Jason: People Tell Me I Have A Unique Way Of Lighting Up A Room. You: It’s Called Arson And Those

He noticed (Tom Riddle x Reader)

Request: Could you write something for Tom where his reader best friend (who he’s in love with) has a very dark and hurtful past and tends to isolate and disappear sometimes to cope with it. She also gets really insecure and feels unloved and he kind of spies on her for a while till he finds out the truth and makes her feel better? :)

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

Warnings: Depression, insecureness, a bit sad but fluffy

It was one of those days. Your head too heavy, goosebumps constantly prickling your skin. Voices in your ears. Pictures in your head. Frown etched onto your pale face. It was one of those days. Dark clouds hanging in the sky, icy wind waving through sad trees. Thick, angry raindrops splattering against the castle walls. 

You’re useless.

You’re a burden.

You’re a disgrace.

Sighing, you dropped your head into your hands, the breakfast in front of you not looking appealing anymore. Pain, similar to the buzzing and cracking of a broken record player, filled it, caused by the resounding words of your despicable mother.

You’re ugly.

You’re a noone.

You’re worthless.

No one can love you…

Lost in the dark forest that is your mind, you didn’t notice how your best friend sat down directly beside you. You didn’t notice that he watched you for a few good minutes. You didn’t notice how the seemingly emotionless Tom Riddle felt an, for him indescribable, feeling of dread and sadness, watching as you pulled hard on the tussled tresses of your hair, which has lost its shine a few weeks ago. As you finally realized he was here, you gave him a weak smile.

Tom noticed that it didn’t quite reach your eyes.

“Good morning, Tom”, you said, turning back to your still full plate. “Did you sleep well?”

“Of course. Did you?”, he asked back, watching you closely. 

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Me & My Husband

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x Fem!Reader

Summary: You and your husband spend some time together.

Entering your shared chambers, Aemond walked over to the settee you sat upon. He grasped the belt wrapped around him, and unbuckled it. His sword fell to the floor with a clang.

You let out a gasp and looked over at your husband, who was now looking down at you.

"Oh, Aemond, I hadn't even noticed you were here! You frightened me." You playfully place your hand on the left side of your chest.

Aemond looked down at the book that laid across your lap. "And what were you entertaining yourself with, wife?"

You shut the book to get a look at the title. "A... history book," you finally answer. The title was too long, and you didn't have it in you to speak it.

A small smile painted Aemond's face. "I hadn't known you were fond of the histories."

"I'm not," You said, a confused frown on your face. There were just so many Lord's and Lady's, and you couldn't keep track of them all. "But you are, so I thought I could try to learn a bit."

"Ah." That certainly amused Aemond. "May I?" he gestured to the empty seat next to you. You nodded in confirmation.

He sat down and grabbed the book, taking a look at the title. The book was about Aegon the Conquerer. The first Targaryen king always interested Aemond, but his unworthy brother sharing the man's name always left a bitter feeling behind.

Aemond thumbed his way to the first chapter. "I could always read it to you. Explain what you don't understand."

That cheered you up a bit. Aemond had been so busy lately with the war, and you selfishly wished he would perhaps cut a council meeting short to spend time with you. "I would like that."

Aemond wrapped one of his arms around your shoulder, bringing you closer to him until your head laid comfortably on his chest.

You reached up and gently untied Aemond's eye patch. He let you. Your husband was well aware of your need to see him without it when you two were alone. Even though you would be keeping your eyes on the book, it seemed you still wanted him bare before you.

The crackly of the fireplace filled the room as Aemond went to press a small kiss atop your forehead. You pull your head back, and instead press a clumsy kiss to his lips. You let out a small laugh as you pulled away.

"Always the tease," Aemond said. He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your lips. This one was dirtier, and had you leaning into him and wanting more. "Now behave."

He cleared his throat and began reciting the tale of Aegon the Conqueror: "Aegon Targaryen's conquest of the Seven Kingdoms did not take place in a single day..."

Do you still write for Peter Graham?

I don't write for Peter Graham anymore

If you guys are ever curious about what characters I write about, you can check my Rules and characters I write for list :)

I've never doubted shifting because my dad was a shifter for years.

He told me stories from his one reality all the time, about how he was a warrior that could transform into a giant black cat, called iekkrans.

About all the other clans of wolves and bears and lions, how he made me a princess that knew how to fight any man that tried anything with me. How the warriors fight with music and create it with the clash of their weapons.

He told me about a crazed princess from another kingdom that was so unstable you could probably find her running down a road naked and not be surprised.

