#I loved being a little ball of murder | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

bluelockmaniac · 3 months ago

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👑 .𝐓𝐇𝐎𝐑𝐍𝐒 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐂𝐑𝐎𝐖𝐍

ft. crown prince!itoshi sae x commoner!femreader x second prince!itoshi rin (only bc you are rin's fiancée)

🗡 synopsis. you were chosen to be the second prince’s fiancée for rin’s convenience, but fate had different plans when you fell for his older brother, the crown prince, instead. as you start hearing strange voices during your engagement ball, sae falls victim to alexis’ curse, which only your love can break. what happens when news spread of the crown prince's revival and rin finds out?

⛓ content warning. 13.3k (yikes)ノ royal au ノ classism ノ cheating themes & pdaノ⚠ rin is rude, offensive, & insulting ノ your parents & sis for plot are assholes ノ semi-arranged marriage (?) ノ reader is illiterate ノ narration heavy ノ reader gets called whore once ノ implied death & gorish description ノ implied stranglingノ animal murder ノ minimal implication of shorter readerノthe relationship with sae is highkey rushed now that i reread it.

notes. this took me two weeks+ to finish ahhh. i thank my past self for being obsessed with manhwas so muchh, and ty to rhymezone for saving my ass w/ the ancient poem. first time using capital letters when writing fanfics, only bc it's really long though, eeee.

In the Twilight of the Eclipsing Red Moon,

When Stars Align and Shadows Loom,

The Great’s Fate is Sealed in the Veil of Night,

By the Hand of One from Mystic Light.

But From the Dust of Forgotten Lands,

Shall Rise a Heart with Common Hands,

With Lips of Rose and Spirit Warm,

To Bring the Order, End the Storm.

A Crown of Old Shall Find its Grace,

In the Embrace of a Simple Face.

But Do not be Fooled, One Shall Not Bloom,

For This, Will Lead to One’s Gentle Doom.

“I beg your pardon, Your Majesty,” your father stammered, “M-My eldest daughter has fallen gravely ill, and I fear she physically cannot journey to the Grand Empire of Aquaria tomorrow!”

The king’s eyes flared open in shock as the words reached his ears. His grip on the plush armrest of his throne tightened, the baroque carvings digging into his palm.

“What?!” He yelled, dismissing the fan bearer with a sharp glare before rising from his throne and taking two steps forward. His shadow covered large over your father’s trembling figure.

“She chooses now, of all times, to be stricken with sickness? At a crucial time for our kingdom? Such insolence!” He descended three more steps and glared down at him. “Did you forget that His Imperial Highness has specifically requested a lady from your clan?”

“I—”

The king struck his scepter harshly against the floor, silencing the man. “All the other houses of your garbage clan bore only sons,” he spat, “She will go, and that is final!”

“Actually…” the commoner’s lips pointed upwards in a well-rehearsed smile as he placed a hand over his heart in false politeness. “I have another daughter. She’s eager— eager to fulfill her duty. She is twenty, two years younger than the prince, but still of age.”

King Orion arched an eyebrow and his mouth twisted into a sneer. “Very well,” he replied, waving his hand in disinterest as he returned to his throne. “Summon her.”

In truth, the king’s concern wasn’t with Aria, your older sister. He cared little for which daughter was offered up to Aquaria’s second prince. It was a political necessity, nothing more— a favour to His Imperial Highness, Prince Rin. Or more like a fulfillment of Rin’s rather odd request that came with a threat. As long as someone from your clan was presented, it mattered not to him whether it was your sister or some other sacrificial lamb for the slaughter.

At the call of your name, the guards creaked open the heavy doors, and you entered the throne chamber slowly. When you reached the foot of the throne, you lowered your body in a curtsey bow, your gaze fixed on the scarlet carpet that stretched beneath you.

“It is my greatest honour to stand before you, Your Majesty,” you said, though your indifferent tone made it clear to anyone listening that you longed for nothing more than to be anywhere but here.

But you knew the truth behind this charade. Aria wasn’t ill. She was the jewel of your parents’ eye, their pride and joy, shielded from the Empire’s gaze like a pirate’s precious treasure. You, on the other hand, were the forgotten one– the daughter they kept hidden, a mere shadow in their halls, easily discarded when it was convenient. To your father, you were a little more than a weight around his neck, an extra mouth to feed, a burden he was eager to rid himself of.

The king’s eyes scanned you up and down, his expression visibly souring as he took in the sight of your tattered ankle-high, brown dress and scuffed boots. Disgusting.

“Ugh,” he muttered under his breath, leaning on one elbow as he sneered at you. “She’ll do, I suppose. Pretty enough for their tastes.” He turned to his chancellor with a condescending wave. “Have the maids find something more… suitable for this one.”

The chancellor bowed deeply, “At once, Your Majesty.”

“Alright, you’ve packed everything, haven’t you?” your mother asked as she rubbed Aria’s shoulder comfortingly.

Your gaze drifted to the battered briefcase lying at your feet. You had stumbled upon it by accident, shoved into a forgotten corner of the dirty attic, coated in layers of dust and practically falling apart at the seams. With a sigh, you bent down to pick it up, nodding as it threatened to collapse.

“Yes,” you murmured, a bitter smile tugging at your lips, “There was hardly anything to pack, anyway.”

Your father scoffed, rolling his eyes as he wrapped an arm around Aria, who had begun to shed what you knew to be crocodile tears. The act was almost laughable. She suddenly broke free from their grasp and rushed over to you, flinging her arms around your waist with a dramatic sob.

“Y/N!” she cried, “Please take care of yourself– hic– I’m going to miss you so much!”

You hesitated for a moment before stiffly returning her hug. She was a liar, through and through, and you both knew it.

Before the act could continue, the distant sound of hooves clattering against cobblestone paths captured your attention. Gently, you pried yourself away from her clutches, turning toward the approaching sound.

Your breath hitched. The Empire’s Royal Carriage was quickly nearing, and it was no exaggeration to say that its massive size dwarfed everything coming its way. It was magnificent, its gleaming white exterior and elegant navy blue designs that were above the huge clattering wheels. Silken curtains furnished the windows, embroidered with golden threads that caught the eyes of your greedy family. But what truly stole your attention was the shining silver crown perched atop the carriage, with Aquaria’s Royal Crest.

“Listen–” your father’s obnoxious voice cut through your admiration. He leaned close, his voice coming out in a hiss, “You better behave yourself, got it? If you mess this up, it’s not just you– it’s all of us. Understand?”

You shrugged off his threat with a nonchalant nod, “I’ll do my best.”

The sounds of the porcelain horses neighing were suddenly right behind you. They looked so soft, so immaculate, that you had to resist the urge to reach out and glide your fingers through their carefully groomed manes. But you knew better. This was no place for such frivolities.

The royal coachman descended from his designated seat and approached you. His right hand gracefully flew to his heart and he bowed slightly, his eyes closing for a brief moment.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said, straightening himself elegantly as his brown eyes met yours. He took your worn briefcase from your hand and placed it gently in the carriage’s wide storage compartment in the back. Then, he slid aside the long curtains and extended his hand toward you.

This was it. The moment you stepped into that carriage, you would leave this wretched life behind forever. No more grime, no more being hidden away like some shameful secret. You would be free– or at least you clung to the hope of freedom.

Taking the coachman’s hand, you felt the fine material of your simple sage gown– one begrudgingly gifted by King Orion– brush against the spotless steps of the carriage. You could hardly believe you, of all people, had the privilege of entering something so grand, so expensive.

For one last time, you glanced back at your so-called family. They stood there, masks with feigned expressions of sorrow worn over their faces. But you weren’t fooled, and you certainly weren’t going to indulge them. Instead, a slow grin crept across your face and you mouthed a few words that served as a final act of defiance.

“Shitty lives for shitty people, I guess.”

“.... lady,”

“My….”

“My lady!”

“Hm…” You muttered drowsily, your eyelids slowly fluttering open to the sight of the coachman and several other servants peering in at you with concerned expressions. Startled, you shot upright, your hands grasping the seat beneath you. “Y-Yes!”

So far, you were off to a great start.

But now, as you finally stepped out of the carriage and beheld the regal palace before you, every bit of exhaustion from the long ride seemed to dissolve. The sight of it stole your breath and you tried to conjure up a word to describe it, but words escaped you. Beautiful, perhaps, though even that felt insufficient. Magnificent, maybe.

There were towering stone sculptures and a large marble fountain in the center, its water elegantly cascading down like it was raining crystals. The front lawn was meticulously trimmed and maintained till perfection. The walls of the palace shined, built from pale limestone that you recognized from years of working with fire and sedimentary rocks. And at the peak of the palace dome, a lone flag fluttered in the breeze, proudly displaying the Royal Crest of Aquaria.

Your home now.

Yet, no lines of maids awaited your arrival at the main entrance, as you’d always imagined from reading those fairytale books you’d find tucked away in your attic. And there was certainly no sign of your supposed fiancé— His Imperial Highness, Itoshi Rin, the Second Prince of the Empire.

But then again, it made sense. You were just a humble village girl, after all— hardly worth the attention of someone as important as him.

The sudden neighing of a horse behind you jolted you from your thoughts, and you spun around. There, your gaze locked with the prettiest set of eyes you had ever seen— legendary teal irises framed by lashes so thick they casted a shadow on his cheekbones.

If the palace was magnificent, then he was simply breathtaking.

Your heart stuttered in your chest as you instinctively took a step forward toward him, prepared to pinch fistfuls of your dress and bow down to him.

He must be your fiancé, you thought. How could he not be? Those eyes were a symbol of royalty. His dark, reddish hair swayed with every blow of the wind, and the way an exquisite sapphire brooch shone against his royal attire screamed authority.

What did they call this phenomenon? Love at first sight? But then—

“Welcome back, Your Imperial Highness the Crown Prince!” a unified set of voices suddenly echoed from behind you in greeting, and you whipped your head back to see every servant and the carriage driver on their knees, their heads bowed low, and their hands clutched to their chests.

Crown Prince? Your breath caught in your throat. The Crown Prince? In other words, the future Emperor of Aquaria?

His gaze left yours to briefly sweep over the kneeling palace workers, before he waved his hand dismissively. “Rise.” he ordered. His deep voice made you feel a sudden tightening in your throat, and you had the urge to obey though you weren’t even on your knees.

When his eyes returned to you, you flinched, every nerve of your body feeling on edge. You drew in a sufficient amount of fresh air and held onto bunches of your gown, bowing respectfully.

“G-Greetings, Your Imperial Highness,” you stuttered.

Sae guided his horse to a halt and swung his leg over the saddle, dismounting and landing on the grass smoothly. He gave the mare a gentle pat, and you suddenly felt conscious as he approached you in long strides.

He stopped just in front of you, eyes seemingly studying you. “You are?”

You swallowed nervously, daring to meet his aquamarine gaze. “Y/N,” you said softly, “The Second Imperial Prince’s fiancée.”

His eyes narrowed and he closed them fleetingly before opening them again. “I see… That foolish younger brother of mine.”

You remained silent, unsure of how to respond. Your sparkling eyes flickered to his mare standing patiently beside him for a moment too long. Her coat was as white as fresh snow, and it almost hurt your eyes the way the sunlight reflected off her.

He noticed. “Oh, her?” He nodded toward the horse, gesturing for you to come closer. “Go on. You can touch her if you wish.”

Your eyes widened in disbelief, trodding towards him in excitement. “May I, really?”

“Sure, whatever,” he muttered nonchalantly, though his gaze softened slightly. He was more focused on observing the horse’s reaction to you.

With careful hands, you reached out and gently raked your fingers through her silky mane. A delighted giggle escaped your lips as the fauna neighed softly and nudged your hand for more of your kind attention.

“She’s beautiful,” you whispered, and he hummed in interest. You paused for a moment, glancing at the prince curiously. “What’s her name?”

“Celestia,” he replied, pulling on the horse’s rein before folding his arms over his chest. He watched you interact with the animal. “She rarely warms up to anyone, but it seems as if she likes you.”

Your eyes lit up with surprise and you smiled, your fingers still tangled in the horse’s mane. “Celestia is a beautiful name… It suits her. She’s as white as the moon.”

For a brief moment, the prince turned his head to the side, as if he was hiding something from your view. He wouldn’t admit it, but he’d trust anyone his beautiful horse liked. His fingers slipped through his tousled red hair, and though his voice slightly carried a tone of arrogance, it was also laced with something else. “Tch. Thanks. I named her myself.”

You laughed lightly, “How old is she?”

“Turning nine soon,” he answered, giving her a pat. “She’s the mother of a black stallion.”

Your eyes twinkled in awe, fists clenched in front of you as you beamed up at him. “She’s a mother?!”

Sae raised a brow, leaning back slightly. “You’re standing too close.”

“A-Ah, my apologies, Your Highness,” You stuttered, retreating several steps just in case. “I… I seem to have forgotten my place,”

“No, it’s quite alr—” He started, lifting a hand as if to stop you from backing away, but was interrupted by one of the pesky servants from Rin’s wing of the palace. “...”

“I-I apologize for interrupting y-your conversation, Your Imperial Highness,” She panted, bowing low, “But The Second Prince has requested his fiancée’s presence for a private audience.”

Sae clicked his tongue in annoyance, his gaze lingering on you for a moment longer before he mounted Celestia. “I guess it cannot be helped. Fine, whatever.”

Your heart sank slightly, a wave of disappointment looming over your ethereal features. Your pretty eyes downcast and fists clenched lightly by your sides. You had hoped to stay just a little longer, either with the man you had mistaken for your fiancé or perhaps with the beautiful horse. You weren’t sure which had captured your fascination more.

You thought that, perhaps, if Rin was not unlike his brother, then marrying him probably wouldn’t be so bad.

Still, with a deep breath, you held onto your skirt and followed the maid. But just before you left, you glanced back over your shoulder at the First Prince with a smile so pretty it could coax the sun out of the sky and make even the stars envious.

“See you around, Your Highness!” You called out, waving your arm before turning around to trail after the servant woman.

Sae stood frozen for a heartbeat, his thoughts clouded by the ghost of that smile. Something stirred in his chest, something unfamiliar and probably unwelcome. He huffed quietly, silking his hand through his hair before muttering under his breath.

“Yeah… see you.”

Your heart raced as you stood before the polished double doors of Rin’s chamber. You swallowed hard in an attempt to calm your nerves. Your breaths came in shallow, like there was some sort of invisible weight pressed against your chest.

Your hand hesitantly hovered mere inches from the door. You hadn’t even met the man and yet the tension was thicker than when you had personally greeted the crown prince.

The maid beside you fidgeted, clearly just as anxious. She stammered softly, “My lady… j-just knock and wait for his word. I-I’ll take my leave now.”

You nodded, watching her scurry away so quickly as if she couldn’t wait to be out of the prince’s domain. You blinked in thought— if the servants in this wing were this jumpy around him, it didn’t bode well.

You took a deep breath, trying to steady your trembling fingers. After whispering a few reassurances to yourself, you finally raised your knuckles and knocked gently on the door.

No answer.

A few more seconds passed before you tried again, but this time you heard a deep, irritated voice call out.

“Enter.”

You gulped and planted your hands on the heavy door, pushing it open. The moment you stepped in, you held in your breath. The interior was extravagant beyond words– a room fit for royalty, as expected.

Your enlarged eyes scanned the deluxe chamber, mouth unintentionally falling agape at all it held. But the awe immediately vanished as your gaze landed on Rin. The prince stood by a grand archtop window with his back to you, gazing down at the Aquaria Royal Gardens— which, to compare in size, were bigger than your whole village fit together.

He turned at the sound of your entrance, his sharp eyes immediately narrowing with a look of disdain. His voice was flat, yet annoyed. “Quit ogling and close the door behind you.”

It was an order, and you felt your body immediately move on its own. Your hands fumbled as you quickly shut the door, unable to keep the heat of embarrassment from rising to your cheeks. You lowered your gaze, focusing on the rosa aurora marble floor beneath you.

Rin’s eyes raked over you, his foot tapping on the floor impatiently. His eyes were just as icy as his brother’s, but where Sae had a certain aloofness, Rin’s coldness felt like a blade to the throat. He eventually crossed his arms over his chest and looked at you condescendingly, “No proper greeting?”

Your mind scrambled. “Ah..!” Your fingers gripped onto the fabric of your dress tightly as you bowed stiffly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Y-Your Imperial Highness,”

He let out an exasperated sigh, rubbing a hand over his face as if the very sight of you was an inconvenience. “Horrible posture,” he muttered. “Your etiquette needs a lot of work.”

Your heart sank further, and humiliation washed over your whole face. You straightened up and pursed your lips together tightly, the words sticking to your throat like superglue, afraid that whatever you’d say next would only make matters worse.

He remained quiet and turned around, walking to the large seating area in the corner of his chamber. You hesitantly followed after him, taking a seat right beside him on the burgundy plush.

He eyed you sideways, clearly displeased. “...Really?”

“Um…” You shuffled your feet awkwardly, the fabric swishing against your ankles. “Sitting in front of you would be presumptuous of me… How dare I make eye contact with someone as great as you, given my position?”

He rolled his eyes at your words. “How audacious.”

“Oh— Your Highness, you’ve got an eyelash on your cheek,” You started, instinctively reaching out to brush it away. But before your fingers could make contact, his hand snapped out, roughly swatting yours away.

“Don’t fucking touch me, commoner scum.” He hissed.

You immediately withdrew, rubbing your stinging hand gently. You bit your bottom lip to keep quiet. “I apol—”

“Go sit in front.”

You obeyed without question, your body moving on autopilot as you rose from the sofa, taking a seat across from him. If you hadn’t the guts to defy your parents, what made you think you could defy a prince? You didn’t even have the strength to be angry; you were too preoccupied with trying to hold yourself together under his oppressive gaze.

What followed was more of an interrogation than a conversation.

“Can you read?”

“No.”

“Write?”

“No.”

“Table manners?”

“I eat with my hands.”

“... Can you do anything at all?”

Your fingers twisted nervously in your lap as you swallowed thickly, embarrassment creeping up your neck. “I can make really good vegetable soup...”

“...”

The silence stretched out, and you could feel your self-worth slowly becoming nonexistent. After a moment, he stood with a sigh, making you flinch.

You averted your gaze to the window and you tapped your foot anxiously against the floor. You realized you were swallowing thick lumps of nothing more than usual. All his questions were glazed with layers of dripping haughtiness and it hurt when you realized how useless and worthless you were as you answered each one.

“No, this is good,” He assured, almost to himself, as he began unbuttoning his white shirt. You looked up at him, confused.

“Good?” You repeated softly.

Rin approached you with his shirt halfway undone. He stopped just in front of you, leaning down with an expression so intimidating it sent shivers sprinting down your spine. “Do you know why I chose someone as lowly and pathetic as you, peasant?”

