ll grow wherever they land. I will be like a dandelion. One day.”
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In the early years, you’d beg him to stay before he retired to his quarters.
“Levi, please…” You’d look at him with wide eyes, your knees held close to your chest under the woolen blanket. When the pair of you were young like that, he never said no. He never could.
So he stayed, discussing life, politics, the stars, the flowers that grew outside your window. Night after night. All that accompanied your hushed conversations was the wind rushing in through your window, and the nervous laughter of two teenagers, bound together by duty.
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As the years continued, the boy trained by day, mind set on becoming the knight his father dreamed of him being. And what was once a boy whispering about the stars at night, became a knight who refused your pleas for his presence under the same stars. Where once, he’d have left your quarters only once you had fallen asleep, now he returned to his bed as the sun dipped below the horizon. He’d squeeze his eyes shut, praying that you would fall asleep before you could begin crying his name softly into your pillow. His princess.
Instead, he would hear you tossing and turning beneath your blanket, sniffling and whispering his name like it was a prayer. Like a hail mary thrown out to the gods in hopes that they’d return him to you. Your only solace in a cold castle. Levi.
Levi forced your restlessness into background noise, like the wind rushing in from a window, lulling him to sleep with every breath.
“Princess…” He’d whisper in his sleep, dreaming of another life, unbound by the borders of royalty and hierarchy. On nights when everything else was silent, you could hear his whispers. His one desperate plea for you. You, and nothing else. No one else.
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Wars began - as the two of you grew older - but you were still confined to your quarters. Quarantined until the outside world was safe.
The quarantine was quiet, restless, unequivocally boring. Night after night, you’d watch Levi silently excuse himself as soon as the sun had disappeared beneath the horizon. And night after night, you’d lie awake, staring out the window as the moon arched across the sky.
There was no moon in the sky on the night Levi’s eyes shot open. He had become accustomed to your sleeplessness at night, but this was not that. His princess’s breaths were not that of a restless slumber, but that of a woman with nothing but Levi’s voice and the memories of his hooded gaze to entertain herself with.
Levi’s heart thumped beneath his linen shirt, ears trained on the sound. Jagged breaths, shaky exhales, his name whispered under his princess’s breath. He sat up, his own breath unsteady.
“Levi…” It was as if you were whispering his name through the cracks in the stone, begging for him. As if you were praying that your maelstrom of quiet whimpering, and drawn out breathy moans would be enough to draw him out. That they would be enough to wake him at all.
Levi dragged his palms down his face, whispering into them to muffle what he couldn’t keep inside, “Shit.”
The sound of your hands rustling underneath your blanket. The linen of your nightgown bunching up above your chest. The way your breathing would quicken, murmuring soft expletives. Faster. Melodic. Like the whine of a cello. He’d listen to your lament like your body was an orchestra.
Even once your broken moans had seized, and your sweet, soft breath resumed once more, Levi would lie awake, unable to stop himself from wondering how your legs had been placed. How slow did you pull your nightgown up, and did you touch your chest first or did you go straight to where you needed him most. The visions of you, in the bed you once spent evenings together in, would fly around his mind, one thought louder than all the others: His name broke up your whimpers. Your fingers danced across your skin, as his name came to the forefront of your mind alongside the euphoric feeling of release. The thoughts only subsided when morning came, when he had to push them to the back of his mind in order to face you.
The quarantine continued, as did the cold feeling of desertion in your quarters. The days were all the same - sans the everchanging weather - Levi’s tired stare, watching the same flowers that had always grown under your window rustle in the breeze. You, reading quietly, or studying a piece of music.
The nights were almost always the same. Most nights, your quiet cries, muffled into your pillow, would lull both you and Levi to sleep, drifting into dreamland together, without even knowing. The other nights would leave Levi wide awake, aching, and listening to the shortness of your breath as your mind was full of thoughts of him. His hands, the sound of his commands as he refused you time and time again. The loud whispers of impatience as you tugged your nightgown up after a long day, where all you could think of when you closed your eyes was his strong frame, piercing eyes and the way he licked his lips, and looked at you when he thought you couldn’t see.
Levi prayed, on nights like those, that the wars would subside. That your father would allow you the authority you are owed as next in line for the throne. He begged the heavens to free him of you, because every single part of him hungered to put you at ease. To feel you whisper his name into his lips. To hold you tightly as the lament he had come to know so well was sung into his ear. To give you what you wanted. And what he wanted too.
But Levi was unsure if he believed in the heavens, and war listens to no one. And so it continued.
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“Levi…” You had whispered one night. The moon full and high in the sky, late. A hesitant, gentle knock on the wooden door leading to his quarters broke the silence between the stone wall. A gruff “tch” echoed behind the door, as if he’d been sitting idly, waiting for your call.
“Yes, Princess?” His voice slipped out from underneath the door, his voice now a dark, weighted sound.
“Will… Will you come talk with me?” Your fingertips had gently brushed the door, inching closer and closer to him, until there was nowhere left to go but closer to the wood.
“Princess, it is dark out, you…” His breath was unsteady as his sentence trailed off into silence. “You should rest.”
“I rest enough, Sir Levi.” Your voice came out harsher than intended, then softer, a begging whisper, “please.”
After a long silence, the door unlatched beneath your fingertips, and you stepped back to fix your eyes upon his tired silhouette. Levi had become a man in his own right, and was very close to becoming the knight he had been training to become. But, in the moonlight, he was just a boy with piercing eyes, illuminated by soft, dim candlelight.
“Princess,” He nodded shortly. “What is it that you wish to speak to me about?”
“Anything.” The hopeful, hushed tone of that one word seemed as if it echoed around the room, ricocheting in Levi’s chest like a panicked bird caught in a cage. You stepped forward, face falling as Levi stepped backwards in turn.
“It is not appropriate, Princess.” Levi gritted his teeth, his gaze set on the bedpost next to you. Anywhere but your eyes.
“I just… wanted to talk.”
“It’s never just talking.” The words toppled out of his mouth like spit, and the room became only a vessel for silence to take hold of. He barely slept anymore, haunted by you, but he wasn’t sure if his recklessness was due to the ghost of you, the full moon in the sky, or you. Just you.
“It’s all I have left of you.” Your whisper was barely audible, your fingers gently tangling themselves in each other, quiet nerves coursing through your body. “I am exhausted without you.”
“Princess…”
“No.” You spoke firmly. “Levi, I demand you listen to your princess.”
Levi bristled, his eyes closing, “Proceed, Princess.” His voice was unsteady.
“I… I have gone without you for years. And yet…” The look in your eye was reckless and so honest it couldn’t contain the festering need you had tried so desperately to push away. “...And yet how could that be possible when you are at my side day and night?”
Levi was silent, hands clasped behind his back, like the obedient man he was bound to be.
You inhaled sharply, continuing. “You, Sir Levi Ackerman, are the only person on this god given earth who knows my favorite constellation! You, and you alone know which flower in the garden I love the most…”
“That is…” Levi’s voice began to crack. “That is nothing, Princess.”
“It’s everything, Levi.” An unwavering, bubbling knot of emotion began spreading its tendrils inside you, finally spilling out. “I am known by no one but you… And-And you’ve taken him from me. Stolen him, as if he never existed in the first place!”
“Please…” The intensity of his eyes simmered with a heat he couldn’t name.
You stepped forward, lips quivering as he stayed planted where he stood. “What do you have to beg me for?”
“I-I cannot… I…” Levi closed his eyes, and with a shaky exhale, opened them again, an intensity raging behind them like you’d never seen. His whispering voice could not match the energy in his gaze, “I cannot have you.”
The room quieted once more, as if the stone had reached out and swallowed the breath that echoed between you and the man, moonlit by his own need.
You whispered, gentle as you could manage, “What?”
“You are… a weakness I am not allowed.” Levi’s jaw tensed, “I am your protector, it’s all I have the right to be.”
“Can you not allow yourself one weakness?” You inched ever-so-slightly closer, your hands held out, a craving to touch him that you could not control.
“You…” His gaze flitted up to the vaulted ceiling, and all of a sudden, under the piercing stare, the grey of his eyes, you saw the boy who loved you staring back at you. He spoke softly, reverently “You are my only weakness. And you are the weakness that would kill me if I allow it to envelop me as I so badly want it to.”
Your catch of breath vibrated in his chest as if you’d shrieked into his very veins.
“You’ll break me, Princess.” Levi’s voice was broken, torn apart by years of the ghost of you being the closest thing to you that he could touch.
“I won’t.” Your eyes were determined, wide, brimming with a hunger for him. All of him. “P-Please, Levi.”
His eyes returned to yours in response, and your fingers reached out tentatively. Looking down at your hand, you watched as the tips of your fingertips brushed the linen shirt where it curved around his waist, and his gasp echoed in your ear. You looked up at him, his eyes were squeezed shut, like shutters on a day where the sun burnt like a hot pan.
Your hand drifted upwards, fingertips brushing over the fabric on Levi’s chest, then floated to his cheek. With a relieved exhale, you gently placed your palm over his cheek, fingers just barely threading through the first centimeters of his hairline. Your thumb brushed his cheekbone, and a rumbling sigh spilled out of his mouth.
“Princess.” His breath fluttered across your lips as you looked up to meet his eyes.
“Levi.”
“You’re going to be the death of me.” Levi muttered as he suddenly pulled you in, one hand on your cheek, the other around the small of your waist, fingers scrunching the fabric of your nightgown. As quickly as he had thought to pull you in at all, he was leaning down, pulling your head in to meet him and kissing you with a groaning fever. The hand around your waist tightened, the sensation of his strong hands filling you with a sharp heat.
All the needy groans Levi had suppressed listening to you, night after night, began spilling out of him as his lips danced with yours. He stepped you backwards, walking you back to your bed until the back of your knees hit the woolen blanket, and you were laid down gently in Levi’s embrace.
He pulled back with a breath, hands on either side of your head as you stared up at him with glossy, swollen lips. “My princess.” He whispered, one hand coming to brush hair out of your face.
“My protector.” You whispered back, matching his actions. Touching every part of his face you had longed to trace, threading your fingers through his hair like he’d run away if you breathed wrong.
“I’m not going anywhere.” He whispered, stilling as he gazed at you.
“Even if you did go,” You spoke back, hushed, “There is no one but you. You are inside my soul.”
Levi dove down again, crashing his lips against yours once more, but hungrier this time. Kissing you like he was making up for lost time, lost kisses, hands roaming like they had something to prove, up your waist, down your neck, caressing your collarbone, fingering the edge of your neckline. “I love you,” He whispered into your lips, “I love you, I love you.”
He pulled away suddenly, “I cannot let you go, though God knows I’ve tried. I am not strong enough.”
“Levi…” Your hands grasped his, leading them to the bottom of your nightgown, but his hands slipped out of your grip.
“I will no longer pretend. Not with you.” He began, jaw tensing as his gaze wandered down your neck, as if to memorize the shape of your collarbone.
“Show me?” Levi’s voice. That voice. Deep, commanding. His eyes stared deep into your soul, “Show me the way you’d pull this up.” He pulled at the linen nightgown brazenly.
He continued, leaning back down so you were face to face. So close that his breath was warm against your cheek, “All those nights, making it impossible to sleep. Not because of the sound of… God… The sound of your voice. But, because you whispered my name.”
Levi closed his eyes, inhaling deeply, “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about what you looked like. Sprawled on this bed. Couldn’t stop imagining your legs. Couldn’t get the image of you pulling this up so you could touch yourself with no obstacles out of my godforsaken head. Wondered…” He leaned in closer, pressing his cheek to yours, lips tickling your ear.
“I wondered how you did it.” He pulled back with a shaky breath, “I’m begging you. For my sanity. Show me.”
Your lips parted, a moment passing between realization and action. Your hands shook slightly as they grasped the hem of the linen dress, slowly pulling it up until it lay like a cloud, bunched up underneath your chin, while the rest of the dress lay like a halo around your body.
Levi inhaled shakily, his fingers reaching to brush the smooth skin of your stomach. His eyes followed his fingers, tracing lines around your abdomen, spreading his fingers across your waist, then slowly tracing a path up, through the valley of your chest. He paused, briefly, his eyes flitting across the lines he had just traced, then flicking up to meet you with a piercing stare.
“Is-Is it… Adequate, Levi?”
He ran a palm down his face, groaning softly, before whispering in a hushed tone, “You take my breath away.”
Levi leaned in once more, forehead resting on yours as his hands now traveled lower, down your side, momentarily splaying his hands across your hip, then lower. He brushed the untouched skin of your thighs with the side of his hand, wrapping his hand around as he continued his descent, until he was cradling your calf in his hand. The sensations were as if they were whispers of him, echoing the sound of his voice when he bid you goodnight. Soft, reverent, tangible. Altogether Levi.
