#Idk I'm a bit scared... I'm not used to this... :( and he's looking at me like I'm precious

[guinevereslancelot]

starting to kind of date someone right before christmas is so stressful fr. do i get him a gift or what we've been on two dates but i'm seeing him tonight n it's christmas eve.....but what if he didn't get me anything then it will be weird.....

[omarfor-orchestra]

.

[that-was-anticlimactic]

lol my student teaching supervisor sent me my feedback video because he observed me friday and it was twenty minutes long and he essentially said that he was disappointed in me and that i did a disservice to american poetry so i'm feeling pretty good about myself

[mrfoox]

Uuuuum... Finding someone who seems to want to touch me as bad as I is.... Scary

[nerdlvr]

not so little is it?

(MDNI)

younger jaemin x older reader , small age gap , jaemin is brothers best friend , ur brother is mark lee , big dick jaem , jaem is bigger than reader , size kink if you squint , kinda public sex (ur both in the kitchen & living room and mark is in his room) , harsh blowjob , cowgirl yeehaw , couch missionary , jaemin is cocky and mean , pet names like a lot , light mocking , degradation kinda , jaemin refers to himself and y/n in third person sometimes idk , jaemin knows how to use his dick damn... , requested here !

it  had been the fifth time that night that you had called jaemin baby. and not baby in a i wanna fuck you type of way, baby in a little boy type of way. If only you could go into his brain and see all the things jaemin would do to shut you up. maybe he’d stuff your mouth with his big, hard-

“babyy, are you listening? The popcorns ready!”

jaemin felt his eye twitch, a small fake smile directed at your pretty face. he shook his head softly, turning his head back to focus on the movie.

“dude you need to stop calling him that, we’re not even that much younger than you.”

jaemin could not agree more with your brother.

he was never one to hold grudges, it was childish, unlike him. but for some reason you had been more annoying than usual tonight, the high pitched ‘baby’ and the sweet toned ‘minnie’ only itching him in all the wrong places.

he turned to the clock in mark’s room, 2:00 AM, well shit. had he really laid here for 3 hours straight thinking about your annoying mouth? his eyes drifted down to his now tented boxers, well double shit. maybe thinking about your mouth right next to your sleeping brother wasn’t the best idea. he needed a walk.

.

the cool air from the fridge numbed his senses, his nipples perking up at the soft breeze.

ice cream, butter, cheese, ew. did mark have anything without milk? wait isn’t mark lactose intoler- “his fridge looks like something out of a horror film right?”jaemin felt the hair on his body rise as he jumped, the fridge shutting loudly behind him, a hand coming up to his chest, “jesus you scared me.”

you giggled as you poked his bare chest, "sorry didn't mean to scare you baby. was just coming out for a snack."

baby, did you like to test his patience? he pushed your hand away as he let out a loud huff, "don't call me that."

your soft giggle continued to ring in his ears, your hands now moving to pinch the fabric of his boxers, "call you what, bunny boy?"

his eyes drifted down to his boxers, small bunnies adorning the fabric. he grabbed your wandering hand, smirking as you let out a pained whine. "does your mouth do anything good besides spout nonsense?"

you ripped your hand away from his tightening grasp, your free hand coming up to massage the sensitive skin,"what's your problem jaemin? i'm being nice to you and you're acting like a brat!"

your eyes widened slightlyy as a scoff left his mouth, lips quirking up into a smirk, "nice? you're treating me like a fucking child y/n. i stopped being little years ago. maybe you've been too busy bitching to even notice!"

your heads turned quickly as you heard shuffling from mark's room, his sleepy groans muffled by the thick walls.

"whatever tough guy, i'm leaving, your attitude ruined my appetite."

his arms were quick to stop you, trapping you against the kitchen counter, "where do you think you're going? where's my apology?"

it was your turn to scoff, eyes rolling at his questions. "apology? grow up na jaemin, you're not getting an apology if i did nothing wrong." you pushed at his chest, muscles firm against your hands. when did he get so strong? you mumbled out a low move embarrassed by your lack of strength against him.

he chuckled, breath fanning against your face, "give it one more go baby, maybe this time you might get it."

you bit your lip, head turning to look anywhere besides his bare chest, "this isn't funny, move or i'll-"

"you'll do what y/n?" he licked his lips, smirking down at you.

damn you na jaemin, damn you and those strong muscles, damn you and those plump lips, damn you and this new attitude that is so so hot. you gulped loudly, looking away as you tried to sneakily squeeze your thighs together, heat building between you legs.

"something wrong?"he leaned in closer to you, lips just one breath away. you turned your head further away from him, edge of the counter pressing deep into your back.

"you think being immature is cute jaemin? get off of me!"

he pressed his forehead against the side of your head, breath fanning against your ear. "no-"

he lifted his leg slightly, using his his knee to gently press against your core. you bit your lip to stifle a moan, head lowering just enough to watch his knuckles turn white against the counter. "but you clearly do. been squeezing these pretty thighs together since i started raising my voice at you."

you kept quiet, eyes squeezing shut as his knee pressed further against your heat, "who's the baby now hm?" you ignored him, brain zoning into to light pressure being applied to your clit, only a light hum being your response.

"answer me when i'm talking to you." your eyes fluttered open as he gripped your chin, moving your face so you'd look at him, "m-me jaem."

he tilted his head, smirk growing wider, "what was that?"

you swallowed your pride. there's no way you're gonna miss this opportunity. "i-i'm the baby jaem." he could help but chuckle, leaning in to plant a wet kiss on your cheek, "good girl, you learn quick. now lets put that bratty little mouth to good use."

you sunk onto your knees like your body was possessed, hands coming up to tug at his boxers. his cock sprung free, slapping his toned stomach. he was big, tip flushed and leaking.

his hand was quicker than yours, grabbing onto the base of his length to slap it against your cheek."not so little huh? call me baby again little brat."

"b-bab-" he chuckled as your words came out gargled, his cock being shoved into your mouth to silence you, "you look better with your mouth full." your eyes squeezed shut as you focused on your breathing, jaw relaxing slightly.

he was heavy on your tongue, smooth skin rubbing against the sides of your mouth. you hollowed your cheeks, sucking him in further. "shit angel, mouth so good, keep doing that."

you bobbed your head against him, spit threatening to spill past your lips. the sight above you was heavenly, pink hair held up with his hands as his mouth hung open. he let out soft pants as he tried his best not to thrust into your mouth. "let me- fuck- let me do it."

his hands moved into your hair to hold your head steady, hips starting to pick up a rhythm. you batted your lashes up at him, soft moans spilling from your mouth as he pressed deeper into your mouth, "look so pretty like this- just wanna-"

you gagged loudly as he pushed the rest of his length into your mouth, tip hitting the back of your throat. he held you there, your nose pressed against his pubic hair as you swallowed around him.

his groans went straight to your core, thighs squeezing impossibly tighter. he pulled you off in one swift motion, laughing as you gasped for air, eyes watery and lips swollen.

"look at you-" he slapped your face lightly, "acting so grown and can't even take my cock- get up and turn around."

but you remained on your knees, whimpering as you wiped at your mouth. you hadn't noticed you were crying until jaemin leaned down, warms hands rubbing your cheeks, "awe you crybaby, minnie's cock got you all worked up hm?"

you pushed his hands away struggling to get up, legs sore from the kitchen tiles. his arms wrapped around your waist pulling you against his chest, "still so stubborn, baby just needs some good dick fucked into her so she'll learn hm?"

he laughed at your weak yelp, his arms lifting you up as he walked towards to living room, "now you're gonna show me how much you need this dick."

he sat on the couch, placing you right on his lap, face to face with you. "go on put it in." your cute pouts did nothing to him as he moved his arms to rest them on the back of the couch, head nodding to urge you to continue.

you whined softly as you hovered your hips over him, hand coming down to push your panties and sleep shorts aside. your cheeks burned as you both looked towards your heat, wetness dripping onto his length. he threw his head back as he let out a soft groan, "fuck baby, what would mark think about me having his big sis dripping all over me hm? like the idea of getting fucked by me that much?"

you nodded quickly shame evaporating from your body as you began to rub his tip along your soaking cunt. he hissed under you, his hands gripping the couch cushions, "don't tease baby, wanna feel you."

you sunk down slightly, hollowly fucking yourself on his tip. your bottom lip was trapped between you teeth, body leaned back as you gripped onto jaemin's thighs. he couldn't help but groan at the sight of you, body covered up by your pjs but your pussy on full display.

he moved his hand to your tummy, fingers slipping under your shirt to pull the fabric over your tits, "fuck, you little minx, look at you dripping on my cock- shit, keep going."

you whined loudly, soft pants leaving your desperate lips as you sunk down on him, the stretch hot against your walls."c-can't jaem, too-"

his hand gripped you breast, rolling your sensitive nipples against his fingers. he pouted up at you, a slight tilt to his head, "can't what baby, hm? minnie's dick to big for my little princess?"

you huffed in embarrassment, cheeks burning red as you threw your head back to hide.

"that's okay angel-" his hands traveled down to your hips, a light chuckle leaving his lips as he lifted his hips to meet yours. the loud slap of your hips vibrated against the living room walls, a soft cry leaving your lips as you leaned forward, stuffing your face into jaemin's neck.