You rubbed your clammy palms together and paused. “I think I might have an idea,” You whispered.

“Oh? Continue.”

“You want to win the public’s favour, perhaps?” you guessed carefully, “because it shows a connection to those of lower status…”

He raised a brow, “Hm. You’re smarter than you look.” He admitted.

But his next words made your blood run cold. His hands found your shoulders, his fingers gripping onto them with not much force as he leaned closer. Your gaze ashamedly darted down to his peeking sculpted chest before flicking up to his eyes.

“After I’ve become emperor instead of that shitty brother,” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, “you will bear my child. Then, I’ll find a way to get rid of you.”

Your whole body was trembling as soon as his hands left your shoulders. You could feel your teeth clattering slightly as you stared at the floor, unable to speak. You tilted your head up and watched as he slowly slid off an oval-cut sapphire ring, rimmed with shimmering stones of diamond, from his finger.

“Give me your hand,” He ordered impatiently.

You nodded immediately, extending your hand in front of him with starry eyes. Without a word, he slipped the opulent band onto your ring finger, careful not to make contact with your skin. You pulled away and admired the accessory— you’d be set for a thousand lives if you sold this heavy thing.

“Thank you…” You smiled softly.

“This ring is a royal heirloom, along with one other,” He warned, pointing to the Crest engraved in the gemstone. “Do. Not. Lose. It.”

Your heart pounded in your chest as you stared at the ring, nodding quickly, “Yes… I won’t.”

“Good. Now go. The maids will show you to your chambers. Be ready for your etiquette lessons tomorrow.”

You rose from the sofa shakily, bowing once more. The difference between this man and the one you’d met earlier was staggering, and you already had a not so vague idea on who you preferred.

“Then I shall see you tomorrow. Goodnight, Your Imperial Highness.”

Your eyelids felt heavy as you tried to open them. You blinked once, twice, three times– your vision blurred with remnants of sleep before gradually sharpening into clarity. But what you saw around you was anything but familiar.

Gone were the days of waking up to dusty cobwebs and the cracks and crevices of a wrecked ceiling that you had grown used to. Instead, your eyes met a vast, polished quartz ceiling, glistening in the morning light. Above you was a fancy chandelier, its long golden-framed vines dripping with crystals, and glass trickled down from the hooks.

You shifted beneath your plush cover and froze for a second, because this soft sensation was just as unfamiliar. No more prickly stacks of straw or thin, rough blankets. No, today, you had woken up in luxury.

As you sat up, memories of yesterday flooded your mind. Oh, right. You were absolutely shocked when you were first led to your room. You could say you were floored by its elegance– far larger and more lavish than any room you had imagined you’d get. Though it still paled in comparison to Rin’s personal quarters, it was hard to grasp that this space was your room.

You remembered indulging yourself in a little tour last night, exploring it in awe. There was a massive walk-in closet, filled to the brim with fine dresses and gowns of rich silks and satins. Accessories like cocktail hats, jewel-studded heels, and purses of gorgeous colours, all of which you couldn’t wait to try, filled the shelves.

The grandest thing you had ever owned prior to this was a ring made of a flower’s stem.

But as you rubbed the sleep from your eyes, you felt a shiver run up your spine. Your heart jumped as you realized someone was in the room, and you let out a small squeak, instinctively clutching the covers.

“So you’ve finally woken up, my lady,” came a gentle, slightly amused voice.

You blinked rapidly, your gaze locking onto a pair of soft amethyst eyes. The young woman standing beside you had ginger hair that fell to her shoulders in soft curls, her pale cheeks peppered with specks of pretty freckles.

“W-Who are you…?” You asked carefully.

The woman set a pair of fluffy cotton slippers on the floor beside your bed, then gave you a small curtsy. “Eleanor, my lady. I am your lady-in-waiting.”

You slid your feet into the slippers, still feeling a little dazed. Eleanor busied herself with smoothing the bed linens as though it were the most natural thing in the world. “Meaning..?” you echoed, sitting up straighter.

She chuckled lightly. “Meaning I’ll attend to your personal needs and assist you with your duties to make sure you are well taken care of.” She gave you a smile, “You’re new to all this, aren’t you?”

You looked down at the marble bashfully, nodding your head, and admitted softly, “Yes…”

“Haha, that’s quite alright. But let’s not waste anymore time! We have to get you ready for today!”

“... Huh?”

You were absolutely pampered.

The question constantly lingered— what had you done to deserve this? Probably nothing but you were thankful that you went in the stead of your older sister.

Just a short while ago, you had been treated to the greatest bath of your life, courtesy of Eleanor. She had insisted it was part of her duty as your lady-in-waiting, but it seriously felt like a ritual reserved for queens. She skillfully massaged your muscles and rubbed your scalp with rosewater serenade. And when her hands worked authentic vanilla lather across your skin, you smelled like a warm, freshly baked biscuit. An upgrade from your baths in the river.

Currently, you were seated on a leathered stool as Eleanor combed through your hair with care. The reflection in the mirror in front could leave you gushing over yourself for hours. Your gown was a waterfall of midnight blue silk with intricate silver embroidery. Your waist was still uncomfortable from the pressure of the tight corset, but the result was definitely worth it.

A delicate web of pearls hung from around your neck, cool against your collarbone. You absentmindedly toyed with the silver tassel earrings as Eleanor finished adding the final sprinkle of silver glitter to your styled hair.

“You look absolutely breathtaking, my lady!” She exclaimed as she clapped her hands together to dust off the excess shimmer.

You smiled admiringly, turning your head left and right. “Thank you, Eleanor. I never thought I could look like this...”

You stood from the stool, walking towards the door before her voice stopped you in your tracks.

“Wait, my lady!”

You turned, watching as she carefully presented a delicate box etched with faint leaf patterns. Nestled inside were a pristine pair of white fine lace gloves that were long enough to elegantly reach the elbows.

“His Imperial Highness the Second Prince has ordered that you must wear these whenever you are with him,” She said quietly.

“Ah. Thanks.”

You understood. It was slightly disappointing that your fiancé would go to such lengths to avoid touching you. Was the prospect of touching you truly that distasteful to him? But you shrugged off the thought and removed your heirloom ring before sliding the gloves on. You put back the ring on top. It wasn’t everyday you got to wear something this refined. Perhaps it would be everyday from now on…

But then, the memory of Rin’s chilling words echoed through your mind. “Then, I’ll find a way to get rid of you.”

Your heart clenched and you shook your head. As long as you did as commanded, you were sure you’d be fine.

“Let’s go, Eleanor.”

Your body tensed under the penetrating gazes of the countless servants. Their stares followed you as you walked down the Main Hall of the right wing, heading towards the heart of the palace.

They weren’t even trying to hide their gossip. Why would they? Servants here were no ordinary peasants, they were people of the lowest class of nobility. Sons and daughters of Earls, Counts, Barons.

“His Highness must be smitten,” one maid said, “Just look at her dress!”

“Isn’t she from the slums?”

“And she wears the Royal Heirloom on her finger!”

“So, the rumours were true, then?”

“I heard she thought she'd be marrying the Crown Prince.”

“Pftt, That’s embarrassing.”

The hushed whispers suddenly quieted down to zero, and you assumed it was probably Eleanor’s doing because you could literally feel her piercing gaze though she was trailing respectfully behind you.

“It’s alright, Eleanor, leave them al—”

The words died in your throat the moment you caught sight of him– the man you first encountered when you arrived at the palace. He was exiting the Council Hall, deep in conversation with what looked like an advisor or high-ranking official. Your heart skipped a beat as you instinctively lifted the hem of your dress and rushed towards him.

“Your Highness!” you called out, your voice chirpier than you had intended.

He turned at the sound of your familiar voice, his eyes widening just slightly in surprise. For a fleeting moment, it seemed you had embodied the grace of a princess… had your heel not caught beneath you. You stumbled, eyes squeezing shut as you braced yourself for the fall. But instead of tasting the cold, hard floor, a pair of strong hands caught you, steadying you by your waist.

“Careful,” he warned softly, his hands lingering for just a moment before falling back to his sides. “You’re not used to heels.”

You laughed awkwardly, but you could not hide the disappointment that washed over your expression as his hands left you. “No, it’s my first time.”

He paused. His eyes stayed on you for a moment longer than they should, taking in the way your dress perfectly complimented your figure. But he realized this, and his gaze quickly shifted to the golden deer emblem mounted on the wall.

“You… look different,” He continued, rubbing the back of his neck.

The hall suddenly felt hot, or maybe it was just the heat radiating from your face. You dipped your head, fiddling with your clad fingers. “Oh, do I…?” you sputtered softly, but you silently cursed yourself for replying in such an awkward manner. Of course you looked different!

“Ahem,” Eleanor chimed in, coughing into her fist dramatically. “Not to interrupt, but I hear some alarming footsteps…”

“If you slack off one more fucking time, I’ll display your decapitated head on a pike to serve as an example for your pathetic kind!” a voice yelled from behind.

Rin stepped out the Council Hall, his face an angry scowl as he finished lashing at the minister who scurried away like a frightened animal. His eyes then flickered towards you and his older brother, and his expression soured further.

He turned to look at your lady-in-waiting, speaking sternly. “I thought I told you to bring her to my study,”

“We were on our way, Your Imperial Highness,” Eleanor responded politely, bowing her head.

“Incompetent.”

Rin’s attention shifted to you, noticing the lacey white covering up to your elbows. Without warning, he inched forward and closed the distance between you, his hand snaking around your waist. You tensed as his not unwelcome grip pulled you closer, your palm instinctively flying up to settle on his chest. You looked up at him gently, hesitantly, but his eyes weren’t on you– they were locked on his older brother.

He eyed his brother suspiciously, “What are you still doing here?” He asked. “Shouldn’t you be preparing for your trip to Berlina?”

“Berlina…?” You repeated in confusion.

“The Kingdom of Sorcery and Magic,” Eleanor quickly whispered into your ear, leaning in with her palm covering her mouth.

Sae’s expression remained indifferent, clearly unbothered. “Shouldn’t you be focusing on more important matters right now?” He let his eyes wander lazily towards your hand on Rin’s chest before he smirked. “Like… sharpening your embarrassingly inadequate swordsmanship skills?”

Rin’s face contorted in anger and his neck flushed a deep red. His grip on your shoulder tightened just enough to make you wince. “You bastard… You’ll regret this.” He seethed through clenched teeth.

The Second Prince glanced back at Eleanor in disgust, “You’re dismissed.”

He looked back at you, noticing your extravagant dress, before furrowing his brows. “The dress you’re wearing is too fancy for a day with no important occasion.”

You glanced down at your blue gown and shrugged. “Eleanor chose it for me,”

“Who?”

“—I personally think it suits her just right.” Sae broke in suddenly, wearing a smirk on his face as though he found pleasure in annoying his younger brother.

Rin narrowed his eyes at him. “Who asked for your opinion? And what were you two talking about, anyway?”

The Crown Prince hummed, leaning against the wall behind him. “Let’s see. Well, I told her she looked different, and helped her up when she tripped on her heels.”

“Tch.”

“But be careful,” Sae’s lips twitched into a small grin, his gaze drifting to meet your eyes. “keep your eyes on this beauty else I might steal her from you. Isn’t that right, my lady?”

Thump. Thump. Thump.

“Your Highness, even if you joke around like that, I don’t think my heart can take it–” you whispered, and Sae chuckled lightly, though Rin quickly pulled you behind him.

“That’s enough, stay away from her.” He glared, barely affecting Sae. “Your little jokes aren’t funny.”

“Who said I was joking?” The eldest quipped nonchalantly, and Rin just rolled his eyes.

“Let’s go.” He exasperated, holding onto your wrist and dragging you alongside him.

As his hand guided you away, you looked over your shoulder, searching for a familiar pair of tourmaline eyes. Ones identical to those of your fiancé’s. But instead, all you saw was a broad back and auburn hair shifting as he walked away in the opposite direction.

Rin slammed his fist against the hardwood of his desk. That interaction seemed to have spilled gasoline to the blue flames in his eyes, which were already burning with rage. “That bastard thinks he can keep playing games with me!”

You remained still, hands folded patiently over your abdomen. The last thing you wanted to do was provoke him further.

After a tense silence, Rin let out a sigh and collapsed into the plush seat behind his desk. “It’s alright,” he began, his voice softening just slightly. His gaze locked onto you in a way that made blood rush quicker through your veins. “You’re my ticket to becoming the emperor—” He leaned forward. “I need you.”

Your breath hitched in your throat at those words, but you knew not to expect much. Still, you mustered a sweet smile. “I’ll do my best, Your Highness. You were mentioning today’s schedule…?”

He leaned back, propping his arm on the armrest. “Right. My father is holding our engagement ball next week. Every noble house will be there to congratulate us. In the week leading up to it, you will perfect your manners and court etiquette. Understood?”

You gulped hard as a huge bag of responsibility was suddenly thrown onto your back. A week? To not work on, but perfect everything?

“...Understood.”

—

“... After you master public speaking skills,” Rin went on, “you’ll focus on formal dining etiquette. I don’t want you embarrassing me by eating with your hands. Then, you’ll have dancing lessons and study Royal Dress standards. You also need to be familiar with Aquaria’s history, diplomacy, and customs– especially royal protocols and responsibilities, and….”

His voice continued on, listing task after task. Your head was spinning, and you thought you were going to faint and collapse to the ground. This wasn’t the fairytale you’d imagined. You signed up for the fun part of being a princess— the ballgowns and the makeup, and maybe kissing the prince. This was a chore, the kind that made growing carrots and potatoes seem like heaven in comparison.

“By the end of this week, I expect you to be flawless. I’ve brought in the best tutors for reading, writing, and everything else– all that easy stuff. Do not disappoint me.”

You nodded automatically, but not before adding an innocent thought that had slipped into your mind, in a slightly sarcastic manner. “Have you perfected your swordplay, though?”

Now the temperature in the room seemed to drop down to zero as he bore his narrowed eyes at you. You felt a cold shiver run up all your bones, and your knees weakened. “You think you’re funny don’t you? Do you really want to play this game with me?”

Your bravado crumbled. “N-No…”

“Then get some rest,” he ordered. “Your training starts this afternoon.”

You nodded and quietly turned to leave the study.

Six long days had passed by since your lessons began. Six mentally and physically exhausting days.

Your dance instructor was a strict middle aged lady with sharp eyes and an even sharper tongue, who worked you till your feet were bruised. She made you balance books and vases on top of your head as you marched back and forth, her shrill voice cutting you off whenever your posture was horrible, or when you mixed up the steps for a dance made for another song. Although you loathed her guts, you couldn’t deny the significant improvement of your poise.

The dinner etiquette lessons, however, offered a time-out from that hag. Yes, you learned the basics of formal dining– how to keep your elbows off the table, chew with your mouth closed, use the silver utensils correctly, and pat your lips clean with the patterned napkins. But, the best part, or reward, was tasting the delicacies they served. Truffles, lobster coated with butter, and tender lamb chops. And then there were the fancy desserts– macarons pumped with ganache filling, puff pastry, tartelette au citron, éclair au chocolat, and more.

All of which you had never dreamt of tasting in your life, you who had never tasted anything more luxurious than a loaf of bread.

You also learned how to read and write, not for the reasons you preferred, but good nonetheless. You had found a particular fondness for the history lessons, which were not tedious at all. You were focused at all times much to your mentor’s surprise. Learning about the Royal family’s reign— how they had ruled over neighboring lands for centuries, managing resources, trade, and finance— fascinated you.

But your ears always managed to tune in and pick up the subtle gossip rotating among the maids and servants in the halls and libraries, so you had learned a few things.

The two princes were locked in a one-sided rivalry. One was fighting crystal and pickaxe for the crown, while the true heir showed little interest in the throne he was destined to inherit.

Sae, the eldest, wasn’t just entitled to the crown by birthright. He excelled at everything– swordplay, defense, archery, and horseback riding for royal ceremonies or simple trips to cities. His skills were polished to literal perfection. Rin, on the other hand, was skilled, but not extraordinary. He always lived in the shadow of his brother.

Yet Rin’s desire to become emperor wasn’t merely a wish— it was a burning, desperate need, an ambition to prove himself worthy. To finally win against Sae.

Killing his brother, of course, was out of the question— such an act would be treason. Besides, Rin didn’t just want him gone; he wanted Sae to see the moment when he ascended the throne, to admit defeat, to acknowledge that Rin had bested him.

Rin believed that the key to winning favour with their father—the current emperor—and the people was to flaunt his achievements, which, to remention, were not as good as Sae’s. But his sharp tongue and cold demeanor made it difficult for him to win many hearts. Sae learned to place a mask behind his foul words, whereas Rin still struggled to.

And that’s where you came into the picture.

You weren’t just his fiancée; you were part of his strategy. He’ll show you off before the court and the public, showcasing to the world how he transformed a mere commoner, a peasant, into someone of worth.

You came from a disgusting, needy village, yet now you stood in royal fits. To Rin, you were a symbol showing his ability to elevate those beneath him. A tool to gain the favour of the people. You could read and write now, you were beautiful, and in the eyes of the kingdom, you had the potential to become the empress one day— if, of course, Rin managed to seize the crown from his brother.

—

It was late at night, and the moon’s natural light filtered through your curtains. You moved to your huge window and brushed aside the rosegold-embroidered fabric as you peered down at the Royal Gardens. The view was similar to that of Rin’s, since your chambers were three spare rooms away from each other.

You were exhausted, but you always had time to admire the water spilling down elegantly from the angel sculptures’ stone lips, or the beautiful shrubs clipped into topiaries.

But all the exhaustion you felt moments ago suddenly vanished when your eyes caught sight of someone unexpected.

It was the Crown Prince. You had seen Sae around the palace during these tiring six days, and you’ve engaged in many small talks with him without Rin’s knowledge. Conversations flew naturally with him, he asked you about your life before the engagement, and though you were initially hesitant, you found yourself speaking openly with him. There was a strange ease to Sae that, oddly enough, only you seemed to feel.

You stared at him a bit too long, your gaze almost boring a hole into him, and he sensed it.

Pivoting on his heel, he made direct eye contact with you from below. A soft gasp escaped your lips, and you hurriedly pulled the curtain closed. But he could still see your silhouette, and when you peeked your head out slightly from the curtain, you could’ve sworn you’d seen him chuckle.

With a quick gesture of his hand, he beckoned you down to the gardens. Your pretty eyes widened, but you found yourself nodding eagerly with no hesitation. How could you refuse?

—

Panting softly between giggles, you rested your hands on your knees.

“I can’t believe you ran to meet me in your… nightgown,” Sae remarked, his lips curving into a subtle smirk.

You straightened and boldly stepped closer until you were only centimeters away from him. Your eyes twinkled in the moonlight, and you shone a smile brighter than la lune.

