Tom's fingers dig contusions in his wrists and Hermes traces their shape on the mirror, while they're already fading violet and rose in his white skin, realizing that they look like flower petals. (it is difficult, exhausting to be someone you are not and it feels a lot like a martyrdom that he can't be what Tom wants him to be)
It's a bit like Romeo and Juliet, the ongoing war between Good and Evil, besides the overdramatic death of two teenagers who were crazy in love but too bovine to see the tragedy they were racing headfirst into. Hermione is seventeen and she never loved a man before, not the way that she does Tom, the enemy, the Capulet, Voldemort.
She can see droplets of blood clinging in Rosier's dark hair, can see him taking his handkerchief to dab the blood off of his face and Tom doesn't even bother to clean himself up, snarls at Greyback to drive them home. The shriek, she grasps later, was her own.
There was blood in my eyes, dripping slowly, red, warm, a deadly glimmer in the night. I must say it surprised me a lot how a pedestrian girl like you accomplished to sneak up on me. I felt the presence of your eyes burning in the back of my neck, your curiosity a nagging feeling on my conscious and it bit at my mind, reminded me to pay attention to my environment.
Tom whispers sweet nothings on her skin, on her neck and Hermione is doomed because she shouldn't trust him, shouldn't trust a single word but she can't help but repeat them, tangles her hands deep in his dark silken head and she yanks him back, locks their eyes, breathes words she doesn't mean or perhaps she does, she doesn't know anymore.
She wakes with a bloodcurdling scream, sits in her bed, eyes opened wide when Ron bolts into her room, alone this time, eyes still drowsy and she assures him, promises to look her symptoms up tomorrow, almost urges him out of the room, curls up in her bed, trembles, shivers, waits.
His eyes follow her lead and as soon as he spots the scarf dangling out of his pocket, bright red and golden in the morning light that breaks trough the huge windows of the great hall, he can't stop the cuss that leaves his lips.
Avery: Abraxas hooked up with a guy named Charly. Rabastan: So that's the reason he wanted me to cover up before Tom. Avery: What? Rabastan: He skips today. Avery: He does? Sounds like Charly was demanding last night.
sometimes i write poems and publish them
These are prompts and asks from my tumblr account, feel free to leave a prompt aswell.
„What about Love, Tom?" „An illusion," he spits immediately, because that's what this is, isn't it, a delusion, a deception, a dreamlike myth because they aren't real, this isn't real. He swallows, presses, „What is this? What are you?" She castes her eyes down and she whispers, „To define, is to limit."
It doesn't start like this. It never does.
What's your story?
The first time Nico meets Death he's wearing an angel face and a golden halo around dark curls, a uniform that fits a body with long legs and eyes so innocent and chaste. Death never hides his grin, never falters and Nico is so mesmerized by his beauty that he barely feels the Widow's Tear cutting circles in his hand.
This time, we're completely strangers tho we're not, young in age, but old souls. This time, you found me. [Reincarnation AU]
Malik remembers the night he met Altair, remembers the rain, cold, wet, drizzling on his dark hair. It's the cause of all his troubles.
[Multiverse AU] I see glimpses, of us, of you, universes in a sea of galaxies, stories of eternity are the stories of this sin that allows me to let us remain in existence.
[College/University AU] They're screwing around and both aren't sorry, Leonardo too stubborn to accept this thing between them, because they're not a couple, definitely not. It's just sex and golden boys like Riario are as disposable as the cigarettes he burns through daily. Leonardo can't be dependent on this, on someone, on him.