"it's okay-" his hips began to move, your slick making it easy for him to slide against your walls, "you can take it baby see? you're so good for me- fuck"

you whined against his neck, walls tightening around his length as he slapped his hips up. "jaem, jaem, please, oh my- feels so good baby, so deep."

he laughed at your small squeak as he suddenly picked you up, placing you in the corner of the couch, your back pressed against the soft cushion,

"i'm gonna need you to be quiet now okay princess? don't want mark to know how good i'm fucking his big sis hm?"

you nodded quickly, mouth hanging open as he slid back into you without warning, a small moan leaving his lips. "fuck jaem i can't- just please, want it so bad jaem, plea-" your hand flew to your mouth to muffle your loud moans, his hips moving to repeatedly slam into you, his length angled in just the right position.

"fuckkk yes bunny, look at you. pretty pussy sucking me in so good." his pace was relentless, one of your hands having to muffle your moans and the other gripping his arm for stability. you sunk into the couch, cushions bouncing under you from each thrust.

he leaned down close to you, body radiating heat against your chest, "want you to cum baby, i'm so close, so clo- fuck yeah baby just like that, so fucking tight shit."

you squeezed around him your stomach tightening as his words filled your ears. all you could think about was jaemin. his strong arms surrounding you, his warm body enveloping you, his soft moans urging you to cream on him and- oh. he hand flew down to your core, finger pressing gently on your clit, "come on angel, cum for me, wanna feel it, need it baby, please."

you squeezed your eyes shut, teeth clamping around your hand as you arched your hips up. the tight feeling in your stomach radiating throughout you, body shaking as you let go.

he stilled inside you, head pressed into your neck to muffle his own moans as he came inside you, whimpers of your name leaving his lips as he panted against you, "fuck, fuck, fuck, so good, so good for me bunny, you did so good."

he kissed around your neck, lips trailing up onto your lips. the kiss was sweet, soft touch of his lips making your body tingle. his grip was warm against you as he held your trembling body.

"shhh, it's okay, you're okay-" he kissed your cheeks, hands rubbing your sides, "minnie's here baby, i got you, everythings-"

you sunk deeper into the couch as you heard the fridge door slam shut, watching as jaemin's eyes landed on the kitchen entrance, "jaem?" mark's sleepy voice broke the silence, "what are you doing out here?"

jaemin stuttered slightly, pink cheeks still evident against the dim lighting,"i- i was just-" you heard mark take a loud sip of something, clearing his throat after, "if this is about my sister- she's, she's just annoying, all that baby stuff is just her being annoying. you know- sometimes i even kinda feel like she might like you or something."

jaemin bit his lip, only a loud mhm being his response as his now soft length slid out of you, "yeah so, don't let it get to you jaem, get to bed alright?"

jaemin nodded, saying a quick goodnight as mark left his sight. he looked down towards you, a scared look on your face, "so you're into younger guys, huh bunny?"

your giggles filled the small space as you rolled your eyes, hand gently slapping his chest. he leaned down to plant a soft kiss on your lips, a wide grin on his face, "don't worry, i like bratty older women too."

[morhido]

Sighs. Okay yeah i have thoughts about cgi toothless.

First of all, why does he look so... slimy? He feels too smooth. Like they just stretched some scaly skin over a skeleton and let it walk around. Immediately offputting.

His body language is. Fine? Am i being nitpicky or does it seem just the tiniest bit less expressive? I'm guessing this is either the scene right after hiccup cuts him free, in which case he should be way more intimidating, or the fish-sharing scene, in which case he should feel a little friendlier and more curious around hiccup. It's a quick shot so i won't put a ton of expectations onto it, but i think it's worth noting.

Okay this is a legitimately cool detail though. He has a secondary eyelid!! You can see it slipping away when he opens his eyes. That's a detail exclusive to the books so i like that they included something as small as that.

Sighs again. And this is the shot that prompted me to make this post.

Look at the original, and then look at the cgi version. I could write an essay about how inferior the cgi version is in comparison.

First off, they flattened his face. I swear every iteration of night furies after the first movie has just been compressing their snouts until they're sufficiently 'cute' enough for the audience to forget they're supposed to be sleek and aerodynamic.

Second, his eyes. Absolutely radioactive. I understand using a brighter colour for his eyes, especially in a relatively darker environment to make him stand out and seem more fantastical. But. They're just so bright. It's mildly unsettling how saturated they are compared to everything else.

Third, his eyes. Again.

Toothless is supposed to be terrified but still threatening in this scene, and the original shot conveys that perfectly. If it's a threat, then by all means hiccup should kill it or at least run, but instead he draws a connection between both of them being scared of the other and decides to cut him loose instead. And that's the core of their relationship. Toothless is staring him down with a slitted pupil that could just as easily be interpreted as "fuck around and find out" but hiccup just acknowledges that there's a frightened, injured animal in front of him that needs help, and he helps.

Is any of that conveyed in the cgi version? No!! It's trying so hard to be cute that it's gone full circle back to just being scary. The wide-eyed stare, the dilated pupil, he's basically just saying "🥺🥺 uwu pwease i'm so cute and innocent don't kill me aha 👉👈". Which is a lot less of a compelling reason for hiccup to free him!! Plus the fact that toothless turns up to look at him instead of lying and accepting his fate like in the original, which only makes it seem even more like he's trying to show off how apparently adorable he is.

Idk. Just the difference between the in-your-face sanitised cuteness of "teehe you wouldn't kill little old me would you? 🥺" and the expert subtlety of his "please don't hurt me" of the original doesn't give me high hopes for a toothless that stays true to his character from the first movie. Even from something as small as this. He's gonna get woobified. I can feel it.

[dilf-docs]

Hand To Heart (I'm Gonna Stay Faithful)

bfd!joel miller x younger!reader

summary: a pregnancy scare makes you realize just how deep you are in this.

warnings: 18+ (minors dni), age gap, smut, p. in v., pregnancy scare, fingering (WE GET IT U LIKE IT), bit of praise kink, humilliation kink, breeding kink (they're stupid and insane acc), dacryphilia, sex thru the looking glass (there's a mirror in reader's dorm), ANGST in capital, they're starting to catch the feels™ ur honor, hurt/comfort, plot thiccens, this people are clearly NOT in a good headspace btw idk we listen read and don't judge.

word count: 4,757 words

side note: everyone calling this joel nasty but thirsting after him too? was going to hold a trial over my citizens but yk... what the hell, sure! i too want nasty bfd!joel to ruin me: he can be my baby daddy who doesn't pay for child support of our 4 kids and we'd make way to bed for our 5th LET'S GO also spam time! but i also happen to write in wattpad, and got a pedro pascal social media fic going on :) it's on spanish tho, but if u speak the language and would like to tune in, u can read it here

part: prev | masterlist | next

It's a regular Tuesday when his phone rings at ten in the morning.

"Dad"

Joel gets up from his desk in a brash move, immediately picking up his daughter's worried tone. Tommy bursts inside, telling him to calm down, but all Joel can hear is the anxious beat in his chest.

"What's it, babygirl? You okay?" his throat tightens. "Talk to me"

There's silence before she answers, as if she's unsure to continue.

"It's not me" he feels his muscles relaxing, but then Sarah drops the bomb. "It's y/n"

Joel's heart beats with a different type of worry.

"What's wrong with her?" voice firm but emotionless.

It's almost summer again, and he's still seeing you. In a way, you had carved a space for yourself in his cold heart, so naturally, fear settles in. He'd never admit this things out loud, though.

"I don't know, dad" his daughter starts to rush the words out, panic evident on her voice. "She has locked herself in the bathroom and won't stop crying. I-I didn't know who else to call"

"Don't worry" but it sounds like he's trying to convince himself. "M' comin'. S'anyone else in there?"

There's a pause on the line before she answers.

"No"

He thinks of you. He'd seen you cry before, of course, but it'd been over silly childish stuff, like getting sent to bed early or not getting what you wanted for Christmas.

He thinks of you. Images of your pretty face, etched in pain, make his stomach drop. It isn't fair: your face was one destined to be happy for eternity, your smile so contagious Joel would sometimes find himself surrendering to your juvenile joy, his crow feet a little more notorious since you entered his life and carved your space on it by force; a light in the dark.

He just couldn't bear to see a mirror of his dullness on your face. It wasn't right.

"Stay put. I'll be there"

He tries not to think about your eyes drained of life. He tries not to think he's the cause. And then, he hangs.

As soon as Joel enters your dorm, your perfume is up his nostrils, providing him with a sense of relief he didn't know he needed. It was comforting and familiar, words that used to be hollow now carrying a knowing feeling that stung right on his chest.

"Dad" Sarah calls out, going for a hug. Joel embraces his daughter tightly while caressing her hair. "I'm so glad that you're here. I didn't know what to do"

"Breath in, babygirl. S'alright" he looks at your door, closed. Broken sobs can be heard, and his wounded heart feels like a heavy burden on his chest.

"My class starts in ten" Sarah speaks against the fabric of his flannel, "but I just couldn't leave her like this"

His daughter has a good heart. At least one of them did, anyway.

"Go to your class" he's commanding before he can fully process what he said.

Sarah breaks the hug, looking at him with a look he can't quite place.

"What? But, dad-" she tries to protest, concerned for your wellbeing.

