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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖒 (Yandere Tom Riddle x Reader)

Chapter Two

That was your Fleamot Potter, your friend, your brother. The one with memories of your time together, the one that fought with you, cried with you. And he was standing right there, staring kindly at you as he always did. You couldn’t help letting your jaw drop in astonishment, without thinking, in your desperation for him to know, to know that it was you. You slightly raised your right arm, the one scared with the word ‘mudblood,’ and subtly pointed at it. He would know.

And he did, the look of realization making its way onto his face. His eyes then flickered towards Riddle and then back to you. You grimaced. So much for trying to keep Monty safe; knowing him, as soon as class ended, he would come to find you. Which, of course, would raise the suspicion of everyone in the whole damn school. Imagine the school’s “Golden Gryffindor” making friends with the “Wannabe Pureblood Slytherin.”

Yeah, you were fucked, and so was Monty.

The lesson continued on, something about “fully grown mandrakes” and “tomorrow”; you honestly weren’t paying attention to the instructions, but that was a problem for you to worry about later. With the Professor’s—whose name you couldn’t remember—lecture ending, you were filled with both dread and eagerness, knowing what problems would arise from the school, knowing Monty and you were chumming it up. More specifically, you were dreading Voldemort Riddle’s reaction. But you were desperate to properly reunite with your friend. The same type of desperation that would get you killed. Again.

But who cares? You’ve died once. If it comes down to it, dying again wouldn’t be so bad.

And with that last thought, the school bells chimed, signaling class was over. Students rushed out, eager to meet their friends and converse during the passing of their following courses. You saw Monty’s silhouette head out with the rest of the Gryffindors, only briefly turning to look back at you, subtly signaling for you to follow him into the hallway. Without a second thought, you rushed to the exit, missing the odd look Dolohov shared with Riddle and Malfoy. Their heavy steps shortly followed after you.

Pushing past students, you found yourself in the middle of the busy hallway, getting shoved by passing students. You spun your body desperately, trying to make out Monty’s figure within the crowds of students passing. Your eyes darted around; he had to be here somewhere. That was until you heard a familiar voice yell for you.

“(Y/n), over here!” Monty forlornly shouted over the bumbling mass of students that was slowly dwindling.

Your head whipped towards his voice at record speed.

And there he was, standing a few measly feet away, gazing at you like he could believe you were real. You met his gaze, eyes reflecting the same despair and disbelief. Once your eyes met, it was like a rubberband had snapped as Monty rushed towards you. You could only stand there frozen, contemplating the consequences of the reveal of your friendship with the Gryffindor. However, you soon found that you no longer cared as Monty’s larger body crashed into you, enveloping your form in a frantic hug. Immediately you threw your arms around him to bring him closer.

“You died.” He whispered, voice cracking with sorrow.

“I know Monty.” You murmured, rubbing his back, trying to comfort him. He buried his head into your shoulder, the damp feeling of tears now marking your uniform. Not that you cared. No, the only important thing right now was that you had Monty.

“I thought I’d never see you again.” He now sobbed.

You also thought you’d never see him again. Considering you died and it caused you to be sent back in time, you could only—wait a second. If the reason you traveled back in time was because you died, what the hell was Monty doing here?

You raised your head from the crook of his neck to look at your friend.

“Monty. How did you get here?” You questioned.

He didn’t answer.

“Monty, what are you doing here? How—what happened?!” You exclaimed, pulling yourself from his grasp and fisting his shirt.

He couldn’t be dead. Not him. Not Monty.

“(Y/n), I—I, you have to understand. I needed closure; you were gone for weeks, and nobody was looking for you, and I just…I had to—“

“—You son of a bitch. You dumb son of a bitch, I told you not to look for me, I told you that it would get you killed! And you didn’t listen! You promised me that you would stay put, and now look, we’re both here now.”

“(Y/n), I know, I’m sorry, but this is not the place to continue this conversation.“ He whispered, cutting you off.

It was only after he pointed it out that you realized that you both had a congregating audience. An audience that also consisted of future death eaters and their master. You could feel Riddle’s calculating glare burn into the back of your head. Great, that was something you would have to worry about later.

“Fine.” you hissed back, moving with Monty toward a more secluded area away from prying eyes.

You both left the crowded hall, slinking into a concealed hallway. Finally, the both of you were alone, which is when you both started fighting again.

Monty started with an apology, hoping to make you understand.

“(Y/n) I’m sorry, but—”

“No, sorry, doesn’t cut it. You had orders! We had orders! Orders we had to follow Monty! People need you. You actually have—had a life waiting for you after the war—and you went and ruined it! I can’t—“

“—Well, I needed you! My life was already ruined the moment you went on that damned mission and never came back! Do you think I could live out the rest of my life happy, knowing you died somewhere out there, alone?!” He yelled back, tears in his eyes as he grabbed your shoulders.

You were too stunned to speak, but Monty just kept going.

“When will you realize that your life matters too (Y/n)!? When will you realize that people care about you just as much as you care about them?! Do you seriously think your death wouldn’t matter to me or the others?!” He questioned, looking into your eyes, searching for an answer.

Your silence said enough. You only gazed up at him, stunned at his outburst. He let out a strangled noise as he gripped onto your shoulders.

“(Y/n), you need to stop blaming yourself for your past. You were young, and Riddle was all you had. Nobody blames you for being his friend before the war. It's hard for others to realize, but you lost your friend, too, when Riddle turned, you know? You don't have to hold everything in all the time. Even now, you’re trying your bloody hardest to hold everything in. It's okay (Y/n). Just let go.” Monty said, looking at you with that familiar soft expression.

And that was all it took for your dam to break. Before you knew it, you were violently sobbing in Monty’s arms, tremors wreaking through your body. He only held you softly as he let you cry into his shoulder. Despite mentally being twenty-three, you’ve never felt more like a child than now. You didn’t have time to wallow in pity, not with the stakes as high as they are; for Merlin’s sake, you have a class to get to right now. Yet, you stayed there in that hallway, embracing Monty.

You would regret this later, you were sure of it, but for now, you were content.

Without realizing it, your second class of the day passed while Monty and you sat in that empty hallway. When the bell rang, you both headed to your next class, his being Ancient Runes and yours being Care of Magical Creatures. You both headed out to your respective classes, a promise of seeing each other again implied but unsaid. You sagged in relief as you thought about your next class. There would be absolutely no Deatheaters or other Slytherins in Care of Magical Creatures since, in their opinion, it was “a useless class meant for Hufflepuffs.” This would be your reprieve for the day. The walk to the fields outside the castle was peaceful; with the warm sun on your face and the joyful chatter of other students, you couldn't help but smile at the pleasant atmosphere.

The professor, Silvanus Kettleburn, was already in the evergreen fields waiting for the rest of his students to arrive. Professor Kettleburn was interesting, to say the least; the man had a good head on his shoulders but was a bit eccentric and a little too enthusiastic when discussing anything Magizoology. In that sense, he was similar to Monty regarding quidditch, the man–well, boy now you supposed–could never stop blabbing off about the sport. Regardless, he was a man of exemplary kindness and respect. Sooner than later, more students made their way to the fields gathering into their respective cliques and chatting. This of course left you standing alone; the other students too deterred by your house and your standoffish attitude. You couldn’t blame them honestly; it was entirely your fault and the fault of the “prejudiced” persona you created. “Alright, students! Let's clammer on over to the edge of the forest and see if we’re lucky enough to spot a couple of bowtruckles.” Professor Kettleburn guffawed in a jolly old voice.

You trek on after him, a small smile making its way onto your face. Reprieve for the day.

—

Potions was interesting, to say the least. In your days as a student, you were utter rubbish at potions, something you began to amend in your adulthood during wartime. Monty being quite the potioneer took it upon himself to teach you the ins and outs of potioneering. Now, you’d like to say that you were at equal heads with Monty when it came to skill in the subject, not that he’d ever agree. However, now you have to “forget” everything you’ve learned and go back to the incompetent schoolgirl you were; a hit to your pride you’re not sure you’ll ever get over. Alas, it was crucial for your survival.

—

The rest of your classes were nothing noteworthy; you sort of drifted, following along with the professors absentmindedly. Merlin, you forgot how boring school was. A couple of times you'd hear another student make some snide comment about you, to which you’d fight off the urge to roll your eyes. In the classes, you and Monty shared, you would both do your best to avert your eyes from each other, hoping to dispel and diffuse the attention you’ve created about the surprise friendship. Nonetheless, it was pain painstakingly boring.

—

Dinner was just as uneventful as the rest of the day. Sure, you got a couple of odd, rude stares from the other Slytherins but nothing that bode any real danger. With a sigh, you quietly began to eat your fill, the vicious hunger you felt in the morning now escaping you. You could barely stomach a couple of bites before you began picking at your plate, grimacing at the once tantalizing portion of chicken breast, greens, and mash. You set your fork down and instead reached for your glass of pumpkin juice, something you dearly missed the taste of. But of course, nothing ever went your way as you quickly came to realize your precious drink had been spiked. You exhaled in fatigue, using one hand to pinch the bridge of your nose in exasperation. You could hear a couple of girls further down the table giggle and snicker whilst eyeing you. Well, at least you knew who was responsible. However, you could also feel the stares of Riddle and his inner circle. So they were aware your drink was spiked? Perhaps Walburga had gotten the two girls to do her dirty work since, in her words “Blacks don’t do dirty work.” You sighed again, debating whether you should just chug the drink to maintain your pitiful image or curse the two girls giggling like lunatics.