“You are so gentle with me, Levi…” Your hands reached up to cup his cheeks, shivering as his hands stayed where they were, his eyes opening to meet your widening stare. “What did I do to deserve this? To deserve you?”
“To deserve me?”
You nodded, and Levi scoffed, biting the inside of his cheek.
“I have stolen years of companionship from you, Princess. It is I who should be asking that question.” His voice came out with a quiver.
“I should’ve understood.”
“No. You are my princess.” Levi let his fingertips drag along your jaw absentmindedly, “I should’ve kissed you the first time I heard you whisper my name into your pillow.”
This time, you leaned in to kiss him softly. Your lips grazed his, noting Levi’s shudder at the tentative touch. Your lips were parted enough that your tongue drifted out, gently caressing his bottom lip, and meeting Levi’s own tongue like a union all on its own. Somehow these breathy kisses felt more in earnest than before, mouths swirling with unspoken heat.
Your hand slipped underneath his linen shirt, fingers splaying out on his muscular abdomen like you’d dip your foot into a pond, “Help me…” He kissed the rest of the sentence away. “Want to see…” Another kiss, joined by a caress of his tongue. “You. Levi.”
Gripping the hemline of the linen shirt, you began pulling it up. Levi moved with you, breaking the kiss for just a brief second as you pulled it over his head, leaving his torso bare. His chest was riddled with scars, long gashes that had barely healed over before the scabs had been broken again, rough skin. Your fingers fumbled down his bare abdomen now, desperately grabbing at his waistline, “Th-this too. Please.”
“Are you certain, Princess?” Levi’s hand brushed the side of your face softly, staring deep into your eyes. Into whatever was behind the soul. Something deeper.
“I have been certain my whole life, Sir Levi.” Your lips brushed against his palm as he held your face in his hands. “Certain that you were all I ever wanted.”
With a groan, Levi threw his pants off, leaving him completely nude, and climbed on top of your bare figure as it lay on the bedsheets. Moonlight fluttered in through the window, throwing the bed in a soft, glowing, pearlescent glow. The luminescent shadows framed you like all his prayers had been answered. You were a gift from the heavens. His gift from the heavens.
Hot skin on hot skin, your breath had become shaky. Inside your body coursed a hot, craving need, but on the outside, just the slightest nudge from where he felt the same sent a shiver through your spine. His lips had begun pressing soft kisses to your collarbone, then down your chest, where they gingerly wrapped around one peak, enveloping it in the slick warmth of his tongue. The pleasure shot through your veins like a flash of lightning, his groans in response like thunder.
“L-Levi…” Your moans were broken up by glottal chokes and inhales as his hand finally dove down, below your abdomen, letting his fingers sink into the arousal coating your lips. The tips of his fingers danced around, putting pressure then taking it away, alternating between deliberate massages across your sensitive clit, and gentle brushes around the entrance of your hole.
“My name… I never cared for it, until it graced your tongue.” Levi gazed up at the blissful expression that had twisted itself onto your face, corners of his mouth peaking up into a quiet smirk. The sound of his fingers exploring you, the faint sound of his tongue wrapping around your swollen nipple, it was as if his mind was turning in circles. His only thought was you. He forced out a choked whisper, “My princess… Can I have you?”
“Please.” A whimper, spilling out of your lips, like a prayer.
The rest of the earth stood still and silent as Levi guided your hand to his length, closing your fingers around him and groaning. Your breath was shaky as you felt him, achingly hard in your grasp, and aligned him with your hole. Levi shushed you, hand coming to cup your cheek like a man touching his lover for the first time, almost terrified to make contact, else the world would fall apart. But, as he slipped inside of you, agonizingly slow, Levi held you so that you could gaze nowhere else but his eyes.
“You’re perfect,” He whispered, “My princess.”
Your eyes brimmed with tears of inexplicable bliss, “F-Fuck,” The expletive falling from your lips so earnestly, Levi kissed a soft laugh away, smiling against your lips.
The laugh that sat in your throat was stolen with a gasp as Levi bottomed out inside of you. He pressed his forehead against yours for a moment. Then another. Waiting for your canal to adjust. He groaned, deep and low, as he felt your canal squeeze his length, walls fluttering like a thousand butterflies.
“I’m going to move now,” Levi pulled back, propping himself up with his hands, and fixed his eyes on you, “Alright?”
With a choked moan, his hips pulled backwards, then pushed into you once more. The feeling of fullness becoming fact, rather than the dreams you’d relived over and over again. His own breath was ragged, groaning under his breath like a feral beast resisting primal instinct. Slowly, tenderly, the speed of his movements quickened, each thrust kissing your cervix.
“G-God… Levi… Feels so…” Words were stolen from your throat as quickly as you’d try to say them, fucked into oblivion and breathless pleasure.
“I know. God, I know.” Levi moaned under his breath, rolling his hips slowly, like he was committing every part of you to memory. His hand dove between your bodies, thumb brushing your clit like you’d caress the lips of the woman you love. The sensation threw your eyes up, pleasure morphing into euphoria, and euphoria to bliss.
“Are you… Are you gonna…” Levi’s voice broke as he watched your chest heave, the quickened breaths he knew so well becoming the lament he had memorized right in front of his very eyes.
“Levi,” You whispered and pulled him down to you, tucking your head into his neck so you were nestled in his embrace. “My Levi, my protector, my love.”
There it was. That whisper of his name as you drew closer and closer to the edge of release.
“Say it again.” Levi’s voice ragged and breathy, but gentle.
“Levi.”
His hips rolled, the blunt head of his length pushing against the sweet spot. The stars you loved, the ones in the sky, they flew in front of your eyes like flashes of pure, thundering light. The heated knot that had built in your core drew lower, closer and closer, touch by touch, floating down until it burst with a gasp.
Levi’s mouth fell open in pleasure as he held you, one hand wrapped around your waist and resting on your shoulderblades, the other kneading and caressing your nipples now drawn tight in ecstasy. His thrusts didn’t falter as you shook in his arms, your whimpers spilling into his ears and filling him with fire.
“My princess.” He pressed a kiss to your forehead with a groan. Your hands threaded through his hair and down his neck, thumbs tucked right underneath his ear.
“I am y-yours, Levi.” You whispered, words broken up with the unending pushes of his hips, “If you’ll h-have me.”
“I’ll have you in every life.” Levi spoke, hushed, into your ear with finality. “Starting with this one.”
And then there was nothing but breathy moans, the soft whimpering of lovers intertwined for the first time, and the sound of whistling wind from the window. Unable to speak, overcome with sensation, Levi’s pants became broken grunts, rolling his hips lazily, dragging his length out of you, only to push back inside with a vengeance.
“Finish inside of me.” You whispered. “I beg of you.”
“Are you certain?” Levi’s thrusts slowed briefly, “What if–”
“I am bound to you in soul, Levi,” You met his eyes with a boiling fervor. “Let me be bound to you in body.”
“Princess…”
You pressed your forehead against his gently, “Say my name. Please.”
“Y/N,” Levi whispered your name into your skin, hips beginning to stutter, “you are my saving grace.”
The choppy movements of Levi’s hips dragged across your core, pleasure whispering inside of you until, with a broken cry, that bubbling knot of bliss unraveled. His groans only heightened as he felt your canal throbbing around him, the head of his length pressing lightly against your cervix as he let go and spilled inside of you.
With shaky hands, you pulled him down to you once more, kissing him gently as his thrusts slowed, softening inside of you.
“Don’t leave tonight.” You spoke into his lips quietly.
And as Levi pulled back, he gazed at you like he had the day you pointed to the dandelions that littered the garden. Like he had stared up at the stars when you pointed to the Orion constellation, whispering that it was your favorite, because it’s always there.
“Your highness,” His deep voice vibrated through your chest, “you should not request that of me. There is no need.”
Levi leaned down to press a chaste kiss to your mouth, “I will always stay.”
The fine line between love and hate. Tom Riddle x Reader - Oneshot
Summary; Tom doesn't know the difference between hate and love, he never knew what it felt like--only knowing the pure consuming passion of hate, and he sees her; thinking he hates her.
Warning; short, fluff, yearning, one paragraph of smut, angst. no happy ending.
Just something short and easy to get back into the Tom groove.
He hates her.
He really. Fucking. Hates her.
He hates her loudly, quietly, in his dreams, in his days, studying, eating, drinking, sleeping, walking.
He hates her.
He hates her when she’s sitting alone during lunch, in a lone corner away from everyone else because she thought she was too good to sit with anyone else. He hates her when she’s paired with him in potions class, working quietly beside him.
He hates her when she clings to his thoughts, even when she’s nowhere to be seen. He hates her when he’s trying to think of anything else, and all he can visualize, is her.
He hates her because he makes him feel. He categorizes it as hate, because its all he’s known since he was young, and scared, and strange. He hates her because it’s what’s safe.
He hates her when she speaks to him for the first time, he hates her as he stares at her bright eyes and slightly chapped lips as she speaks; she sounded differently than he’d expected.
He hates that her voice isn’t shrill or annoying, its—sweet. Deep in a way he hadn’t expected, but he hates it when her tone changes depending on who she’s talking to. He hates it when she speaks high when talking to a professor. He hates it when she speaks low when talking to a friend.
He hates her when she isn’t looking at him, talking to him.
He hates her as she entertains someone else as they flirt with her, he hates her when she’s laughing and touching their arm. He hates her as she flirts back.
He hates her as he corners her later that day, he hates her as they scream at each other.
He hates her as his lips crash against hers, he hates her as she bites his lip and yanks his hair.
He hates her as he tears her skirt from her hips, he hates her as he pushes his aching cock into her searing heat. He hates her as she moans his name, nails digging into his scalp; her thighs around his hips as her back scrapes against the wall behind her.
He hates her as he spills inside her, her clenched around him like a vice, almost refusing to let him go.
He hates her as he pulls away and runs, barricading himself in his room, leaving her behind—dripping with the evidence of what they’d just done.
He hates her as she corners him a week later, and kisses him stupid.
He hates her as she confesses.
He hates her as he kisses her back.
He hates her as the feelings burn brighter in his chest. He hates her when she smiles at him the next day. He hates her when she takes his hand and kisses him in front of everyone.
He hates her when he invites her to his little corner in the library so they can study alone. He hates her when she smiles at him, and he hates her as she steals his jumper and wears it around as if it belonged on her.
He hates himself as he spirals into madness. He hates himself as he watches green lighting connect with her body, and the light goes out in her eyes. He hates himself as he watches her fall. He hates himself as he breaks apart a piece of himself and puts it in the diary she bought him for his birthday, only months before.
He hates himself as he loses the only person he didn’t hate.
☆ a/n: thank you to my beta reader @slaytherinthoughts <3
[ Art by Claparo-Sans on DeviantArt ]
You first hear your soulmate’s voice in your head on an ordinary evening while you’re closing the curtains of your small home in Trost. The sky outside turns a soft orange and gold as the sun dips behind the rooftops. At first, you think the voice is your own thought echoing strangely back at you until it speaks again in a tone that is very clearly not yours.
You’re thinking too loud, the voice says.
You freeze. You look around your empty room.
Hello? you think cautiously, not entirely sure how this works even though everyone grows up hearing about it—about the voice that appears one day, about the person on the other end of your thoughts who belongs to you in a way no one else ever will.
There’s a pause. Then the voice answers.
So you can hear me.
You sit down slowly. I think so, you reply in your mind, heart beating a little faster now. What’s your name?
Another pause, shorter this time.
Levi.
You smile to yourself. Huh. Okay. I was hoping I wouldn’t get someone annoying. You sound sane.
Levi, miles away in the Survey Corps headquarters, blinks slowly at the wall in front of him.
You’re very confident for someone who just met their soulmate, he thinks.
I’m choosing optimism, you reply immediately. You should try it sometime.
Levi almost smiles.
.
After that, you talk every night.
It becomes routine faster than either of you expected, your thoughts finding each other easily at the end of long days as if your minds already know the path to one another. You tell him about Trost, about the markets and the crowds and the way the smell of fresh bread carries down the street in the mornings, and he tells you very little about where he is but enough that you begin to understand. He’s a soldier in the Survey Corps. It’s dangerous. You know that. Everyone knows that. You realize this slowly over several conversations, the pieces fitting together in your mind until one night he says quietly:
I might not answer for a few days.
Your stomach tightens. Why?
There’s a long silence before he answers. Expedition.
You sit on the edge of your bed, staring at the floor.
Be careful, you think.
Levi is sitting in the barracks sharpening his blades when he hears that, and something in him shifts in a way he doesn’t entirely understand yet. I always am, he replies.
.