He told me how when you married someone in this reality you formed a spiritual bond so strong that if you broke it, it could kill you, and that HE had his bond broken and barely survived it.

He told me about how in courting culture, the only way to win a mate was to prove to the father you loved them. And the magic knew if you were lying. He told me then about 2 brothers that fought for my heart, and how the older one won.

He told me about eternal cities that were created from exoloding worlds, how those cities were permanent and euphoric, and how if you dare entered one you'd never be able to leave again.

He's told me so many stories about the warriors of the universe and how they become stone cold and trained to kill EVERYTHING they're commanded to kill.

My dad is a fucking bad ass, and I'll never doubt reality shifting because of him.

Look at him. Three apples tall and sauntering across the Red Keep yard all coquettishly

Remind me again for the 467284 th time whendid this happen before?? Oh yeah the holocaust.

Free palestine, free gaza AND ALL EYES ON RAFAH 🇵🇸 🇵🇸 🇵🇸

Describe yourself with four emojis. No words! Let’s go♡︎

😪🍕😰🤗

Spells from the Heart

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem!Muggle!Reader

Includes: mentions of war, memory loss, stalking, reader is naive, goes from third person to second, story is in Tom's p.o.v.

Word count: 1.2k

Summary: You come across something you shouldn't have, and Tom decides to keep you.

Passing through the war-wrecked streets of London, Tom made his way to his usual hiding spot where he could perform magic without being discovered.

It amused him to call it a hiding spot, because it was in fact a field, though — in all fairness — it was in the middle of the woods.

As Tom finally reached his destination, the smell of Earth surrounded him. He shut his eyes — a rare moment of vulnerability — and took in a deep breath, taking in the wet scent of soil and flowers with him.

He dropped his worn down satchel and discarded his coat on the ground. He sat atop his dark coat and grabbed an old book out of his bag. It was a book of spells that he was able to convince the Hogwarts librarian to let him borrow over summer break.

He scanned through the contents of the book, trying to decide on the first spell he would like to practice.

As a small bunny came into sight, Tom selected Vera Verto.

He stood up on his two feet and grasped his wand. He pointed it at the unsuspecting creature and whispered, “Vare-ah vore-toe,” pronouncing it as was written in the book.

Before his own two eyes, the bunny went from a living being to a goblet of water. Pride bubbled in Tom’s chest.

As he was about to mutter a spell to reverse it, a gasp from behind stopped him.

Clutching his wand, Tom turned around to find a girl around his age standing in shock from what she’d just witnessed. Like she’d come to her senses, she scrambled into a run.

Fortunately for Tom — but unfortunate for her — he was able to point his wand at her and yelled, “Kahr-pay ruh-track-tum.”

The girl was pulled towards Tom's chest, and with a grunt he wrapped an arm around her waist. She clawed at his arm like a feral animal and he had the urge to ask her to stop it.

With his free hand, Tom pointed his wand at the stranger again. “Obliviate,” passed through his lips and instantly her body went limp. He dropped her onto the damp grass.

Tom wasn’t sure when her consciousness would resurface, so he made quick work in putting his coat and satchel back on and stuffing his wand back in his pocket.

Before leaving, Tom looked down at the girl. Hair covered her face and Tom reached down to move it away. He noted that she was quite pretty. 

After being caught using magic, Tom hadn’t visited the fields in a few days. But, his fingers twitched to grab onto his wand. To point it at something and mutter a spell. The children at Wool’s Orphanage got on Tom’s, but of course he couldn’t punish them for it like when he was a child.

Done with being reminded of his predicament, Tom finally decided to go on a walk. It led him to the edge of the woods anyways.

He couldn’t help but think of you as he walked. He hadn’t used a spell on a muggle for so long, and doing so left behind a certain thrill.

Tom stopped walking and squinted. A little ways away from him, he caught sight of a house. It was hidden behind several large trees, casting a darkness upon it and hiding it from view.

As Tom got nearer to one of the windows, he saw a glimpse of someone. You.

He ducked under the window, and thought of how much of a fool he must have looked. He certainly felt like one.

The walls were rather thin, Tom learned as he listened to her hum. He recognized the tune. “I Don’t Want to Set the World on Fire.” At times the song would play on the small radio during dinner time.

A few moments passed. In those few moments, Tom realized that you were home alone. You looked to be Tom’s age, and if he was right, that meant your parents weren’t home.

Tom walked up the steps to your front door and knocked. The humming stopped and Tom listened to the sound of hurried footsteps.