"I'll take care of it. Always do, haven't I?" he sees her hesitation, and afraid of where her doubts would take her, Joel adds a small joke in there. "Y'know those classes ain't free, kid. Go ahead"

"Okay" she gives up. "Just... tell me if anything happens, yes?"

"F'course. Trust me"

"I trust you"

He still remembers when Sarah's kindergarten teacher handed him that drawing: Joel was wearing a cape, and she said his little girl had told everyone in class his dad was a superhero because there was nothing he couldn't do. That same admiration and faith is there in her eyes, even as the small naive kid slips from his fingers and turns into the woman that stands before him. He's not the devil, but the worst father in the world, and that is pretty much the same to him.

When Sarah is out of your dorm, he's trapped inside the small room with your heavy crying on the other side of the door. He looks at the small place, thinking about all the times he's sneaked inside during the night, hiding like a criminal as you wait for him behind the door full of scrapped stickers, ready to capture his lips with an eagerness that gnaws his chest.

Now it's just him and your sobs, his terrified reflection displayed in the mirror in front of your bed, mockingly staring back.

What are you doing? it questions, and Joel, always ready to answer, has suddenly lost the ability to speak.

Forcing himself out of such a pitiful state, he approaches the door, knocking softly.

"Sarah" your hoarse voice speaks up, and just then, he realizes how much he loves hearing your voice, no matter how it sounds. "Don't you have classes to go to? Leave me, please. I promise I'm good, I-"

Joel hears your distress, so he interrupts what looks like the start of a nervous rambling wreck. Huh, doesn't he know you so well?

"Sarah's gone" a beat, "It's me, Joel"

As if you wouldn't recognize that deep voice even if you were deaf.

There's silence before the door flings open, surprising Joel, who takes a step back, barely noticeable to the rest, but obvious to you, who has spent hours admiring him and all his small movements, he who you could draw by memory and built in your head as real as he who was standing before you, his eyes circling with a whirlwind of emotions you can't quite place, yet make your heart race.

Joel takes in the sight of you, deciding it's unfair how good you look, despite your disheveled hair, run mascara and red-rimmed eyes: you are still the prettiest sight he's ever seen, and now he doesn't know what scares him the most.

"You're wearing my shirt" he says out loud his latest discovery. It's all he manages to say: not an are you okay? nor an what's wrong?

No, Joel just happens to be very stupid(ly in love).

"Sarah didn't see me" you hug the fabric that makes your frame look smaller, or maybe it's your tired composture that makes it seem that way, avoiding Joel from enjoying the way his shirt looks on you. "If that's what you wanted to know. Been inside there for hours, already was when she came by"

The fact that you rather explain and assure him of his supposed possible worries instead of sharing your own, makes his stomach tie on a knot. Were you too kind or perhaps selfless? Maybe just stupid(ly in love).

Joel grunts, and you're not sure if it's his way of dissmissing your comment (maybe he thinks you're lying), chastising you in a shallow manner or the fact that you're poorly trying to avoid the elephant in the room. Maybe he thinks you're still a foolish careless child who can't comprehend the weight of whatever it is you're doing by being with your bestfriend's dad behind everyone's back.

"Tell me" he gets closer to you, fingers on your cheeks, but they don't dig the skin, instead, his roughness hiding a surprising tenderness to them. "What happened, y/n?"

The rawness in his voice takes you by surprise. Joel Miller, who seemed a man impossible to waver, now stood before you, wrapped in a gloom that left you at loss for words, something akin to hope planting it's seed on your heart.

"Tell me" he demands, yet his pupils move as unsteady as your heart. There's no power for command in his voice, only what you could allude to helplessness.

Was it because you were putting up walls like he did?

Was it because the consequences of being with you are starting to dawn upon him?

Whatever it is, you don't like it.

"What's wrong?" he's pushing for an answer softly, such a contrasting image to that of him in bed. "Please, talk to me"

Please.

The words slip past his trembling lips, defenses crumbling.

Joel Miller hasn't pleaded since Sarah's mother packed her bags and walked out of their shared home. He promised himself he would never be vulnerable again, never at the feet of a loved one, beggin to be seen.

To be heard. To not be hurt. To be loved.

But here you were, red eyes blown wide at a confession spoken through other words.

Please.

Your chest feels heavy, breath constricted.

"Joel..." you utter his name like a prayer. As something to believe in; something to hold.

He rushes to your side, strong arms caging around you as your labored cries fill the tiny room.

"S'alright" he whispers against your ear, burying his face on your shaking shoulder. "M' right'ere, doll"

Your hold turns more desperate, practically clinging as if your life depended on it.

"Take your time, y/n" your name so soft, you feel like crying more. "I ain't goin' anywhere"

"Promise me" you whimper, holding tightly.

"I won't go" he assures. There it is, the same unwavering strength you know. It's for you, he thinks.

"Joel" you call out again, tone terrified. "I think I'm pregnant"

It takes him at least a minute to speak. Even to breathe.

"...What?"

He feels your erratic pulse against his chest.

"Joel. Look at me"

He doesn't feel your heartbeat anymore. Just then he realizes he's backed down, embrace letting go of yours. Joel takes in your eyes, shimmering with new tears and fears.

"Joel?"

"I'm here" his voice sounds like it belongs to someone else, and the reminder like it's for himself.

"I know" your small voice speaks up, "but, just- please, look at me"

Joel holds your gaze, and it's like your air supply as been cut.

We don't want this.

"Are you sure?" Joel asks cautiously, as if you were a small animal he's afraid to scare.

"No" you breath in. "I bought the test, but I couldn't take it... I was, for the very first time in my life, scared. But there's always a first, isn't it? That's when Sarah found me"

There's always a first. You weren't afraid when he pounced you next to his sleeping daughter, neither when you didn't stop coming and he let you in everytime, and absolutely not when he obscenely ate you out while Sarah was on the phone. No, you were brave―brave enough to stand defiant when his conflicting gaze pierced through you, daring you to be the first to leave this mess and forget about him. But you were brave because you stayed, despite it all.

That had to mean something, right?

"You said you wouldn't leave me" it comes out in a shaky breath; a threat. Your voice seethes with a quiet rage. "You promised, Joel"

Like the word promise was a dagger twisting on his insides, not a sacred oath.

So he forces himself to be that hero Sarah still thinks he is. After all, he promised her he's going to solve this, didn't he?

"I did" he runs a hand through his hair. "Got the test with you?" You slowly nod. "Take it, then. I'll wait here"

You don't move from your spot, chest still moving uneven under your labored breaths.

"When you come out, I'll promise I'll still be here"

He can't promise you more. The world? It's what you deserve but not what he can give; Joel can only give so much.

"Okay" your tone is clipped, and that's all you say before entering the bathroom and closing the door behind you.

The room feels smaller than it is, the small plastic stick feeling heavier in your fingers than it actually is. You hear the clock's tick, Joel's frantic pace and your own irrational beat. It feels like a bomb: ready to explode and destroy everything within it's range.

Time drags like a cigarette, walls closing over your shaking pale frame. Your phone has a timer going on, yet for some reason, it feels an end to your beginning. You hug your body, wishing it was Joel's arms doing so.

But you saw it: fear, hesitation. It was on his eyes, auburn cracking like wood under fire. He was weak, and so were you. All of this... it starts to loose it's meaning. What started as a summer fling now falls upon you like a second skin you can't quite wash off, and it's suffocating as much as the enclosed space where a stupid line could change the rest of your life forever.

Joel outside isn't doing much better. He's aware his walking probably set you on edge, so now he's sat at the small bed that dips under his weight. He takes one deep breath, two―then looses count.

How could he be so careless? For a brief moment, why did he let himself believe it could be?

For God's sake: you were his daughter's friend. He had seen you and Sarah play on his house, laughing on his porch, gossiping on her bedroom. Growing up.

He wanted you, a desire so consuming it sometimes kept him up at night, thoughts confusing with something else. Probably fear, probably acceptance.

Joel is aware you changed his life. You, with your wild spirit and obnoxious laugh. You whom he couldn't tear his gaze away when standing in the same room, a magnetic force making the world around you drawn to you and that dangerous allure you had that made it impossible to resist you. To forget you. To live without you.

He feels dirty. A monster. A wolf with an insatiable hunger, sinking his canine teeth on your soft flesh. He'd drink your blood, to always keep a part of you with him; to be one. Like a lamb sent to the slaughter: but you wanted it. You had placed your head inside his jaw; trusting. As if knowing he could devour you, yet he'd never hurt you. Daring, almost.

Show me you can love me. Take a bite. Take me as yours. Mark me. Ruin me for anyone else. My blood, it belongs to you. This isn't a sacrifice―this is love.

When you exit the bathroom, hand holding the pregnancy test, it's all clear to him.

For a moment even, Joel forgets there's a world outside and sees a small baby: they have your smile, your eyes―and nothing of him, because you're the sun of his moon, the light of his darkness, and that baby is a mirror of you and your beauty. You and your warmth, devoid of his cold and far from where his filth can taint it. They have to look like you, because you are the most beautiful person in the world, and suddenly, the idea one more of you is possible, makes it feel like just you isn't enough.

"It's negative"

For the second time in the day, Joel is rendered speechless. His gaze is trained on the floor, lost in thought. Besides his lack of an answer, whatever he's thinking makes you nervous.