During the expedition, when the sky is too open and the Titans are too close and the air smells like blood and fear, Levi finds himself thinking of you without meaning to.
You would hate this, he thinks once while riding through the trees.
I already do, you reply instantly, somewhere safe inside the walls.
Levi exhales quietly through his nose because somehow, even from this distance, hearing your voice makes the world feel steadier. He talks to you in his head when he’s stressed. When he’s tired. When he can’t sleep. And he’d never admit it, but also when he’s lonely.
You feel his emotions sometimes—bursts of adrenaline, exhaustion so heavy it feels like sinking into deep water, loneliness he never talks about out loud—and you begin to understand that Levi, wherever he is and whatever rank he holds, carries the weight of too many people on his shoulders.
You become his quiet place. The voice he listens for when everything else is too loud.
.
You ask to meet him many times.
You come through Trost sometimes, right? you ask one night while lying on your back staring at the ceiling.
Sometimes.
Then we should meet.
There’s a long pause.
I don’t have time for personal affairs, Levi replies.
You frown slightly. I’m not an affair. I’m literally your soulmate.
Levi rubs his temple slowly in the dark. I’m busy.
You sigh dramatically in your thoughts. You’re avoiding me.
I’m not.
You are.
Levi doesn’t respond to that.
But the truth is he is avoiding it, because meeting you would make this real in a way that scares him more than Titans ever have. Because right now you’re a voice and a presence and a comfort that fits neatly into the spaces of his life without disrupting anything, and he’s not sure if he deserves more than that.
Still, the conversations continue. Weeks pass. Months.
You know his favorite tea, his least favorite people, how he hates messiness and worships cleanliness, how he prefers quiet over crowds. He knows how you organize recipes and ingredients in your mind when you cook, how you talk too fast when you’re excited, how you always think out loud when you’re trying to solve a problem.
You know everything about each other except what the other looks like.
.
One afternoon, while you’re walking through the markets, you suddenly hear his voice again.
Are you in Trost today?
You blink in surprise. Yes. Why?
Levi doesn’t respond for a good thirty seconds. It’s long enough that you stop walking. Then he says, I have a day off. Meet me near the market fountain.
Your heart immediately starts racing. Are you serious?
Yes.
You grin.
Okay. I’ll be there in five minutes.
.
You recognize him immediately.
You don’t know his face, but the moment your eyes land on him, standing near the fountain with his hands in his pockets and his expression calm and slightly impatient, it feels like you're coming home.
It’s you, you think.
He looks directly at you.
Yes.
You walk closer. He’s much shorter than you expected, but he’s solid, sharp-eyed, and dressed in the uniform of the Survey Corps. And very attractive. The thought slips into your mind before you can stop it.
Oh. He’s hot.
Levi’s eyebrows lift slightly. You’re not subtle.
You freeze. Your face immediately heats. “You heard that,” you say out loud.
“I hear everything you think,” Levi replies calmly.
You groan. “This is going to be a problem.” Levi almost smiles.
You spend the day together in Trost, walking through the market, talking both out loud and in your thoughts. The conversation flows easily like it always has, except now you can see how his eyes soften slightly when you laugh and he can see the way you look at him when you think he isn’t paying attention.
He’s quieter in person than he is in your head. You smile more than expected. You sit together near the wall for a while, watching people pass by, comfortable in the silence.
I’m glad you came, you think.
Levi looks at you.
Me too.
At the end of the day, he walks you back toward your street. Neither of you really wants to say goodbye, but neither of you knows what comes next either.
You stop walking. “So,” you say quietly.
Levi nods once. “So.”
Neither of you talks for a moment. Then, before you can stop yourself, you lean in and plant a kiss on his cheek. You don’t even take the time to wait to see his reaction—you turn and start running away. He watches you go until you disappear around the corner, one hand rising to touch his cheek.
Levi smiles.
.
That night, when you’re lying in bed, you wait. You’ve made a habit of it now—you know you need to stop. A few minutes later, his voice appears in your mind again.
You still awake?
I was waiting for you, you reply.
There’s a long silence. Then Levi thinks something very quietly, so quietly it almost feels like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.
I think… I like you.
You turn over and press your face into your pillow, unable to hold back your smile.
i’m recently addicted to reading about post hogwarts tom, like when he’s a pathetic shop boy, mhm
you just put a crazy idea in my head🥴🥴🥴
pathetic retail worker!Tom whose only mission is to somehow get a hold of all Hogwarts house items in order to use them for his Horcruxes. And what would be a better way than to work for an antique, shady, ran-down shop selling dark artefacts whose main clientele are old dark wizards?
It all goes to plan at first.
Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem? Easy.
Helga Hufflepuff’s cup? Not a problem.
Godric Gryffindor’s sword? Not locatable, but the Gaunt family ring will do instead.
The one item that’s missing is that godforsaken locket. Nobody he asks knows where it is nor who last owned it.
Tom has basically given up when you walk through that creaking front door with cracked glass.
A polite smile decorates your soft features, and your request for a dark magic book leaves your lips, but the words don’t immediately register.
Tom’s gaze is fixed on the chain running over the bare skin of your neck, securing his ancestor’s locket to your chest.
It’s there. Right in front of him. After all these months, it’s less than two metres away from him, and he can’t do anything about it.
Tom has to watch you leave—has to watch the locket slip away from his grasp—after he gave you what you came here for.
It was too short of a visit to get you to properly talk. He didn’t even get your first name, let alone family name. It’d be much more difficult for him to get his desired item that way—but Tom wouldn’t be Tom if he didn’t like a challenge.
Deep in research, he almost misses you walking in the next week. He’s bent over sprawled-out papers and opened books, his robes the same from last week. When he catches sight of you, he instantly straightens his posture, greeting you with the same addicting smile as last time.
That is part of the reason why you came back so soon.
And to ask for more books, of course. The young retail worker, whose name you don’t know, is much more knowledgeable than those old shop owners you had to put up with before this summer, before he started working here.
How long you talk with him, you aren’t sure—but when you leave, five books in a bag he was so kind to offer you—it’s well past sunset, and your family will be less than happy with how long you were gone.
But who could resist such a charming smile? Such knowledge kept in that pretty head of his? You’ll make sure to read the books you bought in the next week, so you have an excuse to return as soon as possible.
—
A/N: okay okay I am starting to yap here BUTTT imagine reader coming back every other week just to talk to this gorgeous retail worker of the shadiest shop in Diagon Alley. And before you even know it, you’re head over heels in love with this man.
At first, you don’t catch when his gaze slips from your eyes to the locket around your neck. It’s a family heirloom, and you’ve never bothered looking up its worth or origin.
Tom knows you don’t know.
Tom hates that the single-most interesting thing in this room is no longer the locket after he studied the spark in your eyes.
Tom does not stop you when you lean in to press a chaste kiss to his lips before you leave the shop one day.
The man whose clothes smell more antique than the shop itself has stolen your heart, and you wouldn’t have it any other way.
When you return the next time, and your conversation transcends books and turns into shameless flirting, you join him behind the counter, brushing a kiss to the sharp line of his jaw and sinking to your knees right before the next customer enters, hiding from their sight.
Minutes pass before you get an idea—a risky one, but no less exhilarating.
Tom, again, does not stop you when your fingers undo his belt, tracing the outline of him through his dress pants. Tom, in fact, can’t stop you. Won’t stop you. Doesn’t even want to stop you.
You know he is a virgin as soon as you wrap your plump lips around his cock and he hisses, jerking backwards.
Excusing himself to the man he’s talking to with a lie you don’t even bother paying attention to. Your sole focus lies on the weight of him on your tongue, on the thick vein stretching along the underside of his length, on the salty taste of his precum on your tongue.
The customer pays and leaves, and Tom, who’d up until now done his best to hide any expression giving you two away, immediately turns his eyes to you.
You, on your knees on this filthy floor that was last cleaned god knows when, pleasuring him and looking like the angel your parents think you are during it, too.
He comes with a low grunt ten seconds later, spilling himself in your warm mouth—and you swallow greedily around him, every last drop.
Fuck, perhaps getting that locket could wait just a little bit longer.
A/N pt 2 bc I started yapping AGAIN:
just throwing this idea in here (I’ll try not to yap)
one day, you invite him over when you know your parents and siblings are out of town.
and you take his virginity on the soft mattress of your Queen sized bed.
riding him, all naked, except for the locket. the locket stays on, bouncing in the rhythm of your thrusts between your tits.
Tom isn’t religious, doesn’t believe in the “God” the nurses at Wool’s tried to force on him.
but if the heaven they so praised does exist, he now knows he won’t need to die in order to get there.
this is it. heaven. the sight right in front of him.
everything he desires at his fingertips, bouncing on his lap as he watches.
A/N pt3: ok im done. do we want this? I want this. I have too many ideas to write, but I want to write this one especially. fuck. evil, manipulative, pathetic virgin retail worker!Tom, you WILL be mine.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who always finds a way to walk behind you in the corridor, just far enough away so you don't notice him. Maneuvering in-between everybody to keep up with you and hide himself.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would decipher your perfume and/or scented lotion so he could spray it in his single prefect-dorm. Tom, who would lightly dab it on his wrists so he could smell when he dips his head to write in class.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who, despite his feelings for you, would stone-wall you and actively avoid you and your gaze when you were paying obvious attention to him.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would have whole diary entries dedicated to the most minute interaction he had with you that day.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would find himself absentmindedly writing your name next to his surname as he was studying. Only to be so shocked and disgusted at himself that he set fire to his parchment.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would be secretly hoping to catch you out of bed past curfew on his patrols.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would all but physically jump at the opportunity when Professor Slughorn mentions that you may need some additional help in potions.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would obsessively research your whole families history after hours in the library.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who, if you ever ended up beside him in class, would angle his elbow out of your way so you could copy him.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would wordlessly scare away any boys who try to talk to you.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would notice every miniscule detail of your face, sketching you from his impeccable memory as he daydreams.
ProYearner! Tom Riddle who would hate himself for falling in love with you. Tom who would think he was a pitiful creature for being a vessel for such weakness.
Now wait a minute, who are you talking about because the Tom Riddle I am familiar with, doesn't have a single nonchalant bone in his body. He's the least nonchalant person ever. What even is nonchalance? Have you ever seen him give a monologue? He doesn't stop once he starts omg. He's all theatrics. He needs to be the most important person in the room. He needs to be the center of all attention. He needs to have all eyes on him. He's not unfeeling. He has never been. He feels so much, that he doesnt know what to do with all of it. There's so much resentment and anger inside of him that it burns. And he's curious. So incredibly curious. If something piques his interest, best believe he's going to know make himself know everything about it. He gets obsessed. He keeps going until there's nothing left. He loses himself in his obsessions. The reason of his demise was that he took his obsession too far. That's how hungry, ambitious and chalant he was.
Don't ever tell me that Tom Marvolo Riddle— I am Lord Voldemort— is nonchalant.
𝟎𝟎𝟐: 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 . . . a long, unfortunate while.
summary: there is no victory in war and the only way out is through. you are the only person who will ever remember that the monster once had a heart, and it all began in a farmhouse somewhere; nowhere in time.
pairings: tom riddle x fem!reader.
words: 14.1k
warnings: time travel gone wrong. age gap(?) since technically it's voldemort in tom's body. alternative universe. golden trio era & everyone's dead. it's just vibes, and lots of timeskips because hell yeah. slightly ooc tom riddle. domestic fluff if you squint hard enough. angst, angst, angst & little comfort.
author notes: this has been sitting in my drafts for a long time, unfinished. i listened to ethel cain unreleased songs, and inspiration came back, so now i'm sharing it to you. ignore the logicalities of this oneshot as it is irrelevant, but feel the pair's emotions & flaws through the shit writing. any errors & typos, send them out to me! enjoy reading :)
What would you have done then—if not for the importance of what little dignity has left mustered up inside your own bleeding heart? Would you be able to admit to yourself, let alone, slip the words past your lips; the confession that you, despite the sufferance, had longed for him? What kind of person are you—if you were enamoured by the likes of Tom Riddle? Perhaps, a slaughterhouse then.
To the extent that you cannot stand the separation; a sentimental thing that twists into a set of teeth; the tragic romantic. Tell him you don't know of this ache, tell him you might have never really knew him at all. But it would have meant that you were lying to yourself; not for Tom.
Time is a tricky little thing that bottles up inside the box of anomalies, and you were at the center of it.
Theodore Nott clings to the idea that your hardships born from the war would come fruitful; that eventually, you'll come back; alive and successful, and when you do—it will be long over. A war has been prevented, clean off the slate. Theodore clings to the idea that you would come back home; return to them, and there would be no stinking room of torment and old blood stained fingers.
How wrong you all were.