Sae’s breath caught in his throat as your face came full view and he felt his body still. You were Rin’s fiancée– he shouldn't be looking at you like this. But the glow of moonlight was making it hard…

“... You’re beautiful,” the words slipped out naturally.

Heat flooded the sweet curves of your cheeks at the way he said it so casually, so suddenly. Your gaze dropped to the freshly cut grass, your fingers nervously tucking a loose strand of your hair behind your ear.

“Thank you,” you muttered quietly, your voice barely above a hush.

Silence followed. But comfortable, nonetheless. Then, you noticed his hand, palm up and waiting in front of you. You blinked up at him in confusion.

“I am aware that I am in no position to do this, but…” He paused, “May I have this dance?”

Your eyebrows shot up comically in surprise, glistening doe eyes widening for the hundredth time tonight. Your heart was thumping so fast you thought it might burst from your chest, and you feared he might hear it.

It was risky, you knew that. If Rin were awake, he might have been watching from his window– his chambers were so close to yours. You knew how much he enjoyed looking from his window from the time you’ve spent together in the past week. But, he had dismissed you earlier to rest and this moment alone with Sae was tempting.

Hesitantly, your hand hovered over his before relaxing and letting it fall in his grasp. You met his gaze, and you shyly whispered,

“I know we’re not supposed to be doing this… but I want to.” Your fingers intertwined with his, and you smiled softly. “May I have this honour, Your Imperial Highness the Crown Prince?”

Sae glanced down at your hand weaved between his fingers. His brows furrowed in a frown, and a wave of panic washed over you. You literally felt your heart leap out of your chest. Had you overstepped your boundaries?

“I was only kidd—”

But instead of pulling away, he gently hooked his finger under the wristband of your glove, sliding it off your hand. You felt warmth bloom across your cheeks as he slowly removed the other glove too, making sure to leave his touch lingering on your bare skin.

“You don’t need to wear these ridiculous gloves to bed,” he said, “It’s unnecessary.”

Your cœur fluttered. “I… I just forgot,” you mumbled, embarrassed.

He rolled his eyes, but his lips quirked into a smile as he clasped your now bare hand, while the other found its place on your waist. The fabric of your silk nightgown was thin, and his touch felt intimate, direct, and you could feel his fingertips pressing lightly against your skin.

He led you in a slow dance gracefully under the protective gaze of the serene moon, delicately spinning you before your arms naturally draped around his neck. His hand slid to the small of your back, pulling you closer. He looked so good, he smelled so good, his touch so gentle. You wanted him.

“Do you like these gardens?” He asked suddenly, giving you another twirl.

You nodded, lacing your fingers in his. “I do. It’s quiet. The palace can be… overwhelming.”

Sae raised a brow, “Overwhelming, huh? For someone like you, I suppose it would be.”

The words stung slightly, but there was no malice in his voice. You dared to meet the eyes you came to adore, “And you? Why are you here, Your Highness?”

He paused, then turned slightly. “I’m avoiding another council meeting. You’d be surprised how tedious it can be listening to old men argue for hours on end.”

You laughed softly, and for a brief moment, his eyes softened. He pointed toward a part of the garden in the distance. “Come with me,” he said simply.

You followed, trembling as the Crown Prince led you with his fingers gently wrapped around your wrist. When you came to a stop, your breath caught in awe. Before you were roses of every shade– deep crimson, soft peach, porcelain white, and candy pink.

“They’re gorgeous,” you gasped.

“Right.” Sae bent down and plucked a single red rose from the bush, turning to you with a small, rare smile. “The red ones are my favorite,” he murmured, carefully tucking the rose into your hair.

You smiled sheepishly, gently patting the rose he’d placed. “They remind me of strawberry ja—”

“They remind me of blood,” he interrupted with a casual voice.

You blinked, startled by his answer. “R-Right.”

He chuckled softly, rubbing the area around his neck. “I can see why Rin chose you.”

You looked at him for a few seconds before quickly shaking your head. “He didn’t choose me, he just wanted any girl from our clan. My older sister was supposed to go, but I went in her stead. Besides, I’m nothing special… just convenient.”

“Convenient?” His gaze darkened slightly before his hand came up to rest on your chin. “...Don’t sell yourself short. You’re more than that.”

Your head quickly tilted down and you began to fiddle with your fingers, then with the simple lace adorning your neck. “Your Highness– stop saying things that make my heart, I don’t know, hurt?”

“Oh?” He placed his hands gently on your cheeks and you looked up at him lovingly. “That isn’t good for Rin, is it?”

You shook your head, “No, it isn’t. But he doesn’t make me feel this way.” You boldly placed your palms on his shoulders and stood on your tippy toes, and as soon as he leaned down slightly in approval, you pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

He tapped his forehead against yours and smiled. His heart was beating a bit quicker, and he found it dangerous. “Well, I’m afraid I must leave now.” He drawled.

Your heart sank a little, your ethereal eyes flicking down. You nodded slowly, “Thank you for your time, Your Highness.”

He looked down at you, his expression softening. Slowly, he lifted your hand to his lips and pressed a chaste kiss to your skin. “It was a pleasure, my lady.”

If he couldn’t hear your heart thundering in your chest one thousand miles per hour moments ago, then he sure could now. As he disappeared, you placed your hand over your chest, rubbing over the spot where he’d kissed.

It seemed like Sae had yet again bested Rin in a game neither had realized they were playing.

Tonight was your engagement ball, the grand celebration that would officially announce your impending marriage to Rin.

You were both in his chamber, dressed fully in fancy outfits. He wore an elegant white attire adorned with the brooch of Aquaria and a navy blue sash draped across his chest. You wore a pitch black gown embroidered with gold, matching gloves, and heavy golden jewelry that Rin had exclusively bought for you.

The party had already begun downstairs, the grand ballroom filled with the most important guests from across the empire. But the grand entrance of the soon-to-be bride and groom had to wait for the Emperor’s speech, set to occur an hour after the festivities commenced.

“It’s a lunar eclipse,” you mused admiringly, leaning against the window. The moon, bloody red from the umbra, hung in the night sky ominously. “I’ve read about the phenomenon in the Royal Library. The stars look so close… they look like they could fall right into our hands.”

Rin rolled his eyes and walked closer to you, resting his hand on your further shoulder. He stared out the window in boredom. “How poetic,” he muttered sarcastically. “Even the moon is congratulating us tonight.”

You turned your gaze from the sky to him, your hand gently smoothing out a small wrinkle on his sash. “It’s time, isn’t it? We should head to the Ballroom.”

He grumbled in response, pushing your hand aside as if your touch was unnecessary.

The intricate grandfather clock suddenly chimed loudly. Midnight had arrived.

Tick.

“In the Twilight of the Eclipsing Red Moon…”

Tick.

“When Stars Align and Shadows Loom…”

Tick.

A strange voice seemed to rise from nowhere. You flinched visibly, a shiver creeping up your spine as the tiny hairs on the back of your neck stood up. You quickly found Rin’s hand and grasped it tightly.

“D-Did you hear that?” You shuddered, voice trembling.

He raised an eyebrow. “Hear what? You’re imagining things.”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “No… I swear, I heard something– like a voice. It was…”

He scoffed, shaking his head dismissively. “It’s just the clock ticking. Don’t start getting all nervous on me now.” His grip tightened around your hand, but you doubted it was for your comfort. “You’re going to be on your best performance for me, Got it?”

You hesitantly nodded, your gaze lingering on the moon for a few more seconds. The red, eerie glow still haunted your thoughts. You reluctantly turned away, looping your arm through Rin’s to exit the chamber and enter the grandeur.

“Yes…”

“And I want to thank you all once more for attending tonight’s ball,” The Emperor’s proclamation boomed from behind the closed doors. The attention of every soul present was on him. “I would now like to announce the formal entry of The Second Prince of Aquaria, and his fiancée, a soon-to-be princess, Y/N!”

The large doors, decorated with orchids and bloody red roses, parted dramatically to reveal you and Rin hand in hand. The Royal Guards on each side immediately stiffened and raised gloved hands to their head in salute.

The aristocrats hushed immediately and their eyes followed as you both stepped onto the red carpet, descending the grand staircase and heading towards the two thrones.

You halted just below the steps of the thrones, immediately lowering your head in a bow of respect alongside Rin.

“Greetings, Your Imperial Majesties,” you murmured, lifting your head as you learned to.

“... Thank you, Father, Mother,” Rin’s voice followed formally.

Your gaze shifted towards the Empress. You particularly loved her as her lovely crimson hair always seemed to remind you of Sae. Oh, speaking of the Crown Prince, where was he? You hadn’t caught a glimpse of him yet.

You turned your head, eyes subtly scanning the room in search of a distinct redhead. And in the corner of your eye, you found him leaning casually against a balcony pillar, arms folded over his chest and eyes closed.

Your gaze softened at the sight of him before refocusing on the mob of aristocratic ladies and noblemen that had rushed to circle your betrothed as soon as the Imperial Greetings were over. They approached and offered smiles under snobby and vexing expressions, backhanded compliments under the guise of praise.

“Such a refreshing choice, Your Imperial Highness!” A brunette lady gibed, fanning herself with an elegant fan as she slyly smirked, “You’ve truly outdone us all in… originality.”

A Lord chuckled beside her, his laugh insufferably pompous. “I must say, Your Highness, I certainly admire you embracing such humble roots! A prince of the people! Ho ho ho!”

“I’m glad we have such a reliable prince who values all his subjects equally!”

“It is odd that His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince hasn’t found a lady yet.” One brought up.

An Earl added, “That’s true. He’s supposed to step up to the throne sooner or later. He needs an heir once he becomes Emperor.”

You squeezed Rin’s hand discreetly as he bit his lip in frustration at the mention of his brother. He needed to restrain himself at least this one time.

“I appreciate your sentiments–” he began, but faltered for a split second. “No I fucking don—” You squeezed his hand again, giving him a gentle nudge, and he cleared his throat. “Your support is reassuring,” he finished with a strained smile.

As your fiancé continued chatting with the backhanded nobles, your attention kept drifting towards Sae, stealing quick glances every now and then. He had begun conversing with a group of higher officials and ministers, likely discussing Berlina, The Kingdom of Sorcery and Magic that he had frequented many times to strengthen the Empire’s growing alliances.

Loud enchanting music began to play from the orchestra and many already established couples began to dance in the center. Expensive and rare gifts began to pile at your feet, congratulatory offerings from various guests. Rin accepted them indifferently and reluctantly offered his thanks with as much enthusiasm as the stone sculptures that lined the ballroom.

“This jewel was found in the Ancient land of Topion and is thought to bring good fortune!”

“This exotic bird from Elakis produces gold everytime it sings!”

“This sword is forged by a legendary ghost smith whose body lives in the volcanic depths of Loo!”

You froze when Sae stepped forward as the next gifter, and it seemed like the entire room was also holding its breath. He approached, your widened eyes drifting down to the elegant box in his hand. He opened it, revealing an intricate necklace with shimmering, round pearls.

“An authentic pearl necklace crafted by the Merman Emperor of Eau.” Sae presented with his usual calm demeanor, making it hard to believe that he had spent days negotiating with the merman to create a necklace exclusively suitable for you.

Your mouth parted in surprise, and the words tumbled out. “Oh– thank you! It’s… beautiful.”

Rin rolled his eyes, gently fisting your hair and lifting it to expose your neck. “You didn’t have to do that,” He hissed through gritted teeth, looking at Sae with teal eyes that crinkled in hate.

Sae met his brother’s glare with a simple hum, fastening the beaded necklace around your neck. You bit your lip tightly as his touch lingered on your skin, looking down at the pearls that beautifully settled against your collarbone. “That would be disrespectful to you both, I’m afraid,” He said. “Even Our Father, the Emperor, has offered her pleasantries.”

Rin clicked his tongue and looked back at you, wrapping his arm possessively around your waist and pulling you closer to him. He pressed a quick kiss to your forehead, catching you by surprise. The Crown Prince narrowed his eyes at the gesture.

“Come on, darling,” Rin emphasized as he spat out the term of endearment, though he internally cringed and wanted the ballroom to rupture and swallow him whole. The pet name left a bitter taste at the tip of his tongue. “It’s time for our dance.”

You nodded, your lips parting to speak, but, “Of course, Your High—”

“The Great’s Fate is Sealed in the Veil of Night…”

That haunting voice again. Your ears were ringing. You quickly squeezed your eyes shut and froze in your tracks.

“...By the Hand of One from Mystic Light.”

“I-It’s the voice again!” You whimpered, hands flying to your ears in a desperate attempt to block out the sound. “I hear it!”

Rin scoffed loudly, glancing left and right at the guests who were exchanging confused looks. Sae, on the other hand, seemed out of it, with half-closed, bleary eyes.

“Quit it, you fool!” Rin cursed in annoyance, his patience snapping. He grabbed you by your shoulders and yanked you to his chest away from their judgemental gazes.

“Voice? I don’t hear anything,” a lady whispered.

“Neither do I,” someone else chimed in.

A voice snickered, “She said ‘again’.”

“His Imperial Highness must be marrying someone with auditory hallucinations.” The words stung as they left another noble’s mouth.

Then, in an instant, the ballroom plunged into darkness as the bright chandeliers went out. The ballroom was only illuminated by the glow of a large bolt of lightning, and a thunder rattled so violently it deafened you and shook the windows. When the bulbs flickered back on, a shrill lady’s voice pierced the silent room.

“T-The Crown Prince! He’s not moving!”

All eyes shot to Sae, who lay motionless and graceful on the floor, hand on top of hand. He looked calm, as though he was merely resting.

You gasped in fear, hands flying to your mouth as you tried to stay balanced on your feet. Rin’s eyes in particular were the widest. The atmosphere in the room immediately shifted to terror as everyone noticed the ink-blue vines creeping slowly up his neck, thorn designs wrapping themselves around his throat.

“T-That’s… Alexis’ Curse!” The Emperor panicked.

You had read about it. Alexis’ Curse—an ancient legend of a wizard scorned by love. His heart had been shattered by the daughter of a shoemaker, Michelle Kaiser, who had chosen her Earl lover over him. She always refused Alexis’ advances, and the gifts he’d always present.

Enraged, Alexis had cursed the Earl, condemning him to a fate of eternal sleep unless the one he loved kissed him to break the spell. The curse wasn't one of eternal youth, however—the body continued to age, to decay, until there was nothing left but ugly bones.

But because Alexis had disposed of his inked body in his tower, the Earl had died alone, Michelle never finding him.

The curse had become a myth, that Alexis’ wrath was aimed at those of high status, warning them of the dangers of meddling with those beneath them.

But the nobles’ faces were literally drained of colour because what had once been myth was now terrifyingly real, before their very eyes.

It had been a few weeks since the disaster during your engagement party.

They had sealed Sae’s lifeless body deep in a chamber within the Main Palace’s basement. You attempted sneaking in multiple times, but you failed– the entry was heavily guarded and there was too much risk. And besides, if slipping past your lady-in-waiting wasn’t hard enough, Rin had become increasingly possessive as the possibility of being promoted to Crown Prince rose. That is if he was elected as so in the Royal Committee Meeting.

He was proud enough that he’d permit small acts of closeness– letting you remove your gloves when in his presence, even sharing his chamber. So, you would never risk waking him up while trying to sneak into the basement.

You recalled the aftermath of the disastrous ball vividly:

—

“I never knew he was so pathetic,” Rin sneered that night, running a hand through his dark hair before resting it at your throat and squeezing lightly. “Falling in love with you? A commoner? He must be out of his mind.”

He chuckled as he released you, pulling you into his chest.

“The whole Empire is so stupid. They think he fell in love with someone else. But it’s better this way.”

—

Yet despite Rin’s actions, your thoughts remained with Sae. You’d spent the weeks caring for Celestia, his white mare, as well as tending to Rin’s black stallion which he had never bothered to give a name to. You learned from the stable workers that Celestia was the mother of the charcoal horse.

Tonight, however, a once in a red moon opportunity presented itself. Your fiancé was away on royal business in Yelund, negotiating financial matters with their government in place of the Crown Prince. You took this chance, knowing it was the only one, and decided to sneak out.

You left your chamber, clutching a cage with a rat you’d found in the servants residence. You made your way through the darkened corridors until you reached the entrance of the basement. You hid yourself behind a large stone pillar and took a deep breath, tossing a small block of cheese across the room as a distraction.

The guards were alarmed by the subtle noise and quickly whipped their heads and ran towards the sound. You bit your lip in concentration— everything was going according to your plan. You quickly released the rat from its cage, watching it scurry across the concrete, and silently slipped into the Royal basement. You sighed in relief as you heard a guard's voice.

“Oh, it’s just a rat. Guards, get back into position.”

—

You slid off your heels so that your bare feet barely made a sound as they grazed the stone steps of the staircase. The basement wasn’t very illuminated if not for the dim candles that hung on the wall, and the stench was not horrible as you thought it would be. Instead, it smelled like preserved jasmine.

You were at the last step when you put your hand on the concrete wall, trying to catch your breath.

At the bottom, in the center of the relatively smaller room, stood a rectangular crystal glass box. Inside it, Sae lay perfectly still. The sight of him made your gaze soften and your heart clench as if it was put in a meat slicer. His skin was pale, but it was bolded, in contrast, by the inky blue vines tracing thorn and rose patterns across his body.

His cheeks and ears were faintly flushed by a baby pink dust, and his lips looked so soft, so gentle, so inviting. Stray strands of his red hair lay on the cushion beneath him, his long lashes resting against his cheekbones.

You were aching as you approached the enclosure. Your fingers trembled as you pressed them to the glass, your breath slightly fogging the surface. Tears blurred your vision as they began to roll down your cheeks, and you leaned down to gently caress his cheek with your bare hand, feeling the coolness of his skin.

You sniffled and your palms went to rub your glossy eyes, before you straightened up and curled your fingers on the glass in a tight grip. He looked beautiful, you thought, with roses that matched his hair colour surrounding him all over.

“Your Imperial Highn— no, Sae—” you whispered, “I… I love you, too.”

You cupped his face with quivering hands, your thumbs rubbing sweet circles on his skin as you contorted your body awkwardly to reach him. The glass was positioned high, at your waist’s level, so you had to twist your body and bend to touch him intimately.

Sae remained unmoving, yet you had hoped that somewhere deep within his slumber, he could sense your touch, or the sincerity of your unsteady voice confessing your reciprocated love.

As you leaned in to kiss him, that same sharp voice that you always hear yet again cut through your ears, and you instinctively covered them with your hands for protection.

“But From the Dust of Forgotten Lands,”

Your heart thumped faster in your chest as you tried to shake it off.

“Shall Rise a Heart with Common Hands,”

Beads of cold sweat trickled down your temple— you could never get used to the voice, no matter how many times you’d heard it.

“With Lips of Rose and Spirit Warm,”

Your hands fisted at the cotton under Sae, inhaling deeply before bending down until your face was inches away from his.

