Sleep, Beauty

Little Lion Man

summary: Sent on an assignment back to 1943, you encounter a drastically different version of the man you know pairing: bucky x reader warnings: time travel, a charming af 40s!bucky 😉, a sad af present!bucky 😔 a/n: I used the time travel logic from Endgame except fixed points exist. This was also written for @buckysknifecollection​‘s 1k challenge! I had the song prompt of Little Lion Man by Mumford and Sons! Congrats on 1k hun!!

Weep little lion man, You’re not as brave as you were at the start

You found blue eyes lighting up across the crowded courtyard, beaming smile touched on the dirt freckled glow of his face, and it startled you; stilled you right in your tracks and set a stone deep into your chest, made it hard to breathe, because that wasn’t the man you knew.

No—he wore a weightlessness about him, even as he stepped away from the crowd erupting in celebration and shied to the outskirts of the commotion, he was smiling. It wrinkled up by his eyes, left behind dimples in his cheeks, a slight shake of his head as small wisps of hair fell down to his forehead. 

He didn’t seem to be counting each moment of joy on his fingers, calculating how much relief he allowed for himself before the shadows came rushing back in to take it away. He was… happy.

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ℭ𝔯𝔶 𝔏𝔦𝔱𝔱𝔩𝔢 𝔖𝔦𝔰𝔱𝔢𝔯; III

{poly!lost boys x fem!reader}

♱ 𝔯𝔞𝔱𝔦𝔫𝔤: explicit

♱ 𝔰𝔲𝔪𝔪𝔞𝔯𝔶: Michael's sudden change is unwelcome in the Emerson household. After an apparent prank that scares you and your brothers, you take matters into your own hands and confront David's gang head on.

♱ 𝔴𝔞𝔯𝔫𝔦𝔫𝔤𝔰: emerson!reader, fem!reader, reader is 18-19 (middle child), reader wears glasses, foul language, sibling dynamics, mentions of divorce, stuck-up?reader (she's prissy at times), teasing, temptation at its finest, mentions of stalking, flirting????? at the music store???? get your act together girl,

♱ 𝔞/𝔫: there are a few new scenes in this chapter because I wanted the reader to have more interaction with the boys before giving in. Side note, but I hate when I find a good song and it's released after '87, because it would be perfect for this series. So, the unofficial song for this chapter is Give In to Me by Michael Jackson. Also, if this were a movie, Runaway would start playing as soon as the reader storms out of the house to confront the boys on the boardwalk. OG word count: 2432, revamped word count: 4250

[1] [2] ... [4] ... [8] [9]

Michael is acting weird.

Okay. To be fair, your brother is always weird, but this is different. He's mean. He sleeps all day and wakes up at sunset, then hops on his bike and drives off to God knows where.

At first, you thought he was avoiding Mom after the boardwalk incident. Pissed was not an accurate rage descriptor for how upset she had been when she learned what he did. At first, you defended Michael. You did tell him it would be okay. But when he started acting like an ass, you became less sympathetic.

The night after that, David's gang came to the house. They didn't come inside—but they did tear up the driveway. They revved their engines, jeering Michael's name, goading him to go outside. 

Mom had caught Mike on his way out and encouraged him to bring them in.

"They might like a nice, home cooked meal." she said, peering at them through the curtains.

"Maybe next time," was his reply.

There was no next time. 

Another notable incident occurred when Sam forgot to untie Nanook and bring him inside. 

You chased Michael to the front door, fuming. "What? You're too cool to let the dog in in front of your friends?"

"He's not my dog," said Michael.

"But Mom asked you to do this."

"I don't have to do everything she says. Neither do you, you're an adult."

"And you're being an asshole."

Michael stepped outside, and, of course, David's gang was waiting. 

Michael rolled his eyes, "Why can't you get the dog, four-eyes?"

"Because you're already outside!"

Michael narrowed his eyes like he gained the power to see through your bullshit and laughed cruelly: "You're scared of them."

And, for the first time that night, you spared a glance behind him toward the boys. They said nothing, but you're sure they heard every word, considering they watched your squabble unfold like a soap opera. 

For the record, you're not scared of them. 

You're annoyed. Disgusted. (A little scared of how they make you feel, but that's neither here nor there.) 

And you could tell Mike this, but instead you said, "Oh, fuck off." before storming into the lawn. 