"Joel, are you okay?" you call out.

He swallows the lump on his throat, pose awkward before he moves next to your bed.

"M' fine, baby. C'mere" he sits over it again, motioning with his hand the empty spot next to him. Joel's embrace is warm, like it shields you from the cold harsh truth.

"Are you upset?" you ask over the comfortable silence, the underlying tension stretching like a rubber band.

"No" his answer comes quick, "but I won't lie to ya', doll. Thought for a sec and ol' man like me could give a pretty girl like yourself a baby as beautiful as their mamma"

A treacherous pink dusts your cheeks. Had you lost all your common sense? Seconds ago, your life hung by a fragile thread, and now all your body can think is to go for the same risk again. Fuck it.

"Did you? I thought you were too busy freaking out"

Joel lets out a nervous laugh. "M' a busy man, doll. Learned how to do two things at once"

A fire settles in your stomach when his touch lingers over your soft flat belly, longing.

"Hmm, I see" your fingers move from his hold to his collarbone, as they play with the buttons he hasn't wore.

"Y/n" he warns. You stop for a moment, not because you're unsure, but because when you look up, his eyes don't shine with that glint of danger and hunger that gives you the thrills. Instead, they look at you with a fondness he doesn't seem to even realize―the one that gives you the hope of it all.

"I want this" you speak up, voice confident.

"I don't think that's a good idea, doll. What'ya need is-"

"You" your face gets close to his, cutting his words and breath. Joel's adam's apple bobs, your throbbing pussy going through a Pavlovian response, such action an indicator he's surrendered to you, mouth watering at just the thought. "You said you could do two things at the same time, right? The comfort me in the only way you know"

There's hesitation on his eyes, and while you think it's because he's still hung up on the idea this isn't what you need, Joel's mind is stuck in the fact you think he can only warm your bed but not your heart. It's stupid, indeed. It can't affect him that much. Ashamed, he cuts the space hanging between your lips and traps them in a heated kiss.

"Hmh, Joel" your voice barely audible as Joel's fingers grip on your hair, his sleazy tongue sliding it's way into your mouth until you can feel it in your teeth. "Please..."

He chuckles at your neediness. "Please, what?"

"Please" you whimper, feeling your back heat with droplets of sweat under Joel's shirt, the sticky feeling akin to that starting to pool in between your thighs. "Please, make me feel good"

Joel smiles adoringly, moving your body until your legs are up his shoulders. Sure, his knees covered by his dirty worn-out jeans are ruining your fresh laundry, and his joints may crack here and there, but you don't pay mind to this little things: all you care is how he's kissing your bare thighs, his salt and pepper stubble tickling skin that feels more sensitive than ever; burning almost.

"Gon' touch 'tis pretty pussy 'til you forget y'r name, doll" he breathes out. "Will ya' let me?"

You nod eagerly as he helps you get out of your panties, throwing them somewhere around the room. You smack his arm playfully at his rough manners, but then he's pressing his lips with wet ticklish kisses on your legs and laughter bubbles at the tingles it's causing.

"S-stop, Joel!" you beg, legs shaking. Your giggles are contagious, and soon the foreign feeling lifts the corners of his scowl into a smile, a concept becoming more familiar with time.

"I ain't stopping" his fingers then graze your clit, tauntingly. You whine, as Joel doesn't let up on your clit, his calloused digits coated in your arousal. "'Tis what you asked for, baby. So 'm gonna make you feel good. So good until you can't speak nothin' that ain't my name"

The threat feels like a delicious promise, so you tell him you'll behave.

"I wanna try somethin', doll. Wait" you whine at the loss of his fingers inside of you, and then he's moving your body until he's against the wall and you're on the border of the bed. With your eyes, you follow his line of view. "So needy, ain't ya'? Cockhungry slut. Jus' scared the shit out of me and now you want me inside?" he tsks. "Sick fella"

"Joel..." you breath out, desire pooling into your orbs.

"Wanna see you, doll" you see your reflection in the mirror as Joel lowers his head to whisper on your ear, eliciting goosebumps on your skin. "Want you to see yourself, too. How you'll be beggin' for me"

His middle and ring finger dip between your folds as he continues the minstrations, fingers pumping in and out as they graze your moist cunt. They start to go in circles, and even if it's not exactly next to your bed, you can see the mirror begin to fog, whines condensed in the heavy air.

His shirt clings uncomfortably to your body, but you don't care. In a way, he feels even closer to you, as if he was an extension of yourself.

Joel's body radiates heat on it's own, making the room's temperature skyrocket.

You lean your head back onto the mattress, moaning.

"Need ya' to use that pretty mouth of y'rs, doll. Say it" his fingers linger on the dip of your hips, waiting for an answer with a smirk and daring manner. "Say what ya' want; that's if you can"

It takes you a while to speak up, the slippery sound of Joel's coated fingers the only sound to be heard on your dorm.

"I... I need" you whine through labored pants, "I need you, Joel"

I need you, Joel. It's in the heat of the moment, really, yet on that very instant, he makes a silent vow that hangs unspoken in the air.

"Good girl" he bites your earlobe, making a chill run down your spine.

His fingers fuck into you just how you like it: swirling to explore your inner tight walls.

"Fuck. Love how your pussy takes me, doll. 'S mine, isn't it? Say it, say who this pussy belongs to. Who's the only man allowed to have it"

You close your eyes, but the answer comes clear. "You, Joel. Just you"

You whine, feeling him go harder in a new-found confidence. Your nails dig on his biceps, but he doesn't flich, still busy burying his fingers inside your clit as his mouth continues spilling filthy shit you barely can comprehend, mind starting to go numb.

Normally, Joel would make you cum on his fingers, always making sure to lick it after, claiming it was bad manners to leave to waste. But today, the clock ticking in your wall, he knows he must hurry.

"Eager, eh?" you taunt back, seeing how quickly he's pulling down his underwear, guiding the tip of his cock to your entrance.

Your dripping cunt welcomes his cock, tip teasing your entrance.

"Don't" he seethes.

"Don't?" you laugh. "Don't what, laugh?"

His fingers grab your jaw tightly, forcing you to look behind you.

"Don't stop lookin', doll"

Joel slips the tip of his cock into you, his hands grabbing your waist to steady you. He looks at you through the mirror, seeing your dazed eyes, waiting as you bite your lip.

"That's it, good girl" he praises, purring against your ear. You see his face go down and lick the side of your neck before sinking his teeth in it. "Gonna reward you for'at"

Your mouth falls agape when he fully pushes his cock inside of you, burying himself to the limit in the first thrust. You moan, stretch wet pussy trying to adjust to his girth. He groans, his hips moving back and forth with yours, to meet his thrusts.

"R-right there" you whimper, feeling eyes starting to water. It had been a long day, and with his cock buried deep inside you, you can't think of anything else: just him―like this, for the rest of your life; you don't need more. "Fuck, don't stop"

His thumb rubs across your cheekbone, capturing a tear that had slipped past your foggy mind in a brittle moment of vulnerability, brown eyes flickering with something else. It could be.

We could be.

"Fuck, you cryin' over this cock, doll? What'a fuckin' slut" he laughs incredulously, but there's a hidden fondness to it. "S' that how good 'm makin' you feel?"

You can only moan, his dick harder now, his infatuation with your fucked-out state evident in the way his movements become more hectic.

"Can't even speak? What'a dirty minx inside 'tis sexy little body"

"Mhm" you blabber, tears running hot down your cheeks, landing on the mattress in fat droplets, noticeable through the reflection even. Joel stares back at your puffy eyes, devotion pouring at your glossy gaze, coated in a faint red tint, more pronounced from your earlier cries. Fuck. Never did he think your lambent eyes and sniffle sounds could turn him on this much. Something about him being the cause of it has his head spinning.

"New rule" he growls, "you keep those pretty red eyes lookin' at me when you cum"

You whimper at his words, the powerful aura they carry pushing your orgasm closer to the edge. You feel your tight folds clenching around his cock, hands holding to his back while your nails dig in it. You feel yourself approaching your release, multiple tears escaping down your cheekbone. In an obscene gesture, it isn't his thumb but his tongue what removes the wet stream from your body, feeling the salty drops on his tastebuds.

You were already so worked up, it was a matter of seconds before you could cum at any moment. Your walls clench around his length, and before you can process, Joel pulls your body up, caging your tits until they're pressed against his soft chest. You face the white paint of your wall, and Joel can see your back in the mirror as he's still buried inside of you. You gasp at the change in position, all of the sudden, a painfull delicious sensation flooding your senses.

"You're gonna cum, aren't ya', doll?" Joel's asking, hot breath nestled in your neck.

"Hmh" you barely manage to blurt as he fucks into you harder, your arms clutching onto him. You were being so loud now that you were sure you'd get at least one noise complain, hoping it stays there; if they found out not only had you been fucking, but with a fourty year old man who happpened to be the father of your bestfriend, you'd probably get expelled. "So close..."

"You know?" he whispers, voice fragile over the sound of your pants and worked up breaths. "I was scared, ealier. M' sorry you had to see that" your body trembles, making you close your eyes. "But I need ya' to know, for'a moment, I did think about having a kid with you"

Your forehead drips with sweat, mixing with the sodium of your tears.

"Maybe in 'nother life, huh?"

