A/N: I live, hello! Apologies for the delay, I seem to have a weird disposition towards writing near the end of the year. Anyway, we back with Tom(s) and dubious spice.
AWF
Hem is dimly aware that she's walking, but she can't remember where she is and where she's supposed to go. (Her body will know, right? Maybe.) Her eyesight is foggy ̶ (the light from the fire torches on the wall aren't helping much, either) ̶ but she thinks she might be in the dungeons. (What's in the dungeons?)
Aside from the muffled footsteps that she thinks might be her own, it's quiet. Calming, almost, like silence has been missing for some time. (What day is it? What's happened?)
Then, of course, it's ruined when a hand ̶ (presumably) ̶ grabs her wrist and yanks her into an alcove. Alarmed, Hem feels her body attempt to react in self-defence, but the act is rendered moot when her hands are clasped by another pair and pinned to the wall she's been pushed up against. (What is it, now?)
"Did I startle you, Hem?" a voice ̶ (feminine, sophisticated; her mind is stuttering to find the familiarity) ̶ whispers ̶ (purrs, even) ̶ into her ear. Something soft touches the shell of her ear while she's trying to find her balance. (Has she ever had it?) "My apologies," they say, although it only sounds minimally genuine.
It tickles something in her head. Hem knows this person, she supposes, blinking away the fog to see baby-blue eyes and freckles. (Ron? No. Who's Ron?) Red hair, too. It glows in this lighting.
They shift, pressing their forehead against hers as the hands clutching hers loosen, gently bringing them back to her side seeing as she's no longer posing a threat. (Well, she assumes that's the case.) Hem can vaguely feel fingers intertwining with hers while two ̶ (their thumbs?) ̶ caress two of hers. (Her thumbs?)
She flinches when her vision is obscured and something soft ̶ (lips?) ̶ touches her again, this time on her mouth. Apparently, her involuntary reaction annoys them, for they press into her and kiss her ̶ (what's the difference between a kiss and a snog again?) ̶ with more force.
Hem doesn't know what's happening or why ̶ (would it make sense even if she knew?) ̶ but there's fatigue in her bones that feels like lead, and she doesn't think her body would listen to her at the moment. (Does it ever? She can't remember.)
The person eventually lets her breathe, prompting her to realise that she might be on the verge of fainting. (This feels familiar.) Something about situation is eating at her mind and scratching the inside of her skull. (Has it happened before?)
"Hem," they breathe, their grip on her hands tightening as they give her another chaste kiss. A burst of information pushes to the surface of the mire, like a person trying to escape quick sand and failing.
(Tom. Ginny's body. Tom.)
Then the rest of the information is lost as it once again slips out of her grasp. But it's enough.
She can't say anything, though. Not even his name. Some part of Hem is worried, as though she's moving backwards when she was moving forward not long ago. (But that doesn't make sense. When has she ever moved forward in life?)
A sigh breaks her out of her thoughts. "You're tired," Tom says, sounding resigned. "I suppose that makes sense. Your day has been much more eventful with me around." He sounds smug. What she manages to glean off his ̶ (Ginny's) ̶ face from their close proximity ̶ (a smirk, a particular glint) ̶ he looks smug, too. "Don't worry. I just wanted to see you before you go see the younger, inferior version of myself in your dreams."
Hem manages to blink at him. Of course, she thinks. Of course, he'd be snobbish over his own person if they're not part of the current him. (And even though she's drowning, a touch of fondness lights up.)
Tom releases her hands, slowly dragging his fingers up her arms as if leisurely appreciating her form. But he still keeps their foreheads together, almost like it's another way of keeping her grounded. "I remember this night clearly," he begins, a tone akin to melancholy in his voice. "I was incensed." Anger. "How dare you let someone else touch you, I remember thinking." Ginny's voice makes him sound too cute. "How dare you let someone else mark you?" He shifts, sliding his forehead off hers as he angles to nip at her neck. "But you didn't," he continues, pleased, his breath against her ear, "because it was still me, in the end."
Then, he laughs. It's a little manic and a lot self-congratulatory.
("It was Ginny, technically," she wants to say, just to temporarily curb his ego. But she's too tired, so she'll have try again another time.)
