Knights Of Walpurgis - Tumblr Posts

Antonin Dolohov

«Knights of Walpurgis» headcanon hair @hezeh brows @wistfulpoltergeist skin @lamatisse lips @obscurus-sims eyes @dangerouslyfreejellyfish glasses @pralinesims goggles @karzalee jackets @darte77 earings 1 @gorillax3-cc 2 @s-sac 3 @sclub-privee t-shirt @gorillax3-cc

Thank you amazing creators ('◡')/💕 (￣.￣)〜 ♫♪

... like I know pretty much everyone’s headcanon for Abraxas Malfoy is that he was either one of Tom Riddle’s closest followers or like *involved* with him, but... wait for it... what if Tom seriously hated him? 

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

“Has no-one told you not to stand in front of the stairs, Lestrange?” snapped the newcomer; a boy of about fourteen or fifteen, with a narrow, aristocratic face, white-blond hair and grey eyes that glinted like steel in the dim, wavy light.

“Who are you?” asked Tom, before he could hold himself back. But he couldn’t help but be curious, especially when the other four boys were staring at the newcomer with such adoration and reverence.

“Abraxas Malfoy,” he said, drawing himself up to his full height — which Tom noted with a faint hint of pleasure was not much taller than him.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. “And you are?”

“Tom Riddle.” Tom did not take his eyes off of Malfoy’s, instead lifting his chin and glaring.

“Tom Riddle,” repeated Malfoy. A mocking grin spread across his face. “And what might you be? Another half-blood? Mother ran off with a Mudblood, or worse, a Muggle, is that it?”

“No!” snapped Tom, acutely aware of the others gazing at him and Malfoy fixedly, awaiting an answer with bated breath. He could see his perfect façade unravelling already, all the work that he had done to earn his classmates’ respect wasted. “My father was a wizard! His name was Tom Riddle, too!”

Malfoy threw his head back, laughing, the sound echoing ominously against the stone walls of the corridor.

“Oh, you filthy little Mudblood. Bold as brass.”

...

"That's all Muggles and Mudbloods like you are good for. You must know your place," said Malfoy, smirking. All of a sudden, Tom felt himself being forced to his knees as if invisible hands were pushing him down. There was a black, shiny shoe in his face. Yaxley's wand was out. Magic. "Get polishing, Riddle. The Muggle way, as you're used to. And be careful. They're the finest dragonhide, more expensive than anything you'll ever own."

"But won't they—" Tom was not going to cry. He was not going to show an ounce of weakness in front of them.

"See you?" asked Malfoy. "That's the point, Riddle. So hurry up, and shine your master's boots, and you might finish before your little classmates see you on your knees like a proper Mudblood."

Tom felt the same fury burn as when Billy called him a monster, years ago, he wanted to tear, to break, to lash out at something… but there was no rabbit here. The three older boys had no weakness, and magic could not help him now. It was one against three, and he did not have any training.

But one day... he’d get each one of them. Alone. Scared. Crying.

Chapter One: The Tragedy of Tom Riddle

June, 1943

The cry of the jackal was high and mournful as it regarded the lone boy standing in the courtyard. Smoke trailed from the fingers of his left hand.

Tom lifted the lit cigarette to his mouth, closed his eyes, and winced. The sound was penetrating. He exhaled bitter smoke, looking around surreptitiously. The last thing he needed was Mulciber or Avery, or worse yet, a professor, coming around the corner.

He did not relish the thought of having to explain a nicotine addiction at this present moment (or any moment at all), because that would require explaining the Blitz, too, and Merlin knows these morons were oblivious to the world war that was currently going on. Pureblood society wouldn’t stoop to concerning itself with Muggle politics even if the bombs were exploding over the heads of the entire Sacred Twenty-Eight.

On second thought, he’d quite like to see a bomb exploding over the idiots’ heads.