Nanook, who had been barking at the boys, calmed when you approached; however, you were too distracted to give the dog more than a head-pat. You were conscious of your every movement as soon as you stepped outside—your walk, the sway of your hips, your posture, hell, even your clothes. You liked your clothes, but you almost resented how dowdy they were. Why hadn't you worn something more revealing? You usually hate having people leer at your body but with these guys ...

Michael said something to them, and they laughed. It could have been nothing, but you swore they were talking about you, so you rushed inside and didn't look back. 

After that, you did everything you could to avoid seeing them when they came around. 

You lie and say these weird feelings began after that dream, but you know that's not true. Those boys have been burrowing in your brain since the beginning. The sound of their bikes roaring up the driveway makes your heart skip a beat. 

Sometimes—and you're reluctant to admit this—but sometimes you place yourself where they can see you. The upstairs window, the garage, the doorway—places far enough that they can't call out to you but close enough for them to look. 

It's stupid. You don't understand why you do it. These guys are strange and probably dangerous. You shouldn't want anything to do with them.

But that doesn't stop you.

Weirdly, you like being watched. It's like being under a microscope, but you've put yourself on the slide and control the outcome. A shrink would tell you that you're acting out because of your parents' divorce. That's the savory answer, so you refuse to believe there's another reason. 

A bird keeps leaving you gifts on your windowsill.

You haven't seen the bird in action, but you know it has to be one. It leaves you items at night. Random things.

The first one you find is a shell. It's beautiful—one of those shells you can't find on the beach, only in tourist shops. It's as big as your palm and bone-white. You assume the bird had placed it there after deciding it was unfit for its nest, so you brought it inside.

Two fluffy yellow dandelions were placed in the same spot the next day. The day after that, a flat stone with a hole in the center. Then, a feather.

On and on the little gifts came. You're not sure what you did to befriend this bird, but you're grateful. In the midst of so much turmoil with Mike, David, and Mom, the gifts never fail to make you smile.

"Honey?"

"Yeah, Mom?"

She quietly thanks the customer for coming and passes the plastic bag across the counter. When they're gone, she turns to you again. 

"Why don't you grab a bite to eat?"

"I'm not hungry."

"Oh, please!" Mom shakes her head, giving you that knowing smile. "You've been with me all day. Go and get yourself something to eat. Better yet, stretch your legs."

You flash your 'new' (secondhand) paperback at her. "I already did."

She says your name in warning, but there's no bite to it. You know she's just looking out for you. With a sigh, you tuck the book into your bag and kiss her cheek goodbye.

If this was any other day, you wouldn't have bothered to come with your mom to work, but Max had called and asked if she could work a double because Maria was sick, meaning she would be here until dark. You know she's a big girl and grew up on the mean streets of Santa Carla without you, but today was also her and dad's wedding anniversary, and well...

Mom won't admit it, but you know she's struggling. It's the big reason she took the extra shift; it helps her not think about her failed marriage.

The door swings open, and you barely glimpse who is in your periphery before you swear. 

"Shit."

"What is it, honey?" She greets the new group with a big smile. "Hello! If you have any questions, don't hesitate to ask ..." She pauses. Squints her eyes, looking, really looking, at the group. "Have we met before?"

"We're frequent flyers," says an all-too familiar voice.

David.

"Oh, alright," Mom cheers.

"Bye," you mutter. You turn fast and nearly collide with Marko, but you dodge at the last second. "Excuse me."

You exit the store and thrust yourself into the night crowd. Of course, the one night they take off from terrorizing Michael, they come after you. 

Actually—you glance at the nearest clock—it's too early for them to be at Grandpa's house. (Yes, you have their schedule memorized. No, that's not weird.)

And, no, you don't have an inflated sense of self-importance because one glance over your shoulder told you the four of them left the video store as soon as they came in. You don't know if they're following you or if this is their childish idea of a prank, but you refuse to find out.

You duck into the nearest store before they see you—a music shop. The walls are lined with albums, cassettes, and CDs. Band posters cover what little space is left; somewhere in the corner, a rock song wafts from its boombox. 

You don't frequent music shops; you might if you're with Michael or Sammy, but most of your cassettes are inherited from Mom. Still, you wander toward the folk-rock section and figure you have a few moments to kill before you seek out food. 