"You made me rather distressed back then," Tom adds, leaning back to see her face. The slightly unhinged smile is present. "I hated feeling like that. I hated the fact that you were the one making me feel like that even more." A deep, calming ̶ (it's actually kind of angry) ̶ breath. "That version of me hasn't realised how bereft he'll be without you." His hands have reached her neck, his thumbs caressing her jawline while the rest are hooked around her neck. It might be tighter than what's safe. (She can't really feel it, anyway.)
He doesn't speak for a while ̶ (at least, Hem thinks so) ̶ apparently lost in his own thoughts as he stares with disturbed intensity. There are moments of clarity where he truly sees her and is overjoyed, but then it shifts as darker, more turbulent emotions ̶ (and memories?) ̶ take over.
Hem sees more than feels her eyelids beginning to droop. Evidently, Tom does, too, snapping out of his odd trance to refocus on her again.
"Well, for now," he says, breaking the silence and sounding as polished as ever despite the whole frenzied yet absent-minded staring just a moment before. "I suppose he'll just have to suffer the unfortunate aspects of being in a dream." A familiar, pleasant smile on a face that doesn't belong to him. "Poor Tom." He punctuates this by kissing her once more, just to gloat. Over himself.
Then again, it really isn't surprising that this Tom is so condescending to the Tom in her dreams. It seems to be a pattern, honestly.
. . .
. . .
Looping birds in the sky. They're both familiar and not, like she's looked at them a thousand times even though she feels like it's the first time. (Doesn't she always feel like that?) There's something off, though; it seems like it's supposed to calm her but all she can feel is numb.
There's the sound of something ̶ (a train?) ̶ in the distance, but it's muffled, like she's listening from under a body of water. Her vision swims, creating ripples as if to match what she's hearing. (That's new. It doesn't bode well.)
Another sound. Rhythmic, almost. (Footsteps?) Hem doesn't know how long until it stops and is replaced by something else. (A voice?) Her body won't move, even as the possible speaking becomes louder; harsher.
She feels like someone's tied her body and thrown her into a pond, forcing her to stare up at the sky while she quietly drowns without a fight.
Then a shadow appears, looming over her with an inexplicable fury. Hem blinks, her eyes adjusting to the change ̶ (the ripples become more pronounced before settling) ̶ so that she can make out a face.
Tom's face. It seems like it's been a while since she's seen it. (Or, more likely, her perception of time has been messed up again.)
" ̶ ou even listening to me, Hem?!" she hears ̶ (it's muted) ̶ as he snatches her face and pulls her towards him, as though he's trying to rip her head from her neck by sheer force. His eyes are the darkest she's ever seen them ̶ (and yet, somehow, they're bright and chaotic like hellfire) ̶ his gaze burning into hers as outrage contorts his features.
(There are too many emotions, actually. Always too many. Maybe he could give her some.)
"Who did this to you?" he demands, one hand latching onto her hair and pulling her head back. The other clutches onto her exposed neck, nails digging in as if he's ready to claw at her flesh. (But who did what to her?) Tom moves closer, practically on top of her ̶ (or literally?) ̶ as his gaze flickers to her lips. He doesn't like whatever's on them, for renewed anger bursts forth. His grip tightens. "Answer me!"
Hem doesn't answer. (She can't.) Tom doesn't like that. (She's never seen him so upset.) He never likes that. (She's too exhausted to feel anything, let alone sorry.)
"Damn it, Hem!" he hisses, pressing into her. It's an awkward angle. He's too tall, and he's being contradictory in his apparent attempt to both pull her off the bench and keep her pinned. "Why must you always do this?" Tom's voice cracks. He doesn't seem to notice. "Why must you always infuriate me like this? Why ̶ " Seemingly unsure of what he even wants to say or how to begin formulating it, he cuts himself off. Frantic and violent distress shapes his expression, then, his gaze searching hers for answers. (But he doesn't even seem to know what the questions are, either.)
He says nothing for a while ̶ (or maybe it's shorter than she thinks) ̶ lost in his head even while he maintains their uncomfortable positioning. Emotions dance across his face like a revel and Hem watches in silence. (She's tired, confused and maybe even a little resentful. What did she do?)