At any rate, he had to be careful. Especially considering what he was intending to do later today. He already had an inordinate amount of detentions with Dumbledore — Professor of Transfiguration and the only person Tom considered a serious threat to his plans — as it were, and unfortunately only a finite amount of patience. 

Undoubtedly, this week’s session would involve advice on how to make friends, and questions as to why he liked to spend so much time alone.

He had to tutor that ditzy Gryffindor girl again today after he finished that extra assignment for Slughorn, and then he had patrol duty tonight with that irritating Ravenclaw git he’d been paired with — oh, fuck it all.

That and the essay for Merrythought — how could he have forgotten? He had an eighty-inch final paper due in Defense Against the Dark Arts on Friday, and he hadn’t even started it yet.

Even assuming he got through this behemoth of a week and everything went smoothly with the Horcrux, there were still his O.W.L. exams to worry about...

Continue reading at FFN | AO3!

hi, i’d like to introduce my fic

The anatomy of a young Dark Lord is complicated. That of a mysteriously-alive Obscurial, doubly so. In which Tom Riddle manages to trap himself in his own Horcrux, Harry Potter has a (mostly) cooperative sister and a parasitic magical force that’s trying to kill him, the diary falls into the wrong hands, and Lord Voldemort has a plan.

My current WIP (well, one of my current ones) is Running From My Destiny.

Genre: Drama, with some hints of Suspense and Mystery

Rating: M, for the later books and portraying Death Eaters up close

Where: FFN or AO3!

Update schedule: Saturdays, ~1-2 PM EST

It’s a (hopefully) new spin on a few popular fanfic tropes, the combination of which I’m pretty sure I haven’t stumbled across yet: Harry Potter has a twin sister, and he’s an Obscurial, and Tom Riddle screws up the Diary Horcrux, and gets stuck, awake for fifty years, because a student experimenting with Dark magic can’t possibly go wrong... can it? 

Oh, and the sister has nothing to do with the prophecy, so there’s no double Chosen One or WBWL subplot, for better or for worse.

It’s intended to be a plot-driven, full canon divergence/rewrite, exploring magical lore, morality and the path to evil, taking canon too literally and featuring a scarier-than-canon Voldemort, with influences from child psych and attachment theory, and free will. A lot of the first arc will be devoted to the missing scenes in the Riddle-era leading up to Myrtle’s murder, also. 

Everyone is sympathetic if you get to know them well enough, but not everyone is good, and that’s okay.

P.S. I also did this mostly-canon character analysis of Tom/Voldemort a few weeks ago. And here’s another one where I mostly complain that he’s a badly written villain and pull character motivations out of nowhere.

First Year related posts and excerpts here. 

Second Year related posts and excerpts here.

Third Year related posts and excerpts here.

Fourth Year related posts and excerpts here.

Chapter Three: Red Death, White Torture

Perhaps, Tom should have felt comforted, as the nurse patted his arm and smiled sympathetically; but all that he could focus on was the fluttering curtain. Now he could see Death, as the sounds of crying and sniffling dulled around him, as the room seemed to darken with the Reaper's presence (if he hadn't been so scared, Tom would have noticed that the sun had only gone behind the clouds).

Comfort wasn't something Tom needed. He'd never been afraid of monsters before; never shirked from dark corners or shadows dancing across the walls or shapes cowering under the bed. He liked spiders. Sometimes, he would let them crawl on him, and if he concentrated hard enough, he could make the spiders play dead or roll over on their backs.

Billy Stubbs had called him a monster once, when they'd argued. The next morning, Tom had gotten up before anyone else, while it was still dark outside, taken the rabbit that Billy was so fond of, a silly, white fluffy thing, up to the attic, and hung it.

He hadn't been intending to. Tom hadn't sat there and planned it. He just had to do it. In fact, he hardly knew what he was doing as he climbed up the rafters, the warm, fuzzy rabbit struggling in his hand, its heartbeat quick and frenzied against his palm. Nor did he know how to make a noose. No one taught him.