Your heart feels like it's about to burst when he sloppily kisses you, as to prevent any words come out of your mouth―humilliating or full of regret, avoiding the heart ache of a rejection. Joel, for a moment, lets his heart wander off to territories he shouldn't, thinking of things he should leave to be. Joel digs his hole deeper, but he doesn't care: he just wants to be the best grave in your cementery.

"Maybe" you answer, but it sounds like a possibility, the promise of a foolish mind betraying the guarded hidden hope.

"Fuck, Joel" you bury your face against his soft pecs, your orgasm crashing over you. Your whine comes our rather loud, trying to drown the sound against his body. He doesn't stop holding you on his arms, firm; you'd probably fallen if he didn't.

"Wait for me, doll. 'M close"

"Please" you plead, kissing his jaw. "Need you. Want to feel you, Joel"

Not daddy, but his name. I want you. I need you. Want to feel you; for you to fill me. He groans, rhythm sloppy as he crashes his lips into yours. he should stop, especially after today's events, but God, his traitorous head is filled with images of you, belly round with his child, one carved to be the spitting image of you.

Do it.

You moan inside his mouth when you feel him finish inside of you, thick, your fingers running through his dark greying hair damp with sweat.

"M' right here" he says his words from earlier, and you feel yourself hugging him to keep his body next to yours even as he pulls out.

"I know" you hum, arms around his neck. "Thank you for coming"

"What of both?"

You let out a laugh.

"Jesus, Joel" but your tone is devoid of malice, adquiring that layer to it, just like his own. There's a shift in the air, and if you felt it before, now you know there's no point of return. "You sure are something else"

dts: @ann-gell; angél de mi corazón, tkm mucho, gracias por llegar a mi vida, ah.

[prinvessdior]

Three times you ask Kinich for something and the one time he asks for something.

tags: first person soz, bff! Mualani, I forgot ab Ajaw lol, y/n has a vision, established relationship, first kiss, just cute as hell, ft. me trying to write romantic tension.

wc: 3.6k

a/n: idk,, i think he needs more fics but yes crossposted on ao3 still editing as well

feel free to leave me req or msgs for any charc <3!

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

I think this was the fifth time I had water up my nose this afternoon. Or maybe it was the sixth, definitely. My nose and throat burned as I gasped for air above the water. My surfboard flung up beside me with another slap of water to my face. I hoisted myself back up to sit over my borrowed board. Mualani let me borrow one of her old ones from childhood. Since I'd never been able to surf. I wrung out my hair over my shoulder. "This is so hard," I whined to Mualani who padded over on her own board over to me.

Mualani only laughed, laying down on her stomach, "You're doing fine for a beginner." I doubted it. "Keep practicing, maybe you could finally convince Kinich to come to swim." 

I snorted and rolled my eyes, "Yeah like that'll happen."  

Mualani giggled, "He's a lost cause. Maybe if you asked him nicely, he might change his mind," she teased, sending me a look with a knowing smile. 

"I don't think a simple 'please' will do the trick," I retorted, paddling my board backward in the shallows. "He'd probably just come up with some excuse like 'I don't want to get my clothes wet' or something, and then go back to what he was doing," I grumbled.

Mualani snickered. "He can be such a diva sometimes. It's like he's scared to have any fun. I don’t know how you can date a guy like that."

She was being dramatic. He wasn’t that bad. I’ve known practically everyone since I was a kid, I know the ins and outs. Kinich just.. more so liked to keep to himself. I didn’t mind it though it really seemed like we had just become really good friends now even after putting a relationship title on us. 

"Though I'm sure he'd do anything you asked," Mualani says with a nod

I quickly looked away.

"Don't be ridiculous," I mumbled, "Kinich doesn't listen to anyone, let alone me." I quickly looked away.

Mualani gave me a knowing smile. "Oh come on, don't pretend you haven't noticed the way he looks at you. That boy is absolutely smitten with you."

I tried to feign indifference, though my heart thumped in my chest. "He doesn't look at me any differently than he looks at everyone else."

Mualani raised an eyebrow. "Are you serious? He's practically drooling every time you're around. And he always insists on helping you with anything you need, no matter how menial."

I shifted uncomfortably in my waterlogged swimsuit. "That's just who he is. He's like that with everyone. He's just...a good guy." I don’t think I wanted to spill my guts with my best friend about my relationship just yet.

Mualani rolled her eyes. "You can be so clueless sometimes. Trust me on this."

I huffed, pushing my soaked hair out of my eyes. "Even if you're right, which you're not, I doubt he'd ever actually do anything about it. Kinich is too aloof to make a move."

Mualani smirked. "That's where I think you're wrong. I've seen the way he stares at you when you're not looking. That boy has it bad. If you ask me, he's just been waiting for the right moment.”

I narrowed my eyes with a laugh, "Sure, and dendro slimes will fly someday. Besides, I can't even imagine Kinich acting all romantic. He's too sarcastic and quippy for mushiness."

Mualani shrugged. "Maybe you should try giving him a hint then. See if he responds. I know he'd be all over you in a heartbeat if he thought he had a chance."

"I don't know, Mualani...he's always been so closed off. It wouldn’t feel natural."

Mualani grinned. "Well, you could always try being a bit more... flirtatious. Give him some nonverbal cues to let him know you're interested. A touch on the arm, a smile, a compliment, something like that. See how he responds."

"Yeah, nope," I said with a determined nod, I'd give up my pyro vision back to our archon before doing something as embarrassing as that.

“C'mon! What’s the harm in it?”

I gave Mualani a pointed look, “The harm is we’ve only been together three months.” 

Mualani groaned, “But you’ve been friends for years!” She emphasized by splashing me with water.

I splashed her back, “I don’t expect anything from Kinich, Lani, I’m fine with what we have now.” 

“Yeah, but, did you ask him that? Maybe he wants to be closer with you.” 

Okay, yeah maybe I hadn’t thought about that. I paused mid-splash attack. “Oh.” 

Another splash of water to my face, as I tipped sideways losing balance sitting on my surfboard. I tipped straight into the water making another splash for the seventh time. 

Mualani was laughing when I arose from the surface. “Just try it. It’s not like he’ll outright reject you.” 

I gave Mualani a glare, “I’m going to go change. I’m done learning today.” 

“Ouchie, you really know how to burn me.” Mualani sighs with a dramatic expression. 

“Insanity.” I mumbled padding back to the shore with my best friend trailing behind me. Still making dramatic plans about how to get my boyfriend to be more open. I was not listening as she rambled all the way back to my house. 

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

I liked living right beside the hot springs. Even the ones that weren’t heated were usually the ones I gravitated towards. Given that Natlan was already hot, I never remembered my normal body temperature being this hot before I received my Pyro vision. 

But right now, I think I was jealous of Cyro Vision users. Kachina had requested my help near her tribe. She wanted to collect flowers among herbs, and fruits for the traveler to help her gain enough confidence to enter into the night warden wars. 

But it was too hot, and I was craving a bath. Being drenched in sweat was horrible. I didn’t want to complain in front of Kachina so I continued to follow her, we’d strayed far from The Children of The Echo’s tribe. 

“Do you think this is enough?” I asked the smaller girl once we’d stopped near a stream. 

“Uh-! I-.. I think so!” Kachina reached her arms up to take the fruits nestled in my bag. I happily let her take it as I took a seat near the stream for a much-needed breather. 

“Great, I’m just gonna.. sit down for a while.” 

Kachina gave me a nod with a bright smile. Which in turn made me smile. I felt like a big sister whenever I was with Kachina. It made it better that she was so smart and easy to talk to. I closed my eyes as a gust of wind helped cool my sweltering face. 

Kachina sat down beside me, dipping her toes into the water. “Thank you for helping me today, I really appreciate it.”

I smiled, grateful for the respite. “Of course, Kachina. It’s the least I can do. The Traveler did so much for you.”

She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “Yeah, they really did. I wouldn’t have had the courage to join the Night Warden Wars without their support.”

We sat by the stream, the cool water lapping at my feet, and my mind drifted back to what Mualani had said the day before. Could it really be that simple? Just say please? I found myself lost in a whirlwind of emotions as the cool water of the stream rippled around me. 

“Y/n? Y/n!” Kachina’s voice broke through my reverie, pulling me back to the present.

”Huh.” I blinked, realizing she was talking to someone. I turned to see Kinich standing there, looking a bit awkward but smiling warmly. 

“Hey, Y/n,” he greeted, his voice a little uncertain. “Are you okay?”

I forced a smile, trying to shake off my embarrassment. “Oh, hey, Kinich. Yeah, I’m fine. Just, you know, dying of the heat,” I joked, fanning myself dramatically.

He chuckled, his eyes softening. “Yeah, it’s pretty brutal today.” He turned to me and narrowed his eyes. “Should you really be out here for much longer? You don’t look so good.”

Before I could respond, Kachina’s face fell, and she quickly apologized. “Oh no, I’m so sorry! I didn’t realize you weren’t feeling well. I shouldn’t have taken you so far.”

I shook my head, giving her a reassuring smile. “It’s okay, Kachina. I wanted to come out and help you. Really.”

She still looked worried, but I could see she was trying to believe me. I took a deep breath, deciding albeit hesitantly that if I were to test Mualani’s theory. Any time would be the best time “Kinich, could you please get me some water from the stream? I think it would help me cool down.”