But good things never last.

The door opens, and you don't have to look this time to know. 

"So, you're stalking me now?" you ask.

Paul snatches the tape from your hand. "Midnight Voyage? C'mon, girl, you gotta get with the times."

You grab it back. "I like the Mamas and the Papas."

"That song's as old as you."

You cross your arms. "I thought you, of all people, understood good music doesn't have an expiration date?"

Marko, Dwayne, and David snicker, and Paul has the decency to look sheepish. You rest your hip against the display and raise your chin.

"What do you guys want?"

"We're here to look at music," says David.

"Uh-huh. Videos, too?"

He challenges you with a sarcastic look. "It's Friday night."

"Whatever."

You snake around them and move to a different display, but they follow. 

"You have to like some rock," Paul tries again.

You fight a smile. He's ... almost charming. "I didn't say I didn't."

Marko joins in, "Who?"

You flip through the singles, not paying them any mind as they throw out different band names.

Aerosmith, Bon Jovi, Depeche Mode, Van Halen - tell me you like Van Halen, baby?

You find what you're looking for and flash it to the boys with a grin. "Iggy Pop, The Passenger."

Marko frowns, but it's more appreciative than judgemental.

Dwayne nods in agreement. "Not bad."

Your answer pacifies Paul, but he's not satisfied. "We need to find you some music that you can dance to, baby."

"I don't dance," you say. "Especially in front of other people."

"Are you always this serious?" David asks. 

For some reason, that hits you where it hurts. You glare at him, dropping the single back in its slot. "Do you always stick your nose into other people's business?"

David has the audacity to smirk. "It's just an observation, princess."

You scoff and try to shoulder past him, but David is fast. He catches your bicep. His grip is barely there, but it stops you in your tracks. You hold your breath, all too aware that you're sandwiched between him and Dwayne. 

"If you keep running off like this, you're gonna make us think you don't like us," David teases.

"I don't," you lie. 

He cocks his head. "You sure?"

You swear he can see through you, but you're unwilling to give in. Not yet.

You step closer, looking him dead in the eye. "I've never been more certain."

Jerking away, you make a b-line for the door. David can't let you have the last word, though. 

"Tell Michael we'll see him later," he calls out.

You shove the door open and shout back, "Bite me!"

You're in the kitchen helping Mom with dinner when Michael stomps down the stairs, sunglasses tucked in the neck of his t-shirt.

Mom rushes to meet him. (Even she's aware she only has a finite amount of time before she loses him again.)

"Michael, do you want to take the night off and have dinner with your family?" She reaches for him, but Michael keeps walking. "We haven't eaten together in a while. It would be nice."

He snorts. "Yeah, right."

Michael opens the door without another word, and the roaring of motorcycle engines fills the house.

Mom shrivels the tiniest bit. Had you not been watching her, you wouldn't have noticed, but you did, and it pisses you off.

You sit the bowl down a little too hard and chase after him.

"Michael." He ignores you. "Michael!" You latch onto his stupid leather jacket and yank him back."Look, I don't know what's gotten into you, but it doesn't give you the right to be an ass to Mom."

He smiles, "But I can to you, right?"

Michael tries to walk away, but you hold firm.

"Why are you acting like this?"

"Listen." Michael faces you head-on. "Unlike you, I've got friends waiting for me. So, why don't you run back inside, little sister? Hm?"

Tears burn the back of your eyes, but your anger burns brighter. You release him with a push.

"Well, at least I'm not pretending to be something I'm not."

Michael frowns. For a moment, you think your words hit their mark, and you see the faintest glimmer of the old Michael in his eyes. He opens his mouth to speak.

"Michael!"

"C'mon, Michael!"

"Mikey boy!"

You flinch as they rev their bikes. It works its charm because all traces of remorse are gone from Michael's face.

He looks at you coldly. "I gotta go."

"Michael, you're making a mistake," you say.

He rolls his eyes. "Don't wait up."

"Hey, baby!" Paul shouts. "Don't you wanna come party with us?!"

You flip them off, and they erupt into a chorus of laughter.

You toss the phone onto Michael's chest, startling him from his mid-day nap.

"... What the hell?"

"Mom's on the phone. She wants to talk to you."

Michael cracks his eyes open, wincing. "What time is it?"