Unfortunately, you realized that cursing the two twats would only lead to a greater commotion and consequently more unwanted attention to yourself. You ended up just placing the cup down and holding your head in your hands, a fearsome headache now pounding the edge of your skull. Wonderful. Perhaps you’d go to the infirmary for a calming draught or you’d settle for a cigarette. You didn’t smoke regularly, but it wouldn't be uncommon for an Order member to see you puffing away at one. You’ll probably just go trade or buy some off a muggleborn who’d managed to peddle a couple of packs into the castle. You turned in your seat to face the rest of the house tables in the Great Hall. Your eyes scanned the crowd of students, hoping to find someone you knew who sold them. There, your eyes caught onto a familiar face, a Hufflepuff boy most likely a seventh-year like yourself. You remember him being involved in some big scandal your last year, something about how he and a couple of Gryffindors got high at the quidditch pitch and were busted by Headmaster Dippet. It hasn’t happened yet, so he must still sell them (you hoped).

You turned back around, noticing the incredulous stare of a student across from you. You simply raised a brow at them inquisitively.

‘What the hell was this bloke's problem?’

You rolled your eyes, this was exasperating, having to deal with nimrod children again. After a ridiculously long time, and at Tom Riddle’s covert dismissal, he and his inner circle of purebloods finally got up from their seats, signaling to the rest of the house that they could head back to the Slytherin dorms. Thank Merlin for that, you were starting to fall asleep at the damn table. You absentmindedly trailed behind a gaggle of fifth-years. By Merlin were you tired; it was your first day back at school in nearly eight years and you were ready to pass out.

As you reached the Slytherin Dungeons, one of the girls who “seemingly” spiked your drink roughly bumped into you, obviously trying to make you fall. When you barely budged you hear her mutter a frustrated “filthy mudblood” under her breath. You simply sighed at the girl’s immature antics. Just as you passed through the common room and started to climb the stairs leading to the girl's dorms a finger tapped your shoulder. Immediately you found your wand to your assailant's neck, ready to fire a spell into whichever poor Deatheather decided to attack you. Instead, you find yourself scaring the living daylights out of a trembling sixth-year girl. You somewhat recognized her, she was the daughter of some forgotten pureblood and a wealthy half-blood, a meek and quiet thing she was (in your memory at least). You quickly withdrew your wand, offering an apology and a weak smile.

The girl only nodded and whispered out a quiet “It’s okay” before shrinking into herself. It was clear she was nervous, and since she purposely tapped your shoulder you knew it was something regarding yourself. You waited a couple of seconds before you decided you’d help the poor girl out and get the conversation started.

“You wanted to say something.” You reminded her gently, afraid that she might run off like a scared mouse.

That seemed to have done something as she finally began speaking.

“Y-yes, um, Malfoy wanted me to relay a message to you. Your p-presence is needed in the common room at midnight.” She stuttered out, clearly scared out of her witts.

“Is that so?” You sighed, eyes flickering over to where Malfoy and the rest of the Knights of Walpurgis congregated in the Common Room. Riddle was nowhere to be seen, which you weren't too sure if that bode ill or well for you.

She only nodded in confirmation.

“Well then, thank you for informing me, I’ll be sure to arrive on time.”

“Of course.” She squeaked out before speeding up the stairs towards the dorms.

You shook your head and cast a quick Tempus discerning the time was now ten thirty-seven. There was a good hour and a half of time to kill before midnight. You groaned, whatever they were summoning you for was undoubtedly bad news. It was your fault honestly, you knew they’d be suspicious of your sudden friendship with the “Golden Griffyndor” of your year. You just didn’t think they’d confront you about it so soon. Whatever, there's no point dwelling on it now, you could at least use this time to complete your Charms homework. With a quick Accio, your quill and inkpot appeared out of your bag and made their way onto a desk in the girl's side of the dorms. You cracked your fingers before grabbing your quill and dipping it into the inkpot before your quill met parchment and you wrote away at your assignment.

—

Midnight came faster than you expected. What should have been an hour and thirty minutes felt akin to twenty. Now here you were, standing at the edge of the staircase from the girls' dormitory to the common room, familiar voices of future Deatheaters and their master could be heard from the lounge area. You closed your eyes for a minute and focused. Riddle and his inner circle were all skilled at legilimency and would undoubtedly try to dig through your mind. You knew this, Riddle had done it before and he’d for sure do it again. However, this wasn’t what you were worried about, you were a skilled occlumens and it would take serious effort to get your mental wards to crack.

The issue is the (Y/n) of the past had no skill or even the slightest proficiency in mental shielding let alone the complex art of Occlumency. If you resisted their digging, it would be a dead ringer that something about you was off. No, what you had to do was allow them into a part of your mind and force-feed them memories you’ve hand-selected, and overwhelm them with it. Of course, the plan was easier said than done but you don’t exactly have a choice at this point.

Do or die.

Well, maybe not die (yet), but there would be close to fatal consequences if you failed.

‘This was all just a game. Play by their rules, give them what they want, show them what they want to see, and you’ll be out the narrows.’

You opened your eyes and let out a deep breath.

‘To hell with all of this.’

It was a minute past midnight when you finally exited the stairwell and made your way towards Riddle and his ilk. You could see him, Riddle, sitting at the head of the lounge area, book in hand as his followers sat in seats around him. A few followers turned to look at you, disgust and disdain marring their faces before focusing back on whatever they were whispering or reading about beforehand. You only rolled your eyes, an action that did not escape Riddle, Malfoy, and Nott’s watchful eyes.

Everyone’s voices started quieting down as you got closer, eagerly waiting to see what would happen to you, resident mudblood of Slytherin. Perhaps they were waiting for you to be punished; for what you had no clue, but you never knew with Riddle. Still, you highly doubted it, for one, it was Malfoy who called upon you, and two, Riddle was still focusing on his book, seemingly uninterested by your appearance. Of course, this could all be very well-thought-out manipulation, but something tells you this meeting was more Malfoy-oriented. Whatever, better to get this done and over with.

“Malfoy,” You greeted respectfully, “I was informed that my presence was required?”

Malfoy glanced up at you, his brow quirking up as he observed your composed demeanor. He stood up slowly, drawing the attention of the others in the room. With calculated poise, he walked over to where you stood, his gaze sharp.

"Ah, (Y/n) how wonderful to have you join us." He spoke, voice cold yet almost amused.

And so It begins.

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​🇮​ ​🇩​​🇮​​🇩​​🇳​❜​🇹​ ​🇦​​🇸​​🇰​ ​🇫​​🇴​​🇷​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇮​​🇸​ (Platonic Yandere Superfam x Reader)

Chapter Two

You laze around for a while, just lying on your bed listening to music. It’s not like you had any trouble with homework or anything else to do really, your brain was basically an encyclopedia. You sigh, boring, boring, boring; your life was so boring. Again, your mind drifts off to college, the idea of a life outside of the JL. It’s a painful line of thought. You know you'd have better luck asking the JL for crack than the possibility of them actually letting you live outside unmonitored. Even if they did say yes, you have a hard time imagining what that life would look like. You were a clone, a thing, not a person—so what would the life of a clone entail? 

You sigh again, you’d rather abandon thinking about it, what good would it do you anyways? Another text pops up with a ding—oh, Jon. Jon Kent, Superman’s actual kid. The text reads with enthusiasm and way too many emojis, “CALL MEEEEE!!!!” Your lips quirk up. Sweet kid, honestly, you loved that little goofball. For some reason Jonathan Lane-Kent, son of Superman, really liked you, much to his fathers disapproval. The off chance he visited the tower for practice with his father or simply to hang out since he was too young for missions, he always trailed after you like some lost puppy. For some reason, he thought you were the coolest person ever—and even worse, he thinks you're his sister. The first time he said it, you almost cried. But then he said it again around Superman, and the look on the Kryptonians face had you ready to bolt. So now you always correct him, to which he just shrugs and changes the topic. Man, you loved that boy.

Your fingers move to type.

J-Man CALL MEEEEEEEE!!!!! You Sorry lil bro Can’t Don’t you have homework??? J-Man Plsplspls I wanna ply roblox You No can do buddy You gotta finish ur hw Or else your dad might actually kill me J-Man PLEASEEEEEE I WON”T LET HIM I SWER You First spell swear right and then come talk to me J-Man Booooooo Ur lameeeee You Yeah yeah  Get to work lil bro J-Man 🤬😤🤧🥺👎

You huff at the last emoji. He’s so adorable. Anyways, you set your phone down and take your headphones off. You should probably start dinner right? Yeah, it was getting sorta late and you were definitely getting hungry. You stretch, rolling out of bed and slip on your bunny slippers. Robin, Tim, got them for you as a gag gift. You hate that you loved them anyways. You rub at your eye as you leave the living quarters.

Everyone had their own room, though obviously for them it was more a temporary thing—a place to lay down or rest after practice or a mission. For you? It was home. You trudge on out to the kitchen, passing Red Tornado doing…whatever he actually does, bracing yourself for whatever's in the fridge. You take a deep breath and—aw come on. There's bread, which you had to learn goes bad after a few days, Tim being the one to question why you were eating moldy bread, to which you just shrugged and said that it doesn't matter cause moldy food can’t make you sick. He just looked at you with that certain stare before throwing out the loaf. 