All he could think was punish Billy, he was mean to me, how dare he, I'm special. Tug. Loop. Knot. He had gripped the rafter between his knees, hard enough to leave welts, but it was worth it as he felt the rabbit stop struggling in the noose. Billy deserved it.

But as the fury burned out, he was sitting cross-legged and looking up at Billy Stubb's rabbit, its stupid ears drooping as it spun slowly, the grey twine knotted around its neck, as the room filled with morning light.

There was a black curtain in the attic too, fluttering against the window. The dead rabbit had been fascinating, and Tom had wanted to keep it in the box in his wardrobe, where he kept all of his secret toys. But it wouldn't fit, and it would stink. Dead things smelled. So, he left the rabbit, shutting the door and creeping back into bed, unable to sleep as he waited with glee for Billy's reaction.

"Well, it didn't hang itself from the rafters, did it?"

Tom remembered staring unrepentantly back up at Mrs. Cole, his face a mask of feigned confusion, but internally singing, he got what he deserved, stupid Billy, stupid rabbit. And Billy's crying; that had been music to his ears.

"No, ma'am. I don't see how I could have gotten up there, ma'am."

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

Chapter Seven: Alice in Wonderland

"Are you coming, Riddle?" asked Icarus, turning imperiously as he put one foot on the stairs.

Suddenly, someone came rushing down in a flurry of dark robes, shoving Icarus away. He stumbled back, looking crestfallen, and the others drew away, too.

"Has no-one told you not to stand in front of the stairs, Lestrange?" snapped the newcomer; a boy of about fourteen or fifteen, with a narrow, aristocratic face, white-blond hair and grey eyes that glinted like steel in the dim, wavy light.

"Who are you?" asked Tom, before he could hold himself back. But he couldn't help but be curious, especially when the other four boys were staring at the newcomer with such adoration and reverence.

"Abraxas Malfoy," he said, drawing himself up to his full height — which Tom noted with a faint hint of pleasure was not much taller than him.

Malfoy raised an eyebrow. "And you are?"

"Tom Riddle." Tom did not take his eyes off of Malfoy's, instead lifting his chin and glaring.

"Tom Riddle," repeated Malfoy. A mocking grin spread across his face. "And what might you be? Another half-blood? Mother ran off with a Mudblood, or worse, a Muggle, is that it?"

"No!" snapped Tom, acutely aware of the others gazing at him and Malfoy fixedly, awaiting an answer with bated breath. He could see his perfect façade unravelling already, all the work that he had done to earn his classmates' respect wasted. "My father was a wizard! His name was Tom Riddle, too!"

Malfoy threw his head back, laughing, the sound echoing ominously against the stone walls of the corridor.

"Oh, you filthy little Mudblood. Bold as brass."

Tom finds that Slytherin House isn’t all sunshine and rainbows. If he wants respect, he’s going to have to earn it.

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

Tom Riddle attempts to (mis)educate purebloods about WWII

Mulciber: "But why don’t you want to go back, Tom? Other than the fact that they’re, you know, Muggles."

Tom *aggressively shoves books in trunk*: "There’s a war going on. Didn’t you know that?"

Mulciber: "Yeah, I know about Grindelwald — what do you take us for, Tom — idiots?"

Tom (near the end of his tether): "Not Grindelwald. A Muggle war."

Rosier (confused): "But, er, who are they fighting?"

Tom: "Other Muggles. Germans, mostly."

Mulciber: "For Merlin’s sake, why? Don’t Muggles all like the same things? Like filth and what’s it called again — electrics?"

Tom: Looks very hard at Mulciber, and debates the use of teaching wizards about the evils of fascism.

Tom: Decides against it.

Tom: "Muggle stuff."

Chapter Nine: Words Shall Never Hurt Me

“They think I’m a Mudblood,” Tom spat, glaring at his shoes as if they had personally offended him. 

“Tom!” Dumbledore exclaimed, looking scandalized. “That word—“

“That’s what they call me, sir.”