"Two o'clock. You slept all day. Again." You don't even try to mask your rage. If he's going to be a jerk, you'll give it right back.

Michael motions for the sunglasses on his bedside table. "Hand me those, will you?"

You scoff but throw them at him, too. "You need sunglasses to talk on the phone? Are you high?"

"Fuck off," he mutters, and picks up the phone. "Hi, Mom..."

You faintly hear her voice drifting from the receiver. "Michael are you still in bed?"

"No. I'm up."

"Can you do me a favor this evening? Will you stay home with Sam tonight? I'm meeting Max for dinner."

"I watch him all the time, Mom," he says unsympathetically. "The only time I have for myself is the evening." He locks eyes with you from behind his sunglasses. "Can't you have her watch him? Or Grandpa? They stay home all the time, anyway."

"I want you to do this," Mom says. "You come home late, sleep all day—Sammy's always alone."

"No, he's not!"

"Michael, please! Your sister should not have to do everything all the time. Now, you always do whatever you want, and I don't stop you ... tonight, I want to do what I want for a change. Do you know how long it's been since someone has asked me out to dinner?"

Michael works his jaw and says nothing.

"Please, Michael?"

He presses his lips into a thin line. "Okay. Fine. I'll watch Sammy."

He hangs up with a groan, rubbing his eyes. You tsk, yanking the phone off his chest. 

"I guess it sucks to be you," you say.

"Get out of my room," Michael grumbles, drifting back to sleep. 

You leave, but you don't close the door. Sometimes, being petty is better than a middle finger.

Grandpa strolls into the kitchen wearing a khaki-colored jacket and a loud bowtie. He has a pep in his step and another one of his furry creations tucked under his arm. 

"Look at you, Gramps!" you coo. "Lookin' all spiffy. What's the occasion?"

"Can't an old fart like me dress up for fun?" He playfully adjusts his bowtie, and his eyes twinkle with mischief. "Anything in here that might pass for aftershave?"

Sammy hops out of his chair and plucks a bottle off the windowsill. "How about this Windex, Grandpa?"

"Ah!" The old man gratefully accepts the bottle, squirts some in his hands, and pats it on his cheeks. Sam exchanges a knowing look with you. "Thanks."

Unfortunately, Michael chooses this time to come in. (And he's still wearing those stupid sunglasses.) He appraises Grandpa, his mouth twisting cruelly. "Big date, Grandpa?"

Grandpa wiggles his eyebrows, smiling slyly. "Just dropping off some of my handiwork to the 'Widow' Johnson."

He holds up a taxidermy dog. Its beady marble eyes stare into your soul. You repress a shudder. Stuffed animals (the kind that used to be alive) aren't the way to your heart, but if this woman likes it, who are you to judge?

You pat him on the back. "Good for you, Grandpa."

Michael peers over the rim of his sunglasses. "Oh, yeah? What did you stuff for her? Mr. Johnson?"

Grandpa's smile falters, then fades away altogether. He grips the stuffed dog a little tighter. "I'll see you kids later."

As soon as he's out of sight, you smack the back of Michael's head.

"Hey!"

But Sammy's on your side. "That wasn't funny, Michael."

Grandpa honks his horn, and an off-key version of La Cucaracha plays as he peels out of the driveway. Sam resumes his task: dinner duty.

"I'm making you a sandwitch," your little brother grumbles.

"Don't bother."

Michael moves, and you catch sight of something shiny. There's a dangly chain piercing his earlobe, and you know for a fact that it wasn't there last night. You wrinkle your nose. "Lose the earring, Michael, it's not happening."

He crosses his arms. "Piss off."

Sam's eyebrows shoot all the way up. "Wow—you have a great personality, Mike! You should open your own charm school."

Michael starts to go in on Sammy, ready, aching, to deliver his retort when the house shakes. A harsh, howling wind rips through the windows. The curtains flap like frantic bird wings; the ground shakes. Outside, motorcycles roar up the driveway and circle the house. Headlights burn through the windows so bright that it's like sunrise. 

You grip the table to keep from falling over. Dishes and cutlery fall from their cabinets and smash into the floor, shattering into hundreds of pieces. 

"What the hell is going on?!" You can hardly hear your own voice over the noise.

From outside, you hear their voices, shouting, clamoring over one another, melding into a horrific symphony of Michael, Michael, Michael!