“To Bring the Order, End the Storm.”

Your lips hesitantly hovered over his mouth before you fluttered your eyes shut and pressed them against his in a kiss. Your lips together were so soft, yet they weren’t moving against each other like a mutual kiss would. They locked seamlessly in a way that felt strangely natural, as if the pair were made for each other.

Your lips lingered against his for a few seconds, and you wanted to relish the moment more, but you felt a subtle shift in Sae’s body. A faint flinch, almost imperceptible, ran through him, and the blue roses on his skin suddenly began to glow.

You pulled back before you could fully comprehend what was even happening, your lips just brushing his as you turned and sprinted towards the stairs. Fortunately, the guards on duty were in the midst of a shift exchange, so you assumed you had gone off flawlessly.

But not entirely.

A certain awakened man had caught a glimpse of your hair as it bounced during your escape.

The first light of morning stabbed your eyes, and they fluttered open abruptly as you realized Rin’s hands were on your shoulders, shaking you harshly. His face was itched in a deep scowl, his breath hot against your skin.

“What the fuck is all this about? This is what I come back to, you fucking whore?” He fumed venomously.

You blinked in confusion– your head was still fogged with sleep, after all.

“W-What..?”

—

The usual tranquility of the whole palace was broken by hurried, squeaky footsteps and frantic voices. News of the Crown Prince’s revival had spread like wildfire through the Royal Quarters: the sleeping prince had defeated the curse and had awakened after only a few mere weeks.

The servants and maids rushed through the hallways, scrambling to prepare for what would be an unexpected audience. Gossips and rumours flowed through every corridor of the palace faster than the head maid brewing herbal tea in preparation for noble guests.

And in the Royal Gardens outside, hundreds to near thousands of noblemen and noblewomen who were alerted of the Sae’s revival gathered, dressed in their finest dresses and suits.

Oh, you were so fucked.

—

“M-My lady, this isn’t good!” Eleanor cried as she ran into your room, “Hundreds of guests have arrived in the Throne room, and both princes are there too! His Imperial Majesty is now urgently awaiting your presence!”

Your hands instinctively wrapped around your abdomen, and you suddenly felt nauseous. Your body shook slightly, your teary eyes fixing themselves on the ground. You loved Sae, you really did, but doubt was gnawing at your organs. Kissing him felt right in that moment, yet you were starting to regret ever doing it.

What if he didn’t want your help? What if your peasant lips had tainted him? What if he didn’t want you?

“I… I don’t want to go,” you hiccuped, walking around your room in circles. “I’m so stupid, I should have never—”

“No, my lady,” She interrupted gently. “You must.”

You gulped and nodded hesitantly. Rin’s anger lingered in your mind like salt and pepper— his eyes were boiling over with rage, his face tinted a deep crimson red. You had never seen him like that, and now, as you stepped into the crowd gathered in the grand hall, all heads turned to look at you in a way that made you even more uncomfortable.

But the Emperor, however, did not seem angry. Weird enough, he looked elated for reasons you couldn’t yet pinpoint.

As Eleanor had said, Rin and Sae were both present, standing opposite each other like the rivals they were. Rin was struggling to contain the way he was absolutely fuming, while Sae was blatantly staring at you with no intention of hiding it. Unlike the way you usually reacted to the Crown Prince’s gaze, you felt rather nervous, flexing and unflexing your fingers.

You pinched the fabric of your simple gown and bowed low, and the thin patterns of the marble floor never seemed so interesting.

“Greetings, Your Imperial Majesty,” you addressed.

The Emperor nodded in acknowledgment, before turning his attention to Sae expectantly. “My son.”

“Yes, father.”

Before your wracked mind could process what was happening, Sae suddenly began striding toward you. Rin was a considerable distance away from you but he also furrowed his brows in confusion. A million thoughts started to run through his mind and he felt the unease creeping up his spine. Had they planned something behind his back?

Sae came to a stop in front of you, and your breath caught in your throat as you felt his arms, so muscular despite being under layers of hand-crafted clothing, loop around your waist and pull you close. Your face pressed against his chest, and your hands awkwardly hung near your sides despite being desperate to place themselves in places they’d beg to touch.

Loud gasps and surprised awes of the hundreds of uninvited, stunned guests echoed throughout the large room.

“Hey, what the heck–?” Rin suddenly snapped, biting down on his lip so hard that blood seeped out, the iron leaving a metallic taste on his tongue.

He didn’t like you, not really, but he had finally claimed something– someone that his older brother desired, and now it felt as though Sae was taking you from him.

It irritated him to no end, the way Sae’s hand gently patted your hair and the way you sheepishly smiled into his suit like an idiot– who the heck did you think you were? How could you? How fucking dare you?

And more importantly, why was the Emperor fine with this? Why was he chuckling so carelessly akin to the circus’ fool? What was going on?

But your mind was already in Saturn. You were lost in the Crown Prince’s musky scent and the oh-so-delicate taps of his fingers on your head, and when you heard that voice again, you closed your eyes knowingly and smiled for the first time in what felt like forever.

“A Crown of Old Shall Find its Grace,”

“In the Embrace of a Simple Face.”

“Y/N.” Sae’s voice broke through your thoughts and the voices of gossip in the crowd died down instantly. He tilted your chin up gently, thumbs caressing your face sweetly before his hands found their place on your cheeks.

Your eyes darted left and right nervously, avoiding his gaze. He'd never called you by your first name before. You shook those thoughts away and met his gaze. “Yes…?”

“You know,” He started, “To break the curse, the feeling of love must be mutual…”

Your cradled head nodded in his hands in embarrassment, and you felt heat creep up from your neck to your ears. “I’m aware,”

“So?”

Your eyes widened and immediately snapped down to the floor, watching your simple heels shuffling softly. You couldn’t help the soft giggle that escaped past your lips, and you only hoped that no one had heard that. You looked up at him affectionately.

“I love you…” Your voice dripped like melted caramel on his tongue, so sweet.

He smiled– a real, genuine smile that no one besides you could see– and leaned down, whispering an “I love you too,” before sealing his lips against yours. The kiss was gentle, and you let out a soft sigh as your fingers curled onto the rich fabric, gripping onto his attire tightly. His lips were warm as they moved against yours, unlike the cold, unmoving lips that you had claimed a while back.

When you finally pulled away, your eyes fluttered open, dazed with bleary eyes, little hearts seemingly etched into your pupils.

The crowd erupted into cheers and gasps, and maybe a few rolls of the eyes and glares from jealous noblewomen or daughters of Lords who had hoped to have Sae all to themselves, though you barely registered anything.

Why would anything matter, when you were here, openly in his arms?

“His Imperial Highness the Crown Prince is in love with his soon-to-be sister-in-law? This is hot news!”

“The Second Prince didn’t love her anyway.”

“He didn’t? But was it really a marriage of convenience, then?”

“No way, he must have been in love. What’s there to gain from a commoner?”

“But what could a village girl like her possibly offer the Crown Prince?”

The Emperor suddenly rose from his golden throne and stepped down the carpeted stairs, standing in the center. He cleared his throat and raised his scepter high in the air.

“I, the Emperor of the Royal Empire of Aquaria, officially dissolve the engagement between Y/N and the Second Prince, and announce the engagement between her and the Crown Prince!”

Rin’s eyes twitched. His fists clenched tighter by his sides, knuckles white and nails digging deep into his palms. He felt humiliated in front of so many people, but it is said that what goes around comes around.

“Huh? But Father, she's—” Rin began, but the Emperor turned his head and shot him a threatening glare.

“Emperor’s order.” With a voice that sharp, there was no possible room for argument.

You also stood frozen, mouth hanging open in disbelief as you blinked at the Emperor in the distance. But Sae’s fingers tipped your chin back up and his lips latched onto yours in a bold, open-mouthed kiss.

“Look at me,” he murmured as he pulled back slightly to look at you, his breath warm against your skin.

Your breath hitched, your gaze locking onto his. “Your Highness… I can’t believe this is happening,” You whisper-yelled in excitement, your hands waving around uncertainly.

He gently poked your cheeks. “You’ll take my last name since you don’t have one.”

You pinched yourself to check if this was all just a dream. If it was, you didn’t want to wake up. But it was all too real. The Crown Prince was now your fiancé. You were going to be the Crown Princess, and eventually, the Empress. And you were going to take his last name because commoners do not have the privilege of family names.

And despite everything, you strangely felt no deep remorse. You had slightly opened up to and grown fond of Rin in the past few weeks– he had those moments, but with you in his brother’s arms right now, you felt something different. You felt bad, but at the same time you didn’t. It wasn’t guilt. It was more complicated, but in the end, you didn’t dwell on it. You didn’t need to.

Rin stood in his spot motionless like a fallen angel’s statue, face hidden by a brush of his dark bangs. His eyes were fixed on the floor and his hands were clutching onto his pants like if he removed them hell would break loose.

His plan had backfired on him. Initially, he had chosen you, a commoner, as his fiancée to gain favour with the people, to appeal to the majority of Aquaria’s population, who were commoners themselves. It seemed like a strategic move at the time. His father, the Emperor, was known for his peculiar love for equality and would occasionally volunteer in villages, much to his dismay. Rin had believed marrying you would show his alignment with his father’s baffling… values, and would increase his chances of becoming the next ruler.

But no. His darn prodigy of a brother had bested him once again. Sae was better at everything: swordplay, horse riding, diplomacy, even winning nobles’ hearts. And now, his brother had not only fallen in love with his fiancée, a dumb commoner from the slums that he had chosen to boost his image, but also managed to make her fall heads over heels for him as well.

If that hadn’t infuriated him enough, he despised how his father wore that sickeningly proud smile on his face as he clapped his hands together, and how the couples were cheering and twirling like morons on the floor. While he stood stiff and awkward in the corner, insides seething in mixed emotions, hearing your stupid giggles and his brother’s irritatingly sweet reassurances of a better life with him. Sae had taken everything away from him, and it felt like salt being rubbed into an open wound.

But Rin hated his older brother, and he hated you too.

So on the night of your wedding, the chambermaid in your room let out a blood-curdling shriek, her face as pale as the moonlight that shone through the window.

Cruel streaks of mulberry and plum bruises painted the delicate canvas of your neck. The once-pure white of your nightgown now blemished with spreading stains of deep cherryrose dye called blood, seeping through the fabric and into the silken sheets beneath.

A severed porcelain horse’s head lay propped beside the body with vacant eyes, and scattered across the carpet were shattered remnants of a pearl necklace.

“But Do not be Fooled, One Shall Not Bloom,”

A dagger, its handle carved from true blue sapphire, was loosely wrapped between cold, limp fingers of a lifeless corpse sprawled across a river of red.

“For This, Will Lead to One’s Gentle Doom.”

536 notes · View notes

base0h · 3 months ago

Text

HOW HAIKYUU CHARACTERS WOULD REACT TO YOU COMPLIMENTING ANOTHER PLAYER

a/n - I’m alive I swear 💀 I just rewatched some of haikyuu so I’m more familiar with that rn 😂😂

warnings ⚠️ - g/n reader, fluff/crack, pre-timeskip characters btw, I don’t feel like making picture banners for all of them like I do with one piece forgive me for just putting text 🥲

HINATA

- yeah you just broke your bro’s heart into a billion pieces

- remember that time when he got nailed in the crotch by a ball in S4? Yeah that’s what it felt like

- “Isn’t he so cool Hinata?!” -you

- but he’s also torn because he also thinks they’re awesome af 😭 so he can’t decide if he’s more saddened by the fact that you’re not saying that about him or if he’s excited that you also like one of his idols

- “…Yes he’s— very cool.” -hinata

- “…You do know my fav player’s always gonna be you though right?”

- oh you don’t even KNOW. How happy you just made him. You just turned his life around with just a single sentence

- bro could burst through the ceiling now

- he basically smothered you with a hug after that and did one of those koala hugs where he was basically just clinging onto you with pure adoration and affection

- it’s one thing if some random other student or little kid came up to him saying he was cool— like don’t get me wrong he’d probably freak out in a good way about that too

- but when it comes from you? He could have all haters but if he still had you? He’s totally fine. All bro needs is your support

- but do be careful because he might actually suffocate you one day if you compliment him too much

- each time you say something good about him his hugs get stronger?? If that’s even possible idk 😭

- you’ll have a great free chiropractor tho so woo hoo😁👍

GOSHIKI

- bro has a thing for getting compliments or getting praise. I saw it VERY clearly when Hinata gave him that compliment about his spikes during the shiratorizawa training camp

- and then when Tendo said his bangs were cool bro was so happy 😭 (he’s so sweet oml)

- but of course when you watch his matches— I mean— you’re gonna be impressed by ushijima

- who wouldn’t be? Bros a literal nuclear bomb ahh spiker 💀

- after one of his matches you went up to him and started talking about ushijima and how cool his spikes and serves were

- “I feel like he’s gonna literally pop the ball everytime he hits it! It’s awesome!” -you

- he agrees wholeheartedly with you! But— man. He wanted you to say that about him 😭

- “Yeah— he’s amazing right..?” -him

- “He’s a third year right?”

- Goshiki nodded and scratched the back of his head sheepishly, looking a bit down

- “Oh so he’s just clearing the way for you then! There can only be one ace so he’s gotta move out of the way for you.”

(I couldn’t find the proper meme to put here so here’s the actual screenshot of him)

- bro could ascend

- he could die right then and there

- but then he remembered he has to show off for you still so he stayed on earth

- ushijima heard you say that btw

- it looked like he wanted to murder you but in reality he thought it was very nice of you to say that to lift goshiki’s spirits

- he just— looks like he wants to crush you and send you to mars 💀

- also Tendo makes fun of him for being so happy about being praised

- “HAHAHAHAH— you LOVE it when y/n ever tells you something positive about you huh~??” -tendo

- yeah no he’s not gonna leave your poor bowl cut boy alone about it now

BOKUTO

- like the other two, he’s big on praise

- I mean before every match the manager tells him someone in the audience said he looks cool so he plays better 😭😭

- having you supporting him at his matches is like having an entire stadium full of people cheering his name

- you make Akaashi’s life less stressful. Good job y/n, Akaashi loves you for that and will legit pay you money to keep coming even though he knows he doesn’t have to. He’s that grateful for you

- I ain’t kidding one time Akaashi just started tearing up thanking you for being his fail safe plan if his 2000000 other plans to get Bokuto out of his emo mode don’t work

- he knows just like one compliment from you will cure Bokuto

- yeah so guess what you had to go and say right before a match started?

- “I just saw itachiyama play and wow that Sakusa guy who’s one of the top 3 spikers was just as good as they said he was!” -you

- akaashi might just do a backflip off of the stadium roof at this point 🙂 hardcore parkour

- the way you could literally see Bokuto’s hair droop down is insane

- konoha and sarukui were like: holy shit we’re absolutely cooked 😀

- this wasn’t an emo mode this was an avant garde mode

- but right as Akaashi was about to seriously jump off the roof, you saved everyone from the disaster you created

- “I don’t know why you’re not in the top three though, imo you’re a lot better than that guy, and a lot cooler looking too.”

- Akaashi looked like he was gonna live again

- Bokuto’s hair flipped back upwards and he excitedly smiled at you, giving you a big hug before going onto the court with an ecstatic air about him

- Akaashi is genuinely terrified of how you can simultaneously destroy their team and bring it back together with singular sentences

- you’re Bokuto’s weakness number 38 which akaashi does not have a solution for 💀

AKAASHI

- Akaashi is honestly happy you’re just with him

- he doesn’t really mind it if you can’t come to see him play, of course he’d love for you to be there but he totally understands if you can’t, and won’t be destroyed about it

- he loves your support and will always appreciate you for cheering him on (and being his mental support because taking care of Bokuto is life draining and he probably gets about a month taken off of his life everytime Bokuto goes into his emo mode)

- during the match with nekoma, you noticed how the setter on their team was also quite an intelligent and skilled player despite seeming so bored and uninterested in the sport entirely

- he had a hold on Bokuto for a good while and it was impressive how he managed to put Bokuto in a slump so smoothly and discreetly

- after the match, you congratulated fukurodani on their victory, and akaashi thanked you for coming like the gentleman bro is

- “That setter on nekoma was really good— he was so calculating and calm about his strategy to make Bokuto go into a slump!” -you

- Akaashi was still a bit traumatized by Bokuto literally forgetting how to do cross shots entirely so uh— 😀

- yeah it didn’t really sound great to him

- bro had to pull out a whole ass speech plus hinata to get Bokuto back on his feet and then you say that 🥲

- he isn’t mad or anything but he isn’t very overjoyed either

- “Yes, he was a really tough opponent. Kuroo-san was too.” -Akaashi

- Akaashi was good at hiding his displeasure, so it just sounded like he was saying something normal like he usually would, in a straight steady tone

- “No match for you and the team though, you guys definitely deserved the win. And you actually look interested and not like you want to die on the court unlike that setter on nekoma— he looked like he wanted to collapse and sleep forever after the first set.”

- he wasn’t expecting you to say that, and he looked pleasantly surprised

- Bokuto grinned and put his arm around the setter

- “Y/n’s right as always, Kenma’s no match for akaashi!” -Bokuto

- the rest of the team wholeheartedly agreed, and akaashi felt glad, happy to know that his team, and especially you thought so highly of him

- no one else could handle Bokuto like he could, and no one could be as cool in your eyes as he was

- you could probably tell him his glasses looked nice and he would never take them off again—

- he’s the type of guy to listen to whatever you say a bit too much sometimes 😭

- he legit remembers the outfit you wore the day he first met you

- kinda creepy but sweet ig? 🤷

OIKAWA

- bro has a billion fans and only really cares abt you cheering him on

- like ofc he needs other people to be cheering him on too because he’s extra like that but it’s 80% you

- don’t ask abt the 20%

- yk how all those girls were asking for his picture and stuff? Ever since he got together with you, he’s been avoiding them a lot more

- he knows it’s probably especially annoying for you to see a bunch of random people asking your boyfriend for pictures and giving him handmade things

- just know that he thinks you’re better than any girl combined and if you ever like start walking away before he’s finished trying to get the girls away from him he will legit sprint after you while screaming

- “Y/N-CHAN WAAAAAAAAAIT!!!”

- my dude is running, and I mean running like a mf track star. You piss off his fangirls so much bro it’s so funny how they look at you like they want to poison you in your sleep💀💀💀

- he reassures you on the daily that you’re beautiful and amazing, but still it’s annoying to see all the girls fawn over him

- so you decided to give him a similar taste of his own medicine

- at the next matches, you were watching with him a match with karasuno and shiratorizawa. You know VERY well that he does not like karasuno or shiratorizawa

- ushijima is probably the one who’s the worst…

- perfect.