You don’t like it when Tim is mad at you, or disappointed, or anything but happy with you. (you’d unpack that later) Anyways, there was bread, half a slice of cheese, four singular grapes, and ketchup. Well, it could be worse. A lot worse. And so, you make yourself a ketchup and cheese sandwich with a side of four grapes. Your stomach grumbles, “yeah, yeah.” you mutter to yourself. You’d have to ask Red Tornado to go shopping soon, and by soon you mean tomorrow. You take your first bite, nose wrinkling. It’s certainly not the worst thing you've ever eaten, but definitely not the best. Eh, you’ll live. 

Which is exactly when the sound of a zeta tube firing up echos. You freeze instinctively for a second before logic comes to you, it was probably just a team member, a slight heartbeat you could recognize anywhere. “Code B20: Robin.” See, you were right. You perk up, “Tim!” your earlier exhaustion dissolving like sugar in hot water. You loved when Tim was here, especially outside of professional hours. 

You don’t mean to sound so happy, to be honest, you don’t even register that you do. But Tim registers it —oh, he registers it. He steps into the kitchen fully, tugging lightly at his tie, suit jacket crisp from whatever Wayne Enterprises meeting he attended. He looks…annoyingly good like this; clean lines, that dark navy that matches his eyes, the way he rolls up his sleeves as soon as he’s inside like he can finally breathe now. For a second you just stare, dumbly appreciative, and then you remember you’re just staring like an idiot.

He turns just in time to see you skid a little on your bunny slippers, hair damp from your shower, oversized pajama shirt swaying around your thighs. God, you’re cute. He didn’t have time to change, and he’s not about to pretend he’s upset that you are the first person to see him like this, not when he could clearly see your eyes trailing over him, you were terrible at not being obvious. Your entire face brightens, shoulders relaxing, eyes going soft in that way that makes his chest tighten painfully. He loved it when you got all excited to see him—like a puppy seeing its favorite person at the door, tail practically wagging behind you. It shouldn’t make him feel as happy as it did. It shouldn’t make his chest tighten with that warm, greedy satisfaction. He knows Jason and Dick tease him about it enough. Look at you, they’d say, you’re whipped. Like it’s funny.

But fuck, you’re so sweet it’s unreal. Because the way you look at him is pure and trusting and stupidly hopeful, and it hits a part of him that’s always been a little too sharp-edged.

“Hey,” he says, smile tugging at his mouth in that reluctant, trying-not-to-look-obsessed way he’s perfected. “How was school?”

Of course he already knows. He knows the exact moment you arrived, the exact moment you left, the exact moment you stepped into the skatepark. He knows your counselor appointment ran over by nine minutes. He knows the joke Daniel made that made you bend over laughing, he knows everything because the school cameras are about as secure as wet tissue paper, and he hacked them months ago. Bruce wasn’t happy about it, but who was Bruce of all people to say anything? The man would put a camera everywhere if allowed. 

“It was good,” you say with a little nod. “Not a lot of homework.”

“Not that it would be an issue for you,” he teases gently, and you giggle. You giggle. You lean into him like a cat curling up against a radiator, practically purring, rubbing your shoulder against his chest like it’s instinct. He shifts his arm automatically, looping it around your shoulders, pulling you into him in a way that looks casual but feels anything but.

Tim feels ridiculous sometimes—a little unhinged, maybe—at how intensely he feels it. How intensely he wants it, how intensely he wants you. But he swallows it back, keeps his expression mild and easy, even though inside his chest something claws and thrums with possessive delight. You have no idea.

No idea how you affect him, no idea how hard he works to keep his composure, no idea how much of your schedule he quietly rearranges behind the scenes to make sure you’re with him. You’re a little dense about these things—romantically speaking. You feel things but don’t quite recognize them until someone spells it out for you. God, you were so pretty. And so dense. You were like this with nobody else—just him. You didn’t even realize what you were doing, the soft touches, the lingering glances, the way your voice always went a little softer around him. It was clear you liked him, even if you didn’t understand that you did. That was okay. He could work with that. He could wait. He can be patient.

Not to mention, you’re the sweetest thing he’s ever met in his entire life. He just wants to keep you somewhere safe, somewhere soft, somewhere only he has access to. But for now, he could live with this.

“You have dinner?” Tim asks casually, thumb rubbing circles into your shoulder. 

“Uh—yup.”

Tim’s eyes narrow the second the word leaves your mouth. You don’t even notice the lie in your voice, but he does. He always does. It’s the wrinkle of your nose, the tiny twitch you don’t realize you do whenever you bend the truth, even a little. It’s adorable, he had to admit, but he doesn’t find it as amusing in this situation. 

You gulp. Tim Drake has many looks: the soft smile he reserves for you, the half-lidded exhausted stare when he’s been awake for 36 hours, the practiced Wayne charm for cameras.

But this look? This is the team leader look. The don’t lie to me look. The one that hits your nervous system like a command. (You’d think it’s hot, it is hot, but right now you were just scared to make him upset)

His eyes narrow further.

“…Really.”

You swallow. He’s not angry, the disappointment is somehow worse. His tone shifts—firm, quiet, clipped. The exact tone he uses in the field when giving orders everyone follows without thinking. And of course it works on you, because your body reacts before your mind does.

“Y/n,” he says, “what did you eat?”

You open your mouth then close it. He waits.

“…cheese and ketchup sandwich,” you mumble, staring at the floor, “with grapes…”

Tim exhales through his nose, a slow, unimpressed sound.

“We talked about this.”

“I know but—”

“You’re supposed to call me,” he reminds you, voice sharpening just enough to make your stomach twist. “I told you not to wait until the last second for these things. And even if you do, you contact me.”

“I was gonna ask Red Tornado to go get—”

“Still not acceptable.” His tone slices cleanly through your excuse.

You shrink a little, shoulders tightening. “Sorry, Tim…”

He sighs, tension melting out of him just a little. He can’t stay mad at you—he never can. Not when you look at him like that, all soft-eyed and guilty and wanting to do better for his sake. He hates how much he loves it.

“Come here,” he mutters, already pulling his phone out. “I’ll order Chinese.”

You blink. “Tim—”

“We both haven’t had dinner yet,” he says, tone shifting back to warm, gentle authority. “So go get your phone and look at the menu.”

“But won’t Bruce—”

“Bruce doesn’t dictate what I do nor do I have a bed time.” He rolls his eyes at the mention of Bruce. “And if he has a problem, he knows how to reach me.”

Your chest warms stupidly. You nod curling back into him. “All right…”

His lips twitch into a small, pleased smile. “Atta girl.”

Your whole face heats and—shit, why would he say that?! You turn away fast, hoping he didn’t see the flush climbing down your neck. He saw, of course he saw. He always sees.

And internally, Tim feels something dark and satisfied coil tight in his stomach. He loves this. Loves how quickly you respond to his tone, loves how eager you are to listen when he corrects you, loves that he’s the only one you react to like this—pliant, warm, trusting.

He tells himself he’s not abusing it. Not really.Only in small ways, selfish ways, ways that make you lean on him more, want to depend on him more. Nothing nefarious, he swears. He knows Bruce had noticed it, always catching a raised brow through the cowl and pressed lips, but Bruce is too much of a pussy to unpackage that topic.

Anyways, twenty minutes later, the two of you end up curled together on the couch, Chinese takeout boxes spread across the table. The TV glows dimly with the opening credits of some fake crime show the kind Tim pretends he watches ironically but you know he secretly adores. He introduced it to you a few months back, which you had to say you appreciated, he knew how boring the tower was. 

You sit pressed into his side, your head resting against the solid warmth of his shoulder. His arm is stretched behind you along the back of the couch, fingertips lightly brushing your upper arm every so often. You don’t even realize you’re doing it, but you’re practically molded to him—thigh against thigh, shoulder to chest, your body turned in toward him.

You sigh happily, you love nights like this. Or getting to spend any time with Tim was a win in your books. As team leader, CEO of Wayne Enterprises, and of course his nightlife as Red-Robin it's not too often he has free time. But when he did, he always came to visit or hang out with you, which always made your heart swell and feel like it was going to leap out your chest. He was your best friend, more than anyone, your favorite person. He was so wonderful, so smart, so hard working, so confident and kind. Not to mention so very handsome and pretty, you loved his eyes, that pretty blue—it was your favorite color. Truly, he was your best friend. 

You press into him more, into the heat and bulk of his frame, and Tim has to take a deep breath. Tim does his best to watch the screen, but his eyes flick down to you much too often—to your sleepy expression, to how comfortably you’re nestled against him, to how your hand occasionally brushes his thigh when you reach for your noodles. You’re none the wiser. He swears he can feel every point of contact, burning, anchoring. No matter how often this happens, he still can't control the ugly thing clawing inside of his chest that screams to just keep you. To say fuck it, and take you back to The Nest. 

You’d be so much happier there, he knows it. While his apartment/base-of-operations needed some work, these past months he's made it a task to make it more homey, more comfortable and personable. He’s started decorating, a warm lamp here, a nice pillow in a color you'd like, hell—he went out and bought a whole new couch on the off chance he finally could bring you to Gotham to visit. Better yet, that when the time comes, you’d love his apartment so much, love spending time with him so much, that your mind starts imagining living there. That you’d start wanting it and he wouldn’t even have to drag you away, you’d trail to him yourself. 