To my surprise, he didn’t hesitate. Without a single sarcastic comment or playful tease, he nodded and walked over to the stream. The next thing I felt was the cool, wet rag on my forehead, and sighed in relief. Kinich's gentle touch was comforting as he helped me sit back down. My body was still cooling off from Natlan’s scorching heat.

"Thank you, Kinich," I said, looking up at him with a small smile.

He smiled back, though it was more a twitch of lips upwards, his eyes warm. "It was no problem at all. Just take it easy for a bit."

I nodded, leaning back into the grass. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Kachina watching us. She seemed to be trying hard not to look awkward, and I couldn't help but find it endearing.

"Are you okay, Y/n?" Kachina asked, her voice filled with genuine concern.

"Yeah, I think so," I replied, giving her a reassuring smile. "Just a bit... overwhelmed, I guess."

Kachina nodded, her cheeks flushing slightly. "You two are really cute together," she blurted out, then immediately looked like she regretted it.

Kinich chuckled softly, and I felt my own cheeks flush. "Thanks, Kachina," I said, trying to ease her embarrassment. 

She smiled, looking a bit more relaxed. "Well, if you need anything, I'm here to help."

"Thanks," I said, appreciating her kindness. "I think I'll be okay now."

Kinich gave my hand a gentle squeeze. "Just rest for a bit. I'll be right here."

I nodded, feeling a little lightheaded. Not from the heat though. As I leaned back, feeling the coolness of the rag on my forehead, my mind wandered to Mualani’s words. Maybe she was right.

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

A couple of days later, I found myself in Xilonen’s shop, surrounded by shelves filled with various trinkets and artifacts. The air was filled with the scent of herbs and old parchment, a comforting reminder of the past. Xilonen and I were busy organizing her shop, a task that felt both familiar and soothing.

“Thanks for helping out, Y/n,” Xilonen said, her voice warm. “I’ve been meaning to get this place in order for ages.”

“No problem,” I replied, placing a stack of scrolls on a nearby shelf. “It’s nice to catch up. We haven’t had much time together since the war ended.”

She nodded a hint of sadness in her eyes. “Yeah, things have been so hectic. But it’s good to see you. How have you been holding up?”

I shrugged, trying to keep my tone light. “I’ve been okay. Just trying to figure things out, you know?”

Xilonen smiled knowingly. “I get it. It’s been a strange time for all of us. But I’m glad you’re here. It feels like old times.”

We continued to work in comfortable silence for a while, the rhythm of our movements almost meditative. As we sorted through a box of ancient artifacts, Xilonen suddenly looked up, her eyes sparkling with curiosity. “So, I heard a little rumor that you and Kinich are dating now. Is it true?” Probably from Mualani...

I felt my face heat up slightly but nodded. “Yeah, it’s true.”

Xilonen grinned. “I knew it! How’s that going? I mean, considering how Kinich… is.”

I chuckled, understanding what she meant. “It’s going fine, actually. He’s been really sweet and supportive. It’s still new, but we’re figuring it out.”

She nodded, her expression softening. “That’s good to hear. Kinich can be ahh.. how do I put this? Blunt? but he has a good heart.”

“Yeah, he does,” I agreed, feeling a warm glow at the thought of him. “He’s been really great.”

we continued to clean, the door to the shop opened, and Kinich walked in. His eyes immediately found mine, and he smiled warmly Again, just the hint of his lips turning at the corners. “Hey, Y/n,” he greeted, then turned to Xilonen. “Xilonen.”

“Hey, Kinich,” I replied, feeling a flutter of happiness at seeing him.

Xilonen gave him a playful look. “Didn’t expect to see Y/n here, huh?”

Kinich chuckled, scratching the back of his head. “Yeah, I was a bit surprised. What’s going on?”

Xilonen rolled her eyes dramatically. “Oh, so I can’t see my friend for a day? I asked Y/n to help me clean up since it’s been a while.”

Kinich nodded, looking a bit awkward. “Right, of course. Well, it’s good you both are here. I actually came by to let you know that someone from The Children of the Echos commissioned me for a project, so I don’t have much time to chat.”

“That’s great, What kind of project?” genuinely wanting to know

He shrugged, a small smile on his face. “It’s a bit of a mystery for now, but I’ll fill you in later.”

Xilonen smirked. “Always keeping secrets, huh?”

Kinich laughed. “Something like that. Anyway, I just wanted to say hi. I’ll catch up with you both later.”

It was the perfect time to test Mualani's theory further. I spotted an item on a high shelf that I couldn't reach and decided to ask Kinich for help.

"Kinich, could you please help me get that down?" I called out, pointing to a random scroll.

He stopped talking to Xilonen almost instantly and came up behind me. "Sure, what do you need?" he asked, his voice so, so close to my ear.

I pointed at the scroll again. "That one, right up there."

Without hesitation, Kinich reached over my head and grabbed it, his arm brushing against mine. He handed it to me with a smile. "Here you go."

"Thanks," I said, feeling a bit flustered by how quickly he had responded.

"No problem," he replied. "I have to go now, but I'll see you later." He turned to Xilonen and me, giving us both a quick nod. "Goodbye, Xilonen. Bye, Y/n."

"Bye, Kinich," we both said in unison as he left the shop.

As the door closed behind him, Xilonen turned to me with a curious look. "What was that? I've never seen Kinich act like that before."

I shrugged, trying to play it cool. "I don't know. Maybe he's just being extra helpful today."

Xilonen raised an eyebrow. "Extra helpful, huh? Well, whatever it is, it's definitely interesting."

I smiled,  Maybe Mualani was onto something after all.

“I should get going too,” I said, giving Xilonen a hug. “Thanks for today. It was really nice to catch up.”

"Oh yeah totally! I can handle the rest here. Also, come by anytime,” she replied, hugging me back. “Don’t be a stranger, okay?”

“I won’t,” I promised, smiling as I headed out the door.

◣──•~❉᯽❉~•──◢

I found myself back at Mualani’s place, surfboard in hand and ready for another lesson. Mualani was determined to teach me how to surf, and I was equally determined to make her proud, even if it meant a few more wipeouts.

“Hey, ‘Lani!” I greeted her, adjusting my swimsuit as I approached. “Ready for another round?”

Mualani grinned, her eyes always sparkling with excitement. “Always! But first, tell me have you been messing with Kinich? He’s been super quiet. More than usual.”

I laughed, setting my surfboard down. “Really? That’s funny. I’ve been testing your theory. It’s been interesting, to say the least. I really don’t think he’s reacting. He’s doing things any normal boyfriend would do.”

She nodded enthusiastically. “You absolutely need to keep it up. Yesterday he looked like he was going to explode.”

I snorted a laugh Mualani clapped her hands together. “Alright, enough talk. Let’s hit the waves!”We headed down to the beach, the sound of the ocean filling the air.

As we paddled out, Mualani and I chatted about everything and nothing, enjoying the easy flow of conversation. Suddenly, someone from the tribe called out to Mualani, needing her assistance with something urgent.

Mualani sighed, giving me an apologetic look. “Duty calls. Just focus on balancing on the board for now, okay? I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Got it!” I called, watching as she paddled back to the shore.

Left to my own devices, I paddled out to the shallow part of the water. I stood up on the board, feeling the gentle sway of the ocean beneath me. Balancing was tricky, but I was determined to get the hang of it. I took a deep breath, focusing on keeping my stance steady.

The sun was warm on my skin, and the sound of the waves was soothing.

My balance wavered, and I tumbled into the water with a splash. As I surfaced, sputtering and wiping the saltwater from my eyes, I heard a familiar voice.

"Having trouble there?" Kinich asked, a teasing smile on his face.

I felt my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. "Maybe just a little," I admitted, trying to laugh it off.

He chuckled, wading over to me. "Here, let me help you." He reached out, steadying me as I stood up in the water. His hands were firm but gentle, and I felt a bit more stable with his support.

"Thanks," I mumbled reeling from the taste of saltwater, feeling self-consciousness.

"No problem," he replied, still holding my surfboard, "Everyone falls sometimes. It's part of the learning process."

I nodded, appreciating his encouragement. "Yeah, I guess so."

He handed me the board, his eyes warm with amusement. "Just keep at it. You'll get the hang of it."

The sun glinted off the water as I turned towards Kinich, curiosity, and anxiety bubbling with the ripples of the water.

“Kinich,” I called out, voice catching the wind.

“Would you help me with this, please? I mean, with keeping my balance on the board?”

His gaze softened, and without a word, he nodded. With practiced ease, he dropped the surfboard into the water, and it settled with a small splash. Approaching me, he placed his hands gently around my waist, lifting me as if I weighed nothing.

My heart beat wildly, like drums against my chest—not just from the thrill, but from the intimate touch. Kinich’s hands lingered longer than necessary as he steadied me on the board, fingers warm against her skin through the thin fabric of my swimsuit. His grip was firm, yet tender, as though he was acutely aware of his strength and its effect.

“This good?” he asked, voice low, almost a whisper. It sent shivers down my spine, as I nodded, unable to find my voice. So instead I nodded, slowly.