The door creaked open. You looked up at Tom with wide eyes. He supposed you were surprised. It was unlikely that many people visited your family much.

“Excuse me, Miss. If it’s no bother, I was hoping you could help me? I’ve seemed to have gotten lost.”

Your face relaxed as you took in Tom’s words. “Of course. Do you just need directions, or do you want to make a phone call to your parents? If you have a telephone, of course.”

Tom pretended to think for a moment. The latter would easily let him into your house. “Would you mind if I phoned my parents? They must be worried.” The lie slid off of Tom’s tongue like honey.

With a nod, you let Tom into the house.

Silly girl.

Tom followed you into a small living room. You pointed to the rotary dial resting atop the wooden table in front of the couch.

“I’ll wait in another room.” With that, you walked up the steps to what Tom assumed to be your bedroom. “I’ll be back in just a moment,” your distant voice called out.

Tom had no use for the telephone. Instead, he looked at what stood tall on the mantelpiece. It was the goblet he had created several days ago.

You must have been so confused when you awoke after being obliviated.

Tom picked up the cup and brought it closer to his face to inspect it. It was blue with carvings of seahorses and mermaids covering the upper half of it.

Tom placed the cup back to its rightful place. He’ll be kind and let you keep it.

Tom slowly walked up the steps, careful not to make the steps creak.

Once he reached the top, he scanned the three doors. One was yours, one your parents, and one the bathroom, he assumed.

Tom opened the first door. It was obviously not your parents, as the only way the bed could fit two people was if they crammed together. The sheets were pink, and books littered the vanity.

He picked one up. Pride and Prejudice. The copy looked like it had been well loved. He tucked it into his coat pocket.

He shut the door and proceeded to open the next one directly across from your room. Disappointingly, there was no sight of you in the small bathroom.

Tom shut the door again and walked towards the room at the end of the hall. He opened it up and saw you sitting on a chair, rummaging through a desk drawer.

You looked up in surprise as Tom entered, halting your movements.

Tom clasped his hands behind his back. “I just got off the phone with my father.”

You nod. “Um.. I’m just looking for my parents' map. I know they have one, and I thought I could give you directions to help you get back home.”

How sweet.

He walked over to where you sat, and took note of how your breathing quickened as he got nearer.

You would make a nice summer plaything. And the best part was you wouldn’t even remember.

a/n: that poor bunny stuck as a cup forever😭 Also, I loved going through the Harry Potter Spellbook to write this. Anyways, I hope you enjoyed! divider creds: @saradika

Hi! Your writing is truly awesome and you are very well-spoken. It's a pleasure to see your works. I was wondering if you would be up to writing a piece about Tom helping a gender-neutral reader after someone poisoned their dinner on purpose? If not then maybe Tom showing affection to a touch-starved gender-neutral reader? Thank you in advance!

A Lot at Steak

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

Warnings: nausea, vomiting

A/N: thank you anon !!!!

The flickering radiance of a thousand candles floating overhead is a welcome sight after a particularly bad day of rigorous classwork. You take in the astounding view of the Enchanted Ceiling with its starry expanse of black skies and pale moon beaming through wisps of white clouds. Settling into your regular seat next to your housemate Alistair, you eye the heaps of food on your table with a content sigh.

With no time to waste, you dig in. 

"Alistair, this steak is weird.”

You cut off another piece and chew at it thoughtfully. Every bite elicits a rancid taste and while it's subtle enough to not be horrible, you're a little disappointed. This isn't quite up to par with the usually unrivaled, top-notch Hogwarts cooking.

He swivels in his seat to look at you. "Mine is delectable. I don't suppose you got on the house elves' nerves lately?" You shake your head.

He frowns, worry finding its way into the creases of his brow. "Maybe you should put the fork down."

"But I'm hungry," you protest, grinning at the unamused look on his face. "Hey, food is food. It's not like something's going to happen to me, right?"

Alistair relents with a sigh. "Yeah."

━━━━━━♡♤♡━━━━━━

No.

You’re hunched over a toilet in the lavatory, head reeling and stomach lurching with every new surge of nausea. The overbearing taste of salt coats your tongue and you’re praying to whatever higher being is above to please end your misery for fear that you’ll spill all your guts out. 

Or whatever remains of it.

Someone must have heard you because you’re flushing the toilet a few minutes later feeling slightly less disoriented, though still very much like you just took a Bludger to the stomach.

You wash up at the basin. 

Who would do this to you? 

Immediately a few names pop up off the top of your head. You scold yourself for being so stupid. Really, that first bite should have been a tell-tale sign that something was amiss.