You dreamt of wanting open plains and scattered trees, you wanted flower fields and salty seas; soft and steady breeze, flatlands. You dreamt that you would have stopped clawing at your own throat like an animal at the stench of good love—that it is there in your heart but your mind is still afraid. A monster in a shape of a girl.
The Time Turner settled in the warmth of your palm, they were heavy in a way it felt untethered to everything you've recognized. Theodore glances a concerned expression on your direction, but you kept your tongue, and lowered your gaze; averted from him. You knew what you needed to do; choose what you think you need, because if you don't know now, you wondered—will your instinct be good?
"We have done everything we can to ensure your safety, you know the rules of time, (Name)," Theo whispered, his voice cracking. "1944. Slughorn's office. You kill Voldemort before he learns about the Horcruxes. You have to end it before it begins."
"If you don't do this, (Name)," Hermione rasped, "there is no after for any of us."
"I know," you said, the lie tasting like maggots sucking through cement.
Theo's hand brushed your sleeve, a ghost of a touch. "Don't look back. Just... go. We don't have time."
The cellar door groaned, enchantments snapping like brittle glass, the air suddenly felt suffocating; a sign of someone's arrival—the cold and pervasive presence that had turned your world into a graveyard, the war that you have been fighting against long before you could achieve the dreams you had in your sleep. Though this time, unafraid; you didn't wait for the door to burst, nor you have waited for the flash of green light to waver you.
You looked back at the two of them; knowing their inevitable fate, but it would have meant that their sacrificed lives will mean something. To you. To anyone. To the wizarding world. With that in mind, you looped the chain around your neck quickly, the metal searing your skin as if it knew it was about to be violated, then, gripped the dial.
One turn for the lives lost. Two for the blood spilled. Three for the girl I used to be.
As you spun it, the world began to fracture, though it didn't blur into the familiar rush of days and nights. Instead, the cellar walls bled into gray static, the screams of your friends were cut short by the erasure of the air that carried their voices. Then, a hand; long, bone white, and terrifyingly strong reached through the veil of shifting time.
Voldemort.
He had caught you. Voldemort's fingers clamped around your wrist, his magic lashing out to seize the device, to claim time as he had claimed everything else in your short lives. But the Time Turner was never meant to hold two opposing forces of such magnitude, you waited for the tick to do its own bidding, and instead met with a scream. The glass casing shattered, and the sand didn't fall, but rather exploded upward, needle sharp grains piercing through the fabric of your reality.
You felt the terrifying sensation of being unmade; your history, your magic, your very name were being stripped away, peeled back like layers of dead skin, you realized then, you weren't traveling through time; you were falling through the cracks of it.
There's still something there, between the wires that you're scared of and all the things that you know so well, and the silence—the silence was the first sensation that ached in your soul. Then, you felt your body hit the ground with the impact that didn't spark with protective charms or cushioning breaths; it simply bruised. You tasted grit and iron. Your fingers clawed at the earth, searching for the familiar warmth of your wand, but your pockets were empty.
A few yards away, the silence was broken by a gravelly human sound. A gasp.
Forcing your head up, your vision swimming through a haze of gray filth. The world here had felt singularity—a pocket of stagnant existence where the sky was the color of a bruised lung and the air was thick with the scent of wool and decay.
He was there.
Voldemort was crumpled in the dirt, his limbs tangled in the tattered remains of black silk robes too huge to fit his entire body now. He was heaving, his shoulders sharp and bony beneath his shirt, and as he pushed himself up, your whole body went rigid—the serpentine slits of his nose had filled out into a sharp, aristocratic bridge; the waxy, translucent skin had flushed with a sickly, mortal heat.
Tom Marvolo Riddle, in his flesh and bones—no glory, no power.
His gaze lowered at his hands; they were shaking. He turned them over; staring at the knuckles, the veins, the dirt under his fingernails; the mundane evidence of a body that could bleed. For a monstrous creature of what he had become, he been reduced to this—once human, human again.
"My magic," he rasped, stripped of its gold and its terror. He reached into the air, his fingers twitching as if trying to pluck a thread that was no longer there. "Where is it? Where is it?"
He looked at you then.
The dark bottomless pits of his eyes were wide with a ravening panic; he tried to lunge, to wrap his hands around your throat, but he stumbled, his muscles uncoordinated and weak without the grace of sorcery. He fell to his knees halfway between you; panting like a wounded dog.
"What have you done, you wretched girl?" Tom hissed, though his tone felt like an edge of a man who died several times then resurrected, outrunning mortality, and seemed to be facing it once again.
You didn't answer, you couldn't. You thought of Theo. You thought of his hope—that clean slate, and then you thought of Hermione, the war prevented. But as you looked at the dirt on your hands and the man shivering in the gray light, you realized the truth—that you hadn't saved the world; you had simply dragged the devil into the dark with you.
You laid there for a long time, the smell of damp earth filling your lungs. For a moment, you thought of the open plains you had craved, the salty seas and the soft breezes. But this air was stagnant, felt like a trap.
And Voldemort had looked human. Dangerously, hauntingly human.
"Answer me," he snarled. He looked at you, his face pale and sharp enough to cut the air. "The Time Turner. The sand. Where you did get us into with your failure of a plan?"
"I don't know!" you answered, your voice sounding foreign to your own ears—thin, brittle, and terrifyingly small. "We're in the gaps, we're in the nothing. This isn't… this isn't where I supposed to be."
Tom flinched, his dark eyes flashing with a spark of the old, murderous fire, though without green flashes of the Killing Curse to back it up; now, he had simply looked like a drowning man grasping at shadows. He tried to stand again, his legs trembling with a weakness that made him look eerily fragile.
It was a lie, you knew. Even without magic, Tom Riddle was the most wretched man humanity has ever seen, though here, in the shadow of the trees, he was a predator in an unknown prison. Still, the presence of him instilled a certain kind of fear that has never left in the back of your mind.
In a moment of perseverance, you had forced yourself to stand as your knees buckled once before finding a precarious sort of balance. Muscles screamed; a dull ache that felt heavy and permanent, you turned away from him and scanned the horizon of this unfamiliar forest you ended up with. Through the skeletal reach of the trees, a flickering amber light bled through the fog—a farmhouse; solitary and defiant; its smoke curling into the air like a beckoning finger.
"There's a house," you rasped, pointing toward the glow.
"A house?" Tom turned to look at the distance. "You think we are going to play house with some peasants while my command burns in another time? Retrieve the turner, child. Return us both or I shall kill you."
"The turner is gone, Voldemort!" You snapped on him, the fear in your chest sharpening into a desperate anger. "It shattered in your hand. Look at your fingers—you're bleeding! There is no time. There is no more of your Death Eaters. There is only us and that bloody house."
Tom surged upward, his height looming over you even as he swayed, grabbing the front of your coat, his knuckles white, his breath smelling of copper and cold air.
"I do not bleed," he hissed, denial frantic in his eyes. "I am beyond this. I am—"
"You are shivering," your voice trembled but remained firm. You reached out and shoved his chest; the raw, clumsy force of a hand. "And we're both without magic whether you like it or not… Now, either you walk to that light with me, or you stay here and let the frost take you."
Tom's expression shifted, a flicker of genuine shock crossing his features as he realized he couldn't simply silence you with a flick of his wrist. Or worse, actually kill you.
"I will not forget this insolence," he murmured; silky low that sent a shiver down your spine that had nothing to do with the temperature.
"You'll have plenty of time to remember it," you snapped.
Ignoring Tom's snarl, you turned and began to stumble toward the clearing, and every step was a battle against the thick, cloying mud. As the house grew closer, the scent of wood became more distinct; a promise of warmth that made your eyes sting. You missed home. You had missed everyone you had ever lost, but now is not the moment to dwell on these sentimental things.
"Hello?" you called out. "Help! Is anyone there?"
You didn't wait for Tom, and instead stumbled into the amber circle of light cast by the porch lamp, you could feel your lungs burning. "Please! We've been... we've had an accident! Help us!"
The heaviness of the door from the farmhouse had creaked open, an elderly man stepped out; a lantern held high. His eyes were milky but sharp, and he looked at you with a weary kind of recognition. Tom stepped into the light behind you, his face smoothing into a facade of chilling yet beautiful exhaustion, reaching out and caught your shoulder, his grip tight; thumb pressing into your skin with a warning pressure.
"My wife," he said to the man along with your name, the lie sliding off his tongue; honeyed ease. "And my name is Tom, our carriage... it overturned in the ravine. She's had a terrible shock, we have nothing left."
The word wife hung in the coldness of the breeze, heavier than the fog; you stood frozen. Perhaps it was a tether, or another form of prisonment to ensure that wherever they put him, they would put you, too. In this godless place, Tom would never allow himself to let the only link to their reality out of his sight. You knew then, through myriads of thoughts swirling inside his head—what the implication meant; it made your skin crawl.
The old man lowered his lantern slightly, his eyes traveling from Tom's desperate beauty to the way your hands were shaking against your sides.
"Wife, is she?" The old man murmured, his voice like dry leaves. "You both look like you've been through. Come in. The hearth doesn't care for titles or tales, only for those who are cold."
As the door clicked shut, the warmth of the fireplace felt like an embrace, you were safe from the frost, though you knew this was far from over—everything was suspicious when you're with the dark lord himself; it felt surreal in a way you know it would haunt your dreams when you come back from all this.
If you come back, that is. Because now, there is nothing more than being hopeful that you'd wake up any moment now, and the first faces you would have seen were from loved ones; telling you; you're all right, that nothing bad happened to you, this isn't real, you aren't stuck with him. And you, you are made of dreams; and this world is not for you.
An elderly woman was standing by a heavy iron pot, her gaze nothing of mistrust, she turned her head toward you both. "Oh, dear. Two of them, Arthur? So young to be so broken."
"They've had an accident, Evelyn," Arthur said, ushering you toward the wooden table. "The boy says they're wed."
"Sit, sit," Evelyn urged, a soft lullaby. "The stew is warm. It's root and broth—not much for a lord and his lady, I suppose, but it stays the hunger."
Your gaze lowered down at the table; at the scarred grain of the wood; trying to reconcile the image of the vile man who had murdered thousands with the young man now sitting next to you, his shoulder pressed against yours, appearing for all the world like a weary, devoted husband.
"Thank you," Tom said. His voice was perfectly pitched—low, grateful, and laced with just enough exhaustion to be convincing. He took the bowl Evelyn offered, his fingers brushing hers. "You are too kind to strangers."
"No one is a stranger to the cold," she replied, her gaze turned toward the space just above Tom's head. She paused, her head tilting slightly. "The storm outside... it's got a foul temper tonight, the kind of wind that strips the skin off anything left out too long."
She paused, her sightless eyes wandering toward the space between the two of you. "You both smell of it, the air right before a lightning strike hits a graveyard."
"It was a long walk from the ravine," you finally said. "The air is... different here. Heavier."
"It's the muck," Arthur grunted, leaning over to stir the fire. The embers popped, throwing light across Tom's sharp, pale features. "Everything in these woods is half drowned and twice as bitter. You're lucky you found the fence line. Most folks just wander in circles until their heart gives out from the damp."
"My husband's quite right, dear. I'm glad you found us when you did."
The stew was thick, tasting mostly of salt and earth, but the heat of it was a shock to your system. You realized with a jolt of genuine fear that you were hungry—a gnawing, hollow ache in your stomach that magic had always held at bay. Your body was starting to demand things: fuel, rest, warmth, it was becoming a cage of necessities.
"Do you know anything about the forest?" you asked, gaze held.
"The forest isn't natural," a moment of silence before adding quietly. "People go missing near its edges sometimes... hunters mostly."
A beat.
Arthur's eyes flicker toward Tom briefly before continuing with quiet certainty; "… But no one ever comes out once they've gone deep enough to see those trees up close."
"What do you think waits inside it?"
"Nothing good, child."
"The attic's drafty, but the roof don't leak," Evelyn steered the conversation, her hand reaching out to touch the scarred wood of the table. "You'll want to stay close. The chill comes up through the floorboards once the fire dies down, it's a night for huddling, I expect."
The sudden transition from the freezing mud to the sweltering heat of the fire had thinned your blood; there was a strange throbbing ache in your shoulder—a deep, wet heat you had ignored in the adrenaline of the forest. As you pushed away from the table, your vision fractured into a thousand shards of amber light.
"I—" you started, but your voice caught.
Evelyn gasped when she sees you fully, then she reaches out, her fingers brushing against your arm, but as she moved, her hand knocked into a ceramic pitcher on the table. It shattered against the floorboards with a violent crack, water spraying across Tom's boots.
"You're hurt," Evelyn said, in a hurried urgent tone. "Look at your side, that isn't mud—Arthur!"