“Ah.” Dumbledore pushed his half-moon spectacles further up his nose, his expression pensive. “Hence, the frantic searching for evidence in the library. Have you perhaps thought of spending time with students outside your House? Those that might be more… open-minded?”

Tom searches for his father’s legacy as he attempts to prove himself worthy in Slytherin House. Blood is spilt. Dumbledore is watching him.

Warning: This contains the (I think?) most disturbing scene I’ve posted yet. Like, I know the first two chapters are murder scenes and TMR’s head is generally not a nice place, but prepare thyself, this is (slightly?) more disturbing.

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

he-who-must-not-be-named

Tom flung the door to the seventh-year boys’ dormitory aside, and it hit the wall with a loud clatter.

The others looked up, staring at Tom with what he thought were very stupid expressions.

“What are you staring at?” snapped Tom. What have they been saying behind my back now?

He swivelled to glare at all of them, his gaze finally falling on the boy sitting on his bed-

Wait. The boy sitting -- why was someone sitting on his bed?

“Who are you?” he demanded, striding over to the strange boy, who was wearing a uniform (not a Hogwarts one), fidgeting with a knife, and covered in blood. Tom shuddered in disgust at the thought of that all over his sheets. “Why are you sitting on my bed?”

“Your bed?” asked the boy, tilting his head to the side and raising an eyebrow.

“Yes! My bed, you daft prat. Can’t you read?”

Tom gestured at the name embossed on the brass plate at the foot of the bed.

Then he frowned.

“What?” he spluttered in disbelief, rubbing his eyes. 

I bet they think this is funny.

“For fuck’s sake,” Tom groused, pulling out his wand. “Reparifarge.”

The name did not change.

Fear trickled down his spine, as if someone had shoved a handful of ice chips down the back of his shirt.

“Who are you?” he asked, pointing his wand at the boy, who did not flinch. “There’s no such person as Matteo Riddle! Who put you up to this!”

He spun to face the other boys, next, glowering and pointing his wand threateningly.

“We wouldn’t, Tom,” said Mulciber. “I swear. He was here when we came in -- we’re just as surprised as you. We didn’t realize you had a brother.” 

“I’ll ask you one more time, then,” said Tom. “Who. Are. You.”

“Can’t you read?” asked the boy, with a shit-eating grin and a gratingly-American accent. “Matteo Riddle. I’m an assassin.”

He brandished the knife, as if that meant something. As if he, Tom Marvolo Riddle, the heir of Salazar Slytherin, could not stop the idiot’s heartbeat with two whispered words.

But he decided to restrain himself. He would have mercy. 

Tom flicked his wand, and the bed slid to the side, causing the boy to tumble onto the floor in a heap.

Pathetic.

Tom rolled him over with his foot; the others said nothing. In his haste, the knife had gotten stuck somewhere in his torso. It didn’t look life-threatening; but it was humiliating to injure yourself with your own weapon.

The boy whimpered in pain. Tom could not drudge up a hint of empathy.

“No,” said Tom, “you’re a pubescent wanker, and worse yet, a Yank, and I’m Head Boy. So kindly get-the-fuck-out of my sight before I decide to take points from whatever House the misfortune has fallen to claim you as a member.”

@regulusslut your hate for matteo has inspired me to write this skit of tom riddle (as characterized in my longfic) meeting he-who-does-not-deserve-to-be-named.

Chapter Thirteen: Marvolo

His eyes were burning; smarting and itching so much that he wanted to tear them out of his head.

Tom was about to cry.

He was not going to cry, and especially not in the middle of the hallway, empty or not. The last time he allowed tears to sting his eyes like this, he was nearly dead.

So, he tilted his head up, screwed up his face, and focused on his anger instead.

Abraxas's voice. Mudblood.

Mudblood scum. That's what you are; you can't deny it anymore.

Tom let out a shriek, flinging his bag down against the floor. The thin, cheap fabric ripped easily, sending all his books tumbling out.