The idea of domestic life makes him hot—and if he can get himself under control its going to be a big problem. Another deep breath. 

“Mm—Tim?” You mumble.

“Yeah, sweetheart?” Tim lets himself slip with the pet name, you’re too sleepy to notice anyways, not that you’ve ever said anything when he’s let it slip before. No, you just let that delicious flush climb up your face and stutter before continuing on with whatever you were doing before.

“Don’t you need to patrol?” You sigh against his chest. 

Well, yes, he did have patrol…but…between Jason, Dick, Steph, Damian, and Bruce, Gotham was covered. He could stay. Besides he’s sure Bruce would be more than happy to see him taking a break. 

“I’m really tired actually,” he starts, and you smile against his chest, trying not to let him see how happy you were, “Bruce and the others will manage.” he says. 

“You should let him know.” 

“You’re right, I should.” He says, as he texts whatever group chat that he wouldn’t be patrolling tonight. His phone is pinging with texts and before he can even set it down, a call from Bruce himself. Tim rolls his eyes, overprotective much?

He picks up. 

“Are you okay?” Bruce's gruff voice came immediately.

“Hello to you too Bruce, yes, I’m okay.”

“Did something happen?” 

“I’m just taking your advice and taking a break.”

“You? Taking my advice?” There's dry disbelief in his voice.

“Don’t sound so incredulous Bruce—”

“You’re at Mount Justice.”

Tim sighs fondly, “I thought we agreed on no tracking devices outside of cowl hours?”

Bruce is silent before completely changing the subject. “What are you doing at Mount Justice?” Although Tim knows Bruce already has an idea of what the answer to that question is.

“I’ll see you tomorrow Bruce.” Tim says amused, hanging up.

“Is he mad?” Comes your voice as you shift to look up at him. Ah right—super hearing, while yours wasn’t as good as Superman's, it was good enough to hear Bruce.

“No, just worried, I never skip out of patrol.” Tim insists, using his hand to lead you back against him.

“You should rest more y’know, or take less hours at WE, Tam and Lucius would agree too.” You state. Oh weren’t you the sweetest?

Tim hums, “Of course—” 

“You always say that,” You huff, “and then take more hours anyways.” 

“Well if I didn't, who's gonna run the company?”

“Bruce, or Lucius like he was before.” 

Tim snorts, “You know Bruce would rather pull out all his hair than sit at a board meeting.”

“You hate those stupid things too.”

“That I do,” he sighs, content. The conversation ends there but neither of you mind. God, you were such a dense creature, did you seriously think this was something friends did? Oh well, he wouldn’t take a gift horse to the mouth, as long as he was the only one you were doing this with. Soon enough, you're asleep against him, limbs tangled with his and breathing softly into his chest. 

He should take you to your room, let you sleep in your bed but—he lets himself indulge just a bit longer. Only a bit. 

Tag-List: @thatoneraeder @cryofaith @nwahahahahaa @ilovedcverymuch @corpsebrideswifey @szftzy @bellslovemachine @fauna-the-bizzy-bee143 @shycreatorreview @sandrellymendonca @gaychaoticraccoon @l-nectarine-l @eyeless-kun @welpthisisboring @c4xcocoa @caged-birdies-blog @d4rkf10w3r

[morbidlyserene]

Hiii!! So I’m wondering are the superfam more specifically Clark going to be more soft Yanderes especially since how Clark has treated us in the past? Will he feel regretful for how he basically forced an unhealthy dehumanizing mindset onto us intentionally or not once he turns Yandere? And I have a feeling that Lois will have something to do with turning Clark Yandere I can see her encouraging his Yandere behavior once it comes into play.

Sorry for the long ask I just love analyzing characters lol

First of all, never apologize!! This was a great ask! Now I can't say too much without ruining the story, but...

All i will say is that Clark does eventually get to that softer yandere mindset/behavior, but it's going to take a while before we get there. There will be others in the League who get there quicker (to the yandere behaviors, I mean) than Clark.

And for what you said about Lois? Ding, ding, ding! Lois will play a huge part in Clark's change towards us; she has always wanted a daughter, you know. Jon Kent is also pivotal, but I don't want to ruin everything so yeah.

I'll also say, some of the batfam will be heavily involved in this, especially Tim, our bi king. (and defo Bruce. Damian will show up here and there, and who knows, maybe Dick and Jayson will make an appearance.) I'll just come forward to say he will be the romantic yandere love interest since they're both 17 heading towards 18.

Forewarning, nothing about any of the relationships in this story is going to be healthy or sane (platonic or romantic), just letting y'all know.

[morbidlyserene]

GUYS, I HAVE AN IDEAAAAA!

Okay, so, I'm thinking a yandere!batfam x reader story but set in the Justice Lords universe. WALK WITH ME! Reader is Bruce Wayne's bio kid from a fling years ago and neglected (obviously). But, little does anyone know, under the city of Gotham is another world, Trolls. That's right folks, this is a Troll Hunter crossover where the reader becomes the new and very first human troll hunter.

If you haven't watched the show, I totally recommend you do.

Anyways, guys, let me know if this is dogshit. <3

Should I Write this Guys

Yes bro ur a genius

No bro, this is dogshit

Voting ended onJan 16

[morbidlyserene]

𝕾𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝕹𝕾𝕱𝖂 𝕯𝖗𝖆𝖇𝖇𝖑𝖊𝖘

- Sirius Black is Mean

[morbidlyserene]

𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙-𝕾𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐

𝔖𝔦𝔯𝔦𝔲𝔰 𝔅𝔩𝔞𝔠𝔨 𝔑𝔖𝔉𝔚 𝔇𝔯𝔞𝔟𝔟𝔩𝔢𝔰

[morbidlyserene]

𝕾𝖎𝖗𝖎𝖚𝖘 𝕭𝖑𝖆𝖈𝖐 𝖎𝖘 𝕸𝖊𝖆𝖓

NSFW Drabble and Musings

In which I just wanted to talk about how mean Sirius is in bed. (also, this is my first time writing nsfw please be nice)

★ Sirius Black ★ who’s mean in bed in that lazy, spoiled way—grabbing you by the hair like it’s a handle made just for him, dragging your face down on his fat cock until you’re choking and slobbering and your vision is going soft at the edges. He coos at you as if you’re adorable, not falling apart on him, brushing a thumb over your wet cheek only to smear the tears further.

“Look at you… fuck, pretty thing, you’re dripping.

C’mon, eyes on me—mm, there she is.”

And when you blink up at him, cross-eyed and trembling, he lets out a low, delighted laugh—because his favorite sight in the world is you trying so pathetically hard to take him.

★ Sirius Black ★ who mocks you sweetly—condescending and cruel—as you whine and gasp beneath him, your soaked cunt fluttering helplessly around the swollen head of his cock as he bullies it in inch by inch.

“Awww—what’s that? Too much for you?” He cups your face like you’re fragile, even as he forces more into you. “Quit your whining, baby. You want it. You always want it.”

He kisses your cheek as he says it, soft and mocking at the same time.

★ Sirius Black ★ who laughs when you go stupid for him, drooling into his sheets, your nails scrabbling at his shoulders as he ruts into your womb like he owns it—because he does. Every thrust is so deep it feels like he’s right against your cervix, knocking the breath out of you, turning your moans into strangled little sounds that he shushes like he’s soothing some pet.

“Shhh, sweetheart—use your words.” You can’t. All that spills out is a slurred, wet gasp of his name.

“Mmmh—good girl. That’s all you need to say.”

He pets your hair, you’re being so, so good for him while your brain melts.

★ Sirius Black ★ who loves—loves—that he’s too big for you, that every time he sinks in he splits you open on him so prettily he can see the outline of himself pressing up through your lower belly. He presses his palm there, pushing down just to hear the hitched, ruined sob you make.

“Oh, look at that. That’s all me, dove. All in your guts, right where I belong.”

He says it gently, almost tender, like he’s praising you for taking him.

★ Sirius Black ★ who lives to fill you up—to hold you still, cock buried to the hilt, chest pressed to yours as he spills into your poor, gummy walls until you’re stuffed full, leaking around him.

You’re shaking. He’s smiling.

“Aww, sweetheart… you’re so good for me. Look at you—loved being stuffed, yeah?”

He strokes your cheek with loving fingers.

“That’s it. Take it all. My pretty girl, my perfect thing.”

Sweet voice. Cruel smile. And cum leaking out of you.

[morbidlyserene]

​🇮​ ​🇩​​🇮​​🇩​​🇳​❜​🇹​ ​🇦​​🇸​​🇰​ ​🇫​​🇴​​🇷​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇮​​🇸​ (Platonic Yandere Superfam x Reader)

Chapter One

Seventeen was a rough age to be. While all your peers were talking about college applications, jobs, prom, their futures—you were left wondering if that was even possible. Make no mistake, yes you were allowed to go to school, but you never deluded yourself into thinking you were “free.” Oh no—it took a while for you to realize it and grow out of your naivety, but being rescued from Cadmus by the JL? You simply traded in one prison for another. Sure, with the JL you could go to school, take a walk, have a room while at Cadums the most you ever did was eat, take tests in the lab, get poked and prodded at for a few hours, all before you went right back into the little paddock you came from. 