You looked down then. The tattered fabric of your shirt was no longer muddied; a blooming crimson was spreading from your ribs; heavy and hot. The shattered turner hadn't just cut Tom's hands; shards of the silver casing must have buried itself in you during the fall, and the warmth of the house was finally coaxing the blood to flow.
The room began to spin. "I... I didn't feel..."
Tom's hand quickly clamped onto your rib, his grip so tight it bruised, you gasped in pain, you gaze averted towards him, and for a split second, the mask had shattered; his face was pale, dark eyes wide with raw panic laced through. And you, terrified of the pain surging through your body.
If you died, he was alone. If you died, his last tether to his world was gone.
The floor rose up to meet you—and the last thing you saw was Evelyn's cerulean eyes and Tom's terrified yet beautifully haunted face as he reached out to catch you, the forest finally claiming your senses.
You saw Harry first.
He looked like a boy who had run out of time. Your clammy hands tried to reached for him, your fingers clawing through the smoke, shouting a name that was lost to the roar of the collapse. You remembered the way his glasses were cracked, reflecting the sickly emerald light that had finally caught him, your mind remembered the silence that followed—a silence more terrifying than the screaming. The Chosen One was a heap of robes and broken hope on the cold floor, and with him, the world had simply stopped breathing.
Then came the others.
Hermione Granger, her face smudged with soot, her brilliant mind irate as she tried to calculate a survival that no longer existed. Theodore Nott, standing in the ruins of their legacies, looking at you with that same haunting expectation: Fix it. Go back. Save us.
You were the one who carried the gold; the one who was supposed to be the knife that gutted apart the cancer out of the past, though as you looked down at your hands, they weren't holding the Time Turner, instead, they were covered in the same blood that was now soaking into the farmhouse floor.
"You failed them," a voice hissed inside your head—not Voldemort's high venomous rasp, but a voice that sounded suspiciously like your own. "You didn’t save anyone, you simply brought the plague with you."
You were standing in a salt stained field, the open plains you had craved, but the grass was sharp as glass and the sea was made of ink. Harry was there again; eyes hollow, pointing toward the horizon where a dark shape loomed.
"He's coming," Harry whispered. "He's always coming for you, (Name)."
Mouth opened; you tried to scream, to tell him you were sorry, to tell him that you had tried to kill the man who did this, but your throat was filled with the sand of a shattered hourglass—choking on time itself. The pain in your ribs flared, a white hot spike that dragged you upward, out of the graveyard of your memories and back into the stifling heat of the attic.
Your eyes snapped open.
The ceiling was low and slanted, the wood grain twisting like tortured faces in the candlelight. You tried to gasp, but your lungs hit a wall of bandages and agony, a heavy weight sat on the edge of the bed, and for a terrifying second, you thought you weren't real.
"Be still," a voice commanded.
It wasn't Harry. It wasn't Theo.
Tom was leaning over you, his face partially swallowed by shadow. He had changed, you noticed; his ruinous robes were gone, replaced by a simple, coarse linen shirt that looked jarringly domestic on him. His hair was damp, sticking to his forehead, and his eyes were fixed on yours with a ferocity that made your heart hammer against your wounded ribs.
"You were screaming," he said. "Spoke of names—Nott, Granger. Then, Potter."
You were still here, it sinks in you, and it was no dream, but a nightmare, you supposed. It made your eyes sting, clenched teeth upon the helplessness you felt lodging inside your throat; ashamed that the dark lord's gaze felt suffocating now that he was looking at you, and you, broken.
"There is no Harry Potter here to save you; there is only the fever, the woods, and the mere fact that I had to watch a peasant woman sew your flesh back together, because you were too clumsy to notice shards of glass in your own gut."
You ignored his snide comment. "How long was I out?"
"Four days."
"That cannot be possible."
"And yet, it is. We're trapped here, you see. In this house, with these people, and a forest that eats anything that moves. You wanted to end the war? Well, congratulations. You've brought us to a place where time has stopped, and the only thing left to fight... is me."
"Four days," you repeated, the words drying inside your lips. You tried to shift, but the pain in your side flared—reminder of your own fragility. "And you didn't... you didn't just leave? You didn't walk into those woods to find a way back?"
"I did," he admitted, his voice dropping to a low bitter rasp. "I walked for hours, I walked until my feet bled and my lungs felt like they were filled with lye. The trees, they don't end. You walk for miles only to find yourself staring at the back of this very house."
Tom looked down at his hands—the cuts were scabbed over now, ugly and red. "There is no back. There is only this patch of dirt and the two of us."
You looked away from him, staring at the flickering candle. "Harry told me you were coming for me. Even in the nightmare... he was trying to warn me."
Your voice broke, a small, pathetic sound that you hated. "I was supposed to save them. I had the turner. I had the plan, and now they're just... they're fucking dead… and I'm stuck with the person who did it."
"Do you think I enjoy the indignity of this skin? The hunger? I am a God reduced to a human weak version of me, I am bound to a girl who scream for the dead in her sleep."
"You did this. You did this to us, how did you know? How did you—"
"I already knew what the three of you were planning even from the beginning. Did you think I was a fool to let you go back into the past and kill me? I would have killed you then; if it weren't for the time already spinning around us."
"Then maybe you should have," you choked out. "You should have killed me… let me bleed in the mud, you should have. Now, I'm stuck in this nightmare with you."
To have spent life holding your hands in tightly hidden fists, to try to understand what it would mean now, to hold them open. The war had long caused your ability to do anything good, you have failed to save your friends, to have saved Harry Potter, and now you were doomed to be here forever.
You know you were strong, but you were also a child. Only nineteen. You wanted whatever Gods that existed to take the world off your shoulders; children should not have to fight, to be so young in a war that is endless.
"I hate you," the words slipping past your lips; trembling with a lifetime of grief.
"I know," Tom replied. "It is the only thing about you that feels real."
This place was beneath him; his hand, the one that had once commanded the very fabric of life and death, felt foreign as he ran a finger over the coarse linen of his sleeve. The texture was an assault. Everything was an assault. The smell of the cedar chest in the corner, the itch of the wool blanket, the insistent rhythm of his own pulse in his ears—it was a cacophony of being.
To be Voldemort was to be a storm; to be Tom was to be the wreckage left in its wake.
He had loathed you, yet he found himself memorizing the cadence of your breathing. It was the only clock left in a world where time had died.
He thought of the woods. Tom had lied to you—he hadn't walked for hours; he had run. He sprinted until his shins burned and his vision blurred, screaming silent, wordless curses into the gray fog, waiting for the familiar green flash to erupt from his fingertips and tear the forest asunder.
But nothing came. Only the cold; only the humiliating realization that he was hungry; that his stomach was a void more demanding than his ambition. He looked at your pale throat, the skin translucent enough to show the flickering life beneath. Tom could kill you, yes, he could. He could press his thumbs into that delicate windpipe and end the witness, end the sufferance belonging to you and him.
The thought brought a momentary, familiar warmth to his chest—the semblance of comfort for the kill.
But then what?
Then he would be alone with that elderly peasants. He would be Tom forever. He would be the boy from the orphanage again, a nobody in a world of gray, with no one to remember that he had once been a God.
I am not a child, he thought, his jaw tightening until it ached. I am the end of all things. He was the plague, and he had brought you with him to the end of the world.
And as the wind shrieked outside; Tom Marvolo Riddle closed his eyes and listened to the heartbeat of the only human left who knew how to fear him.
Tom would reach for it again; greedy human fingers clutching at everything he can reach; and the divine would curl its way through his veins and take everything over like he would—to feel it in his bones like aching; like fire. A world he had created, once glorious, once power and chaos.
The weeks that followed were a slow, agonizing descent into a reality that felt like a fever dream that refused to break. There was no magic to mend the roof, no spells to fill the larder, and certainly no charms to bridge the chasm between the two of you. To the world—or whatever this pocket of nonexistence was; you were the young couple salvaged from the wreckage of a carriage. To Arthur and Evelyn; you were the beautiful, broken things they had plucked from the mud.
The seasons didn't change in the forest; the sky remained the color of a guttering candle, and the fog never truly lifted. Within the walls of the farmhouse, an unspoken war had been established.
Tom had been forced into the role of the laborer. It was a sight that still made your stomach churn with a mixture of dark amusement and pity; the future dark lord; his fine slender hands now blistered and stained with the sap of pine trees, splitting wood behind the barn. You wondered, then, what would have your friends' reactions be, if they saw what you were witnessing now. An irony.
He moved with a stiff yet resentful grace, every swing of the axe felt more like an execution of the life he had lost. Tom didn't speak much to Arthur nor to anyone at all, but the old man watched him with a knowing heavy silence, as if he could sense the heaviness that's weighing down Tom's shoulders.
You wanted to bite down; to tell these people what kind of person Tom Riddle was, or in this instance, Voldemort. You wanted to scream at them that he was a murderer; a tyrant; a dictator; all sorts of evil one could think of—that because of him; you had lost everything he had taken from you—that because of him; you would never know peace in your life, constantly fighting in a losing war.
You watched him from the kitchen window, leaning your forehead against the glass. Tom was in the yard, his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, sweat slicking his hair despite the biting chill. He swung the axe with a violent precision. His hands, once meant to hold the world by its throat, were caked in sap and dirt, his knuckles bruised and raw.
He looked up, catching your gaze. He didn't smile. Tom never did. He just stared at you with those dark, bottomless eyes—eyes that still held the shadow of the man who had murdered Harry, who had broken the world. He looked at you like you were the only piece of his kingdom he had left to rule.
"He's a tireless one, your husband," Evelyn murmured from the stove, her sharp eyes following your gaze. She didn't miss the way you flinched when Tom slammed the axe into a fresh log. "A bit of a temper in those shoulders, but a man works that hard only for the woman he's scared to lose."
Only if she knew. You could laugh at that senseless remark, but had held your tongue instead.
You were on your knees, thinning out a row of frost bitten greens, when the shadow fell over you. It was long and sharp, cutting through the hazy light. You didn't need to look up to know who it was; the air always seemed to grow heavy and still when he was near.
Tom stood over you, leaning against the rotted garden fence. He was wearing a dark, coarse sweater Evelyn had dug out of an old trunk, the sleeves pushed up to reveal forearms that were lean and corded with new, hard earned muscle. He looked like a local lad, a handsome farmer's son, but the way he held himself—shoulders back, chin tilted with a lingering, ghostly arrogance; it had spoiled the illusion.
"You're wasting your time," he said. "The soil is already dead."
"It's still food," you replied without looking at him, tugging at a stubborn weed. "Something you're becoming increasingly fond of, despite your protests."
You heard the soft thud of his boots as he stepped over the low fence into the dirt. Tom didn't offer to help, of course, he simply watched you; his gaze tracking the movement of your dirt stained fingers.
"I saw you talking to the old man earlier," Tom said, his tone shifting into something sharper, more dangerous. "By the well. You were smiling."
"Arthur is kind." you said, absent. "A concept you struggle with."
"There is no such thing as kindness," Tom hissed, his shadow stretching over the patch of wilted kale you were tending. He stepped closer, the heels of his boots sinking into the soft, damp earth. "In a place like this, kindness is a transaction. He wants something, they both do."
"Not everyone has a price," you said, finally sitting back on your heels. You wiped your forehead with the back of a muddy hand, leaving a dark smear across your skin. "Some people just don't want to see others starve. It's a very human trait. You should try it sometime, though I doubt you ever did."
Tom’s lip curled, a ghost of a snarl that looked gratingly beautiful on his revitalized face. "I am trying it, am I not? I have spent my morning breaking my back over a woodpile so we have the kindness of a fire tonight. My hands are blistered, my joints ache, and I smell of common sweat."
He held out his palms, showing the raw, red welts. "Is this human enough for you, (Name)?"
You looked at his hands—the hands that once had held the elder wand, now ruined by such a mundane thing—and felt a strange, unwelcome prickle of sympathy, you averted your gaze away quickly, focusing on a particularly stubborn root.
"You're doing it because you want to survive," you muttered. "That isn't kindness; that's ego."
"Everything is ego," he countered, dropping into a crouch beside you. The sudden proximity made your heart skip a beat. He was so close you could see the dark gold flecks in his eyes, the ones that only appeared when the light hit them just right.
"You're out here breaking your nails in the dirt for the same reason. You want to feel useful—you want to pretend that if you grow enough cabbages, you can ignore the fact that Harry Potter is a corpse in a timeline you can no longer reach."
You still have nightmares, almost every night. Tom knows about it and yet never brought it up for the weeks you have been living here. The mention of Harry was like a knife gutted apart inside your guts, swallowing each despair, and grief bubbles up inside like a familiar ache.