- “Whoa Ushijima’s serves are so cool!! And he uses his left hand too damn that’s unique! I’ve never seen a left handed player like him before, and those spikes look like they’re about to tear karasuno’s blocker’s arms off!” -you

- I don’t think he’s ever been more simultaneously heart broken, and pissed at ushijima at the same time before

- he’s such a baby about it too

- he’ll cross his arms and act like he doesn’t care when obviously he does, and with the way he’s pouting about it like a little kid was proof that your little plan worked very well

- “Hmph, I guess so.” -him

- “What, you salty since you lost?” -you

- “Would you mind not rubbing salt in it? It’s only been like two days!”

- you couldn’t help but burst out into laughing because of how upset he was by this— it was ridiculous

- if you had your phone out you would’ve taken a picture of his face and sent it to iwaizumi for shits and giggles

- “I’m joking Oikawa, I think you’re much cooler than ushijima. You have a lot more personality than him.” -you

- “That’s damn right I do!” -him

- “…I didn’t say a good personality or anything.”

- “Pardon me?! I’m very demure and cute thank you very much.”

- “You saying that just proves you’re anything but that.”

- “Y/N BE NICE TO ME :(“

- “No. :)”

- “I knew I shouldn’t have let you hang out with Iwa-chan, he’s turned you against me!”

KUROO

- you’re the carbon to his dioxide

- the hydrogen to his peroxide

- the deoxyribose to his phosphate group (I paid attention in science kuroo, yw)

- even if he doesn’t get to be interviewed by some reporter, and even if he doesn’t get to go to nationals

- if you’re there and supporting him he feels better

- talking to you and hearing you say how cool he plays is more than an interview could ever mean to him

- seriously you make him chemically insane

- like he does not understand how just being around you releases endorphins somehow (you’re magical)

- you had heard of their opponents nohebi from eavesdropping on a couple of random people’s conversations in the lobby

- they were a strong team, and you were intrigued by how a lot of people seemed to dislike them a lot for the way they played.. which was very underhanded

- but even with their underhanded tactics, they were a solid team with good technique and teamwork

- “Whoa the captain of nohebi is actually pretty good!” -you

- “Ugh I know right? Come on nekoma!” -Akane (Yamamoto’s little sister)

- I feel like kuroo has horrible eyesight but then absolutely amazing hearing? Idk 💀 but whatever the case was, he heard that

- loud and clear

- mhm he’s ready to kill nohebi now

- bro is legit a one man Great Wall of china now

- he’s “powered up” as Kenma would say

- Kenma took note that you were kuroo’s power up skill, and would remember to use you in the future as well

- I’m serious bro is flexing so hard on you rn 😭

- he is working double time, sweating, tryna channel his inner Bokuto

- yaku hasn’t needed to save the ball because kuroo’s trying so hard to impress you 💀

- honestly it’s kind of amazing— seeing him sprinting left and right and slamming balls down like it was no one’s business but his

- he checks like every five seconds to see if you’re watching his amazing skills

- and after the match— Kenma went up to you first and thanked you bc Kuroo did like 70% of the work for him 😭

- Kenma legit gave you a Nintendo gift card he’s had in his back pocket since 2019 as a thank you gift and as a “please continue making kuroo do all the work” gift

- god knows how it’s stayed in his pants that have probably been through countless wash cycles 💀

- “Oh kuroo! Fukunaga’s last spike was so cool! He totally hit that line shot perfectly!”

- way to stab kuroo in the back 🥲 he’s legit about to collapse from emotionally throwing out his back

- old man down over here

- he was so destroyed— you left no piece of him intact he’s in literal shambles

- “But kuroo you were so cool! You kept blocking and repelling the balls like you were oppositely charged from the ball!”

- and he’s alive again, you’re a magician

- complimenting him using a science reference?

- oh just marry him already 😭

- he knew you must just be dopamine bc he smiles like an idiot whenever you’re around

- somehow his smile gets even dorkier when you compliment him

- if it’s a science compliment he could quite literally ascend to the moon

- “Hehe thanks y/n.” -him

- “Were you tryna show off in the last set?” -you

- “…Why? Did it work?”

- “…Hm. Perhaps hypothetically, yes.”

- “How does one go about making that hypothesis a true statement? 😏”

- kuroo is so nerdy and his pickup lines are so bad that it just takes whatever smoothness he had (very little to start with btw) away 😭😭😭

- like pls when he first met you when yall were paired up to do a science project about magnetism— bro said

- “Even Neodymium would lose if it were to compete against your magnetic personality 😏🌹”

- “…What? 💀” -you

- you weren’t really sure if you should love bro for his effort or be scared of how bad his pickup lines were

- the answer is both

- it all ended up ok anyways— you’re bonded to him together since yall are oppositely charged ✌️

a/n - no I don’t know how to make pickup lines 💀

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ssentimentals · 3 months ago

Text

seventeen members as love tropes: yoon jeonghan

fake dating

'and if only you looked me in the eyes, you'd see the truth - i'm hopelessly in love with you'

jeonghan is cool about this. he goes through his checklist: suit? check. nice bouquet of flowers? check. car keys? check. his logic? gone since the moment he agreed to accompany you on this event as your 'boyfriend'. painkillers for a splitting headache you're going to have by the end of this night? check. his sanity? gone, long gone. in all honesty, jeonghan doesn't think he's ever been sane since the moment he realized his feelings for you. you know, the ones that are very fit for a 'boyfriend' type but don't really fit for a 'good friend' type. anyways, jeonghan is cool about this.

'i am insane,' he says out loud, looking at his reflection in the mirror. he looks good because of course he does, this event is important for you and he'd rather eat shit than fuck up anything for you. 'this is insane.'

he spends next twenty minutes on his way to your house by assuring himself that everything is going to go well. so what that just the thought of having his arm wrapped around your waist has him squealing like a five years old boy? that hearing you call him your boyfriend has goosebumps breaking out on his skin? that having an opportunity to take care of you in a more romantic, intimate way has him shaking a little? and so what that when you walk out looking gorgeous his heart stops for a second? he is cool. jeonghan is cool about this.

'you don't have to do anything that makes you uncomfortable,' you say, taking his hand when he opens the door for you. 'i'm so sorry for dragging you into this, hannie.'

'you owe me,' he jokes, throat tightening when you let him pull you closer. 'feel free to kick me in the balls if i say or do something wrong there.'

'noted!' you agree cheerily and god, he can just kiss you right here, right now. how is this not a crime for being so cute?! 'let's go then, my boyfriend.'

jeonghan's heart doesn't skip a beat at this because he is cool about this. and he tries his best to be there for you for the whole evening, turns on all of his charm to be liked by all the guests and poses prettily for all pics. your hand in his feels right, you leaning on his side for support feels right, him as your boyfriend feels right. you two fall into this 'fake couple' thing surprisingly easily, everything goes without a hitch - you glow, jeonghan stays right next to you and if anyone dares to tell him that it is not right, he'll commit murder.

'hannie, i never thought it'd be that easy with you!' you exclaim in his car, getting comfortable on the seat. your relaxed posture like you belong here, the way wind plays with your hair - jeonghan has trouble focusing on the road ahead. 'you are the perfect fake boyfriend, my friend.'

and that shouldn't hurt, right? only it does. a lot. jeonghan gulps, speeding through the streets. 'should i be offended that you thought i'd be anything less than perfect?' he asks, going to a familiar trope of jokes and laughs with you. 'you know me!'

'i know,' you agree, turning over to look at him properly. jeonghan notices how you frown a little and he points at the armrest. 'what?'

'painkillers are there,' he answers, watching you light up. 'you always forget to take them, silly. you know you get headaches from being exposed to loud voices for too long and yet i'm the one who always has your meds with me.'

you chuckle, grabbing water bottle from backseat. 'i know-i know! you are a life savior, hannie. really, you're so thoughtful, you'd make someone so happy one day.'

there it is. jeonghan thinks once, twice and- he's cool about this, remember? 'it can be you.' it's a red light, he stops and turns to you, calling out for all bravery he only has. 'that someone can be you. if you want.'

you don't say anything in the first tree minutes and jeonghan has half a mind to jump out of the car, but then you hiccup comically and bubble of tension bursts, making you both laugh. 'i-' you start and then shake your head in disbelief. 'wait, is this how am i getting my confession?'

jeonghan fears his heart will burst if he looks at you right now. instead, he grips the steering wheel tighter and mutters: 'you'll get a better confession if you tell me right now that you're going to accept it.'

'what a silly boy you are,' you say and it should be offensive, but you say it with so much fondness that he can't find this comment hurtful. 'of course i will accept it, hannie. you don't think i would've asked anyone else for this 'fake boyfriend' thing, right? i would've just gone alone.'

and it's -wonderful. sense of relief floods his system and hope bubbles in his stomach. 'i'm about to pull over and kiss you right now,' he announces, turning to look at you seriously. 'blink if you agree.'

you laugh and flowers in his chest bloom. 'i'm blinking twice just so you could be sure.'

jeonghan is very cool abut this situation, so he pulls over in the first corner and kisses you like a boyfriend would've kissed you. like he would've kissed you because he thinks title of 'boyfriend' is his for now and for ever.

a/n: squealing, kicking my feet. this is for all hannie stans, who are having hard time due to latest news. i'm here for you! 🫡 - nini

my other works are here

#seventeen imagine #seventeen reaction #seventeen fluff #seventeen scenarios #yoon jeonghan x reader #yoon jeonghan #seventeen yoon jeonghan #jeonghan x reader #jeonghan seventeen #jeonghan #jeonghan imagine #jeonghan fluff #svt jeonghan #seventeen fic #seventeen #svt #seventeen x reader

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coff33andb00ks · 4 months ago

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world around us

summary: you're a candle in the window on a cold dark winter's night word count: 1k pairing: lando norris x oscar piastri x driver!reader (lilli. it's lilli) warnings: just pure fluff, slightly suggestive language(?) a.n.: final installation of my I need Lilli to have an amazing birthday series! this is once again for @maxlarens HAPPY BIRTHDAY LILLI MY LOVE!!! playlist: completely unhinged songs that fit the vibe

"No no no no no no no! You can't do that! You fuckin' muppet!"

Oscar mirrors your eye roll as Lando protests you placing a house on one of your properties. "She owns it though?" he says tentatively.

Lando scoffs, snatching up the guide and snapping it open. "The rules say–"

"I refuse to follow rules when you rolled twice so you wouldn't go to jail," you say with a huff, snatching the guide from him.

"I had to! One of the dice landed on the floor!"

"Oh but when we play golf I have to play no matter where my ball lands?"

"Yes." Lando gives you a look of disbelief, as though the idea of breaking a golfing rule is akin to murder. "It's not my fault you can't hit a ball straight."

"Just for that–" You slap more brightly colored money in front of Oscar - Oscar has to be the banker he's the most honest one among us - and grab a hotel to replace the house. "Suffer."

Lando groans, throwing up his hands. "You're cheating. I hate games night."

Oscar's grin shifts and he begins to chuckle. "We could play Trivial Pursuit?"

"No," Lando whines, picking up the dice to take his turn. "That game makes me feel stupid."

"Uno?" you suggest sweetly.

"No, we'll finish this. Capitalism is good to me, I'll make a comeback." Lando nods to himself as he shakes the dice. "Just shut up so I can focus."

And then, twenty minutes later–

"What d'you mean I owe you double the rent?!"

The rules are checked - well this is fucking bullshit - and he counts out all of his money to pay up. Suddenly capitalism sucks and he's clinging to his one property block and his cash like they're his lifeline.

You'll never know how (he probably cheated) but he wins. Monopoly money rains down as he celebrates and you fall back with laughter when Oscar flips the board in disgust.

You love games night. The silly playlist Lando put together plays, Disney movies play, muted, on the tv, and you've got them.

Lando and Oscar. Your biggest rivals on the track and your closest friends off. You're celebrating Oscar's first win this week now that summer break is here, enjoying the lazy days before you each take off in different directions to visit family and recuperate from an exhausting first half of the season.

"Loser cleans up," you remind Oscar and he groans as he gives you a kiss then begins picking up the mess. Lando's singing along to the latest country song he's obsessed with - Is it your heart or mine? Is it whiskey or wine? Is it somethin' in the night Makin' us wanna cross that line? - and he follows you into the kitchen to get more drinks.

"You sure you don't want to come along with me?" he asks, reaching around you to get a beer from the fridge.

"Let me see... Golfing with a bunch of men versus beach time with my best friends…" You hum thoughtfully, squealing when loops an arm around you.

"That can't be right. Me and Osco are your best friends," he says.

"Let me rephrase. Best women friends."

He's holding you close, swaying a little to the song playing - you think Oscar's the one who added ABBA, or maybe it was you - and you smile a little as you sway with him. He hums songs without realizing it and it's one of his more endearing habits.

"But I'll miss you," he murmurs, tucking his chin on your shoulder.

"I'll miss you too." And you will. This season you've grown closer to him. Literally, considering he finally talked you - and Oscar - into moving to Monaco. But also figuratively. You're just as rough on yourself as he is on himself, and with all the macho bravado that surrounds you every race week, it's nice to have someone who understands your being upset over missing out on a podium due to your own failings as a driver, your miscommunication with the team. It's rarer to have someone who understands shouldering the blame of the team's missteps – if I was better at this, they would trust my judgment but I'm not so they don't and that means—

"Not getting sappy on me are you?" Lando teases.

"You started it," you mutter. Turning, you wrap your arms around him. "We can live a few weeks without each other."

"I mean… You'll text right? Call?" he asks softly.

"FaceTime too," you promise.

It's tentative and new and so fucking scary but he gives you a soft kiss. Not your first with him, but it still makes your heart do that weird little flutter that it's only ever done with one other person.

"Jenga?" Oscar calls from the living room and Lando perks up instantly, nearly knocking you down in his haste to get back to the only other person he's going to miss during break.

Jenga with your boys is impossible. They're too competitive, know too many things they can say that make the other break and send the blocks flying.

"Oh of course he's going for the bottom, man loves to be at the bottom," Oscar mutters to you and Lando's giggling, covering his face with his hands as the tower collapses.

The games are abandoned, and you're squished on the couch between them, Oscar's lips on your ear, Lando's head on your stomach as the three of you, tipsy and relaxed, begin making plans for the last days of break while a Studio Ghibli movie plays. It's not said by either of you, but you already know that the three of you will find each other long before the break is over.

The world is easier to bear when it's the three of you together. It's still new, still tentative, still scary as hell, but it feels oh so right.

#f1 #f1 imagine #oscar piastri #formula 1 #lando norris #f1 fanfic #formula 1 imagine #lando norris x reader #oscar piastri x reader #landoscar x

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ja3yun · 5 months ago

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I'm a Virgin, Not a Murderer: ch.1 | pop your cherry

virgin!heeseung x sex worker!reader warnings: smut (mdni), oral (m.rec), blue balls, murder, mentions of blood, sex work (use of words tart card and prostitute), set in the 90's london, heeseung is a loser, anything else lmk wc: 11.2k ch.1 synopsis: determined to lose his virginity, heeseung follows his friend's plan and ends up hiring you to pop his cherry, little does he know that he'll walk out of that room something much worse than a virgin a/n: hi! this is the first instalment of iavnam and i am so so so excited to share this with you all. this is a silly, fun fic that i hope you can enjoy but i will say that it has some moments of angst throughout. feedback, comments, reblogs, and likes are all appreciated and i hope you give loser!hee a chance

masterlist | chapter 2

“What am I going to do? I can’t enter working life a virgin.” Heeseung sighs, rubbing his temples as he complains.

Heeseung is a gentle soul, the type of boy you read about in novels or see in cheesy romance films. No, he’s not the bad boy with a hidden heart of gold or the burly football player with a secret love for the arts. Heeseung is the overlooked best friend, the quiet boy pining from the sidelines, the introverted geek who spends his Fridays alone while the girl he loves rushes off with the popular guy.

At 22, Heeseung has never been with a girl. He can’t even look at one for more than ten seconds without sweating or mumbling about the new Toy Story film that was released last year. And with only two months left before he graduates, the thought of entering the adult world as a virgin weighs heavily on him. He might be the only one from the Class of ‘96 who hasn't had this experience, and he feels an urgent need to change that.

He watches his friends with a mix of envy and longing as they get into relationships or have sex with the nearest girl at a party, wishing it could be him for once. All his life, he’s dreamt of a perfect romance where a boy meets a girl, they fall in love, and share their first time.

All in all, Heeseung just wants to be in love with the person he loses himself to. But time is ticking, and he’s starting to realise that his dream of a whirlwind romance might not be feasible. He might have to settle for whatever chance he can get.

“What’s the use in complaining if you aren’t going to talk to a girl for more than a minute?” Jongseong mutters into his beer can, eyes still trained on the Sony Trinitron TV in front of him.

Jongseong has had this conversation with Heeseung so many times that it’s starting to bore him. He understands his best friend’s desire for a meaningful connection; anyone would want that. But Heeseung’s idealism clashes with Jongseong’s pragmatic nature. For months - no, years - he’s been telling Heeseung to either take action or let it go. There’s nothing wrong with being a virgin at any age, and Heeseung used to see it that way too. Yet, for some reason, he’s convinced he’d be the laughingstock of any office if word got around.

All throughout high school, Heeseung was the same: stuttering and twitching whenever a girl looked at him. Jongseong has never seen anyone worship women as Heeseung does while simultaneously being utterly terrified of them.

Heeseung suddenly grabs the can from Jongseong’s hand, stunning him, and slams it onto the coffee table of their apartment. “I’m serious, Jongseong. I’m doing it this time, for real.” There’s determination and fire in his voice, even though his heart is pounding at the thought.

Turning to face him, still in a can-holding position, Jongseong raises an eyebrow. “You’re really going to do it? No wimping out?” he asks incredulously. It’s not that he doesn’t believe his friend’s words; he’s just surprised by how assured Heeseung looks.

Nodding, Heeseung crosses his legs on the couch. “Absolutely! And I have a plan.”

“Oh god, what is it?” Jongseong asks nervously, apprehensive about what kind of plan the virgin has concocted for himself.

Heeseung takes a deep breath, trying to steady his racing heart. “Alright, so here’s the deal. I’m going to start small and take baby steps. First, I’ll join a club or a group where I can meet people without the pressure of one-on-one interactions. Maybe a book club or a film society. That way, I can get more comfortable talking to girls in a casual setting.”

Jongseong nods slowly, considering the idea. “Okay, that sounds reasonable. Except all the clubs and meets have stopped now considering it’s two months until summer vacation.” The younger rolls his eyes, picking his can back up. “What other plans do you have?”

There is a silence in the air which pauses Jongseong mid-sip. Scratching the back of his neck, Heeseung sheepishly shrugs and winces at his friend's disappointing gaze. It took him a week to come up with that one plan, hoping that he could ride on the waves of already-formed groups. He did, however, come up with the plan 4 months ago and just has never put it into action, so it is a little outdated.