Abruptly, Tom snaps into focus. Hem blinks at the reckless ̶ (is that the right word?) ̶ blaze in his eyes. Softly, intimately, and packed with too much of everything, he whispers, "I loathe you."
And then he's smashing his mouth against hers with all the fervour of a dying man clawing his way out of death's hands. (Why does this keep happening?)
She's still drowning. The laws of the dream world aren't helping in grounding her because she feels him touching her ̶ (grasping her) ̶ but it's meaningless, like butterfly wings gently caressing her skin. (Which is wrong, of course. Everything about his actions is bruising and clearly meant to draw blood.)
Hem can almost taste his building panic and desperation as he apparently searches for something on her body. (He never finds what he's looking for; she doesn't think that'll change any time soon.) "Hem, please," he begs against her lips, sounding very much unlike himself. (She wants to ask him what's wrong. Would he even be able to explain?) "Please."
Tom then breaks their impromptu snogging to unceremoniously move her ̶ (shove her, really) ̶ so that she's laying on her back and trying to see him hovering above her. (It's hard. The water rippling has turned into frosted snow.) He looks unhinged, his hair becoming dishevelled as he runs a hand through it. Their eyes are locked together as he positions himself between her legs, one hand braced by her head.
Oddly enough, in the moment of pause, he looks like he's on the verge of crying. As though whatever's he's trying to do with her is making him lose hope. (It's only then that something within her stirs. It hurts.)
"I loathe you," Tom repeats, more to himself, his eyes roaming over her body as his free hand does the same. The surreal sensation of her ethereal-feeling clothes being lifted by his hand, which feels only marginally different, makes her ears ring. "You have no idea, do you?" she hears him say. (When did she close her eyes?) He sounds exhausted and on the verge of breaking. "You truly have no idea how much torment you put me through."
The hand by her head lifts and she can't feel him right above her anymore. (He's still there, though, staring at her. At least, even here, she'll feel the burn of his gaze.) Her fingers twitch as she feels him touching her chest… Her stomach… Her thighs. He's alternating between being rough and gentle and it's odd that she can differentiate. (He wants to hurt her, she knows. He wants her to react. But she can't.)
"It always baffled me," he starts, his tone almost conversational if not for the desolation leaking through. "My peers, and their strange, carnal urges; their attraction and fantasies of one another. They would lose control of their senses, of their control, just to exchange bodily fluids. I didn't understand it, because I'd never looked at another person and imagined myself touching them in such a way."
As he says all this, Tom's still exploring her body, apparently both with his hands and his mouth. (She doesn't know why she thinks that aside from the soft, vaguely warm feeling that's somehow different from his hands.) "I found myself disgusted by the very notion, and even more so by the thought of someone else doing the same to me. I thought myself above such earthly desires, especially since I had no inclination to touch myself, either." Self-deprecation in his tone. "But, of course, you always manage to ruin my perceptions." Strangled, overwhelming fondness mixes in.
Hem opens her eyes. He's bent over her, one of his forearms braced somewhere above her. (The other hand is on her thigh. Maybe.) The back of her head begins to tingle when his breath ghosts her face.
"Of course, it had to be you." His eyes are both intent and lost. She wants to help him find himself again but she doesn't know how. "It just had to be the mentally ill girl in my dreams, whom I can neither touch nor exist with properly." His forehead touches hers. She manages to tilt her head in a subtle show of reciprocation. The corner of his mouth twitches. "You make me feel helpless and pathetic and utterly human when I want to feel anything but."
Her fingers find their way to his jaw. He exhales and his eyes flutter, his body subconsciously shuffling as if they're not already close enough with their weird placement.
She wants to apologise; to tell him that she wishes things were different; that she wants them to be in the same world ̶ (this Tom, not the Tom in Ginny's body or Morty) ̶ even though it would likely end in tragedy.
Her voice won't work, so Hem settles for lifting her head and brushing her lips against his.
It's not enough ̶ (it's never enough) ̶ but Tom takes it, anyway.
AWF
A/N: Tom is fucked. Hem is fucked. They're my fucked up babies and I've been wanting to write this chapter for months but I forced myself to read through and edit my previous chapters again since I needed to remember the little details. I hope you enjoyed it. Stay safe.
Reviews are love. Reviews are life. It's never ogre. Thank you for reading.