Steadily, the noise grows louder. You know it's impossible, but you swear the motorcycles are climbing the walls. 

Michael rushes to the front door, and Sam is hot on his heels.

"Don't open it!" Sam cries.

Michael! Michael! Michael!

Michael throws the front door open, and ... it stops. 

Everything stops.

All that remains is a faint breeze rustling through the trees and the dainty jingle of wind chimes. 

You grab Sam's hand to ground yourself, and he squeezes back, utterly petrified. 

No one is outside. 

You exchange a look with Sam. "That was real, right?"

He nods, but he doesn't look sure.

You trust your judgment, and Sammy's for that matter, but as you peer into the night, you can't help but doubt yourself.

Was it a shared hallucination? An earthquake? But what were those voices?

Grimly, you realize there's only one answer, and it wasn't a natural phenomenon. You know who's behind it. 

Michael shuts the door and locks it, resting his back against it like he alone could prevent them from coming in.

You clench your jaw and storm up to Michael, poking his chest. "Look—I don't know what kind of game you and your friends are trying to play, but it's not funny."

Michael dares to look offended. "I didn't do this."

"The hell you didn't!" Rage boils your blood, and you see red. "I have had it, Michael. This is the last straw."

You shove past him and throw open the door. The night is calm, but you are not. You've played the passive role for too long. No. Fucking. More. 

Those four morons could mess with you all they wanted, but not your family. Not their home. 

Your brothers call after you, but it's Sammy who asks, "Where are you going?!"

"Out!"

Your anger leads you to the boardwalk.

People laugh, their conversations overlapping until it's nothing but white noise buzzing in your ears. Overhead, Runaway by Bon Jovi crackles through the boardwalk's sound system, but the music is distorted as if filtered through a tunnel.

You find David and his gang easily, almost like you have a homing beacon guiding you straight to them. You don't overthink it. Really, you don't think about it at all. All you know is that you're past your limit for bullshit, and tonight, you'll make it stop one way or another.

Paul is the first one to notice you. He greets you with a cocky grin. "Hey, baby—"

You punch Paul in his stupid, pretty face. It wasn't hard—and the odds are, he's taken worse—but sheer surprise knocks him off his feet into Dwayne. 

You only realize what you did when the pain kicks in.

"Sunova—!" You bite back a scream, cradling your fist against your chest. You wish someone would have warned you: punching hurts.

"What is with you Emerson's and punching without provocation?" muses David.

You glare, filling it with as much hate as you can muster. David isn't affected in the least. In fact, he's amused. He grins like he's watching a newborn puppy learn to snarl. He pushes off the railing and invades your personal space.

"Let me see your hand." David reaches for it, but you step back.

"Don't touch me," you snap.

The boys laugh.

Marko throws his arm over your shoulder and nuzzles your hair. "Baby's got teeth, huh?"

You try to shrug him off, but he hangs on. "Stay away from Michael." They murmur his name like it's a private joke. It makes you angrier. "He's a good guy, and he doesn't deserve to be dragged down by a group of dirty degenerates like you."

David bends at the waist so he's eye-level with you. "Did big brother send you here?"

"No," you say, "I came myself."

"So you can go down on dirty degenerates like us?"

"To get you to fuck off," you sneer.

You shove David back for good measure, but he captures your wrist—your injured hand—without blinking an eye. 

Gingerly, he looks it over, paying close attention to your knuckles. His leather gloves are soft and worn. They must be thick, too, because you can't feel his body heat through them.

What the fuck. No, you're not thinking about that.

He grazes his thumb over the hills and valleys of your knuckles; he turns your hand over, coaxing you to spread your fingers. 

"It's not broken," David says. "You're lucky."

… Huh?

He manipulates your hand into a fist again. "Next time, don't tuck your thumb under your fingers, or you will break it. See?"

"Stop it," you stammer.

"Stop what?"

"Being—" Nice "—weird!"

David releases your hand, and you bring it back to your chest. 

"I think you better apologize to Paul," David continues. "You hurt him real bad, and, well, we don't want him to pout all night, right?"

You glance at Paul, who is indeed pouting theatrically. "Can you kiss it better?" He taps his cheek.

You sneer. "Look—just leave Michael and my family alone. That shit you pulled tonight was not cool, and Mike hasn't been acting like himself since you came along, so I know you're the cause. So, back off, okay?"