But the JL was no different, you stayed at the Watchtower or Mount Justice, you went to school, came back to the Watchtower, did mission reports or read whatever briefing was sent to you for upcoming missions, and then just stayed put till summoned like some mongrel pup. You had monitored hours where you could hang out with friends from school, and that was only for a certain amount of time. So in reality, you traded one prison for a nicer, softer one. Even then, you weren't too sure about that—well, yes, you're ever grateful you got to escape Cadmus, got to know a life outside of those lead lab walls, but…while they did poke and prod at you, treat you like some weapon—like some thing versus a living person—nobody at Cadmus was ever rough with you. 

You didn’t get thrown around or hit—no you were too expensive to damage. But at the JL? You were still nursing a few healing ribs from the last time Superman threw you through a wall for training. It hurt. A lot—but you supposed it was only natural. You weren't a person technically—no, people had to be treated nicely, gently, kindly—all training drilled into you by the League before you stepped foot for your first mission. People, like Robin, Wonder Girl, and Impulse got to be treated…gently, because they are people. You are a clone. So as you absentmindedly rub at your healing ribs—it doesn't bother you. You get treated differently because, well, that was just the rules, your life. While the other sidekicks got hugs and a pat on the back after training, you always ended up with something broken or a bruise. Again—it makes sense, you had Kryptonian DNA, you could take it, but you still weren't invulnerable like Superman. Only people got to complain. 

So now, when you're sitting in your counselor's office as she prattles on about college applications and GPAs, all you can think about is if you'd even be allowed to go to college. College meant less monitoring, less control over you, which also means it's a fat chance in hell. You tell Mrs. Garland as much. 

“Well, that's okay sweetie, not everyone wants or needs to pursue college. You can always go for trade school or straight into the workforce.” Mrs. Garland says smiling.

You're not sure what face you make, but obviously this lady doesn't know and can't know why or how her other suggestion is probably just not possible.

“I-I’ll think about it.”

“Wonderful,” she starts as she grabs a few papers clipping them together, “I added a few trade schools here and a couple of instructions and ideas of colleges to apply to and how you can go about that. Just in case you decide you like to consider university.” She says enthusiastically.

You should be saying thank you and leaving, throwing out the paper on your way out but your mind is just so heavy. “I-well-”

“Oh sweetie, I get it—this whole college and future stuff can be overwhelming,” She soothes sympathetically, “but you have wonderful grades, you’re in the top ten percent, and I'm sure you could get plenty of recommendation letters. I personally think you’d love University.” She says.

You truly don't know how to react to that. “I-um, thank you Mrs. Garland, I’ll think about it.” 

“Alrighty then, back to class you go,” she says as she digs for a hall pass, “now, don't be shy if you have any questions. Swing on by or email me, ‘kay?” 

“Yes Ma’am.” You murmur.

“Off you go Miss Kent.” She waves all friendly. You offer a half-hearted, awkward wave back, hallpass and information sheet clutched loosely in your hand.

The hallways are empty as you head back to your 7th period class, AP Biology. It was easy, so to speak, you had an insane amount of knowledge already uploaded into your consciousness when you were being created back at Cadmus. You didn't really need to learn anything, academically speaking, you just already knew it. It was the human part, the people part that you barely passed at. But hey, you had good friends so it didn't matter, and you were decently liked at school so you must have done something right.

You sigh, rubbing at your ribs again, at least it was the last period of the day, you think to yourself as you let yourself back into the classroom. The teacher, Mr. Pham, barely acknowledges you, still talking in the middle of a lecture as you slap your hallpass on his desk before trudging back to your seat near the middle of the classroom. Nobody else really pays you much mind as they scribble in their notebook or type away at their phones. You slump in your seat, staring at the info brochures your counselor gave you when— 

“Psst—how’d it go?” Jazmin, or Jaz as you call her, whispers. 

“Okay I guess.” you whisper back.

“You’re so lucky your counselor appointment was during class, mine’s tomorrow during lunch.” She playfully whines.

“Just say you hate this class.” You say, grinning.

“I hate this class.” She grumbles back.

You're about to say something, probably sarcastic back but—

“Jazmin, (Y/n), am I interrupting you ladies or is this something you’d like to share to the class?” Mr. Pham says, raising a brow. 

The both of you flush embarrassed, “No sir, sorry.” 

“Then pay attention.” and with that he goes back to explaining the Krebs Cycle which, so unfair that he called the two of you out when like five other people were on their phones. You and Jaz just look at each other, lips pursed. She rolls her eyes and you just open up your notebook to take the notes that you didn't need. Whatever, there was only like 15 minutes of class anyways. 

Finally, the bell shrieks through the stale air.

“Fucking finally,” you groan, relief sagging out of your shoulders as you shove your notebook, Chromebook, and those damn brochures into your bag. Jaz mirrors you with an exaggerated stretch, her spine crackling loud enough for the kid in front to glance back.

“Tell me about it,” she deadpans, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “I thought I was gonna pass out. I swear Pham is actively trying to kill us.”

You snort. “Wouldn’t blame him. This class is making me suicidal.”

“Mood.”

The two of you shuffle into the hallway with the rest of the stampede, but neither of you rush. School ending always hits you with this weird mix of relief and dread—relief you got to be normal for six hours, dread because you'd be back at the Watchtower or Mount Justice soon enough.

Jaz digs a scrunchie out of her pocket as you walk. “So how much time are you free today?”

You shrug. “Like two hours, but nobody’s really gonna notice if I’m out an hour too long.”

It’s true. No one really checked anymore unless Superman himself brought it up, and he didn’t really get involved with your shit unless he needed to. Plus, you maybe or maybe not found out a way to bypass the check-in system so that meant sneaking out when you could. The League had gotten comfortable, maybe even careless, trusting you not to do anything.

Trust was a funny word.

Jaz whistles. “Fucking bet. Now let’s just hope you have no more shitty foster interviews this week.”

“Let’s,” you echo flatly.

Your cover story, the one Batman and Martian Manhunter helped implant into every school record and public database, was that you were an orphan bouncing through the system, currently under some weird long-term “government placement” program. Nobody questioned it too hard. Nobody wanted to.

You were grateful, you guess, but lying was… suffocating. And knowing that your real “parents” were a dead billionaire supervillain and the most powerful alien on the planet who wished you didn’t exist? Yeah. That sure made “orphan” sound cozy.

Jaz nudges you. “Come on, brooding isn’t hot when I’m hungry. Let’s go find Daniel and the others. No time to waste bitch.”

You huff a laugh, tension loosening just a little as you let her drag you down the hall. You followed her past the lockers and out toward the courtyard where your little group usually met up after school.

“Hey, get a move on, the skatepark isn’t gonna be empty for long.” Daniel says, Isaac looking up from his phone waving. For a moment—a small, fragile fraction of a moment—it almost feels normal. Almost.

“Come on losers, I’ve got like two roll ups with our names on them.” Isaac says.

You whistle, good think you had your blue Kryptonite ring—it basically removes your enhanced powers making you, well, normal. It was a precaution the League took to ensure you didn't accidentally hurt someone at school with your powers, now you just use it to drink and get high. 

“The hell are we waiting for? I needed a hit like yesterday.” Daniel says.

“Addict.” You snort.

“Oh says you (Y/n), all you do is drink and get high.” Issac retorts.

“Fuck off.” 

Jaz coos. “Aye leave my girl alone—”

“There goes Jaz, blowin’ smoke up her ass.” Daniel, again.

“Says you, you constantly d-ride Isaac.” You say. 