Once Kinich was convinced Ihad found my balance, he slowly let go. For a few moments, I managed to stay upright, it was my triumph. But the waves had other plans. The board wobbled violently beneath my feet, and with a startled yelp, I lost my footing. In the blink of an eye, I grabbed onto Kinich, pulling him down with me. We both plunged into the cool embrace of the ocean. Breaking the surface, I wiped the water from my eyes, only to be met with the sight of a thoroughly drenched and disheveled Kinich. My initial shock dissolved into a fit of giggles. 

“I am so sorry!” I gasped between laughs, noticing the way his usually calm demeanor was replaced with a mixture of surprise a cute scowl. “You look... upset.”

Kinich’s expression softened, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Upset with you? Never.”

His eyes held mine, a glint of mischief playing in their sunsets. “Actually,” he continued, his voice low and sincere, “since you’ve been asking so politely, I thought I might as well ask the same... Can I please kiss you?”

Time seemed to pause as his words settled over. The world faded around us, leaving just the two of us in that perfect, sunlit moment. I barely managed a nod.

Kinich's lips met mine with a tenderness that took my breath away. The kiss was soft, almost hesitant as if he was savoring the moment, afraid it might slip away too soon. His hands, still resting on my hips, tightened slightly, pulling closer but never forcefully. 

I felt the warmth of his touch through the cool water, his fingers tracing gentle patterns on my revealed skin. The world around us seemed to fade, leaving only the sensation of his lips on mine and the steady rhythm of our breaths mingling. 

As the kiss deepened, Kinich's hand moved to cradle my face, his thumb brushing lightly against my cheekbone. It was a gesture of pure affection, a silent promise of his care and respect. I responded in kind, my own hands finding their way to his shoulders, feeling the strength and warmth beneath my fingertips.

When we finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against mine, heavy breaths mingling in the space between us. Kinich's eyes searched mine, a soft smile playing on his lips. Before he frowned.

"Now please stop saying please," he whispered, his voice barely audible over the gentle lapping of the waves. "I can't take it anymore."

[squinch-depraved]

CAN U DO COOL SEXY HOT READER TAKES SCHLATTS VIRGINITY?! but aged down like they’re both in college together

this one had me giggling and kicking my feet when i received it

reader and schlatt are both 20 (my age :3) (ok so i have/will never go to college so i hope this makes sense also lc!schlatt because he will not leave my brain)

CW: breeding kink if u squint, does this count as corruption kink? idk

you had a few classes together, ended up being partners for a project

actually got along surprisingly well

hung out a few times a week for a month or two

and then it was more frequent

almost every day this dude would just show up at your apartment; you have no idea how he came to know your schedule

if it wasn't him you'd be scared

and like, it's not because he doesn't look scary- he does, he's tall as fuck and has this serial killer stare

but you're not afraid of him because every time he's around you he acts like a complete loser

he stares at you when he thinks you aren't looking, a look of obsession in his eyes

the focus he has on your reflection as you put on lip gloss in the mirror is unmatched in any of his classes

you were supposed to be going to a party together, evident by your outfit that he can't decide if he likes or not- it shows a lot of skin, and while that'd be fine if it was just you two, there's bound to be lots of other guys eyeing you up all night

and he just can't stand the thought of that!

so what is he to do but fake receiving a text saying some faculty were crashing the event and it would be best to stay home?

and you were astounded at this boy's nerve, you got this dressed up? you looked this good? and he pretends the function's cancelled?

but you go along with it, pretending to be bummed out, playing his little game with him

"damn. was really hoping to get some dick tonight," you sigh

his brain kinda short circuits

and he mumbles something

hook, line, and

"what? sorry, i couldn't hear you, the music's loud," you tilt your head, turning down the volume

"i said i'm right here."

sinker :)

you snort derisively at him

"what makes you think i want you?"

you two had talked a lot in the months you had known each other, and sex came up a few times

you knew (before even talking to him) that he was a virgin

and he knew (before even talking to you) that you were a slut

but god, he needed you the second he saw you- needed you to be his first. his only.

so he swallows his pride and looks up at you from his spot on your floor with the most pitiful eyes

"i don't think you want me. i think i want you and you need a service for the night."

"a service?? jesus, schlatt, don't kid yourself. you wouldn't be doing shit, i'd be the one doing all the work because you have no clue what you're doing."

"then teach me," he begs. his voice is like you've never heard it before, whiny and breathy

and you roll your eyes before giving in, reaching a hand down to help him up

you guide him to lay down on your bed and he just sits there all tense, unable to relax because he's so nervous

until you tell him to take his pants off

and he's tearing them over his thighs, and they're down on the floor

and the tent in his boxers?

jesus christ

you figured he would be on the bigger side, but he looked massive, and you couldn't even clearly see his length yet

you sit there for a bit, taking in the sight of him splayed out amongst your stuffed animals

only hot bitches have stuffies on their beds, btw

and his face is sooo red, his breathing is uneven, his eyes are running all over your body

"have you like... ever been touched?" you ask him, unsure of how gentle you need to be

but gentle is not what he wants, not at all

"yeah. just... not all the way."

he can't meet your eyes now

so you smirk and climb over to him, hopping on top of him and savoring the whimper he lets out when you sit down on his clothed bulge

"and you want me to be your first time going all the way?"

you use one finger to tilt his chin to look at you

and he just melts

nodding while he stares into your eyes with pure adoration

the eye contact is intense, you find it hard to tear your gaze from his

but eventually you lean in and kiss him, taking his head in your hands

schlatt moans into your mouth when you slide your tongue in, giving in completely and letting you explore his mouth

and when you bite his bottom lip slightly when you pull away?

he moans sooo sluttily

you're grinding down onto his lap at this point, enjoying the constant noises the friction pulls from his lips

he's fucking mortified but he has to grab your hips super tightly and try to get you to stop

because if you keep going like this, he's gonna finish in his boxers and he thinks he would have to leave and never see you again if that happened

so you take pity on him, stopping your movements to press kisses to his neck

which he finds out he also loves

"is it okay if i leave marks?" you whisper in his ear

and his dick throbs so hard

"please," he responds in a quiet voice, staring at the ceiling while he pictures his friends seeing the evidence of him fucking the hottest person on campus

you oblige wayyy too eagerly, biting down hard and sucking deep purple marks all over his exposed neck

only pulling away when he was littered with dark bruises and teeth marks

the whole time he was letting out the cutest noises, gasping and groaning and sputtering how good you felt

silly boy, he has no idea what he's in for

once you're done having fun marking your territory, you scoot back and peel his boxers off

and you try not to react, but your eyes widen at the sight of his cock springing up and smacking his abdomen

he takes in your hungry expression and mistakes it for something negative

"what? wha's wrong?"

he sounds so scared

it takes you a few gruelling seconds before you shake your head and respond

"nothing, just. holy shit," you mumble

"what???" schlatt asks, sitting up slightly

"you're fucking huge, dude!! that's all, jesus... i just needed a second to process, sorry."

ego boosted

you will never hear the end of that

but anyways

he stutters, unable to finish whatever he was saying when you take him in your hand and stroke him gently

your eyes are trained on his groin, his on your face while you greedily watch as you play with him

he's so fucking loud

bucking his hips up into your hand

you're barely doing anything, he's that desperate for your touch

when you take his tip in your mouth, he lets out a strained gasp and tries to cover his mouth with his hand

you laugh mockingly and pull it from his face

"i wanna hear you!! this isn't as fun if i don't get to hear those pathetic noises you keep making," you tease

he just groans, eyes fluttering, and tilts his head back, giving in to how good you're making him feel

you smile at him and take as much of him into your mouth as you can, plunging him deep into your throat and making sloppy noises as you suck on him

he sounds like a fucking WHORE, whining and fucking up into your face

you let him have his fun, but pull off when he starts breathing a lot faster

he opens his eyes in surprise and cries out at the loss of contact, chest heaving

"why the fuck would you stop???"

he's so desperate, it's adorable

"can't have you cumming down my throat, then i can't ride you, can i?"

you raise one brow as you ask him, and he reaches his hand to hold yours subconsciously

a glance at his large fingers intertwining with yours stirs something in your stomach and you realize for the first time that you're really enjoying this

"please..." he trails off, unsure of what he's asking for

you watch his face for a moment, inspecting his needy expression, and decide to take pity on him

he watches you so intensely as you take off your jean shorts

and nearly creams himself when you just rip a hole in your fishnets instead of properly taking them off

and the seconds are dragging by so slowly as you position yourself on top of him

until you meet his eyes, asking for permission, and he nods vigorously

and you just sink down onto him, plunging his entire length between your velvet walls

schlatt's eyes glaze over as he stares up at you; he's never felt anything so good

you give him a few minutes to take in how soft you are on the inside before starting to move your hips

he groans with every bounce, so loud that you make a mental note to apologize to your roommate later in case they're home and hearing this

"you can touch me, y'know? you don't gotta just lay there and take it," you pant as you work masterfully on top of him

a more passionate grunt than usual leaves his lips and he immediately snakes his hands up to rest on your ass, squeezing and kneading it like he's holding on for dear life

and, maybe he feels like he is. you're riding him so fucking well that he swears he's dreaming, and his grip on your behind may well be the only thing keeping him grounded

it doesn't take long before he tells you what you had expected, but what he adds at the end throws you for a loop