David smiles. "Okay."

You pause. Then blink. You wait for the punchline, another witty remark that David has locked and loaded, but it never comes.

"Wait, seriously?"

"Sure." David shrugs, "But you've gotta take his place."

"Excuse me?"

David doesn't repeat himself. He gives you a look similar to the one he gave you over a week ago. Daring you, begging you with those unfathomable blue eyes. Paul leans against your other shoulder.

"C'mon," Paul purs. "Join us."

Marko and Dwayne pile on, chanting with Paul, "Join us. Join us. Join us."

David only stares, his hypnotic gaze locked on yours as the chant grew louder. People are starting to stare. 

"You know you want to," David says. "Stop lying to yourself."

Marko giggles, "We promise we'll be good."

From behind, Dwayne mutters, "Extra good."

"Don't leave us hanging, baby," Paul whines.

This isn't what you came here to do. All you wanted was to get them to back off before someone—like Sam or Mom—got hurt. 

But that teeny-tiny part of you, the one you've been trying to smother since you arrived in Santa Carla, pipes up. You didn't have to come. You could have let Michael handle this. You could have ignored them instead of walking into the lion's den. You knew, deep down, that this would happen. You wanted it to.

Your rage evaporates with every passing second and is replaced with that familiar fuzzy feeling in your abdomen. They're so close. 

They pet you—your arms, your hands, your neck. David is content to watch like he knows they're steadily chipping away at your resolve. Dwayne's hands migrate to your hair, toying with the ends. Cool breath fans over your neck. Leather kisses your exposed skin.

You remember too late that you're not wearing your usual maxiskirts but instead a pair of cut-offs that reveal far more skin than you typically like to show. But ... you don't care. If anything, it makes that fuzzy feeling more intense. You want them to look.

"I..." Your breath catches. You don't know what to say, and even if you did, you don't think you can admit it out loud.

David sees this. He knows you. So, he offers his hand instead. Open. Ready. Accepting. You don't need words with him.

Your fingers twitch. It was only a matter of time before they wore you down and coaxed that yes from you.

Slowly, painfully slow, you place your hand in David's. He curls his fingers over yours, sealing the deal.

The boys erupt into cheers, and that hazy bubble of something bursts like fireworks, an explosion of euphoria. Your skin tingles, and you grin. Dwayne wraps his arms around your middle and spins you around, eliciting a surprised shriek from you. 

"C'mon, boys." David tosses his cigarette to the ground and stomps it out. "Let's go." 

#Let him see the holes 😔

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.

Vermithor: I value bravery and courage in the face of danger

Silverwing: This one’s so sad and pathetic. I’ve decided he’s my poor little meow meow

i'm also so glad that they FINALLY gave rhaenyra a grey character moment instead of keeping her on the pedestal all season while the greens and daemon do their own little swarmy war things. she chose to herd dozens of innocent blonde people to their deaths in almost a cult like sacrifice to gain her two dragonriders. this is the ugly side of rhaenyra that ive been wanting to see all season, the one who will ultimately win the war. its about time she became just as blood and fire as the greens

Pairing: yandere!Tom Riddle x gn!Reader

Synopsis: no one can take you away from Tom, not even Death itself

Warnings: yandere themes, obsessive behavior, non-sexual nudity, dark forces, mention of death and bodies, reader’s gender not specified

You felt weird. Your ears were filled with buzzing white noise, mind racing but also completely muddled up. You inhaled sharply, searing pain surged through all of your body at the feeling of your lungs expanding. It felt like your insides were set ablaze all at once. Rattling cough tore through your throat, filling your mouth with the some thick slime-like substance that you quickly spat out, gulping desperately on cold air in fast shallow breaths.

From what your overwhelmed senses could tell - you were laying down on some kind of flooring - which felt more like bare stone. You struggled to get yourself into sitting position, hard cobbles dug into your flesh painfully, causing you to shiver violently from both cold and discomfort.

You cracked your eyes open, blinking rapidly a few times to get the same sticky slimey stuff out of your eyes. It was very dark around- or was it your unstable state? Heavy steps could be heard, coming in your direction; your body tensed impossibly more, head snapping in direction of nearing man(?), hands roaming the ground underneath you, trying to find something - anything - to defend yourself with.