You all dissolve into playful, petty bickering and laughter as you head towards the skatepark. And so, for just a bit, you get to be a teenager, you get to pretend to be a person. 

~~~~

Reaching the skatepark is a relief in a way you don’t really have words for—like your lungs can finally expand all the way, like your shoulders don’t have to sit up around your ears. It’s stupid. It’s just a patch of concrete with graffiti-tagged ramps and a crooked fence line and a sun-bleached bench that’s seen better years. But it’s yours for a little while. It’s normal for a little while.

And, selfishly—finally—you can get high. You’re not addicted. You swear. You could stop if you wanted to. It’s just… man, you love this stuff. You love the way it makes your thoughts soften at the edges, love the way the constant buzzing in your brain quiets down enough that you can hear yourself breathe. You love the way the world stops feeling like it’s waiting for you to mess up.

The four of you sprawl out like you own the place. Isaac’s skateboard has officially become communal. Daniel rides it, hogging it really, like he was born with wheels for feet, popping up and down the ramps like gravity is optional. Jaz tries to copy him and almost eats shit, laughing so hard she has to sit down. Isaac keeps pretending he’s too cool to care while very clearly caring more than anyone.

You sit cross-legged on the warm concrete near the edge of the bowl, shoes scuffed, palms pressed behind you, soaking in late-afternoon Metropolis sun like a lizard on a rock, or well, maybe that was the Kryptonian in you.. The air smells like city heat and faint asphalt and that distant hint of food from somewhere down the street—grease and sugar and something fried.

Time gets… loose.

The conversation turns into everything and nothing. Daniel talks about some teacher who hates him, doing a perfect impression that has you choking on your own laughter. Jaz complains about her mom nagging on her about grades, then immediately flips the mood by announcing she’s going to marry rich and never work a day in her life. Isaac scrolls through his phone, reads out something ridiculous, and you all descend into hysterics like it’s the funniest thing anyone has ever said.

At some point, it’s your turn with the board.

You’re not great at skating, not really—never had the chance to learn the way they did, not when your childhood was fluorescent lights and sterile floors and “training” that looked nothing like play. But you try anyway, wobbling, arms out like a baby deer. The first time you almost fall, Daniel swoops in on instinct and catches your elbow, steadying you with the easiest kind of familiarity.

“If you stand like that you're gonna eat shit,” he says. You scowl but heed his advice anyway.

By the time the high really settles in, you’re giggling like an idiot, cheeks warm, stomach light. The sky has started to shift—blue deepening, the sun inching down. Jaz is chasing Isaac with a nasty-looking bug pinched between two fingers.

“Get the fuck away from me!” Isaac shrieks, half-laughing, half-actually terrified as he sprints across the concrete.

“Dont be a pussy Isaac, it’s just a bug!” Jaz cackles, barreling after him like a menace.

“Fuck you!” he yells, vaulting over a bench.

“Get over here little bro!” she screams back.

You laugh so hard your ribs complain, and for a second you wince—just a flash of pain, like a reminder tapping from the inside. Daniel notices anyway. He always does.

“You good?” he asks, lowering his voice, eyes flicking to your side.

“Yeah,” you lie automatically, too practiced at it, too fast. “Just—laughing too hard, I feel like I’m getting abs.”

He narrows his eyes like he doesn’t believe you, but he doesn’t push. He just shifts a little closer, shoulder brushing yours, and you end up leaning into him without really thinking about it. Your head rests against his shoulder, and the warmth of another person—just regular warmth, nothing cosmic or clinical—feels… nice. Safe, in a way you don’t usually get to have.

For a moment, you just breathe.

Man. You’re so thankful for them. And while a part of you will probably always be drowning in something uglier—jealousy, want, that instinctual craving for family and for more and for a love that isn’t conditional—you’re still happy. You’re happy you can at least have this. Happy that the League was generous enough to allow a thing like you to indulge in normalcy. Happy you’ve been allowed to be someone’s friend, even if only for a monitored window of time. It’s pathetic, maybe, but you’ll take what you can get. 

You sigh, eyes half-lidded, watching Jaz corner Isaac near the fence. “If you throw that at me I’ll literally die,” he’s wheezing, hands up like surrender.

“You’re so dramatic,” she says, delighted.

You glance at your phone. The time punches through the fog like a needle. Two and a half hours. Your stomach drops, even though you knew it was coming, that familiar feeling like a leash tightening, like the world gently reminding you where the edge of your allowed life is. You have to leave now.

You push yourself upright, a little wobbly, blinking like you’re waking up. The concrete feels like it’s moving under you in slow waves. Daniel shifts too, automatically bracing you with a hand at your elbow.

“You’re fine,” he murmurs.

“Yeah,” you say, voice thick. “I’m—fine.”

Isaac appears in front of you like a summoned gremlin, hair mussed, eyes bright. “Awwww,” he whines. “Do ya have ’ta go?”

Jaz pouts dramatically, lower lip pushed out. 

“Yeah. Or else I’m gonna be in soooo much trouble.” You roll your eyes, but it’s fond. 

“Fineeeee,” Jaz says, dragging the word out as she throws her arms around you with enough force to jostle your ribs. You squeak, before laughing. “We’ll see you tomorrow.”

You hug back, careful, light. For half a second you panic that she still has the bug in her hand, but thankfully it’s gone—either dropped or thrown at Isaac when you weren’t looking.

Daniel gives you a lazy salute. “See ya, bitch.”

“See ya,” you shoot back, because it’s what you are.

Isaac tilts his head, suddenly less jokey. “You sure you don’t want one of us to walk ya?”

So they can see the orphanage you don’t live at? So they can ask questions you can’t answer? You force a laugh, easy. Casual. “Nah. Don’t worry—this is Metropolis, not Gotham.”

“True that,” Isaac agrees immediately, as if that settles everything.

Daniel points at you with two fingers. “Bye, Y/N. Text us when you get back.”

“Yeah,” Jaz adds, waving. “Text us.”

“I will,” you promise, and you mean it. And with that, you’re off.

You walk with your hands stuffed in your hoodie pocket, head slightly down, moving fast enough that the goodbye doesn’t linger too long in your chest. The city air feels cooler now, the sun lower. Your ring sits heavy on your finger like a reminder of what you are and what you’re not. The nearest Zeta tube isn’t far, one of the League’s little conveniences hidden in plain sight, disguised enough that civilians don’t give it a second glance. You step into the sleek circular platform and the world hums, then folds. A blink later, you’re in Mount Justice. The air here is always the same: cool, filtered, faintly metallic. The lighting is too even. Too clean. Not sunlight, not real. Everything feels like it’s been scrubbed and polished and controlled and it’s quiet enough that your footsteps sound loud in the corridor.

You pause, automatically listening. Nothing. Empty, save for the distant, faint whir of something mechanical somewhere deeper in the base. Red Tornado, probably, moving around like a ghost with a schedule. He doesn’t care if you smoke, you’re pretty sure. He barely seems to care about anything beyond protocols and maintenance and occasionally making sure you’ve eaten something that qualifies as food.

Still—habit makes you cautious. You head toward your “room.” It’s not a cell. No bars, no lock on the outside. But the door is heavier than any bedroom door should be, and the frame is reinforced, and the walls are… thicker. Soundproofed. Safe, they’d said. For everyone.

It’s… nice, objectively. Better than Cadmus ever was. A bed that’s actually soft. A desk. A small bookshelf. A closet stocked with clothes the League cycles out every few months because apparently you’re still growing in tiny increments, as if your body can’t decide if it’s done. A window shows the outside. Sometimes you stand in front of that window just to look at the sky until your eyes burn.

Right now, you don’t do that. No, right now you just want a shower. You close the door behind you and lean your forehead against it for a second, breathing out. The high still clings to you in soft layers, dulled by the ring but not gone. Your limbs feel heavy and floaty, and your thoughts are slower, like they’re wading through honey.

You tug your shoes off, kick them under the bed, and peel your hoodie over your head. The fabric smells faintly like weed and the skatepark. You hesitate, then pull your ring off for a moment—not long enough to fully sober, just long enough to let your body flush out that last bit of fog.

It’s immediate.

The world sharpens.

Your senses spike, not painfully but noticeably—like someone turned the volume up on everything. You can hear the distant hum of the base more clearly. The faint electrical buzz in the lights. The tiny, almost imperceptible shift of air through vents. Your own heartbeat, steady in your chest.

And the lingering high evaporates like mist.

You exhale, staring at the ring in your palm.

Sometimes it scares you, how quickly you can turn it all off. How quickly you can become something else. Something… more.

You slip the ring back on. The world softens again, not as harsh, not as loud. Not as much. Better.

You grab a towel from the bathroom shelf, strip the rest of your clothes off, and step into the shower. The water starts cold for a second before warming, spilling over you in steady sheets. You tilt your head back and let it hit your face, your hair, your shoulders. It’s stupid, but it feels like washing off a costume.

Like scrubbing away the last few hours of being normal before you have to put the leash back on fully. You soap up slowly, methodical—arms, shoulders, stomach, back. The bruises on your ribs are ugly in the mirror when you glance down: dark shadows blooming under skin that looks too perfect otherwise. You prod at one gently and hiss through your teeth.

You could heal faster if you took the ring off and let your Kryptonian biology do its thing. You could have those ribs knitted up in a few days, maybe less. But sometimes you don’t. Sometimes you keep the ring on because pain feels… grounding. Human. Proof that you exist in a way that isn’t just some ill convoluted plan of Lex Luthor.

You rinse the soap off and stand under the water longer than you need to, letting it run down your spine, letting your eyes close. Your mind drifts—lazy, tired. College. Trade school. A future. You can’t even imagine it properly. Not because you don’t want it, but because wanting feels dangerous, wanting things you aren’t allowed to have just makes you ache. It makes you restless, makes you look at the edges of your life and start wondering what’s beyond them.