"Don't," you whispered. "Don't you dare speak of his name."
Tom didn't pull back. If anything, he leaned closer, his knee brushing against yours. "The truth is a heavy thing, isn't it? Without the kindness of your spells to numb the world."
You didn't answer, instead, your fingers dug into the soil until the cold mud pushed beneath your fingernails, a grounding sting that kept you from shattering; eyes stinging.
Hands reaching down and, to your utter shock, Tom wrapped his fingers around the base of the weed you had been struggling with, hovering above yours. It felt warm; warmth of a whole human being. With a sharp, effortless tug, he ripped it from the ground and tossed it aside.
"There," he murmured, his eyes snapping back to yours. "I've contributed to your food. Do I get a smile now, or is that reserved for Arthur?"
You looked at the discarded weed, then at him. For a moment, the war and the blood felt a million miles away. There was just a boy and a girl in the mud, trapped in a house at the edge of the world.
"You missed a bit of the root," you said, your voice trembling with a dry, reluctant humor. "It'll just grow back."
Tom let out a short, huffed breath that was almost a laugh—the first genuine sound of amusement you'd heard from him since the fall, it felt unreal in a way—to see him just a boy. Your mind had briefly wondered, whether what he was like during your age; like this, you wondered; whether he had once laughed genuinely too it felt like the ground crushing in a manner of surprise.
Tom reached out again, his thumb grazing your muddy knuckles as he moved to finish the job.
"You are a difficult woman, (Name)," he muttered, his gaze lingering on your hand.
"And you're a miserable gardener," you replied.
For a heartbeat, neither of you moved. The tension wasn't the same vicious edge of the past you have known your whole life; it was something heavier, thicker, a force that was pulling your two broken lives together because there was nowhere else to go.
Tom jerked his hand away as if your skin had suddenly burned him. He stood abruptly, the movement so sharp he nearly lost his balance in the soft mud. The boyish softness in his face was instantly swallowed by a cold, rigid mask of revulsion—not for you, but for the instinct that had kept him there, crouched in the dirt like a commoner.
He stepped back over the rotted fence, his breathing slightly faster than it had been moments ago. He wiped his hands on his trousers with an obsessive motion, trying to rid himself of the sensation of the earth and the lingering ghost of your touch.
"The sun is setting," he said, his voice returning to that clipped tone of a man who held himself above the world, though his eyes were wide, darting toward the forest as if looking for an escape from his own skin. "I should head back and let you be."
"Tom—" you started, standing up and brushing the dirt from your knees.
"No," he snapped, not looking back. Tom was already several feet away, his shoulders hunched, his stride long and hurried. "I will not be comfortable with this, and neither should you. This is nothing—I will not be comfortable with your gaze, and you would do well to remember that the man who took everything from you is still breathing the same air as you."
Tom avoided the patch of kale, and you avoided the woodpile. But the farmhouse was too small for two people determined to be strangers, especially when the frost began to settle permanently on the windowpanes.
A month later, Arthur caught you when you were washing the plates; the old man looked uncharacteristically nervous, hat in his hands as he peered over his shoulder to ensure Evelyn was occupied in the wash house.
"It's her sixty fifth tomorrow," Arthur whispered, voice thick with a rough sort of tenderness. "I'm taking her down to the creek—the fog lifts there for an hour at noon. I want her to come back to a cake. A real one. Sugar, white flour... I've been saving the tin."
He pressed a heavy, rusted canister into your hands. "Tom says he's a hand with a hearth. Make sure he helps you. A cake like that needs two sets of eyes so it don't burn in this temperamental oven."
When Arthur led Evelyn away the next morning, the house fell into a silence that felt heavy with the weight of the task. You stood in the kitchen, staring at the tin of sugar, until the back door creaked open. Tom stepped in, shaking the rime of frost from his hair. He looked at the flour on the table, then at you, his eyes narrowing.
"Arthur said you'd be helping," you said; cautious.
Tom let out a long, weary exhale, pulling off his heavy coat. "The man is persistent. He seems to think husbandry involves more than just splitting logs."
He walked to the basin to scrub his hands, his movements sharp. "Well? Don't just stand there. If we are to produce something edible from this, we should begin."
Baking with Tom Riddle was like dancing on a blade. He approached the recipe Arthur had scribbled down with the same analytical method he might have used for a complex potion during his study at Hogwarts; the imagery of it flashes in your head.
"The ratio of fat to flour is imprecise," Tom muttered, his sleeves rolled up, revealing the corded muscles of his arms as he began to cream the butter and sugar by hand. He refused the wooden spoon, using his fingers instead—a choice that seemed to irritate and fascinate him all at once.
"This recipe is more suggestion than science."
"It's a cake, Tom, not a draught of living death," you muttered, cracking eggs into a bowl.
"Precision is the only thing that separates us from the beasts," he retorted, though he didn't pull his hand away when you moved to pour the eggs into his bowl.
For an hour, the only sounds were the crackle of the fire and the scrape of the bowl; the kitchen grew warm, the air thickening with the scent of vanilla and rising dough. In the heat of the small space, the animosity of the garden felt distant, replaced by a strange, domestic synchronization.
You reached for the flour at the same time he did, your hands collided over the sack—his large, calloused, and dusted with white; yours smaller, trembling slightly.
Tom didn't jerk away this time. He paused, his fingers lingering over yours for a heartbeat too long. The heat of the oven was pinking his cheeks, making him look hauntingly like the boy from the orphanage who might have once dreamed of a birthday cake of his own.
"You have flour on your nose," he said quietly.
The observation was so mundane, so devastatingly normal, that it made your throat ache. You went to wipe it, but your hands were covered in batter.
Before you could think, Tom reached out; his index finger, dusted in white, grazed the tip of your nose, brushing the powder away.
Tom's touch was surprisingly light, though the air in the kitchen had suddenly felt too thin to breathe. He didn't pull back immediately; he stayed there, his hand hovering near your face, his eyes searching yours with that same raw, terrifying curiosity from the garden.
"You were a child before this," he murmured, voice dropping into that same rasp. "A girl who liked sweets and sunlight. I forget that sometimes."
"I forget it too."
A beat passes.
"We were both children," you added, the words coming out more like a confession than you intended. You looked down at the mixing bowl, watching a slow trail of batter slide down the ceramic side. "Before the war. Before the world decided we had to be something else. You were just a boy in a wool coat, Tom. Did you ever even have a birthday cake?"
It was a gamble, you knew. Learn me, and I will learn you.
Tom's hand, which had been reaching for a damp cloth to wipe the table, stilled. He didn't look at you, but the line of his jaw tightened; the muscle jumping beneath the pale skin, and the only sound was the wind whistling through the cracks in the kitchen door.
"The orphanage didn't indulge in sentiment," he said, leaving only something hollow as he remembered old days. "Sugar was a ration, celebration was seen as a weakness. We were taught that we were lucky to have a roof and a bed, and that anything more was a sin of greed."
"It sounds lonely."
"I never wanted their sentimentality. I wanted the world to stop treating me as a mouth to feed and start treating me as something to fear. A cake is a temporary indulgence, whereas power—power is permanent."
"Nothing is permanent," you uttered, finally meeting his gaze. "We're living proof of that. Your power, your followers, your immortality—it all shattered into time. And now you're standing in a kitchen with flour on your hands, helping me bake a birthday surprise for a woman you've known for months."
"Do not mistake my compliance for a change in heart."
"You keep saying that," you said, reaching out to pick up the wooden spoon. "As if you're trying to convince yourself as much as me."
His hand reaches out, clamping over your wrist, stopping the movement. Tom's grip wasn't near violent, it was firm—the callouses of his palms rough against your skin, he looked down at where he held you, his brow furrowing.
"You want me to be the boy in the wool coat because then you don't have to be the girl who failed. If I'm human, then your tragedy is simply no more than an accident. But if I am a monster…"
"Then I am the one who let the monster in," you finished for him.
He let go of your wrist, but Tom didn't move away; instead, it stayed close enough that you could see the fine lines of exhaustion around his eyes—the mortal kind of tired that no amount of magic could fix.
"The cake," he said abruptly, nodding toward the oven. "The scent is changing. If it burns, Arthur will be disappointed, and I find that I particularly dislike the way he looks at me when I fail at a simple task."
You turned to the hearth, blinking back the sudden sting in your eyes. "God forbid the dark lord disappoints a farmer."
"Precisely," Tom muttered, though he moved to stand beside you, watching the rising dough with an intensity that had nothing to do with tactics and everything to do with the fact that, for the first time in his life, he was waiting for something sweet.
The return of Arthur and Evelyn broke the heavy tension of the afternoon like a sudden gush of cold water. Arthur had led her in with a hand over her eyes, his weathered face glowing with a youthfulness that seemed to defy the gray world outside. When Evelyn saw the cake; golden, lopsided, and smelling of caramelized sugar—she wept, her rough hands flying to her cheeks.
"Oh, you children," she choked out, her blue eyes darting between you and Tom. "You beautiful, kind children."
Tom played his part. He stood by the fireplace; a modest, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he accepted Evelyn's praise with a polite dip of his head. To her, he was the picture of a devoted husband, perhaps a bit weary from the woodpile, but fundamentally good.
You watched him from the corner of your eye, marveling at the ease with which he wore the skin of a savior, Tom looked at the cake as if it were a masterpiece he had deigned to create, rather than a frantic effort to keep a lie from collapsing.
Then, a plate appeared suddenly in his line of sight—held out by Evelyn herself with that same infuriating kindness that made his teeth ache.
"No use watching from the sidelines forever," she murmured knowingly before nudging it toward him again when he didn't take it immediately. "Eat up while it's fresh."
Tom took the plate, his fingers grazing hers in a brief, human contact that he didn't immediately recoil from. He took a bite of the lopsided cake, and for a fraction of a second, his eyes widened. It was sweet—violently, unapologetically sweet—almost believed himself that it reminded him of his nonexistent home.
As the sun dipped below the horizon, Arthur hauled a dusty, glass stoppered bottle from beneath the floorboards.
"Plum brandy," he announced, his eyes twinkling. "Saved it for a day worth remembering. And I reckon, after that cake, we need something to cut the sugar."
Arthur cranked an old, brass horned gramophone in the corner; the music that emerged was scratchy and warped—a slow yet tranquil fiddle tune that seemed to skip heartbeats. Arthur poured the brandy into four mismatched glasses. It was strong, smelling of fermented fruit and smoke.
You took the glass, the liquid amber shimmering like a captured sun in the firelight; you let the first gulp scald your throat, welcoming the violent, localized burn; it was the physicality of ache you could control, a sharp distraction from the ruins of your mind.
One glass became two. Two became a desperate, liquid blur. You drank to drown the image of Harry's lifelessness, the way the light had left his eyes before he even hit the floor. You drank to scrub the smell of the Great Hall from your lungs—that cloying scent of ancient stone pulverized into dust and the copper tang of blood that had belonged to people whose names you were starting to forget.
Every swallow was an attempt to rid the guilt living under your ribs—that hollow treacherous thing that had survived while the better people died. You wanted to be as numb as the soil in the garden; you wanted to be nothing. You wanted to reach a state of grace where the faces of the dead didn't look at you with such uncertainty.
Fix it, they had whispered in your dreams. Go back.
But there was no going back. There was only the heat of the liquor and the inevitable doom of never coming home.
"Come drink," your flushed cheeks says it all. "Merlin knows you need it most."
Tom looked at the glass you pushed toward him as if it were a vial of a slow acting poison. His eyes moved from the liquor to the frenzied glazed brightness in yours.
"I do not need to lose my senses to endure this," he said, his voice a sharp contrast to the warm, drunken air of the room. "I have more discipline than to seek refuge in a bottle of liquor."
"Oh, shut up, Tom," you laughed, the sound thick and reckless. You nudged his arm, nearly spilling your own drink. "You're simply afraid of what you'll say if you drink too much."
He remained silent, then a realization dawned to you.
"You haven't gotten drunk, have you?"
"No."
You laughed at his admission, the sound high and girlish. "I remember… back at the castle—in the Room of Requirement. We used to sneak in bottles of Firewhiskey during those secret parties." A ghost of a smile touched your lips, distant and hazy. "Theodore would always turn bright red after one sip, and Hermione… she would start reciting the history of the goblin rebellions by the third. We felt so grown up. So invincible."
But the words died in your throat as the memory curdled. You could almost see the room again—the soft gold lighting, the laughter of people who were now nothing but ash and bone. The invincibility had been a lie.
The weight of it hit you all at once, the liquor suddenly tasting like buried regrets. You looked away from Tom, your throat tight, and grabbed the bottle to refill your glass with a trembling hand.