He snatched up one of them — it was a library book — Tom didn't care — and grabbed the first few pages in a quivering fist, crumpling them under his rage. He screamed, ripped them clean from the binding, felt a bit better, and did it again.

Rip, tear, scream. Repeat. Rip, tear, scream. Repeat.

He heard a soft plip, and stopped, surprised that a tear had fallen.

Now, the page was wet. A single droplet of water was spreading, bleeding out across the paper.

Germany invades Czechslovakia. Tom Riddle discovers the secret of his birth.

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

what does a dark lord have to do to get some intelligent minions around here?

in the hogwarts library

Mulciber: Riddle, are you going to the Quidditch match?

Tom *looks up from writing in his diary about how much he hates Dumbledore*: I’d rather have my brains slowly pulled out through my nose with a blunt probe.

Mulciber:

Mulciber: I don't get it.

Tom:

Tom: *sigh*

Tom: This is why we can't have nice things.

Mulciber:

Tom: That means no.

Mulciber is the Boris Johnson of the friend group. 

Chapter Twenty-Three: Good Chaos, Bad Chaos

"Thank you," he said, embarrassed.

"I don't pity you, if that's what you're worried about. I know you can take care of yourself. You're still in one piece, aren't you?"

"Why, what happened to the last Mudblood in Slytherin House? Did they fall down the stairs?"

"Very funny, Tom," said Minerva. "And don't use that word, it's horrid."

"All right, Prefect McGonagall."

"Don't say that, you'll jinx it!"

"Jinx it? Really, Minerva? Jinx it? What now, are you going to throw salt over your shoulder, too? Make a black cat cross in front of you from left to right?"

"Oh, shove off, Riddle!" said Minerva, flinging the door open and stomping out. He followed. "Like you don't want the same, too!"

He hadn't thought about it, actually. But taking points off Lestrange and that lot? Handing out punishments? Waltzing around Hogwarts wearing a stupid badge?

Yes, Slytherin Prefect Tom Riddle had a really nice ring to it. And Head Boy Tom Riddle even better.

"Actually," he said, "I think I'd like that."

"Good," said Minerva, as they headed up the path towards the castle, "because if I was forced to do rounds with any of those four twats, I'd seriously consider throwing myself off the Astronomy Tower."

Tom ingratiates himself onto the Slytherins in his year during an outing to Hogsmeade, and it turns out that both Tom and Lestrange got much more than what they bargained for. The promise of the Chamber of Secrets and eternal glory grows ever closer. Tom’s head has never been bigger.

Oh, and it's Valentine's Day, but who cares?

Read from the beginning at FFN | AO3!

"Call me Lord Voldemort."

"You see?" he whispered. "It was a name I was already using at Hogwarts, to my most intimate friends only, of course..."

I am literally debating right now whether I should chuck Tom's angsty little teenage "I am Lord Voldemort" moment with the "Knights of Walpurgis" into the Void Of Unpublished Scenes and whether I am actually going to bother calling the collection of morons that because it's driving me up the wall and I don't think Tom feels utterly convinced either.

Holding Hands With Shadows | Tom Riddle

Synopsis: Being the Minister of Magic was not easy for Tom, but you are always there to keep chaos from erupting. OR, you are Tom's assistant and the babysitter of the group and Tom finally confesses.

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Reader

Notes: Not canon compliant (sane!Tom, no Voldemort), Abraxas keeps insulting orphans, Y/N is tired (Knights of Walpurgis? More like Kids of Walpurgis)

You could almost feel the grey hairs sprouting from your head, and not even in a fun, attractive way either. It was a wonder you hadn't even thought about drafting up your letter of resignation until right now.

"Abraxas, you may not buy out that land to raise your peacocks. The Department of Care for Magical Children plan to use it for future projects."

Tom shoots you an amused look from across the room, lips quirked up into a smirk at your exasperated tone. The infuriating man was leaning back in his armchair, far too at ease, as you tried to restrain yourself from slamming your head through the table.