“It was a solid plan!” he huffs and crosses his arms, pouting like a baby despite being the oldest of the two. “It’s not like I can just phone up a girl on one of those fancy mobiles and ask her to fuck me.”

Jongseong’s ears perk up, eyes widening as if he’s just hit the motherload of all ideas. His excitement makes Heeseung sit up in attention, furrowing his brows as he watches him stand up and turn the TV off. “You’re a fucking genius, Lee.”

Although the compliment settles fondly in his heart, he still doesn’t know why he is a genius nor does he have time to think about it before his best friend drags him by the arm outside of the flat and into the street, striding towards something with tenacity.

He complains about the grip Jongseong has on him but follows him regardless, feet rushing to keep up the pace as they make their way down the street and into the skirts of the city. Heeseung knows better than to argue with the boy when he is on a mission like this, the last time he did so was when Jongseong went on the hunt for the last Thor comic book, edition #487 and Heeseung told him to just ‘get it another time’. Turns out, everyone and their granny wanted it and with Heeseung constantly holding them up, he missed out on the first press. The boy never heard the end of it and was almost disowned.

So he trails idly behind him until they reach a phone booth. The glass is taped with flyers of missing dogs and Y2K conspiracies, babysitter ads and jobs for hire. It’s a mess, yet Jongseong seems to be looking for something in particular.

“I know I said phoning up a girl, but I hardly think Mystic Michelle sees me in her future,” Heeseung snorts, dipping his hands into his pockets. He refuses to tell Jongseong that in a desperate attempt to find out when he would lose his virginity, he had already phoned a psychic medium who told him, “You’ll lose it when you choose to travel.” Considering he has never and likely will never step foot outside his hometown, he deemed that as his first and last time trusting in the universe’s whispers.

Jongseong, ignoring Heeseung’s quips, searches diligently until he sees the poster hanging inside the booth and immediately whips the door open, dragging the surprised black-haired boy into the tight space with him. With urgency, he tears the number tab off of the bright red poster and thrusts it into Heeseung’s hand.

Pointing to the poster, Jongseong smirks. “She is your ticket out of virginville,” he says playfully yet a serious undercurrent waves through his voice. If Heeseung is going to get laid, and fast, he is going to need a professional.

Heeseung looks closely at the poster and sees a girl in a white-laced thong posing in front of a red background, her left arm covering her plump tits as she sucks on a lollipop. His eyes shake and his head follows, backing up slightly despite the confined space and protesting the idea profusely. “Not a chance, Jongseong! This is prostitution, which by the way, is illegal in this country.”

“I know you’re a saint, okay? But desperate times call for desperate measures.” He shrugs, already putting the 20p coins into the slot and picking up the ringer. “You know Jaeyun lost his virginity this way.”

“Yeah, and she was a 43-year-old mother of 6 who fucked him in her garden shed. He said he got the clap from that!”

Heeseung is not exaggerating, Jaeyun was so determined to ‘gain experience’ that he chose one of these girls from a traffic light pole and what was promised to be a sexy 21-year-old in his area, turned out to be a mum who needed a quick cash grab before her kids got home from school. Needless to say, he went along with it, already mentally prepared for the pop and then a few weeks later by consequence he was in the sexual health clinic getting tested for an STD. He lost his virginity but also his dignity that day.

Exhaling loudly, Jongseong closes his eyes in frustration. “We can phone and ask for an appointment and if she isn’t this very pretty girl that is offering you a ‘spanking good time with a 22-year-old’ then you can bolt for the hills and we’ll find you someone else.” His tone is coated in disapproval at his friend’s unwillingness to give this brilliant idea of his a chance.

Punching in the numbers, Jongseong holds the receiver between his ear and his shoulder, “You want me to talk?”

Realising he is stuck in a boat without a paddle, Heeseung relents, gesturing for Jongseong to take the reigns of the situation; if he were to be the one to speak to the girl, he would probably vomit. This is the complete opposite of how he had dreamed this would go and Jongseong knows it.

The phone begins to ring and Jongseong shushes the other boy as he waits patiently. It gives Heeseung the chance to look at the lewd poster once again and he can see why this one caught Jongseong’s attention over the other tart cards in the booth. The girl is striking and real, not like some of the page 3 models that have clearly been used to lure these desperate men in, there is a prettiness to her, a charm that pulls attention even through a piece of paper.

“Hello, handsome, how can I be of service?”

Her voice, sweet yet sultry, filters through the phone and dances on the glass panels, sending a shiver down Heeseung's spine and making his knees weak. His eyes widen as he gazes at the poster, imagining that captivating voice belonging to the stunning girl. Surely, it couldn't be her, could it? No one could sound and look so perfect simultaneously.

Jongseong scoffs at Heeseung's reaction to a mere female voice and playfully slaps the back of his head, snapping him out of his reverie within the stuffy confines of the phone booth. He clears his throat and addresses the caller on the other end. “Hi, uh,” he glances at the poster, searching for the name, “Y/N, is it?”

You giggle softly over the phone, twirling the cord attached to your landline. “Yes, what can I help you with?”

It’s been a few days since you put up the flyers and there has already been an abundance of calls coming your way; some old guys looking to rub one out before work, others looking to be degraded, and some even just wanting advice on how best to clean their house before their wives come home.

For you, it’s easy money and a needed break from the work you do other than please pervy men. On days you’re not at home, you’re out working behind the bar at Nice N’ Sleazys, picking up after everyone’s mess and pouring pint after pint while the worst music grates at your ears.

Sex work, despite its numerous downsides, offers a straightforward way to earn money. Initially, you worked in a brothel just outside the main city, where your tips and pride were stolen by the cruel man who ran it. The girls were lovely, and some of your regulars were kind, but the work and pain were too much for the meagre earnings.

So you left and started managing yourself. The owner didn’t like it, but it was your decision. He wasn’t sad to lose you, but rather the money your regulars brought in. However, his displeasure was short-lived when he found your replacement—someone who brought in more money and was willing to do much more than you ever could.

Despite the challenges and dangers managing yourself has provided you with a sense of independence and control that you did not have when working for someone else. You've learned how to deal with the industry's complexities, setting boundaries and putting your own safety first; even if that meant refusing some of your regulars into your new endeavours.

The line goes silent and you speak up again, “Can I help you?” you ask gently, still keeping the sex worker persona intact. However, once you hear shuffling in the background with hushed whispers, you quickly drop the act and sigh. “Look, if it’s you boys from the school up the road prank calling me again, I will call your mothers.”

With posting your landline in phone booths comes prank calls, you expect it but you could really use the money this week; your fridge is running on empty and your washing machine has somehow blown up on itself - that’s what you get for buying second-hand from a newspaper ad. Maybe you should have picked up that cleaner job for that mansion in the middle of nowhere while you were buying appliances.

Customers might be regular but you’re just starting, you can’t charge more than you’re worth.

Jongseong flicks Heeseung’s nose, making him yelp. While you are on the other line, Heeseung decides to try and hang up and chicken out but his friend is adamant that he is seeing this through. He doesn’t know how long he can sit and listen to him whining anymore.

“Sorry! No, uh, shit,” Jongseong racks his brain for words that have escaped him, biting his lip as he concentrates on how to perfectly imitate the virgin, “My name is Lee Heeseung. I am a pathetic 22-year-old and need to lose my virginity. I was wondering if you could do me the honours of popping my cherry.”

“I do not talk like that!” Heeseung protests, swatting Jongseongs arm who simply shrugs, unbothered by the offence he is causing the elder. His sole mission is to get Heeseung laid and he is so close to making that happen.

They hear you hum on the other line and immediately stop bickering, staring at the phone as if they can see you through it. “Can I speak to the real Heeseung please?”

The boy feels sick, head dizzy at the sound of his name coming from your lips but also because Jongseong is thrusting the phone into his face, moving behind him to give him the floor. He hadn’t anticipated speaking to you, just casually observing and listening in to Jongseong sell him off to you.

“Put on your big boy pants and do this!” Jongseong scolds, eyes darting between Heeseung’s face and the receiver.

Carefully, Heeseung brings it to his ear and closes his eyes, counting to ten in his head before replying. “Hi, Y/N.”

“Hi, Heeseung. How are you doing?” you ask softly. This isn’t your first rodeo with a virgin so you know better than to go in all tits blazing and calling him a big boy.

Nodding as though you can see him, Heeseung purses his lips, trying to muster up some semblance of confidence. “I’m good…how are you?” he asks, his voice wavering slightly despite his efforts to sound assured. The shaky breath he lets out betrays his nerves, and he inwardly cringes, expecting the worst.

On the other end, you can't help but giggle softly. It’s not a titter of mocking, but rather one of endearment. Virgins are the cutest to speak to in your eyes because most of them have no idea how to navigate a conversation like this. There's something charming about their genuine nervousness and innocent curiosity.

Heeseung’s embarrassment deepens as he hears your giggle, imagining all the ways he might be coming off as awkward and inexperienced. He rubs the back of his neck, feeling the heat rise to his cheeks. “I-I’m sorry if I sound nervous,” he stammers, “I’ve never done anything like this before.”

Your voice remains warm and reassuring, easing some of his anxiety. “That’s okay, Heeseung. Everyone has to start somewhere. I promise, there’s nothing to be embarrassed about.” Your voice is so smooth and lovely that Heeseung instantly relaxes. He is glad that if Jongseong picked any of the workers on the posters beside him, he is glad it was you.

Straightening his posture, Heeseung steadies himself. “My friend is right, I am a virgin and I want to get rid of it. Can you help with that?”

“You know, there’s nothing wrong with being a virgin,” you gently remind Heeseung, concern lacing your voice. “Are you sure this is how you want to do it?” You should be arranging a time and place rather than potentially jeopardising your weekly food shop, but if you were in his shoes, you’d want to offer him an escape route, just in case.

But Heeseung seems resolute now, determined to rid himself of the insecurity that has plagued him for so long. “I am. I don’t want to graduate with this hanging over my head.”

Your heart melts a little at his sincerity, and you can’t help but pout. “Okay. Well, one of my regulars...well, let’s just say I’m not seeing him anymore, so I have a free slot tomorrow at 2pm. I usually go to the Point A Hotel near the intersection. Can you make it?”

Heeseung looks to Jongseong with panicked eyes, silently pleading for reassurance. The younger man nods enthusiastically, giving him two thumbs up, mouthing a gentle “Go for it” for extra ease.

“Yeah, 2pm is fine.” His heart beats rapidly as he accepts your offer, his mouth going dry and his palms sweaty.

“Amazing. Bring £200-, no, £300 and condoms in your size,” you instruct, changing your regular rate last minute. If he is as inexperienced as he seems, he won't know you’re ripping him off a little. It’s not like you want to but it’s what you have to do. The regular that was in that slot usually paid £500 with tips. However, you will take the comfort of not having him around anymore over bills.

Jongseong’s jaw hits the floor as he hears the price, his gaze glued to the phone but before he can barter for a better deal, the phone goes dead, the five 20ps he slotted in finally running out and leaving them both in silence.

Heeseung’s arm drops to his side, still gripping the receiver as he stares blankly into space. “£300 is all my savings,” he whispers to himself, the weight of the realisation settling heavily on his shoulders. Yet, even as the words leave his mouth, he’s working out how to move his bills around and where the nearest pharmacy is for condoms.

Stepping out of the booth, Jongseong holds the door open and ushers Heeseung to follow. Heeseung, still lost in thought, obediently steps out, the crisp evening air hitting his face, a welcoming cool to the flush of his skin due to talking to a sex worker for the first time and also the heat of the booth.

Jongseong wraps an arm around his friend’s shoulder, pulling him in with a gleeful tug. “Now, let's go get you some rubbers. I’m thinking extra small?”

“Shut the fuck up, Jongseong.”

_____

Standing in front of the shabby hotel, Heeseung braces himself for what will come. He should be ecstatic that he is finally on his way to losing his v card, but the dark clouds in the sky, the three buses, and the 30-minute walk to get to the Point A hotel have given him a dreaded sense of doubt.

The once vibrant red bricks of the building are now faded and chipped, with grime clinging to the crevices. The flickering neon sign above the entrance buzzes intermittently, casting a sickly green hue that does little to dispel the gloom. The place reeks of neglect, and a faint smell of dampness hangs in the air, mingling with the odour of stale cigarettes.

Heeseung’s stomach churns as he takes in the dilapidated surroundings. His heart pounds in his chest, and his palms are slick with sweat. Everything about this goes against what he stands for, but he thinks this might be the closest he will get in his young adult life. The last thing he wants is to be a 40-year-old virgin still complaining to Jongseong that numbing his hand and rubbing one out isn’t doing it for him the way it should.

He looks up at the darkened windows, some of them boarded up, others covered in grime. A lone figure stumbles out of the entrance, clutching a bottle of Jack Daniels, and disappears into the grey afternoon, reinforcing Heeseung's trepidation. Of course, the sex worker wasn’t going to ask him to meet in a swanky five-star hotel, but anything had to be better than this.

Taking a deep breath, he tries to steady his nerves. The anticipation that should be filling him with excitement instead gnaws at him with apprehension. His mind races with conflicting thoughts – the desire to finally cross this threshold clashing with the nagging sense that he's settling for something far less than he deserves. The thought of his future self, bitter and frustrated, pushes him forward despite the unease curling in his gut.

He can't let fear dictate his choices any longer; at the end of the day, virginity is a social construct, and women are the greatest gift from God, so there is nothing to be so scared about. Taking another deep breath, he steels himself and steps forward, ready to face whatever lies ahead within the confines of the Point A hotel.

Quickly, he grabs the shutting door and steps inside, his guard raising instantly as he sees the darkness of the foyer. This is the type of place where people mug you for fun rather than necessity. Stained mattresses are leaning against the graffitied walls, the overhead lights are dull, providing little support to Heeseung’s pupils, and the carpet beneath him is sticky, every fibre clinging to the sole of his Air Max trainers.

He takes tentative steps to the front desk, which has been barricaded by crossed steel bars and adorned with a sign reading ‘Police on Speed Dial’. This does little to make him feel any safer. Heeseung’s eyes squint as he gets closer to the desk lamp and sees a middle-aged woman reading the latest issue of the Digger, a local newspaper filled with all the latest and greatest gossip of the town. The last time he read that particular paper was in the doctor's office, and the headline was ‘HE’S ESCAPED’ with a picture of the man who murdered the shopkeeper and police officer up in Brixton.

Shivering, not due to the air conditioning above him, Heeseung knocks on the desk softly and clears his throat, gaining the attention of the relaxed redhead.

“Yeah?” she asks nonchalantly, her eyes flickering up to the scared boy as if he was inconveniencing her by making her do her job. “Single, double, or meeting someone?”

The question throws Heeseung for a loop. He doesn’t know what room you're in or even if you would have given your real name. Surely, you would have created a fake persona when you came here. What if Y/N was the fake name? His pulse quickens as he stammers, trying to find the right words.

"Um, I'm meeting someone," he finally manages to say, his voice barely above a whisper. The woman sighs, clearly unimpressed, and picks up an old, dog-eared ledger from under the desk.

"Name?" she asks, flipping through the pages with a disinterested expression.

Hesitating, Heeseung picks at the skin on his fingers and clears his throat again, a blush rising to his cheeks as he remembers that this is your regular spot, meaning that as soon as he utters your name - if that is the one you gave - then she will know exactly what he is here for. “Y/N. I’m looking for Y/N.”

The receptionist's eyes suddenly trail up and down his body, making him feel as though he is already naked. He is right in his suspicions; she is definitely judging him. Once she finishes examining him, she scowls in disgust and leans back into her chair, placing her feet on the desk as she grabs her paper once more. “Room 1015. And tell her she needs to calm it down with the lube she uses; it’s a bitch to get out of the sheets.”

Heeseung's face burns with embarrassment as he mumbles a quick “thank you” and turns away from the desk. He heads towards the lift, the receptionist’s gaze still sitting in the forefront of his mind, making him even more self-conscious than before. The lift pings open to reveal a tattered metal box, illuminated by a dirty yellow light that only makes the streaks of brown and rust stand out more. Maybe Heeseung should get a tetanus shot after all of this.

He presses the first-floor button with his elbow, careful not to touch anything with his bare skin just in case, and ascends to your room. The buzz from the light and the creak of the old wires holding the elevator make the journey last forever, considering it’s only one floor. But maybe that is also just his nerves. Heeseung's mind races as he stands there, the walls of the lift feeling like they're closing in on him. The air is stale, filled with a faint metallic tang that makes him uneasy.

As the lift jerks to a halt and the doors open, Heeseung steps out into a dimly lit corridor. The wallpaper is peeling, revealing patches of mould beneath. The faint buzz of a flickering light down the hall adds to the eerie atmosphere. Heeseung takes a deep breath, trying to calm his racing heart, and walks towards room 1015. Each step feels heavier than the last, the worn carpet muffling his footsteps but not the pounding of his heart in his ears.

Pausing before your door, he abruptly pats down his jacket to ensure that he has brought the money and the condoms as per your request. His fingers brush against the crisp bills and the small, foil packets, reassuring him that he hasn’t forgotten anything crucial. The sense of preparedness does little to quell his anxiety, but it’s a small comfort amid his turmoil.

Heeseung breathes out slowly, cracking his neck as though he is bracing himself to fight with Roy Jones Jr. and not a 22-year-old girl who exchanges sex for money; although, he knows which one is scarier at this moment. His knuckles bang on the door lightly and suddenly his mind is reeling a mile a minute, all the questions and doubts he has been tackling within his mind for the past few hours now rushing to him at once. What if you aren’t who you say you are? You could be an old geezer looking to have his way with Heeseung and then toss him out the window with not so much as a thank you. What if this whole thing goes horribly wrong and cums as soon as you touch his cock? He spent last night jerking off and training himself to last just a little longer than usual in an aid to impress you.

Suddenly, there is a lump in his throat and trepidation overcasting the glee of losing his virginity. Something feels wrong, out of place, and his mum always told him to run at the first feeling of danger.

Yet, he doesn’t have another second to turn back and flee the scene because the door is swinging open and revealing-

You. Gorgeous, beautiful - definitely not a creepy old man - you. Heeseung’s jaw almost hits the floor like a cartoon character and his eyes turn to hearts as he takes you in. The baby pink robe you’re wearing with white lace detailing, your hair cascading down one of your shoulders in a soft, bouncy curl, and your lips that are tinted red like glossy maraschino cherries. You look even better than the poster in the phone booth if that was even possible.

His body flushes with heat as he sees your erect nipples poking through the silk, and he feels like he could faint. The sight of you is overwhelming, making his head spin and his heart race even faster. The trepidation that had gripped him moments before is momentarily forgotten, replaced by a rush of desire and nervous anticipation.

You smile warmly at him, a smile that reaches your eyes and seems to melt away some of his fear. "Hi, Heeseung," you say softly, your voice as smooth and inviting as honey. "Come on in."