And you’re not supposed to wonder, you’re supposed to be good.

You turn the water off, step out, wrap the towel around yourself. The bathroom is foggy, mirror steamed up. For a moment, your reflection is blurred, soft, indistinct.

It’s almost comforting. You dry off, pull on a clean shirt and pajama shorts, and braid your hair automatically, fingers moving on muscle memory. When you step back into your room, the quiet greets you again like a wall.

Your phone buzzes.

A text from Daniel: u alive?

You snort softly and type back: barely. u got bodied by that bench btw

Another buzz—Isaac: YOU SAID YOU'D TEXT US WHEN U GET HOME

LIAR

You smile, fingers hovering, warmth spreading in your chest.

im home. dont be dramatic

Jaz replies almost instantly with a string of hearts and: good. tomorrow. no excuses

You stare at the messages for a second longer than necessary, thumb tracing the edge of your phone case.

Then you set it down on your bed. The room is still. The base is still. And somewhere, far above you, the real sky exists—wide and darkening, full of stars you can’t see from here. You lie back on the bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of Mount Justice. You’re not worried about anyone catching you. It’s a fucking Thursday for crying out loud. Nobody's here. No one cares.

Whatever. You were cool, and the JL was lame-ish.

Tag-List: @thatoneraeder @cryofaith @nwahahahahaa @ilovedcverymuch

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𝕮𝖔𝖒𝖒𝖎𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖔𝖓𝖘/𝕽𝖚𝖑𝖊𝖘

Taking commissions to pay for my cancer treatment!! Fuck the U.S healthcare system!

𝔓𝔯𝔦𝔠𝔦𝔫𝔤

- 2,500 words = $10-$11 - 5,000 words = $20-$25 - 7,500 words = $28-$35 - 7,500 words< = Message for pricing

(Trying my best to be fair with the pricing! I know the economy is shit rn and we're all struggling. To preface, I'm still a student, and I work as well; this is my side hustle to pay for hospital bills. But, pricing can be lowered, just dm me.)

𝔉𝔞𝔫𝔡𝔬𝔪𝔰

- Harry Potter (Golden Trio Era, Marauders Era, Knights of Walpurgis Era) - DC (Batfam, Superfam, most characters) - MHA - Castlevania - AOT - Marvel - Voltron - Star Wars - Jujitsu Kaisen - Teen Wolf - Slashers - Diabolik Lovers - The Dragon Prince - Danny Phantom - Invincible - Twilight - Supernatural - Stranger Things - Your OCs - Monsters (Vampires, Werewolves, Sirens, etc.)

ℑ'𝔪 𝔒𝔨𝔞𝔶 𝔱𝔬 𝔚𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔢:

- fluff - gore - smut - angst - aus - x reader - x oc - oc x oc - character x character - violence - yandere behavior - platonic yanderes - romantic yanderes

ℑ'𝔪 𝔑𝔒𝔗 𝔒𝔨𝔞𝔶 𝔚𝔯𝔦𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤:

- bestiality - pedophilia - rape - violent smut - underage character/oc/reader x adult character/oc - certain kinks (scat, vomit, blood, watersports) - incest - anything else egregious (please use common sense)

I really need this money so if you think the price I give you is too high, I'm sure we can work it out to be lower depending on what you requested. If you have an inquiry or have a commission, please message me on Tumblr! Thank you for reading this and considering me!

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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖒 (Tom Riddle x Reader)

Chapter One

You had spent the rest of the night shivering and reeling in your bed in the Slytherin dorms. Too many questions clouded your mind. Nothing about this situation made sense. You should be dead, but you're not, and somehow Fate decided to throw you back into the past, in the body of your seventh-year self at that. And why, out of all the possible parts in your life, did fate decide to throw you and bring you back to your seventh year?!

But that's beside the point. The point is you were back, and you have been given a second chance to live. Sure as hell, you would make sure in this life you lived the way you wanted. And with that thought, you patiently waited for the sun to rise.

The morning after your newly discovered dilemma was a blur. Getting out of bed, not that you slept at all, was more challenging than necessary, and having the care to make yourself look presentable seemed impossible. After months of being on the run and living in a tent, you couldn't have cared less about your appearance. That being said, you weren't there anymore; no, you were back in 1944 before the war. If you wanted your plan to work, there could be no evidence of your knowledge of the future. You had to act like the 'pureblood wannabe' you used to be in your school years.

It would be exasperating to act like the gullible and obedient fool you used to be; however, a necessary sacrifice of your pride. It was crucial that nobody could find out. Then there was the problem of your physical appearance. The numerous scars you've accumulated over the years would need to be glamoured invisible, especially the scar on your neck and shoulder running up onto the right side of your face, the scar you received from your self-inflicted Killing curse.

The next one to worry about would be the butchered scar etched into your arm, "mudblood." The particular scar would prove difficult to hold a glamor over regularly since the blade used was one cursed with a nasty type of dark magic. It would never heal or fade; the grotesque letters would forever be branded into your arm, the sore and elevated skin around the letters infinitely left to be a reminder of the painful memory.

Despite being back in the body of your seventeen-year-old self, you still held onto the war-ridden features of your future self. Once bright eyes were hollow and haunted, your unblemished body now ridden with scar after scar, and your mind forever remaining as of a tortured soldier.. It would be hard to assimilate back into the girl you used to be.

Nevertheless, you would have to find a more permanent way to hide the scars. It would be hard to explain why a seventh year at Hogwarts had several cursed scars in a highly protected school. In addition, your mannerisms would have to change. No longer could you be '(Y/n) (L/n), Freedom Fighter of The Order of the Phoenix'; you would have to go back to just being (Y/n) (L/n), Tom Riddle's loyal and faithful mudblood. You would have to stop the constant fits of "fight or flight" your body would no doubt put you in, and if things weren't difficult enough, it doesn't help that the entirety of Slytherin is made up of future Deatheaters. Deatheaters you have fought, death eaters that have killed your friends, and, of course, the Deatheater that tortured you for the span of weeks and who gave you your cursed scar. Avoiding them would be difficult and would undoubtedly draw more attention to yourself.

You left the Slytherin dorms only after knowing everyone had already left for breakfast. You didn't think you were quite ready to face the mess that would be walking into a busy Slytherin Common Room; there would be too many familiar faces and, of course, him. However, the painful coils of hunger soon took over your stomach, forcing you to start making your way to the Great Hall.

As you walked, you couldn't help brushing your hand over the unblemished walls of Hogwarts, ones not tarnished by war. Never did you think you'd see these halls' beauty again. Soon, before you knew it, you were in front of the doors to The Great Hall, the loud chorus of laughter and chatter breaching the old wooden doors and the smell of breakfast permeating the air, making you salivate. Merlin, when was the last time you ate? A question you could ponder on later. You raised one hand to push open the doors; your other left gripping your wand.

Immediately, you regretted your decision.

As you anxiously walked to the Slytherin table, you felt the predatory eyes of its inhabitants lock in on your frame. The grip on your wand got tighter, knuckles now turning white. You didn't dare look up to meet the many eyes you knew were on your form. Walburga must have informed the rest of the seventh years of your midnight 'episode.' Surely, that wouldn't be of any interest to Voldemort; it shouldn't be.

He hadn't paid you any attention since fifth year - not that you were complaining - so you were confident to say that your little episode shouldn't have roused his interest. That was until you felt the all too familiar heavy gaze you have grown to fear over the years. The eerie chill that went up your spine shortly after made you shudder violently, something the Dark Lord did not leave unnoticed. With a deep sigh, you took a seat, one as far away as possible from the head of the table where the Dark Lord and his Deatheaters sat. Unfortunately, due to the other years taking up the end and middle of the table, you found yourself closer to the very people you wanted to avoid.

Well, it couldn't be helped.

Quickly you grabbed whatever you could before stuffing it in your mouth. You tried to limit your pace and maintain etiquette, but after months of starving, you couldn't help yourself. The food was gone from your plate faster than you could comprehend, and you had to stop yourself from reaching out for another portion. Not only would it seem unbecoming to the rest of your house, but you doubt your stomach could handle any more food after the time your stomach spent constantly empty. The stares were getting worse. Grabbing your goblet filled with water, you drank slowly to ensure your breakfast wouldn't come back up. That would be most unfortunate, not to mention embarrassing.

Without sparing anyone else a glance, you darted up and rushed out of the Great Hall. Hopefully, everyone would simply categorize your skittish behavior as a byproduct of the "startling episode" you had last night. Mentally crossing your fingers, you made your way to Slughorn's Office. You desperately needed to re-learn your schedule since it's been almost six years since you've walked the halls of Hogwarts as a student. Slughorn being the Head of Slytherin meant the information you needed would be with him. The only matter now is coming up with an excuse for why you've forgotten your schedule mid-semester. It's a good thing old Sluggy has always been quite credulous.

____________________________

"Your schedule? By Morgana, it's the middle of the semester! Pray tell, however did you forget your schedule this late into the semester Ms. (L/n)?" Professor Slughorn inquired animatedly.

"Well, Professor, it was actually quite silly. I was trying to practice a memory charm, but embarrassingly enough, it backfired onto me. Thankfully it's only temporary, so I should regain my memory within the next day or so; I simply wanted to ensure I was prepared for the school day today and would be able to make my classes." You said, feigning embarrassment whilst adding the extra show of looking down in shame.

Hopefully, Sluggy would buy the 'embarrassed student act', which, much to your delight, he did.

Slughorn let out an amused laugh.

"No need to fret Ms. (L/n). Even the most established wizards and witches have faced hiccups when dealing with magic in their youth, but it takes an even more exceptional wizard to learn from their shortcomings. I'd advise you, Ms. (L/n), to take this experience as a lesson and to grow further from here. Actually, I'm sure if you asked Mr. Riddle, he'd be more than happy to help you! He's mastered almost any charm I can think of, yes!" Slughorn responded with excitement.