"Well," you said, your voice a forced cheer. "I suppose the Great Lord Voldemort is simply terrified of a little plum juice. Afraid you'll lose your grip on that precious dignity of yours?"
Tom's eyes snapped to yours, dark and sharp as obsidian; he hadn't like the way you said his name—the name that shouldn't exist here. He didn't like the way you were looking at him, as if he were something small and manageable.
"I am worried about nothing," he said. "Least of all the fermented dregs of a peasant's orchard."
Arthur let out a boisterous bark of a laugh from the center of the room, already swaying with Evelyn. "Listen to the lady, lad! A bit of spirit never killed a man—it only makes the winter shorter!"
With a look of profound, yet silent loathing directed at the room at large, Tom gave in. His fingers; long and elegant even when stained by the day's labor, curled around the glass. He tilted his head back and drained it in one motion, his throat working as he swallowed the fire.
He slammed the glass back onto the table, a sharp crack that punctuated the music.
"There," he rasped, the alcohol already roughening the edges of his voice. "Are you satisfied, (Name)?"
"Very much."
But the music was picking up, carrying out a fast, rhythmic tune that made the floorboards vibrate. You stood up, your head spinning just enough to make the world feel like it was made of velvet. You began to sway, your eyes half closed, letting the scratchy melody pull the tension from your limbs. You twirled once, your skirts brushing against the rough wood; a reckless drunken grace taking over.
Tom sat perfectly still, his glass empty, watching you. He looked like a man watching a forest fire—horrified by the heat, but unable to turn away from the light.
"You're staring again, Tom," you hummed, spinning back toward him. You reached out, your fingers catching the hem of his coarse sweater and tugging.
"Simply observing how reckless you're being right now," he countered, though he was already rising from the bench, his movements slightly less composed than usual.
"Stop observing," you breathed, stepping into his space and placing your hands on his chest. You could feel his heart thudding, fast and heavy. "Dance with me. Arthur is watching. We have to be the happy couple, remember?"
Tom didn't argue. He looked down at you; pupils blown wide, swallowing the gold flecks in his eyes, then he had caught your waist with a firm hand; steering you toward the center of the room, his movements stiff but undeniably powerful. The brandy made you bold; you leaned your head against his shoulder, the coarse wool of his sweater scratching your cheek.
"You're too stiff," you whispered into the hollow of his throat. "Don't be afraid to hold me."
"How else should I hold you?" Tom rasped.
"Like everything matters," your voice a slurred, soft murmur. "Because if I disappear, Tom, who will you be?"
"I have spent decades carving my name into the pages of history so that I might never be forgotten," he hissed, the liquor making his words heavy and slow. "And yet, here I am; spinning in circles like a common laborer, intoxicated by the only person left alive to witnessed how pathetic I have become."
"You aren't pathetic," and it was the most honest, gut wrenching thing you had ever said. "You're just with me."
"It's cruel," he murmured, his voice cracking. "To offer me peace that you know I cannot keep. To make me feel the weight of a life I spent fifty years trying to transcend."
"You look tired," your eyes shutting closed for a moment. "And I cannot feel anything anymore."
"I feel you. I can feel the blood in my hands, (Name). It's warm. It's loud. It's… disgusting."
"It's life," eyes fluttering opened; your hand sliding up to cup his jaw, your thumb brushing the hollow of his cheek. "It's the only thing that's actually yours."
The house was quiet now, the kind of absolute, ringing silence that only falls when the fire has burned down to its glowing remains and the wind has stopped its howling against the eaves. Arthur and Evelyn had retired an hour ago, leaving behind the lingering scent of plum sugar and wood smoke.
Tom stood in the threshold of the front door, the cool night air biting at his neck, though the brandy in his blood kept the chill at bay. He watched you.
You were huddled on the top step of the porch, a heavy wool blanket draped haphazardly over your shoulders. You should have been freezing, but the flush of the liquor was still painted across your cheekbones, radiating a warmth he could feel even from several feet away. You looked small; painfully, irritatingly small—against the backdrop of the black, encroaching forest.
Tom leaned his shoulder against the doorframe, his hands shoved deep into his pockets to hide the slight tremor in his fingers. He was looking at you through a lens he hated; recognition. He saw the way you watched the stars as if waiting for them to fall, the same way he used to watch the planes over London, waiting for the world to finally match the wreckage inside of him.
"You should come inside before the frost takes root in your lungs."
You didn't turn around, you didn't even flinch. You just tightened the blanket around your frame, your gaze fixed on the horizon where the gray of the earth met the black of the sky.
"I don't mind the cold," your voice was no longer slurred, but it had a quality that was far worse. "It's the only thing that feels honest anymore."
"You're thinking of them again."
"I'm not thinking of them," you said, finally turning your head. The fire in your eyes had been replaced by a vast, watery exhaustion. "I'm thinking about how I've spent my whole life trying to be what they needed. A soldier. A friend. A savior."
You let out a short laugh that feels pitiful.
"I long to be understood," you murmured, looking back at the trees. "But I know I will be longing my whole life. I'll die with the weight of being a stranger to everyone, including myself."
"I never wanted it… I wanted to be a monument. Something people looked at and trembled, but never reached."
"Was it worth it then? Everything?" you said. "The muggleborns you have killed… the people you took from me… everything you have taken; the endless war—was it worth it now, Tom Riddle?"
Tom went still. The name Riddle hung in the frozen air; stripping away the last of the brandy's warmth. He stepped out onto the porch, his boots crunching the thin layer of frost with a sound like breaking teeth. Only then, he didn't sit beside you; he stood over you, his shadow long, cutting you off from the starlight.
"It was worth it because it was mine," his voice trembling with a terrifying, human fragility. "The blood, the terror, the power—it was the only thing I ever truly owned. And you... you want me to say I regret it? You want me to tell you that I'd trade it all for a seat at Arthur's table and a life of kindness?"
"Kindness wasn't a choice you made, Tom; it was a language you were too small to learn," you snapped, finally standing up. The blanket slipped from your shoulder, you stepped into his space, forcing him to see the raw ruined of the girl he had spent years fighting against with.
"You claim the blood and the terror were yours, but they were mine, too. My friends. My home. My soul. You spent years trying to transcend humanity, and yet here you are—cold, hungry, and lost in time. You're no more than a lord, you're just the boy who killed everyone who might have loved him, only to end up alone."
"And I would do it again. I would burn every bridge and salt every field just to feel that moment of absolute certainty—that I was the only thing in the world that mattered."
"And was it worth Harry?" The name was a crack in the dark; you felt the sob rising; hot and poisonous. "Was it worth the look on his face when he died? Tell me, Tom. When you were carving your name into history, did you ever stop to think that you were just carving it into our hearts? Into my life? You didn't just kill them. You killed me, too."
"Then why are you still breathing?" he hissed, his hand flying out to grip your arm. His fingers were like ice, digging into your skin through the wool. "If I killed you, why are you here, haunting me? Why do you look at me as if I can be anything but a monster? You hate me because I am the only one who knows exactly how much you lost. I am the only person in this rotting place who knows who you were before you became this… this hollow thing."
"I am hollow because you gutted me!" you screamed, your voice breaking, the sound echoing off the silent trees. You shoved at his chest, your hands balled into fists against the coarse fabric of his sweater.
"I hate you because you're right—I hate you because when I look at you, I don't just see a monster, I see everything I'll never have back; I see the world you stole. And you... you're so arrogant, so pathetic! That you'd rather cling to your glory than admit you're just as lonely as I am—only I never decided to punish anyone for it."
Tom didn't move, he let you strike him; his body as rigid, as your fists lost their strength and your forehead slumped against his chest, he let out a sound; sharp, ragged intake of air.
"You want me to say it?" he whispered into your hair, it was just raw, bleeding bone. "That I watch them—two simple people; and I would give every drop of blood I ever spilled just to feel that kind of peace for one hour? To not wake up with the taste of death in my mouth? You want me to admit that I am starving, (Name). Not for power, but for the life I was too arrogant to believe I deserved."
He let go of your arm, but his hand moved up to cup your chin; his thumb pressing into the soft skin beneath your lip with a force that was almost a plea, he held your face with such tenderness you couldn't fathom. Tom's eyes were wide, glassy, and devastatingly human.
"It might not have been worth it," he said. "But it's all I have. If I regret it, I am nothing. If I apologize, I disappear. And I am too much of a coward to be nothing."
"Then, we're both cowards," the cold finally beginning to numb the pain. "You're afraid to be nothing, and I'm too afraid to be alone. That's the only reason we haven't killed each other yet."
"Because you are the only proof of my existence."
"But you're the only thing that feels real to me," you choked. "And I hate you for it. I hate that I have to look at your face to remember I'm still alive; I am not dead like them. I hate that I'm holding onto the man who ruined me because there isn’t a single soul left to hold me back."
"I would have preferred your hatred when it was pure, (Name). It was easier to bear when you wanted me dead."
"There's nowhere left to go, Tom. We are at the end of the world."
He let out a ragged breath, the heat of it ghosting over your lips. In the peripheral of your vision, the vast, black expanse of the woods felt like a boundary, the edge of a map where the ink had simply run out. You pulled away from him, creating distance.
You felt a sickening lurch in your chest—the realization that the hatred you had nursed for years, the fire that had kept you warm through the war, was finally flickering out into small pieces of ashes, blowing away. It was being replaced by something far more terrifying: a weary, shared exhaustion. You weren't a hero anymore, and he wasn't a king—you were simply two victims of his ambition, huddling together in destruction.
"I used to dream of the day I'd see you like this," your gaze focused on the ground. "Small. Human. Beaten. I thought it would feel like victory. I thought I'd feel whole again."
You let out a broken, wet laugh. "But I just feel... empty. Like you took so much of me that there isn't enough left to even hate you properly."
You headed back inside without a word, leaving him alone in the vastness of a dying world; a rotting time.
Days began to blur and numbness felt like mercy on your tongue; you had moved through the farmhouse on autopilot, performing the motions of life without any of the spirit. You helped Evelyn with the laundry, your hands turning red and raw in the icy water, and you sat across from Tom at dinner, watching him chew his bread with the same indifference.
You didn't care that Tom's gaze followed you with an inexplicable expression, nor did you care when you felt the mattress shift in the dead of night as he slipped out of the room. You knew he was going somewhere—into the woods, into the dark, perhaps looking for a way back to a world that no longer existed—but the curiosity had died with the liquor that night on the porch.
Time had become a stagnant pool, and you were simply something heavy sinking to the bottom; indifferent to the surface and the light you'd left behind.
You had decided to clean the attic one morning; the space was cramped, smelling of dry rust, and the suffocating heat of Tom's presence. He was out in the barn with Arthur, and the house felt unnervingly empty. You moved his spare sweater from the small wooden crate he used as a bedside table, then your hand caught on something hard and cold tucked beneath a stack of yellowed parchment. Pulling it out, expecting a stray bit of hardware or a stone. Instead, the dim light of the attic caught on gold.
The Time Turner sat in your palm, heavy and impossible.
The last time you had seen it, it was a shattered ruin of glass and twisted sand, a broken promise of a way home. Now, the rings were straight, polished to a mirror shine; the hourglass was whole, filled with sand that didn't flow, but shimmered with a faint light that seemed to beat in time with your own heart.
It was fixed.
Your fingers trembled as they traced the cool gold casing. He had done it. While you were sinking into the gray, he had been working in the dark, painstakingly piecing together the very thing that could undo everything. Or the thing that could take you back to the beginning of the nightmare.
The door creaked.
You didn't look up, but you felt the atmosphere change; the shadows in the corners stretching toward you. Tom was standing in the doorway, his chest rising and falling with the exertion of the stairs, his eyes fixed on your hand. He didn't speak. He didn't move. He simply watched you hold the one thing in the world that mattered more than his own life.
"How long?" you whispered. The numbness was receding, replaced by a clarity that felt like a blade sliding into your ribs. "How long has it been sitting here, Tom?"
You heard his footsteps—slow, deliberate, as he crossed the threshold, the floorboards groaned, a familiar, agonizing sound that eases you to this reality even as you held the key to another.
"Three days," he finally said. "I finished the final seal three nights ago."
"Why didn't you tell me?"
Finally, you lifted your gaze. He looked wretched. The sweater he wore was frayed at the cuffs, and his hair was uncharacteristically disheveled, but it was his eyes that caught you; the raw fear lingering in them.
"I never planned to leave you."
"Then why hide it?"
"I—"
"Were you waiting for the right moment to leave me behind? Or were you just enjoying the sight of me finally being as broken as you are?" You stood then, hands trembling as you held it close to your chest.
"Because I knew that the moment I showed it to you, this version of you would disappear," he hissed, his eyes flashing with a sudden, violent spark of the old Tom Riddle. He stepped closer, his presence orphaning the light in the room.