"Frankly, that just seems like a waste of good resources. I mean why do they need it so bad? Could they not just simply find another plot? After all, these children grew up in austere conditions, so they won't even miss it."

"Abraxas."

"Yes?"

"Get out."

"Excuse--"

"Now. Please."

The man looks over to his best friend for help, but Tom simply shrugs as if conceding that you were the one in charge.

"Fine. However, this conversation is far from over. I will see you both tonight, yes?"

"Of course. Safe travels, and please send Lady Malfoy my regards."

The man sends you a pleased nod before twirling on his heels, his cloak billowing dramatically. The door clicks shut behind him just as you drop your face into your hands.

"Stressed, darling?"

You huff and rub your forehead before answering with more bite than intended, "Perfectly fine".

The insufferable man, as unbothered as always, lets out a noise of amusement before slowly striding towards your desk. You slowly raise your head as his shadow falls over you, eyes narrowed in suspicion.

"Anything I can do to help?"

"Yeah, fire off your best hex at me and put me out of my misery."

"Abraxas‘ dramatics has rubbed off on you, my love."

The pet name sends a shiver down your spine and you try your hardest to school your expression. You had grown up with Tom at the orphanage, which basically made you his closest confidant, friend, and ally. At times it felt like you were a breathing, judgmental diary to him.

You were privy to all that was bad and ugly in his life, so it was only right that you were by his side when he rose to power and suddenly had access to all the material goods in the world.

And to him--whatever he had, you had by extension.

Of course, you fought tooth and nail to get to where you were now, rebuking any effort Tom made to give you preferential treatment.

Everything would be fine if it weren't for your affections toward him. Growing up, he never expressed interest in pursuing a romantic relationship, he had only ever wanted to subvert the stereotypes and malice aimed at the both of you during your years at Hogwarts.

The closest thing to romance that you could associate Tom with was when he wooed Druella Rosier in sixth year with his signature smile and a kiss to her hand in order to siphon information about her father from her.

The poor girl was an inconsolable lump of misery after Tom got what he needed and tossed her aside like a used handkerchief.

Tom's always been romantically inept like that.

Your spiral of reminiscing didn't cease, not even when you and Tom showed up to Malfoy Manor for their annual ball later that night.

When would it be socially acceptable to turn tail and run?

"Assistant L/N! What a pleasure it is! Is the minister trekking about nearby?"

You spin from looking out the window and come face to face with an older man who you recognized from around the Department of Magical Games and Sports.

His vest hugged him tightly and only served to accentuate his red, puffy face.

Was he about to hit on you or try and kiss your ass so he could get acquainted with Tom?

Merlin. Did you have enough in your savings to retire yet?

"Good evening. I believe Tom is busy discussing foreign deals with Lord Greengrass."

"Ah yes, Cyrus Greengrass is quite ingenious. You and Minister Riddle were friends with him during school, yes?"

Your lip twitched at how casual he was addressing Cyrus. Cyrus would be disconcerted by the man's informality, but Abraxas would surely become vexed on his friend's behalf if he heard.

"Yes. We are childhood friends I suppose."

"Wonderful! Well I was coming to you because I'm sure you're aware that the rules for Quidditch are being tossed into the air. The Ministro di Magia in Italy is trying to--"

You started tuning him out and looked around the room for one of your friends, starting to sweat in the formal wear you had on.

Luckily, Tom caught your eye. Unfortunately, he had somehow rounded up all of your friends and they were all looking quite entertained at your expense.

"Sorry sir. If you'll excuse me, it seems that the Minister is in need of me."

Without waiting for a response, you chugged what was left in your champagne flute before practically stomping over to the circle of men.

As you neared, Tom stepped out to welcome you, encircling a hand around your waist like it was the most casual thing in the world.

"Good evening boys. Thank you for throwing me out to the wolves."