Heeseung nods, stepping over the threshold and into the room. His movements are awkward and stiff, a stark contrast to your graceful fluidity. The door clicks shut behind him, and the reality of the situation hits him once more. But this time, the sense of wrongness is overshadowed by the sheer presence of you.

You move behind him and drink in the sight of him. If every client looked this good, you might just never complain again - but unfortunately, men like Heeseung come few and far between, like little sprinkles of water amongst oil. He is wearing slightly baggy deep-blue jeans, a white-faded-into-grey Rolling Stones t-shirt, and a red crinkled plaid shirt which is covered by a brown faux-leather jacket. Even his hair is washed and parted down the middle prettily, reaching his rosy cheeks and curving in slightly.

There isn’t a man that has ever looked this fine in your presence, so you’re starting to wonder why on earth he is still a virgin. Then again, he was super nervous on the phone, even making his friend speak for him to begin with - and with the lack of eye contact he is giving you, he clearly doesn’t do well in the presence of a female.

“I didn’t think you would come,” you observe, giggling as he tenses beside you.

Heeseung nods, agreeing with you almost immediately because for a good 2 hours while deciding on whether to wear his favourite boxers or a pair he got from his gran for Christmas, he almost decided to curl himself back into bed and forget you even existed.

The weight of his decision, the culmination of his fears and desires, all come crashing down at once as the silence settles. But standing there, with you smiling at him, he feels a small spark of hope, a glimmer of excitement that maybe, just maybe, this won’t be as terrifying as he’s imagined.

“You look unreal,” he whispers his inner thoughts out loud, causing him to slap his hand over his mouth, eyes shaking at the thought of saying anything at all to you.

His nervousness makes your heart cry, the cuteness trembling from his body is overwhelming, and you find yourself relaxing slightly. Heeseung is a gentle giant, and although he towers over you, he poses no threat at all which you gladly welcome considering what you normally have to deal with in this industry. It’s nice to not have to wonder what on earth a man is planning to do with you because you can’t read him.

Slinking your way towards him, you tuck a section of his soft hair behind his ear, his eyes closing and Adam's apple bobbing at your touch. “I’m as real as they come, baby. Why don’t you relax and give me your coat, hmm?”

As you reach for the brown jacket and try to push it off his shoulders, he flinches and backs away, hugging himself tightly. The sudden movement surprises you, and you quickly pull back, giving him space. His eyes are wide, like a deer caught in headlights, and you can see the internal struggle playing out in his mind. His face is flushed, and there's a mixture of fear and embarrassment etched into his features.

He quickly shakes his head, realising he startled you into a confused pout. “S-sorry! It’s just the money and condoms are in here and I…I think I might still be a little on edge considering this place is…well, it’s creepy as shit.”

Laughing loudly, you do a mix of nodding and shaking your head, puzzled by his reaction but understanding his apprehension of letting just anyone touch his belongings; God knows you’ve been held at knifepoint once or twice around this area. Your laughter, genuine and bright, seems to relax him a bit.

“That’s okay, Heeseung,” you say, throwing your hands up in a non-threatening gesture in an attempt to ease his tension, which works surprisingly well. You can see his grip on his arms loosen just a bit. “How about you hang it up behind the door?”

Heeseung looks over his shoulder and sees the empty hook, calling out for his slightly battered jacket. Whipping it off, he clenches it in his hands as though he is wringing it of water - probably his sweat - and perks up again, the nerves still evident in his voice. “Do I give you the money now or?”

You smile at his earnestness, understanding his need to follow the process correctly. His vulnerability is endearing, and you feel a protective instinct kicking in. “Normally, I would take the money upfront but since I trust you not to run away, we can sort it out before you go.” It’s a generous offer in Heeseung’s mind, but in yours, you just don’t know whether he is going to make it past touching one of your tits, so it’s better to actually charge him for what you do rather than jumping the gun.

Heeseung’s eyes widen slightly at your trust, and you can see the relief washing over him. He nods vigorously, his movements still somewhat jerky but more controlled now. “Thank you,” he mumbles, his voice soft but sincere. “I appreciate it.”

As he hangs his jacket on the hook, you can see his hands trembling slightly. He takes a deep breath, his chest rising and falling as he tries to steady himself. When he turns back to you, there’s a flicker of determination in his eyes, mingled with the lingering nervousness.

Turning around, you are suddenly standing there, your body almost pressed against his. “Come on, sit down for a minute,” you say seductively, code-switching into your sex worker persona with ease. It doesn’t take much, just lowering your voice slightly and hooding your eyes over seems to work for most men, and by Heeseung’s expression and nervous shuffle of his feet, it clearly works for him too.

You reach for his hand, and he instantly flinches, but soon gives way for you to wrap your hands around three of his fingers, slowly guiding him to sit on the edge of the bed. His breath hitches as your touch sends shivers down his spine, the warmth of your skin against his sending a jolt of electricity through him.

Heeseung’s heart pounds in his chest as he sits down, the bed sinking slightly under his weight. He can feel the heat of your body radiating against his, your closeness both comforting and intimidating. His mind races with a whirlwind of emotions—fear, desire, anticipation—all swirling together in a dizzying haze.

You sit beside him, your thigh pressing against his, and he can feel the warmth of your skin seeping through the fabric of his trousers. The sensation sends a shiver down his spine, and he can feel his cheeks flushing with heat. He swallows hard, trying to calm the rapid fluttering of his heart. He shifts uncomfortably, his nerves getting the better of him. But your presence is calming, your touch gentle and reassuring.

“Baby, we don’t have to do this if you don’t want to,” you assure him, bringing your hand to play with the hairs on the nape of his neck.

The action causes his body to instantly fold inside itself, melting as you ease him gently into a state of comfort. He hasn’t been touched by a girl in the way you are right now, the closest he’s gotten is a handhold in primary 5 because his friends forced a girl to date him during lunch, so the way your long nails tickle his heated skin only gives his cock a reason to twitch.

Shaking his head, tensing slightly when he looks into your kind eyes. “No, no, I want to. I’m just not used to talking to girls, or looking at them, or being in the same room as them…” He begins to waffle, talking about everything he has never done with a girl and you find his honesty endearing.

“You haven’t kissed a girl either, have you?” you ask with a hint of amusement.

“Twice? I think. But they weren’t with tongues,” the shy boy cowards with his confession, scared of being scrutinised by the one person who is supposed to be helping him with all of this. He might just die if you start to point and laugh at him. But to his surprise, you nod understandingly.

In your world of sex and adultery, it isn’t usually a question. Everyone, especially at twenty-two has probably at least been kissed, but you don’t judge him for not being experienced in even that field. There is a vulnerability and sadness in Heeseung’s eyes that tell you everything you need to know about him; he’s quiet, timid, lacks confidence, and obviously doesn’t venture outside his friend group

You smile reassuringly, your hand still clasping his as you nod in consideration. “It’s okay, Heeseung,” you say softly, your voice filled with warmth and understanding. “We’ll take things slow, at your pace. And I promise, there’s no judgment here…I do have to make sure you’re of age though, y’know, caution and all that.”

It’s not that you think he is lying, you just need to be careful with clients like this, particularly virgins because sometimes it can be a boy chancing his arm at a shot to lose his virginity, and you are not catching a case for a few hundred quid.

Nodding, Heeseung understands what you mean and points to his jacket. “My provisional license is in my chest pocket. The one on the right,” he instructs. He would go get it himself but his legs are boneless with your proximity, so to save him embarrassment, he’ll let you venture for it.

You release his hand with a tender squeeze before walking to the door and reaching for his jacket, your fingers deftly searching through the pocket until you find his provisional license. With a quick glance to confirm his age, you let out a breath of relief. Everything checks out.

He is also super handsome despite the stoic face and reputation that licenses have for making people look ugly, which you think is unfair but don’t comment. Your driver's license looks like you’ve been swallowed by Jabba the Hutt and regurgitated back up, so the envy you are feeling is real right now.

Suppressing the green monster at Heeseung’s flawless appearance, you slip his license back into his pocket and make your way back to him, your movements slow and deliberate. As you draw nearer, you can see the anticipation in his eyes, his gaze fixed on you with a mixture of nerves and lust.

Teasingly, you undo the tie of your thin robe, letting it open slightly and revealing a tantalising glimpse of what Heeseung is paying for. The fabric falls away, exposing the curve of your left breast, perfectly formed and enticing.

Heeseung’s eyes widen at the sight, his breath catching in his throat as he takes in the sight before him. His cheeks flush crimson, and you can see the desire burning in his eyes as he drinks in every inch of your exposed skin.

This is his first time seeing a boob in the flesh and by God does porn not do it justice. Yours are just what he wants, the perfect size, look, and probably feel; he really needs to thank Jongseong for choosing you for this because he thinks he has hit the jackpot.

Licking his lips, his eyes trace down to your panties and it instantly makes him squirm in place. They match your robe, a soft baby pink but the main body of them is seethrough, decorated by small pink hearts and a delicate bow on the side. The band of them are a pale rose, popping the colour of your skin beneath them.

Seeing his reaction boosts your ego and you turn around, letting the silk drop at your feet as you glance back at him playfully, wiggling your bum to show how the panties are actually a thong that sits perfectly between your plump cheeks.

Heeseung doesn’t know where to look, your naked back, your peachy ass, or your beautiful featured face. So he decides what any virgin in his situation would do and looks away, staring at the popcorn ceiling that has leak stains on it.

Giggling, you walk over to him and straddle his lap, flicking your hair to the back to leave your breasts bare and in perfect sight for him to ogle at. Yet, he still doesn’t move. With a playful huff, you cup his face, your false nails scratching behind his ear as you pull him back to look at you.

“You’re going to have to look at me, baby,” you tease, angling his head and your body so his eyes have nowhere to look but your tits.

They’re even better up close and if Heeseung were any other man, he would be taking your perky nipple into his mouth and starting this session with ease. But he is not any other man, he is a virgin who drools at the sight of any Playboy or Zoo magazines in the windows of shops and then immediately feels guilty because he hates objectifying women in any way shape or form.

He even feels guilty for his cock twitching in his pants every time you call him baby, knowing you’re feeling how it’s practically jumping to be released from its confines and in your grasp.

Sensing his apprehension to make a move, you decide to take the lead slowly by kissing his forehead, your tits hitting his chest as you push further onto him with the movement. “We’ll start by kissing and see where it goes, yeah?”

Your voice is forgiving and reassuring, the pads of your thumbs stroking his cheeks with fondness that only makes him mewl out slightly. You stifle the laugh because you know how humiliated he will feel if you do, not understanding that the cause of your amusement isn’t due to his whining but rather how much you’re enjoying how lost in your touch he is.

Gently, you take his hands and place them on your waist, giving him as much guidance as you can without it becoming demanding. He tenses as he feels your velvety skin, your perfume enveloping him in a mask of florals and vanilla.

"Relax, Heeseung," you say calmly, your voice soothing and encouraging. "We will go as far as you want, and we can stop at any time. Just say the word, okay?

Heeseung nods, meeting your gaze with a mix of anxiety and trust. "Okay," he replies, just above a whisper.

Moving his hands up your back, Heeseung slowly eases into feeling you, gaining confidence with each tender stroke. His touch is gentle, almost reverent, and it sends a shiver of pleasure down your spine. It's a welcome change from the roughness you're used to with your last client in this slot, and you find yourself sinking into the sensation, enjoying the intimacy of a man's touch for the first time in a long time.

It makes you wonder if this is what having a boyfriend would be like.

Heeseung’s eyes haven’t left your breasts, committing every bump of your areola and stretch mark that creates a beautiful symphony of elegant but sexy, each nipple unique in its appearance and direction. There’s nothing better than your boobs at this moment in time; he would pay you the £300 right now if just for one squeeze.

Then it hits him - he could hold them if he wanted to, that’s what he is here to do after all.

Ghosting his fingers up your back, he creates a path for them to cascade from your shoulders to the top of your breast. You feel a surge of anticipation as he gets closer, his touch sending sparks of pleasure through your body, your cunt starting to drip at the gentle caress.

He stops for a while, contemplating his next move. His eyes look up to yours pleadingly, the virginity shining through his iris’. “Can I?” he asks, seeking permission before delving in.

The act of consent fills you with warmth, and without hesitation, you nod, a reassuring smile playing on your lips. “Anything you want to do, baby,” you assure him, your voice filled with encouragement.

Heeding your words, Heeseung finally makes his move, his digits whispering to your skin, giving them a tentative rub as he watches the skin melt around him. His thumb strokes over your left nipple, playing with it as if it were a fragile piece of art that he was too scared to break.

For some reason, the act is making you emotional, the way he is so delicately touching you. Never in your career have you seen something so pure and heartwarming. Every other virgin that has called you is just trying to stick it in your hole, never caring about your feelings or comfort.

Lifting his face up, you stare into his eyes with an underlying sparkle of adoration. If you could keep him as a client forever, you would, but you fear that this will be the last and only time with him, so you need to make it count.

You lean in, lips hovering over his petal-like ones and wait there for a moment, a silent ask for consent. It’s only fair considering his decency towards you.

With a nod and a stuttering motion, he presses his lips to yours oh-so-sheepishly. The touch is feather-light, almost tentative, and you can feel his nervousness in the way his lips tremble against yours. Yet there's a sweetness to it, a genuine curiosity and yearning that tugs at your heartstrings.

You respond gently, your lips moving softly against his, guiding him with tender patience. The kiss is slow, unhurried, and as you deepen it slightly, you feel him relax, his hands finding their way to your waist, gripping you a little tighter. His lips part instinctively, and you take the opportunity to slide your tongue against his, eliciting a soft gasp from him.

Heeseung’s reaction is immediate, his body responding to the new sensation with a mixture of surprise and pleasure. You can feel the tension melting away from him, replaced by growing confidence as he starts to explore the kiss with a bit more boldness. His hands roam cautiously, tracing the curve of your hips and the small of your back, his touch still delicate but increasingly assured.

Breaking the kiss, you rest your forehead against his, both of you breathing heavily. The intimacy of the moment hangs in the air, thick and heady, and you can see the mix of emotions playing out on his face - desire, excitement, and a lingering trace of apprehension.

“You’re doing so well, Heeseung,” you murmur softly, your fingers gently stroking the nape of his neck. “Just let yourself feel, and don’t worry about anything else.”

Heeseung’s eyes glisten with a mixture of gratitude and relief, and he nods, swallowing hard. “Okay,” he whispers, his voice steadier now. “Thank you.”

“You’re thanking me for kissing you?” you giggle, pecking his lips quickly. “How about I give you something to thank me for, to make sure you’re ready, hmm?”

Heeseung’s eyes widen, knowing exactly the act you’re alluding to, and he nods like an excited boy, a grin plastering on his face that exhibits disbelief and glee.

You guide him to lie back on the bed, the soft creak of the mattress punctuating the moment. Heeseung’s body is tense with anticipation, his hands clutching at the sheets as he watches you with a mixture of awe and nervous excitement. You feel a wave of tenderness for him, this young man who is putting his trust in you, hoping you can make this experience as good as he's imagined.

“Just relax,” you purr, your hands trailing down his chest, fingers brushing over his taut muscles that are hiding under his t-shirt. You can feel the rapid beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. “I’m going to take care of you.”

Slowly, you work your way down his body, your lips planting soft kisses along his chest and lift up the hem of his shirt to pepper some on his stomach. Each touch elicits a small gasp from him, his body reacting to the new sensations with a mix of surprise and pleasure. You can feel his muscles relaxing under your touch, his trust in you growing with each gentle caress. You feel a strange mix of responsibility and pride, wanting to show him just how good it can feel to be touched and cared for.

Reaching the waistband of his jeans, you look up at him, your eyes meeting his. “Is this okay?” you ask, giving him one last chance to change his mind.

“Yes,” he breathes out, his voice barely a whisper. “Please.”

With his consent, you unbutton his trousers and slowly slide them down, his boxers following suit. Heeseung’s erection springs free, his breath hitching as the cool air hits his heated skin. You take a moment to admire him, your fingers tracing delicate patterns along his length, feeling the tension and anticipation coiled within him. There's a sense of reverence in this moment, understanding the weight of trust he has placed in you.

“Just relax,” you repeat, your voice soothing as you wrap your hand around his shaft, giving it a gentle squeeze. He’s at least 6 inches and girthy, making your pussy clench at the thought of him being inside of you. “It’s a shame you’re not letting girls hit it, your cock is fucking spectacular.”

Heeseung’s face flushes with pride and embarrassment as you lower your head, your breath ghosting over his tip. “Oh, this is really happening…okay….fuck…” he breathes out, face turning red and eyes closing as he braces himself for the first contact. No one’s mouth has come this close to his cock so the feeling is overwhelming to his virgin mind.

You watch as his eyes flutter shut, his lips parting in a silent gasp and slowly take him into your mouth, your tongue swirling around his head, tasting the salty bead of pre-cum that has gathered there. His taste is new, unfamiliar, but not unpleasant - almost clean and without the taste of battery acid some of the men you work with have - and you relish the sounds he makes in response.

Heeseung’s reaction is immediate, his hips bucking slightly as a strangled moan escapes his lips. You place your hands on his hips, holding him steady as you begin to move, your mouth sliding up and down his length in a slow, rhythmic motion. The intimacy of this act, the connection you feel with him, makes your own body respond, a warmth pooling between your thighs.

His fingers dig into the sheets, his knuckles white as he tries to keep himself grounded, his breaths coming in short, sharp gasps. You can feel the tension building within him, the way his body trembles with each pass of your lips and tongue. You can sense his struggle to remain composed, his vulnerability on full display, and it makes you want to give him everything he needs.

Heeseung is doing everything in his power not to bust a nut right now, holding back as best as he can. He is also trying not to scream out a tiny ‘Yipee’ at the feeling of your tongue swirling the head of his cock. He’s trying to think of anything that isn’t sexy; his gran, Tony Blair, the old milkman that he swore spat in the milk before he delivered it. Yet, nothing is working because you are that fucking good, your mouth is driving him crazy that he genuinely thinks he could go insane.

You increase your pace slightly, your hand joining in to stroke the base of his shaft in time with your movements, and you can tell he’s close. His moans grow louder, his hips straining against your grip as he teeters on the edge of release. The power you hold over him in this moment is intoxicating, yet you wield it with care, wanting his first experience to be unforgettable.

And unforgettable it will be because just as Heeseung is seeing stars, the door swings open, revealing an angry and brute man. His face is red, sweating from the heat outside, his bald spot gleaming in the overhead light from outside, and his beer belly hanging over his two-sizes-too-small jeans, barely covered by the black worn-out t-shirt.

Charging in, he grips your hair, pulling out chunks of it and possibly some of your scalp as he rips your mouth off of Heeseung’s painfully hard cock. You scream in agony, tears pricking your eyes as he drags you around the room like a ragdoll.