"She only exists in this house… If we go back, you become the savior again, and I become the villain. The silence ends, and the war begins."
"The war never ended, Tom!" you screamed, the sound tearing from your throat. "It's been happening every single day in this room! Every time I look at you and have to forget that you killed the people I loved just so I don't lose my mind—that is the war!"
Tom closes the distance between you in three strides, hand reaching over to touch you but you moved further away from him; terrified eyes.
"In here, I am real. You said it yourself, (Name); we are the only two things left. If we turn those rings, we go back to a world that wants us to destroy each other. I am a coward, remember? I am a coward who would rather live in this filth with you than be a God in a world without you."
But his words rang hollow in your ears; you don't believe him.
"You didn't fix it for us, Tom." a tear finally breaking through the numbness and tracing a hot path down your cheek. "You fixed it for you. You always do."
"If we stay... we can just be. No war. No names. Just the silence. I would give up the world for this silence, (Name). Why can't you?"
"You let me think we were dead. You watched me sit on that porch and tell you I had nothing left, and you let me say it! You let me feel it because as long as I was empty, you were the only thing I could use to fill the void."
"And let myself lose you forever? Don't be so naive now… I might be a coward; but I am inherently selfish. Did you expect me to suddenly become a martyr for your happiness?"
"I expected you to give me a choice!" you sobbed, the tears finally falling in earnest now. "You took my past, you took my friends, and now you have stolen my grief—you let me find comfort in the man who took everything from me."
You felt a sickening wave of self loathing wash over you. It wasn't just him you were angry at; it was yourself. You hated that your first instinct wasn't to turn the rings immediately and vanish; you hated that you were standing there, arguing with him, pleading with him to justify the unjustifiable.
Tom was right about one thing—part of you had started to settle into the rot. You had started to rely on the sound of his breathing in the dark to know you were still alive. You had allowed the man who murdered your future to become the only thing that made your present bearable.
And you know you must be impossibly wretched, that the world had made you something so terrible, so unforgivably damned—to allow yourself of this semblance of affection, that you can never be anything more than the poison you was born with flooding your veins.
I am as much a traitor to their memory as he is a thief of it.
You took a step back, hitting the slanted wall of the attic, then you looked at him—really looked at him; not as the Voldemort you once knew, but as the pathetic, brilliant, broken boy, Tom Riddle,who was so afraid of his own insignificance that he'd rather keep you in a cage than let you be free.
Your thumb moved to the first ring. It was absolute, and the terrifying realization in his expression becoming more evident now.
"I thought about forgiving you," you admitted, the confession sounding like a death knell in the small room. "In the dark, when the house was quiet… I thought that maybe, if we were the only ones left, it didn't matter anymore. But you couldn't even give me the truth. You couldn't even let me choose to stay; you had to steal that, too."
"Don't do it, (Name)," the word was a sacrilege coming from his mouth. "Stay. I will give you everything. I will be whoever you need me to be."
The vulnerability in his voice was a knife; it was the most human Tom had ever been, and it was the most cruel thing he had ever done to you—to make you feel responsible for the soul of the man who had destroyed yours. You stared at him, and for a heartbeat, the Time Turner was the only thing standing between the two of you and the end of the universe.
Your vision was so blurred by tears that he looked like a smudge of grey against the dark wood of the doorframe—a smudge of a person, a smudge of a memory.
You looked up at him one last time. You saw the tears in his eyes—real, human tears, and it hurt more than any curse he had ever thrown at you. It was a cruel, beautiful trap, a final attempt to make you stay by showing you the soul he had claimed didn't exist.
"I'm sorry," you whispered, though you weren't sure if you were apologizing to him, or to the friends you were about to go back and mourn all over again.
With a sharp, decisive jerk, you twisted another ring. "Good bye, Tom."
Tom made a guttural sound, and lunged for you, but his fingers only grazed the wool of your sweater. The gold began to spin, the rings becoming a blur of light that outshone the gray morning; the attic began to stretch, the walls pulling away into infinity, and the scent of dry rust was replaced by the ozone of magic and the sudden, violent roar of the wind.
The last thing you saw before the world dissolved into a kaleidoscope of golden sand was Tom's face. He wasn't reaching for the Time Turner, you realized—he was reaching for you, his expression one of shattering loss—as if, in that final second, he realized that a pile of bones was nothing compared to the warmth of a hand he had never learned how to hold.
Then, the farmhouse was gone. The silence was gone, and you were falling back into the nightmare.
You felt the sensation of being pulled through a needle's eye, your lungs collapsing under the pressure of decades screaming past you in a heartbeat.
And then, you felt the impact.
You stayed on your knees, gasping, your fingers still curled around the burning metal of the Time Turner; eyes were blurred with the tears you had shed in the attic, but as you blinked them away, the shapes around you began to solidify into a nightmare of a different kind.
The shifting staircases, the vaulted, cavernous shadows, the gargoyles watching with stony indifferent eyes; you weren't back in the manor, nor you weren't in the forest.
You were at Hogwarts.
"It's nearly midnight. Surely you know that wandering the corridors at this hour is a punishable offense."
You looked up, the breath dying in your throat.
Standing over you was a boy. He was wearing uniform robes; the silver Head Boy badge pinned precisely to his chest. He looked exactly as as he did in the glimpses of the man you had known at the farmhouse, yet he was terrifyingly different; Tom seemed like a portrait before the paint had begun to wither, and the boy standing before you was the blueprint of your nightmare.
This was Tom Riddle at the height of his beauty. The Tom Riddle who hadn't yet become a monster, but was already growing to become one. Your breath hitched in a sob; you were looking at the man who had ruined your life, but he was also a stranger.
You had been sent back too far, it had sink into your head.
The Time Turner, fixed by a man with a broken soul, had done exactly what he wanted; it had returned him to the moment he was most powerful, but it had stripped you of your victory. Tom reached out a hand to help you up; his fingers were long and pale—the same fingers that had cupped your chin on the porch.
It felt like a reflex in a way you stared blankly at his hand; heart hammering an erratic rhythm against your ribs. His skin was smooth; devoid of the callouses he had earned hauling wood in the future. In the past? In nowhere, you didn't know anymore. But here, he was whole; Tom Riddle was pristine.
"You're trembling," he didn't pull his hand back; he let it linger in the air between you. "Are you injured?"
"No," you choked out. Tom's gaze narrowed, the polite concern on his face sharpening into something analytical. He retracted his hand slowly, his gaze dropping to the golden object you were clutching against your chest.
"I don't recognize your robes," he said, his tone shifting. "… I don't recognize you at all."
Your breath hitched, a sound that echoed too loudly in the corridor. It was agony to see him like this—unbroken, untouched by the frost of the farmhouse, his soul still stitched together by the very arrogance you had watched him shed. You looked at him with a gaze that had seen him bleed, seen him beg, and seen him fail; an expression so raw and heavy with grief that it felt like you were laying the corpses of your future at his feet.
The ache in your chest felt familiar. You weren't mourning the monster he would be, or even the friends he had killed—you were mourning the silence you had shared in the ruins of that forest, the only version of him that had ever been yours. You couldn't bear to tear your gaze away from him; at the back of the throat, your voice is choked by the disquietude.
"Do I know you?"
"No, I suppose, you don't."
The forming expression upon his face contemplates, he was not convinced by the dread of your voice; you lie so easily smooth on the tongue, it only felt right. But even then, no matter how many timelines or past you will go through; Tom Riddle always sees the lie.
"Then who are you?"
You know what you must do, the reason why it all began; your endless misery. What would you have done then? If you weren't the person you had become now—if you never allowed yourself to learn him; to see him in a different light despite everything you have been through.
Theodore once told you—you sound like you're always on the verge of tears. Somewhere, a piece of you was always standing on the precipice, and you would peer over the edge to see solitude staring back at you. Elsewhere, time stares back at you; it beckons you with its soft hands and velvetlike voice.
Somehow, you retrace your steps, parallel paths converge, and found yourself on the ground with a dagger in your hand. Emptiness inside consumes you whole; but the longing—the longing weighs heavier on your chest, settled on the deeper parts you wished you had buried.
Your wand was drawn towards him, hand trembling but you stood firm on your position. Tom stood across; gaze holding yours in the same way you remembered; though it wasn't anger nor terror. A certain kind of realization—an understanding of the what the situation was becoming to be.
"I have seen you before," he spoke. "I have been having dreams—fragments of memories inside my head; I was dreaming about a time that had never been experienced. I didn't know it was real… but then I saw your face."
You wanted to hate him, so desperately so. You had spent lifetimes rehearsing the hatred, sharpening it until it was a blade, but looking at him now—at the unblemished skin and the eyes; the blade turned inward. Insensate with longing, you had felt it all at once. It wasn't enough, it was an endless hunger for something you wish you never had.
"I have to do this," your voice shakes, you could feel the way tears finally spilled over your cheeks. "You may never learn to understand, but I have to do this."
"It was you, wasn't it? You are real, it was no longer a dream."
"As real as I can be, Tom."
"Then you must do what you have to."
"Why are you letting me?" you asked, knowing the answer already. Tom took a step forward, and didn't stop until the tip of your wand was pressed firmly against the center of his chest, right over the steady beat of a heart that was currently whole. He didn't flinch.
"I think, in the deepest corner of my psyche, I was waiting for you."
From the shadows of his robes, his hand emerged, fingers curling around a hilt of silver and bone. Then, Tom had held it out to you, handle first, the blade catching the cold light like a sliver of a fallen star. He took your hand; the one not holding your wand, and forced your fingers to close around the hilt. Tom's skin was so warm, and the very air surrounding you felt haunted; he was touching you, and you were going to touch him; and you felt everything.
"I'd rather you do it with your bare hands," Tom pulled you closer, then. "Do it, so that when I close my eyes, the last thing I remember was the way you looked at me when you thought I could be saved. Give me your mercy, (Name) (Lastname)."
"Mercy," you were breathless. "You don't even know what you're asking for."
The silver hilt was slick with the sweat of your palms, the metal freezing against your skin while his touch remained tender. You looked at him; searching for the monster, for the cold blooded killer who had dismantled your world piece by piece. But he wasn't there yet. All that was left was this beautiful, terrifying boy who was looking at you with a devotion that felt like a sacrilege.
"I am asking you to be the only thing you ever were to me," Tom whispered. "My beginning and my end."
You didn't want to go back to the war; you never wanted to be the only savior—you only wanted to stop the aching, to finally quiet down the screaming inside your head; the dead appearing in your eyes.
Then, you surged forward, only then, this time, your lips crashed against his in a kiss that was clumsy, salt stained, and passionate; a collision of two human beings that should never have met. It was the first time you had ever tasted him, and it was everything you had never imagined; as the blade slipped between his ribs, you knew it would be the last.
The sound of the blade piercing his heart was swallowed by the quiet gasp he let out against your mouth, yet he persist to move his lips against yours. Tom then, clings to you, his fingers digging into your shoulders; trying to steady himself before his strength buckled. And you went down with him; your knees hitting the floor with a thud, but you didn't let go.
You cradled his head in your lap, your hands trembling as you tried to stem the crimson tide blooming across the fabric of his clothes. The silver dagger lay forgotten on the floor, its work finished. Tom's breath came in jagged. He looked up at you; his pupils blown wide, mirroring the dark, starlit sky outside. A small melancholic smile ghosted over his lips—a look of genuine peace that the older Tom had never been allowed to possess.
"I have been cruel to you, haven't I?" he rasped. "Long before I even knew you."
You let out a sob, tears falling fast as you smoothed his hair back, desperate to memorize the warmth of him before the cold took hold.
"It's over now, Tom. It's over."
You could feel his hand falling away, hitting the floor with a flat sound. Leaning down, you had pressed your forehead against his, your hair masking the stillness of his face. You kissed his lips one final time, the scent of him fading into the smell of winter air.
Tom looked the way Saints are portrayed in the final moments of their martyrdom; blood like holy oil anointing his lips, his throat, trailing down and across his skin.
"I'm sorry," you whispered into the hollow of his neck, your voice breaking into a million pieces. "I'm so, so sorry."
been noticing some AI generated fanfiction recently 😬
i wont name names but yall know who you all are and none of you are being slick. I have zero problem with people using AI for ideas but using it to just straight up do it for you takes all the fun out of the creativity !?
Doesn’t help that they’re miraculously being pumped out so fast…
Be on the look out. Lack of writing techniques, an over abundance of simple sentences (slash using short sentences all the time instead of long though out sentences) and a basic understanding of vocabulary. Just robotic. Also AI tends to write characters very flat and similar to eachother. It’s sort of hard to describe —kinda like uncanny valley but for writing —you just know.