Curse you and your insatiable hunger.

The sound of approaching footsteps jolts you from your thoughts. You realize with a twinge of panic that if someone spots you, you’re going to have to give a thorough explanation as to why you’re in the lavatory looking like a sad mess while everyone else is savoring their (perfectly safe to consume) dinner. You can wave your pride goodbye at that point. 

You barely have time to brace yourself before a familiar voice pierces the air.

"It isn't like you to run out so suddenly." Tom says as he comes into sight.

This is bad. Really bad. 

All at once your head feels heavy, as if a bowling ball has somehow replaced your brains. It isn't like you can even focus on feeling humiliated right now, but did he really have to be the one to find you in such a state?

"Well? What's wrong?"

Maybe it’s the burning shame, or the aftermath of the poison, or both, but suddenly your lips are sewed shut and talking seems a near impossible thing. You stare at the faucet, hands gripping either side of the sink as if it’s your lifeline, your only means of stability.

You hear Tom sigh impatiently from where he’s standing outside. A few quiet seconds pass, and you think you’ve turned him away with your lack of response until he strides in to close the distance. 

His thumb and forefinger brush against your chin and he lifts your face up to meet his gaze. You watch his piercing eyes flit to the sweat on your brow and then the heaving of your shoulders paired with your heavy, shuddering breaths.

You can practically see the moment his composure crumbles. 

"Who hurt you?"

Your eyes widen in alarm and you shake your head quickly in an attempt to dispel whatever assumptions he could’ve thought up in those two seconds.

A mistake. You clamp a shaky hand over your mouth. Vomit inches up your throat, this time the situation more unpleasant, dire. You see an inkling of realization dawn on his face. 

In an instant your mind is swimming and your knees are buckling and you’re stumbling to make it in time despite the fact that the world has dwindled to a dizzying blur. 

Tom wrenches the stall door open and you rush in, missing the concern that has snuck into his frown.

Maybe it’s your imagination, but you swear you feel a light hand rubbing circles on your back as you hurl into the toilet. Again.

Whatever did they put in your food?

By the time you leave the lavatory, you feel...drained. Fatigue has possessed your every muscle, and every burdened step feels like a descent into hell. You’re a ragdoll; pathetic and limp and seconds away from crumbling.

But when you do crumble it's in the comfort of his arms, and maybe that’s not so bad after all. Your head subconsciously droops onto his shoulder, body molding to fit his.

“Aguamenti,” you hear him murmur. You lift your head to see a jet of water filling up a conjured glass in his hand. He brings it to your parched lips. "Drink." 

You down it ravenously, the coolness of it soothing your lungs, revitalizing your bones. Whoever executed the whole plan sure did one heck of a job, because that was just about the most horrid experience of your life.

As if reading your thoughts, you feel Tom tense against you. 

“It's dragon poison,” he says, voice dangerously low, “in a water-downed form.”

You blink in surprise, but not because he knows about something like this. That part is nothing new. But the process to attain the substance is an arduous one, so to think that someone has enough of a vendetta against you to somehow acquire it—?

“Tell me who did it,” Tom demands. “I’ll make them pay.”

“I’m not sure,” you reply meekly. Irked as you are, you can’t pinpoint the blame on anyone just yet.

You know under any other circumstance Tom would goad you into giving him more information, but for now he lets you rest there against him under the dim light of the corridor. 

“Tom?” You shift on your feet. “That must have been pretty revolting. Sorry for—”

“You’re a fool,” Tom interrupts briskly. “A moron. Surely you should have been able to deduce that that was no ordinary steak.”

You know he doesn’t mean it, you know it’s his way of telling you that you ought to be more careful, but the remark still stings. You loosen your grip on his robes.

Tom sighs again. Then, much gentler, in a voice you know is reserved for you and you only, he whispers, “Never mind that. I’m still going to have to take you to the infirmary. Just to make sure that you’re— that you don’t throw up again.”

“Okay,” you mumble, warmth spreading where the emptiness was seconds ago. As long as you can be with him a little longer.

And yet, you can’t help but wonder if this incident has changed his view of you. You wonder if he thinks you’re pathetic for that pitiful display back there.

Perhaps you get your answer when he cups your face and presses a chaste kiss to your cheek. You break into a smile. 

He doesn’t stop there, though—he kisses you a little more, kisses all the embarrassment away, the qualmishness and the apprehension until by the end of it all the remain in your stomach are butterflies.

And you think maybe that’s not so bad after all.

Rotten root in Little Hangleton