"Y/N! So I assume this would be a bad time to try and renegotiate the land you're throwing away to those orphans."

Bloody hell, he was forgetting that he was saying that in front of two orphans.

Without answering Abraxas, you turned to Tom and let out a sigh, "I'm handing in my letter of resignation tomorrow, I promise it".

The hand around your waist tightened ever so slightly and you ignored the amused looks your friends sent each other, having picked up on your little school girl crush on Tom eons ago.

Damn them.

"Now, now, don't make hasty decisions. I could simply smite Abraxas‘ peacocks and the problem would be solved."

Abraxas let out an undignified noise while Parkinson and Bulstrode snorted into their drinks. Cyrus patted Abraxas‘ shoulder in feign pity, but he knew that Tom would likely make good on his threat if you asked him to.

"I hate you all. How is it that even after all these years, I still feel like an underpaid, underappreciated nanny."

Abraxas looked offended at your words and quickly reassured you, "We love you though. Underpaid, yes. Underappreciated? Never."

Your banter with the group went on for a while longer and as the night started coming to a close, Tom steered you away from peering eyes and towards a vacant balcony.

"Are you alright, darling?"

You only nodded tiredly to the man, leaning your elbows on the railing. You rubbed your eyes as you could sense the man behind you shifting in uncertainty (which was so uncharacteristic of him that you had half the mind to pull out your wand and threaten him to tell you where the real Tom was).

A few beats of peaceful silence pass before you're jumping up at the feeling of hands coming to hug your waist, a hard chest pressing against your back.

"Tom--?"

His chin gently rested atop of your shoulder, loosening his grip slightly to give you the opportunity to push him away.

"Are you unusually more clueless nowadays or are you purposely torturing me?"

"You're going to have to elaborate. Did you accidentally kill someone or do something I would disapprove of? This affection is quite sudden."

"But you don't hate it. Quite the contrary."

"That confidence of yours is going to get you into trouble one day."

"If it's you, I don't mind the trouble."

You don't bother responding, but your silence was satisfactory enough for him.

Clearing your throat, you awkwardly move your hands to rest atop of his, patting them gently.

It felt like the world spun on its head and was reborn anew before Tom spoke again, "Marry me."

His words threw you for a loop and you sputtered a choked, "What?"

"Marry me. I mean we're practically married anyway. You flounder around and make sure the boys are okay, and I rein them in so they don't blow up the country and make me lose face."

"Yes. We are a true dynamic duo."

Your dry response has his chest rumbling in contained laughter, tilting his head and gently knocking it against your cheek.

"We're the parents of the group, haven't you noticed? Abraxas asked me a few days ago if we would end their suffering and ours by just wedding each other."

"I was not aware we were even dating."

"Dating--being partners-- would not even come close to what we are. Don't you feel the same? We are in sync in everything we do. Even hundreds of miles apart, I breathe as you breathe, my heart beats in rhythm with yours, my mind does not simply revolve around you--it is completely infused with your every essence. It is a wonder we aren't already married with three cats."

"Three cats," Tom despised cats, "But...yes, I feel the same. You know I do. I thought that...well, I thought you weren't interested in romance."

"I am interested in pursuing anything and everything with you. Only you. If you'll have me, of course."

Your laughter comes out wet and heavy, filled with relief and disbelief. You turn your gaze upward and watch as the stars blink down on you, permeated across the sky the same way love begins to flow through your veins.

"It was always you, Tom. Thank you for telling me."

Tom pulls back briefly before gently turning you around to face him.

He leans down and nuzzles his nose against yours, eyes conveying a tender emotion that you've never seen until now. But now you knew, every time in the past when his eyes flickered across your face and softened, it was out of love.

"Tell me you'll marry me."

You don't give him a verbal response, but as you press your lips to his, he knows that domesticity together is all the both of you have ever needed.

"Tom...does this mean we have to make Abraxas the best man now?"

"Don't be silly, he'll give us no choice in the matter."

(And give them no choice, he did)

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