Warnings: This is not romantic, nor very light writing. It's not overly graphic, but there are some uh?-ish parts, so be wary. It's also not meant to be plotty, just a little ficlet exploration thing.

A/N: I should be working for the bigbang I'm signed up for, so naturally my mind somehow birthed this fucked-up thing. I'm sorry. I don't even know what to say. Though if you enjoy it, or want to for whichever reason, please review! It's my second dabble into the fanfic realm (I also post on AO3), so I apologize for any resulting... meh-ness. Inspired by beautiful writing, Gin'N'Tonic writers in general, and 3 A.M ponderings.

Please.

Please stop,

I'm… entranced with you.

I find you tucked inside the cover of my transfiguration text. Your covering is plain: fraying from age, drab and unassuming, and completely unadorned but for a name inscribed on the front page. I thumb through your blank sheets in contemplation, before coming to the conclusion that you are a diary, and I need one, so I decide to make you mine.

They say the pen is mightier than the sword, but it's not, not really. The pen is the sword, and the strike of its ink-tip against paper is the parting of my skin beneath the blade. The signing of my name is me reaching between the folds of skin to wrap my fingers around my heart, and it's me extending my hands towards you – the organ pumping blood and secrets through its chambers. The cap screwing back into place is your dark greedy gaze, and the gentle 'tunk' of the utensil landing on my desk is the sound my heart makes as you clasp it between your hands.

I wouldn't have bared myself so enthusiastically and completely to you – I am no one, I would have written, if I had known better. But I had been caught up in your charming words, in your oh-so-carefully crafted lies and manipulations, and so I had. You made me feel like you cared – like words birthed from ink were the true components of friendship. It had been impossible for me to say no to that.

Please.

Please stop,

I'm not enough for you.

'I love him', I write in my haphazard scrawl. 'His eyes are gorgeous and green, and every time he looks at me, I feel as if I am coming undone. His gaze is mesmerizing, captivating… He leaves me so flustered and lost, and I don't even think he realizes what he does to me – how much I want to be his.'

'Remember 6-inch essay on levitation charm', I jot down absent-mindedly. 'Charms is such a fascinating subject, but shouldn't practice be enough? Understanding theory isn't really going to change how well I can cast the spell… At least, that's what I think.'

'THEY DON'T NOTICE ME AT ALL!' The inky strokes across you are rough, bold, and I can run my fingertip over the imprint left behind from my furious press of pen to paper. 'I'm too young, too childish, too easily dismissed to them – to all of them. I hate it, I hate it, I HATE IT! I'm nothing to my siblings – just the little sister to be teased, and I'm probably even less than that to him.'

You must have ears hidden between the sheets of your diary, because it seems otherwise impossible that you would listen to me so intently. You assure me of my beauty, you debate the purpose of charms theory with me, and you tell me that I am something and not nothing. When I write to you, I don't feel like the little girl so easily overlooked. No, I finally feel real. You discretely devour my words, you slowly feast upon my secrets, until it's me in you and you in me and I end where you begin but there is no end at all.

Please.

Please. Stop.

I'm scared to know you.

It's not hard for you to make the transition from enslaved as a book to master of me, and so when your slender pinky gives the most infinitesimal of twitches, like a puppeteer, my will is yours – what is free will, really? You tell me to murder, and I do. You tell me to lie, and I do. I am silent, I am shaking, I am short of breath and salty-cheeked, and I am surrounded by blood and feathers and still bodies – the evidence of this twisted something between us.

I am filled with the certainty that I am going to bend and then break, and then there will be nothing for me. You will be left holding my brittle broken bones, and they'll slide through your pale fingers like discarded leaves, and I will be nothing more than your twisted friendship, nothing more than your breath, your blood, your calculating smile and your heartbreaking impassivity as you drain me.

They say that only Icarus would ever try and touch the sun, but they don't know you. They don't know that Icarus walks the Earth through you – that you're doubly as ambitious as he ever was, that your touch is made of starlight, that your hands are flickering flames that flay my skin from my muscles as they touch me. I am burning, shaking, writhing because of you, and you won't let me go. You can't let me go, I think, and I'm starting to understand that it's because you love what you're doing to me.

Please!

Please! Stop!

I'M TERRIFIED by you!

I plead with you to the staccato beating of my heart – the pounding blood in my ears as the eratic and uneven conductor of my requiem. I felt terror when you were gone. I thought that gorgeous green eyes reading my innermost secrets would be the worst thing that could happen to me, but I was stupid, stupid, so incredibly stupid. I hate my childish naivety, I hate my petty worrying, and I hate myself most of all, because I went back for you.

I can feel my energy fading, and I think to myself – absurdly, perhaps – that this must be what the moon feels like. I lie at the feet of your ancestor embodied, my thoughts lethargic and jumbled and despairing, and I know now, down to the center of my core, that this is infinitely worse. You appear beside me, my shriveled heart dripping blood from between your ruby red lips. You lean forward, your ear tantalizingly close to my tongue, and though I know that you don't truly care, as I realize that you never ever did, the only words I can manage leave my lips to join you like the rest of me.

Please.

Tom… Please… stop.

I don't want to die.