- Shhhhh, dearest, it’s just me. You’re safe, - a familiar voice spoke soothingly, your body relaxing at the dear sound of it.

- Tom? - you whispered, eyes flickering in all directions haphazardly, trying to distinguish male’s slim figure in thick darkness.

Tom fell to his knees next to you, muttering quiet ‘Lumos’, dim ray of light coming from the tip of his wand blinded you temporarily. You heard some soft shuffling before a thick woolen cloak was wrapped tightly around your shuddering frame.

You managed to crack your eyes open, finally being abele to look around. You peeked down at yourself - your body looked raw - as if you spent hours emerged in hot water - skin was a bringt pink color, extremely sensitive to the smallest of touches - just like an infant in first minutes of its life. You were completely bare, some weird slippery substance was covering every part of you, cooling your body down unpleasantly.

Your eyes wandered up to Tom. His face was gaunt - cheeks looked as hollow as ever; dark eyes you loved so much were unusually sunken, dark purplish circles you knew he got from sleepless nights were laying underneath them; his beautiful lips were chopped and pale, lacking their usual plushness; lush shiny waves of brown hair laying so elegantly on his forehead now looked bleak and brittle. Tom looked ill - as if he was struggling from protracted ailment. But even despite his miserable -you could’ve never thought of using this adjective for describing Tom Riddle- appearance, his eyes were sparkling maniacally, like diamonds in finest of the jewelry.

- Tom, what happened? I don’t understand… - you inquired quietly. Your throat felt way too tight, making your voice sound shaky and weak, and you struggled to get words out. You felt Tom wrapping his arms tightly around you, bringing you to his chest in a tight embrace.

- Everything’s all right now, my love. It’s okay, you are safe with me, - Tom muttered more to himself, rocking you from side to side gently.

You took a look at your surroundings - it looked like you were inside of a huge dark cave of some sorts, rough wet stones were forming walls and ceiling of the cavity, you could hear water dripping down the stalactites all around, hitting the rocks underneath with loud echoing sounds. What caught your attention were deep involute lines carved deeply into stone ground, forming an intricate designs all around you, slightest red glow was still visible emanating from them.

There were dead bodies laying all around. About a dozen of men and women, some of them you recognized as Tom’s devoted followers, were splayed around what seemed to be a transfiguration circle. There were no injuries nor blood on them visible. In fact, they looked fully normal if it wasn’t for their dull eyes and looks of absolute horror etched on their lifeless faces.

And then suddenly pictures flashed before your eyes - Tom’s face, still full of health and youthful beauty, covered in grime and blood, was gazing down at you, his eyes sparkling with shiny tears. What was that? Why was he crying? And then, like in some kind of drunken haze, you looked down at yourself - a huge crimson blotch was growing bigger and bigger on your robes, saturating soft cotton fabric in warm sticky blood. You looked back up at Tom - he was full on crying now, babbling “don’t leave me” and “please, don’t die” over and over again, trembling hands pressing down onto your chest, trying to stop the blood flow.

What was he talking about? Why would you die? You tried to say it, to console your silly boy, reassure that there’s no way you would leave him - but no sound came out of your throat, no matter how hard you tried. Your mouth filled with sickening metallic taste of your own blood, black clouding your vision rapidly.

And now you remembered. Those were your memories - your last ones - before you died.

But how was this all possible? Here you were, blood and flesh, warm and breathing and surely alive, in welcoming arms of your lover.

- Tom? What have you done?.. - horror mixed with shock slowly crept up your back, all the way to your chest and throat, making it even harder to breath than before.

- Nothing will ever hurt you again. I won’t let that happen, I promise, - Tom uttered next to your ear, his body shaking with soundless sobs as he held you even closer to himself,

- I will keep you safe, away from all dangers. You will know no worries nor fears. It will be just the two of us, in our perfect world we’ve always dreamed of. Forever.

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I feel like people forget how Tom Riddle was in his Hogwarts years. I always see him being portrayed as cold and unapproachable in fics, when I believe it's canon that during his years at Hogwarts he was basically like a casanova with everyone absolutely adoring him because he was so good at pretending to be kind and charming. He was head boy, had the best grades, 'friends' with the popular Slytherins, I bet ladies flocked to him.

Bro was the ultimate golden boy

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