You cringed internally.

And there it was-the ulterior motive behind Slughorn's kind words. Slughorn thought Tom Riddle and you were close; in his mind, he thought you to be his future bride. It wasn't too wrong of an assumption. At one point in your youth, you also believed Tom Riddle to be your future husband. Plus, considering that you were the only girl Tom had ever been close to (that being said, only till your fifth year), it wasn't hard to assume the possible relationship between you two. Even so, Slughorn was still a bumbling, blind fool. You knew he was only kind to you because he thought you would be the 'Great Tom Riddle's' bride as if that was a great title to hold.

You gave him a strained smile, not that he noticed.

"Yes, of course. I'll be sure to ask Riddle if he has any time later to help me with charms. Thank you for your kind words and advice, Professor." You thanked him without any real admiration.

He replied with a jolly "anytime!" before he accioed a copy of your schedule and handed it to you. Finally, you had what you needed. After a quick goodbye to Slughorn, you left his office and started making your way to your first class whilst examining your schedule.

ℌ𝔢𝔯𝔟𝔬𝔩𝔬𝔤𝔶

𝔇𝔦𝔳𝔦𝔫𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

ℭ𝔞𝔯𝔢 𝔬𝔣 𝔐𝔞𝔤𝔦𝔠𝔞𝔩 ℭ𝔯𝔢𝔞𝔱𝔲𝔯𝔢𝔰

𝔇𝔢𝔣𝔢𝔫𝔠𝔢 𝔄𝔤𝔞𝔦𝔫𝔰𝔱 𝔱𝔥𝔢 𝔇𝔞𝔯𝔨 𝔄𝔯𝔱𝔰

𝔗𝔯𝔞𝔫𝔰𝔣𝔦𝔤𝔲𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫

𝔓𝔬𝔱𝔦𝔬𝔫𝔰

ℭ𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔪𝔰

'Yup, seems familiar enough.'

You took your time, enjoying the Hogwarts of your youth, before you made your way to the greenhouse for Herbology. As you neared your destination, you couldn't help but dread attending the class. Tom, no, Voldemort would be here along with his merry gang of Deatheaters, and you would be expected to interact with them. You would have no choice; they would expect you to act like your younger self, meaning you would have to include yourself in whatever activities they were doing. You would have to cling onto their group as you used to in the past to avoid suspicion.

You sighed.

Even if you wanted to distance yourself-because, truly, you wanted nothing to do with them-you would have to do it slowly and carefully to deflect suspicion. You sighed again; it was way too early for this. With a heavy hand, you opened the doors to the Greenhouse and made your way to where the rest of your house congregated. You felt the burning stares pinpoint onto you as you walked further into the greenhouse, and you couldn't help but roll your eyes in an undignified manner. What a bunch of tossers; did they really have nothing better to do?

Slowly, you could feel your fear start to melt away. It was a bit laughable how afraid you were at first. Sure, young Voldemort's intelligence and cunning were nothing to underestimate, and you would undoubtedly have to watch yourself in his presence, however, this Voldemort was nothing compared to the Voldemort of the future. You could do this; Fate knows you've dealt with worse.

You claimed your place next to Antonin Dolohov, future Deatheater, and readied yourself for the boring lesson you knew was incoming. He glanced over at you, eyes squinting into a sharp glare. Rolling your eyes again, you ignored his presence and let your eyes aimlessly wander around the classroom. Green and red were separated, each at opposite ends of the greenhouse, little inter-mingling present. Again you found yourself becoming annoyed at the blatant display of house rivalry, although the rivalry between Slytherin and Gryffindor was more complex than just petty inter-house squabbling. This opposition against each other's house dates all the way back to Salzar Slytherin and Godric Gryffindor; Slytherins with their prejudice and unrelenting pride, and Gryfindors with their obnoxious ideals of good versus evil, black versus white, and their superficial understanding of 'what makes a person evil?'.

If any progress were to be made between students, both sides would have to forget their prejudices. Basically, meaning nothing will ever change; Slytherins will forever cling to their pure-blood propaganda, and Gryfindors will never give up their desperation to be the "heroes the world needs." Anyways, enough of your monologuing. You sighed as you continued to lazily trail your eyes over the Gryfindors across the room; many familiar faces were present, both dead and from the order. However, there was one specific person you were looking for: Flemont Charlus Potter. Or, as you knew him, Monty. The one true friend you had when you joined The Order. He was the only person in The Order that treated you as something more than an 'evil and conceited Slytherin" in your initial years after joining. However, you couldn't blame the others for their reactions. At that point, many had already lost their loved ones to Voldemort and his goons so you could understand the mistrust.

But not Monty, never him. He was everything to you. He was family, your 'brother,' a title he dubbed himself (not that you minded). You two loved each other. That very much was clear to anyone who watched you both interact. Dear Merlin, how you missed him. At this point in time, he would be a seventh year with you, sharing most of your classes, always crossing paths but never interacting. It pained you to think about how you were not friends (not yet anyways) or had yet to share his laughter. You could see it, him being at an arm's length away but always out of your reach.

Oh, how you wanted to reach out to him, tell him everything like how you did before, to confide in him, and to feel his comforting embrace. And if you did, you knew he would open his arms up to you as he did before; it was just his character to care and to be kind. You wouldn't; however, you wouldn't jeopardize his safety like that, especially so early on in the timeline too. If Voldemort even heard whispers about your sudden friendship with a Gryffindor from a rather prominent light family, he would make it his top priority to slaughter Monty and his family. If that happened, you wouldn't be able to live with yourself. So you won't seek him out. But just being able to see him, to hear his voice, will be enough; it has to be.

Eventually, your eyes landed on the boy you were looking for and Merlin, how you wanted to cry. There he was, Fleamont Charulus Potter, Monty, your brother. You could feel the sting of tears building up behind your eyes, a weakness on blatant display for everyone to behold, so you shoved the emotions welling into a pit in your mind. You shouldn't pay him any attention; it would put him further in danger. But before you could tear your eyes away from him, his honey-brown gaze flickered up toward you. His gaze moved over your figure, subtly analyzing it, recognition filtering across his face. His gaze softened before flashing you a bright smile, teeth on full display. You froze, breath hitching.

'No, no, it couldn't be.'

One of his teeth, his top tooth, was chipped. Albit it was barely noticeable; it was wrong. Flemont never had a chipped tooth seventh year. His teeth were in perfect condition until- until he chipped his top tooth in an accident involving a hippogriff. But that doesn't happen until three years after you both graduated from Hogwarts. Which means-

'That is not the Fleamont Potter of this timeline.'

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🇮​ ​🇩​​🇮​​🇩​​🇳​❜​🇹​ ​🇦​​🇸​​🇰​ ​🇫​​🇴​​🇷​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇮​​🇸​ (Platonic Yandere Superfam x Reader)

Chapter Directory

A Platonic Yandere Superfam x reader story where: You, poor little (Y/n) Kent, are an unwanted clone of The Man of Steel himself. The JL is negligent, and Superman is violent; you find yourself living in small bouts of happiness and freedom, all while having the lingering fear of Superman's patience and willingness to put up with you disappearing. Though you could never expect the slow but drastic turn the Man of Steel has when it comes to regarding your life.

Chapter Directory

- Prologue - Chapter One - Chapter Two

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𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙-𝕾𝖚𝖕𝖊𝖗𝕱𝖆𝖒

🇮​ ​🇩​​🇮​​🇩​​🇳​❜​🇹​ ​🇦​​🇸​​🇰​ ​🇫​​🇴​​🇷​ ​🇹​​🇭​​🇮​​🇸​ (Platonic Yandere Superfam x Reader)

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𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙-𝕯𝕮𝖀

𝔖𝔲𝔭𝔢𝔯𝔉𝔞𝔪 (platonic)

𝔅𝔞𝔱𝔉𝔞𝔪(platonic)

𝔍𝔞𝔰𝔬𝔫 𝔗𝔬𝔡𝔡

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𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖒 (Yandere Tom Riddle x Reader)

Chapter Directory

"𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘱𝘪𝘥, 𝘛𝘰𝘮." 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘦𝘥, 𝘨𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘢𝘷𝘢𝘨𝘦𝘭𝘺 𝘢𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮, 𝘣𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘤𝘰𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘵𝘦𝘦𝘵𝘩 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘴𝘱𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴.

𝘐𝘵 𝘴𝘦𝘦𝘮𝘴 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘦𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘰𝘧𝘧, 𝘢𝘴 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘤𝘢𝘯 𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘣𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘢𝘪𝘯 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘳𝘰𝘮 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘤𝘩𝘦𝘴𝘵.

𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘱𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘦𝘥 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘱 𝘰𝘧 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘝𝘰𝘭𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘵 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘪𝘻𝘦𝘥 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘸𝘦𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘦𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘣𝘭𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘪𝘯𝘨. 𝘏𝘦 𝘱𝘶𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘵𝘰 𝘴𝘵𝘰𝘱 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘣𝘶𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘢𝘥 𝘢𝘭𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘺 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩.

"𝘈𝘷𝘢𝘥𝘢 𝘒𝘢𝘥𝘢𝘷𝘢." 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦, 𝘨𝘳𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵 𝘧𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘷𝘪𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘣𝘭𝘢𝘴𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘯𝘵𝘰 𝘺𝘰𝘶𝘳 𝘯𝘦𝘤𝘬.

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Or your average Hogwarts time travel fic but more messed up.

Chapter Directory

- Prologue - Chapter One - Chapter Two

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𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙-𝕿𝖔𝖒 𝕽𝖎𝖉𝖉𝖑𝖊

𝕿𝖍𝖊 𝕲𝖗𝖎𝖒𝖒 (Tom Riddle x Reader)

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𝕸𝖆𝖘𝖙𝖊𝖗𝖑𝖎𝖘𝖙-𝕶𝖓𝖎𝖌𝖍𝖙𝖘 𝖔𝖋 𝖂𝖆𝖑𝖕𝖚𝖗𝖌𝖎𝖘 𝕰𝖗𝖆

𝔗𝔬𝔪 ℜ𝔦𝔡𝔡𝔩𝔢