Heeseung's euphoria crashes into a pit of dread, his heart pounding in fear as he scrambles to understand what’s happening. The shock freezes him momentarily, but seeing you in pain snaps him into action. He leaps from the bed, his mind racing with panic and the urgent need to help you.

But he doesn’t know what to do, his hands trembling and stomach tied in knots as he watches the man lift you up by your hair swinging you around as if you are nothing but a paintbrush he is trying to beat dry.

“You little slut!” the man yells, grabbing your throat with his free hand and pushing you against one of the walls. “This is my session, bitch. I pay you to fuck me, not suck off this toothpick!” The grip on your throat tightens with every syllable spat in your face.

You kick your legs in a pathetic attempt to get the man off you, your air cutting off as your face burns red with struggle. You take a good look at the man and realise it’s your client who usually has your 2pm slot, the same man who tried to force himself on you in your last session and ignored your boundaries. It happens sometimes in this job but they don’t typically come back and try to kill you, at least not in your experience.

Girls at your old job warned you about this, sharing detailed encounters with disgruntled punters, but never did you think that you would be confronting one so early on. He used to be a nice guy, tipping well and never being handsy when it was uncalled for, so when he tried to slip it in a hole only reserved for birthdays, you instantly told him to get out and never come back.

Yet, here he is, choking you out in front of a man you barely know, probably terrifying him for the rest of time. He came here to lose his virginity, not gain trauma.

Heeseung's heart pounds with fear and anger. The man’s violent outburst had shattered any lingering nervousness, replacing it with a fierce determination to protect you. His initial shock melts away, leaving only a raw, primal need to help you. He can't let this happen, not after what you've done for him, not to someone who’s shown him such kindness.

His eyes lock onto the lamp on the bedside table, contemplating his next move. He isn’t equipped for this but he has to make sure you’re safe at any cost. You don’t deserve this, no woman does, you provide a service that most men take advantage of - but not him, he won’t let this brute of a man win.

Apparently, you have the same mentality, your eyes searching the room for any object nearby. Your vision starts to black out, flashes of unconsciousness flickering over your eyes as you see a vase placed close to your right. It’s a stretch, but you reach out to grab it, your arm going limp and legs losing the fight but that determination in your body courses through and creates enough adrenaline to pinch the top of the vase.

With a swift motion, you lazily but forcefully thump him over the head with it. The blow lands with a thickening thud and the vase shatters into pieces, some of it cutting your arms as they ricochet down onto the ground. The grip on your throat eases ever so slightly as the attacker’s eyes roll to the back of his head for a moment, giving you the much-needed chance to breathe.

Heeseung, caught up in planning his own attack, grabs the lamp, the weight feeling solid and reassuring in his hands. He doesn’t think twice as he swings it with all his might, aiming for the man’s head.

“Let her go!” Heeseung screams, his voice cracking but filled with rage. He catches the man again with the base of the metal lamp, this time on his temple, forcing him to stumble back.

You gasp for air, collapsing to the floor as the man’s grip finally releases. Focusing your eyes on his face, you see the life drain from his body, the snarl that once painted his features now relaxing, face paling instantly as you see him wobble before crashing to the ground beside you.

Clinging to yourself out of adrenaline and fear, you cough, still gasping for needed air and that’s when you see it, the blood rushing from the guy’s head, leaking onto the carpet and staining it crimson with every passing second. Heeseung notices the damage just as quickly as you do, eyes widening and his head shaking, adamant that the man can’t be what he thinks he is.

“Oh my god,” Heeseung whispers, his voice trembling with shock. He drops the lamp, the clatter against the floor barely registering in his mind. “Is he... did I...?” He stutters, unable to complete his sentence, the reality of the situation crashing down on him.

You swallow the lump in your throat, adrenaline puppeteering your body to scramble away from the body and stand up, your eyes trained on the man as your body searches for a perch to rest on. The telephone and trinkets clatter to the ground as you lean against the Chester drawers, your heart pounding so loud you swear you can hear sirens.

“We…we need to call an ambulance,” Heeseung mutters, looking between the man and his own murderous hands. He can’t believe he caused this, a man is lying on the floor, gushing blood from his head all because of him.

As soon as the sentence leaves Heeseung’s mouth, your eyes shoot to him in bewilderment, mouth drying up at the thought. “We need to get out of here, Heeseung, we can’t call an ambulance.”

“We can’t just leave him here!” he protests, mirroring your confused expression.

“If an ambulance comes, then the police will, and we are fucked,” you exclaim in a rushed whisper, aware of your surroundings in the thin-walled hotel, not to mention the fact that the door is still wide open for anyone to stumble upon the brutality that has just occurred.

“It was self-defence!” he retorts, pointing to your neck as if punctuating the sentence with evidence.

You tremble, holding your throat and shaking your head, tears brimming in your eyes despite the urge in you to stay strong; you have never once been a crier, and you refuse to start now, not when you need to keep your head in the game and stay focused. “I’m a sex worker, Heeseung! They’ll lock me up in a minute and blame me for everything.”

Your brain betrays you, flashing with what could happen to you if the police even caught a whiff of you being here. It would automatically be your fault, no matter your plea of innocence. The authorities hate you despite most of them using call girls to relieve themselves in ways they won’t let their wives. You can see it now: the media frenzy, the courtroom, the cold, judgmental eyes of the jurors.

Heeseung’s eyes widen with understanding and fear, his breath coming in quick, shallow gasps. “What do we do?” he whispers, desperation lacing his voice. “I can’t go to jail, Y/N, they will eat me alive.”

Looking at him, you see how scared he is and you suddenly feel remorse over every other emotion that swirls in your body. He might have battered him over the head but it was you who was behind the reason; the boy felt an obligation to help you because he was here and afraid for your wellbeing. There is no way you can leave him to face this alone. It gnaws at you because you knew you should have either moved time or location, your gut telling you to do so only yesterday, but you ignored it, telling yourself that you were overreacting.

“We need to get out of here. Now,” you say with urgency, reaching over the dead weight of a man and grabbing your robe, tying it quickly around your practically naked body. “Grab your stuff, we’ll go down the back stairs, my car is in the worker's lot.”

“Where would we go? They know that we’re here,” Heeseung protests, running his hands through his hair in frustration, grabbing handfuls and tugging harshly as if trying to wake himself up from this nightmare.

Exasperated, you roll your eyes and snatch your bag from the end of the bed. You manoeuvre yourself around the room with desperate urgency, the breaths you are heaving out fueling you to think straight and keep to a plan. It’s pure fear that is driving your body right now, but you don’t fight it. Instead, you let it take you to safety and away from the carnage that you suddenly don't dare to look at.

Seeing you move with immediateness to the door, Heeseung subconsciously follows you like a lost puppy. Unfortunately for him, his fight-or-flight response has a third option: go into a state of haze. He doesn’t know what to do, and the bright idea that caused the mess before him only makes him doubt his mind about the next move, so he’ll follow you for now.

As you glance back at him, you see one slight issue, causing you to halt in your tracks, sparking confusion on his face, those bambi eyes you noticed now in full swing, making your heart flutter in the most awkward of times. Shaking it off, you turn your body and look down. “Uh, Heeseung?”

“What is it? What’s wrong, Y/N?” he asks nervously, his voice trembling with uncertainty.

Closing your eyes, you take a deep breath, steadying yourself before you speak. “You might need your pants,” you explain, opening your eyes and glancing pointedly at his semi-hard cock.

Heeseung’s face flushes a bright red, emulating the shade of a ripe tomato before he nods. His eyes dart around the room, searching for his clothes, only to spot his trousers and pants trapped under the dead man’s body. The sight of it sends a fresh wave of panic through him, his breath hitching in his throat. “Oh no... they’re under him,” he mumbles, his voice tinged with dread.

You take another deep breath, steeling yourself. “You have to move him, just enough to get your clothes. Can you do that?”

“Oh, yeah, just watch me heave up a 300-pound man off my Levis. Look at me, Y/N, I’m hardly a fucking gym rat.” The deflation and anguish in his voice are palpable as he walks around to the side where his jeans lie trapped.

You know he doesn’t mean to be rude to you, that it’s the fear talking, but you do miss when he was shy and couldn’t even form a coherent sentence without stuttering. At least then he wasn’t semi-shouting at you.

“Okay, okay,” you say softly, trying to calm him down. “We’ll do it together. I’ll help you.” You crouch down beside him, the closeness of the dead man making your stomach churn, but you push through it. You have to.

Heeseung’s hands are shaking as he reaches out, his fingers trembling as they touch the dead man’s shoulder. You can see the revulsion in his eyes, the sheer disbelief that he’s in this situation. With a deep breath, he steels himself, looking at you for reassurance.

“We can do this,” you say firmly, giving him a small nod. “On three, okay? One, two, three.”

Together, you heave, your muscles straining as you push the heavy, lifeless body just enough to free Heeseung’s clothes. The man’s weight is immense, and it takes every ounce of strength you both have. The dead weight shifts slightly, and Heeseung quickly grabs his trousers and pants, pulling them free with a grunt.

“Got them,” he says, his voice a mix of relief and horror as he scrambles to his feet, stepping away from the body as quickly as he can.

You stand up as well, wiping your hands on your robe, trying to rid yourself of the feeling of death that clings to your skin. “Hurry, put them on. We need to get out of here.”

Heeseung nods, his movements hurried and shaky as he pulls on his trousers and pants. The adrenaline pumping through his veins makes him fumble with the buttons, his hands still trembling. You watch him, your heart pounding in your chest, willing him to move faster.

Once he's dressed, you hastily grab his hand, pulling him out of the room and leading him to the backstairs, aiming for your trusty old Austin Metro. Your heart feels like it's about to burst out of your chest, the adrenaline of fear coursing through your veins. How could this happen to you? You were just trying to live your life and make some money, not become an accomplice to murder.

Heeseung's thoughts mirror yours, his mind reeling at the sudden turn of events. All he wanted was to lose his virginity, not become entangled in a murder. As his feet scurry behind yours on the stone steps of the hotel, he realises there's no way out of this. There's no one to save him; this experience has irrevocably altered his life, but not in the way he ever imagined.

He walked into that room as a virgin, but now he's leaving as a murderer.

taglist (closed): @yzzyhee @intromortal @zerobaseone-zhanghao @hooniehon @deobitifull @alvojake @sageryuri @slut4hee @binniesbabe @vveebee @minniejenseo @jebetwo @seunghancore @laurradoesloveu @yongbokified @jaehoonii @jaeyunluvr @melonvrs @criminalyun @enhastolemyheart @fakeuwus @flwrhoes @rayofsunshineeee @moonlighthoon @jaehyuniewifeu @en-ternals @haechonly @got-sunghooned @brownsugarbaybee @heeseungspookie @sunpov @who-tf-soddhi @bambangan

#enhypen smut #enha smut #enhypen x reader #enha x reader #heeseung smut #iavnam #aj writes #lee heeseung smut

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bunnys-kisses · 26 days ago

Note

Hello, I would like to order a blueberry bars, fried dough and a honey cruller with an mocha coffee, mai tai and naked & famous. It's a big order but could you please do it?

(could be the reader innocent, soft and adorable and Carlos would be the opposite, please)

I send good wishes!💓

bakery menu!!

want to submit your own order? then hit up the menu!! there are a ton of items to check out! i love writing these and thank you so much for those who have sent me things! i've grown so soft for carlos lately and been having a ball writing for him!

blueberry bars: “gonna make you a mamma and you're gonna make me a daddy.” + fried dough: "i know virginity is a stupid concept... but i want to take yours." + honey cruller: "i forget how small you are sometimes." + mocha coffee: breeding kink + naked & famous: bimbo/ditzy!reader served by carlos sainz jr (formula one)!!

cw: smut/pwp, virgin!reader, ditzy!reader, breeding kink, size difference & kink, missionary position

"so, how do you know where to go?" you asked as you practically skipped alongside your boyfriend of the last few months. the practice for monza ended a few hours earlier and now you were headed back to the ferrari motor-home, where you'd be staying for the weekend.

"go where?"

you tapped your chin, "on the track. like, how do you know to go one way instead of the other? nothing on the track is really labeled, what if you drove the entire thing backwards!"

carlos knew you were a bit... ditzy. not in a bad way, you were curious and always willing to learn. it was just that you were so painfully sweet and innocent, even down to having your virginity in tact.

he felt the need to protect you.

he wrapped a strong arm around you and kissed you on the cheek, "don't worry, i have a whole team to make sure i get where i need to go as fast as i can." he laughed a little bit before he kissed you, "i forget how small you are sometimes." his voice tinged with a certain affection.

back at the hotel room, you shrugged off carlos' jacket that he kept over your shoulders most of the evening after practice and the interviews. he seemed to be going strong for the upcoming race, which excited you greatly. when he won, you both won! you were carlos' number one fan (he agreed)!

while you were both curled up in the bedroom, you were playing with carlos' hand while he used his phone with the other. occasionally he turned the screen to you to show you a funny post on the internet. you giggled and leaned up to kiss him. it only took a few kisses before the phone was placed on the nightstand and he was crowded in your space on the bed.

he was very blunt when he asked you, "i know virginity is a stupid concept... but i want to take yours." you were transparent about being a virgin, and while carlos would take no as an answer. he wanted to take it, not out of some pride. but because he loved you. he linked his fingers with yours and leaned in to your face, "and tonight, i'm gonna make you a mamma and you're gonna make me a daddy.”

your cheeks went warm, "carlos..." you wanted to hide your face but he grasped your face to look at him. you stared into his dark eyes and you swallowed. you asked him, "you want my virginity?"

carlos replied as he leaned in, "screw that. i want you. i want to enjoy your body and feel close to you. i don't care if you're a virgin. i just want you however i can have you." he got on top of you, "what do you say? a night of good luck before the grand prix." he smiled at you in the low light of the bedroom.

"what about charles next door." you tilted your head to the shared wall of the bedrooms and almost yelped when carlos got closer once more.

"he is out tonight, visiting his friend." he chuckled as he brushed his nose up against the sensitive part of your neck, "as long as you don't yell bloody murder, no one will bother us." his hand grazed between your legs and your pulse jumped.

he smiled once more as he lips trailed your neck. you wrapped your arms around him and tried to pull his t-shirt up by the shoulders. you felt bathed in warm, a blush that was felt in your entire body.

you helped him out of his clothes and he helped you out of yours. he kissed at your heated skin and whispered small words of praise. he wanted to make sure you knew how loved you were by him.

even with your ditzy personality, how innocent you were. like the time you got shocked by how loud the car was, or when he explained to you three different times how the cars worked and each time you said the wheel looked like a wii u controller. a comment that made him laugh each time.

you laid out on the soft bed, most would kill for a bed this comfortable. you looked up at your lover, the soft light highlighted his best features. those dark eyes pulled you in as he took you by the hips and rubbed his achy cock up against your pussy.

"are you going to get me pregnant tonight, carlos?"

he chuckled and leaned forward, "not tonight. but, you like the idea? the idea of having a family with me? me getting you pregnant?" he rubbed his cock up against you. you tensed up and he coaxed, "relax, relax."

you swallowed and held onto the pillow under your head. you were stark naked and felt so vulnerable, "i do like it... the idea of you getting me pregnant." it spoke to a core instinct you had in your head. the need to be with the one you loved. the thought made your core grow hotter.

"want me to make you a mother?" he said as he rubbed up against you some more before he sank his cock into you slowly. something ran through him at the idea that he was the first person you had been with sexually. at least this capacity of sexually.

"carlos. i love you." you said softly as you felt the stretch of his cock inside of you. it made your back arch a little from the feeling, but you tried to keep your noises down. the slight pain was soon replaced with pleasure as carlos started to move his hips.

the pace was steady, not too fast, but also not painfully slow. carlos made you feel protective and cared for, even now while you were under him. the bed shifted a little under your movements and your noises were sweet.

"are you feeling alright?" he asked, he leaned closer to you. he yearned for your warmth as he made you feel good.

you nodded, "of course. i feel great." you scratched your nails across the hair on the back of his neck. he looked at you, those brown eyes held so much love.

carlos wanted to make a family with you. to call it a breeding kink felt so dirty, more dirty than it had to be. he wanted to create a family with you. not built from the product of lust, but from love and kindness. he wanted to show love to you and the child or children you had. he wanted to fill your days with love and nights with passion. he wanted you in every way he could have you. to love and protect you for the rest of his days. you had captured his heart with your genuine kindness.

he wanted you pregnant, living together. you being his beautiful, lovely wife who he adored more than anything. you gave him purpose beyond racing. you kept his heart beating. you were innocent in such a way that carlos felt protective over you. you brought love into his life and he adored every second together. even if he performed at his worst on the track, he would find comfort in your arms. and now in your pussy. he moved against you, he marginally picked up. it was a good steady pace that brought pleasure into your blood. it made your head feel a little fuzzy, but in a great way.

"carlos." you moaned, "honey."

"how does it feel?" carlos asked as he continued to move against his. he was feeling his own pleasure and knew he wasn't going to last much longer. he could feel the throb in his body.

you nodded, "feels really good, almost as good as when i do it on my own." you moaned a little bit when the pleasure zapped through your body once more. you clung to your lover and felt a sea of pleasure in your gut. you held onto him tightly and felt the pleasure hit its peak. your moan caught in your throat when you felt the climax.

"beautiful." he said softly as he continued to rut against you. his pace picked up, but was mindful about hurting you. his hips met yours as he smothered your face in kisses.

the post-orgasmic bliss felt amazing as you clung to your lover. you heard his short noises as he moved against you. he held onto your hips a bit tighter as he felt climax on the tip of his tongue. he was on a knife's edge and he pulled you into a heated kiss when he finished inside of you.

"please,please give me a baby." he panted.

you nodded dumbly, "anything you want." your eyes were half-closed from the pleasure and it only turned carlos on further. he took your virginity, "i love you."

he smiled down at you and held you in his arms. his cock still snug in your pussy. he was still painfully hard. you really have done a number to him and as he started to move for the second round. he felt an immense love for you.

"i love you too, my future wife." <3

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fatesundress · 1 year ago

Text

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine.

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones.

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary.

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly.

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile?

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up.

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about?

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers.

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession.

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary.

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure?

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning.

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with.

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge.

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books.

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls.

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin.

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated.

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again.

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any.

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now.

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice.

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all. You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else.

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them.

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten.

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.)

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true.

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer.

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t.

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid.

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless.

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that.

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately.

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end.

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight.

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes.

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand.

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain, a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him.

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love.

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock.

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly.

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it.

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.)

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish.

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same.

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much.

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition.

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal.

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it.

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is.

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —”

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant.

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor.

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together.

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident.

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be.

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop.

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece.

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that."

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval.

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will."

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis.

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain.

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.”

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back.

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake."

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster.

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating.

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself.

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh.

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes.

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you.

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

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