"i'm gonna cum, but please, please don't stop. just keep going, i can go a few more rounds. please, y/n, i'm begging you," he stutters out

you clench around him and he yells, nails leaving deep angry crescent marks in the flesh of your rear end as he paints your insides white

about a minute later, he catches his breath somewhat and asks, "can i fuck you now?"

he sounds so sweet

like he really wants to make you feel good

so you let him try, positioning yourself on your hands and knees in front of him so that he can hit from behind

takes him a second to get the position right but he slides right in and starts going at you hard

you can't help the moans that slip out, and every noise you make spurs him on to keep going harder, faster, deeper

he's trying so hard to make you cum, you can tell, but he's so inexperienced that he finishes in you again before he can get you anywhere close

so when he lets out a frustrated, "fuck!" you reach behind you to grab his hand and bring it around to your front, lining his fingers up with your clit

"feel that? that's what you're looking for," you pant, pushing your ass as flush against him as you could. "play with it, see if you can figure it out on your own, and it's okay if you can't, i'm here to teach you."

he lets out a deep breath and starts thrusting again, rubbing circles into your sensitive nub

you continue to let out noises so he knows what works for you and what doesn't, and you've gotta hand it to him, he's a really fast learner

because it takes like five minutes before him slamming into you combined with the pattern of figure-eights he settled on tracing on your clit makes you cum

you get unbelievably tight around him as you climax, and the sound of you screaming his name makes his eyes roll back into his head while he spills in you one final time

you collapse when he pulls out, instructing him to help you to the bathroom

gotta teach him the importance of aftercare, right?

so he picks you up and carries you to the toilet, setting you down gently on your feet before stepping out and closing the door behind him to give you your privacy

best believe he stays right outside the door, though

he's not going anywhere for a long time. you're his now

[talkbycolor]

monster x mediator headcanons . . . ↷

A/N; mghmgh lo necesito (sexual)

Pairing; "NauseAxe_404" x GN!Reader

CW; weird shit? no bro only him mutilating you / feeling unsafe (cutely) / MONSTER COCK MY FAVORITE / smooching the monster under your bed

404 as delulu king

i need him to have a long tongue, its canon in my head

before you even met, he swore you were a couple, he'll propose to you in a cringe-y way if you decide to stay in the room for more than five minutes

He will cut off your arms and legs as long as you don't escape, but don't worry, he will take good care of you and will look for other ways so you can continue writing

if you stay in the room, you can sleep in his bed, he will sleep under it (we all know he will get up while you sleep to hug you)

you can't talk to another human or monster anymore, you were supposed to be together forever, WHY WOULD YOU WANT TO GET CLOSE TO SOMEONE ELSE, IF THEY SEE YOU THEY WILL LOVE YOU AND HE DON'T WANT THAT

the walls of his room are full of drawings of you and him, photos too since his artistic skills cannot portray your beauty very well and to be honest, neither can the cameras but he loves to see you wherever he turns his gaze

no matter how scared or angry you look, in his eyes, you would never do anything wrong, it is impossible for his superstar to make a mistake in any way, all your writings are perfect, your voice, your body, your eyes, your skin, your teeth, your hair, everything

he's basically a dog, he can't help but gasp with excitement when he sees you, rubbing his crotch against you, drooling in your face even if you complain, he's not going to stop

"you bruise so beautifully", imperfections do not exist, he may be fucking you until he tears you but his look of love will not disappear, on the contrary, he will fall in love with your whimpers, with how you scream in such an adorable way

on the contrary, if you seem bored, he will ask you to hit him, take off his pants, cover him with bruises, all for love (cuarteto referencia)

you are still human, you need to eat, sleep, breathe. WELL FUCK YOU, you won't go anywhere even if it's just to look for food, you can sleep in his bed, you can breathe his air if you have to but don't go DON'T GO DON'T GO DON'T GO DON'T GO

to be honest, you wouldn't be able to stand his pace, he'll fuck you until you vomit, even if you're bleeding, he'll feed you his saliva and your limbs will give in sooner than you think. but don't worry, he will continue loving your corpse

how many opportunities would you have to dress your superstar? He would take the opportunity to get adorable clothes and dress yourself with his own hands, putting slippers on your feet, cute bows in your hair, you don't need underwear, awww, look at you! such a pretty doll

he would never let you touch his axe, i'm sorry my love, but you have to respect his limits in the relationship, if you don't, do you really love him? of course he would never doubt the love you have for him! he just want understanding from you, dear

if you are willing, i also understand you, if they do give you the option to fuck a monster, you just take it but keep in mind that you will not be able to go to the hospital, that night you will know the true meaning of monster cock, it does not fit through your mouth and i highly doubt that it will fit your ass

even though he looks so desperate and willing to do unethical things, your biggest fan is a little shy. if you show him affection or interest, the red on your lips will sync perfectly with the red in his eyes. isn't that romantic?

he's smarter than you think, he probably used his ax quite a bit before you showed up at the hotel. it is a relief that you had never covered the camera of your cell phone or computer while you masturbated, after showering, while sleeping even, and yes, he obviously hacked your electronic devices

idk man, he seems pretty acoustic to me, you and axes as special interests, unstable reactions to changes he cannot control, poor understanding of other people's body language or facial expressions, specific way to organize or have his room

"babe give me a reason not to kill those who look at you" "you can't fuck me if you're in prison"

no es un chico malo, solo quiere ser él mismo

"everyone is so mean to me"

MAN I JUST LOVE HIM MY DELULU KING UEUEUUE

you don't have to say "I can fix him", he himself will tell you "FIX ME" (spoiler: you cant)

he looks cute when he cries, doesnt he?

♡

[fatesundress]

⭑ 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 tomes 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, “You seen the shite the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a bloody 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? How about 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 brings you to his bed after and you let him, 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.

[whateverloomis]

hi! can you please make a virgin reader x experienced billy loomis story? maybe the story can take place in billy's car or at his house when parents are out.

Grrr thank's for this request anon! I've been meaning to write a virgin reader fic. Get ready 😈

Warnings: Virgin reader, AFAB reader (no pronouns used,) public sex, car sex, making out, Billy is kinda sweet here idk, unprotected sex (wrap it up babes, trust me,) || Edited: June'24

Word count: 2.6k

Note: This has some elements inspired by the song "97" by Doja Cat

-

"We're going to the drive in tonight, you wanna tag along?" Tatum asked and you thought about it for a second, not really in the mood to hang out. "Billy's gonna be there, maybe you can tag along with him, hm?" She continued and winked at you. You bit your lower lip at the thought of being alone with him yet again...

You're not sure how it happened exactly, but the word got around that you had a little crush on Billy. With him having broken up with Sidney you didn't want to make things weird between everyone in the group, so you opted for the best option at the time which was keeping it to yourself . That was until suddenly everything changed.

After one of the many hang outs the group had at Machers residence, you decided to stay a little later once everyone left to help Stu clean up, which didn't take very long. When you were ready to leave, as you exited the door you encountered Billy and gasped in surprise and slight fear. He hadn't joined this get together and you were partly thankful, partly upset at his absence.

"Fuck! You scared me!" You said startled before closing the door behind you.

"I'm sorry, didn't mean to scare you." Billy replied, laughing softly at your reaction.

His close proximity made you blush and avoid looking up at him, but it was impossible with the boy searching for your eyes. You had been low-key avoiding him all week. Your crush kept growing and growing every time you saw him and you promised yourself you wouldn't let it get that far. Avoiding him was the only thing that seemed right.

You tried to walk past him after mumbling, "It's okay, i'll see you around," but Billy grabbed your arm and spun you around to face him.

"No, I- You didn't do anything. I'm just feeling kinda off, I guess... In general." You lied and he could see right through you. You knew he did.

"Hey, what's going on? You've been acting weird around me all week." He said and you finally met his eyes. He had doubt written all over his face. Curiosity.

"C'mon, don't be like that. Talk to me." He said and you sighed, trying to stay calm and formulate your next words carefully.

"I've just been a little bit thrown off. There's this guy that I kinda like, but he's unavailable." You played around with your words, trying to explain things without it being too obvious.

"How come?" Billy asked, interested in what you were saying.

"Well, we have a friend in common and I don't want to make things weird and such." You said, feeling good with the way you explained everything.

"Mm, yeah. I get what you mean." He replied and you looked at him, eyes wide in surprise.

"You... Do?" Your voice sounded a bit disappointed, but you kept your strength on display. You couldn't give yourself away.

You moved your lips with his, mimicking his movements. His tongue brushed your lower lip softly and you allowed him to run it against your own. Play with each other. He was a great fucking kisser and you didn't want to stop for one second.

"Yeah, I've been wanting to do something about it but I haven't had the chance... until now." He replied and took a step towards you. You were confused with his actions. He wouldn't possibly mean you, right?

Your question got immediately answered as his hand cupped your face and he pulled you towards him, placing a soft kiss on your lips. Billy's the second person you've ever kissed and it made butterflies flutter in your stomach.

Suddenly you heard the door knob turn and pulled away from Billy, leaving enough distance between you two so that it didn't look like anything was happening.

"YN? I thought you lef- Billyyyy, hey. What are you doing here?" Stu asked his friend trying to fake that he didn't know he would come over. Billy rolled his eyes and glared at Stu before turning to look at you again. "See you around YN." He said and grabbed your hand, squeezing it softly before walking into Stu's house.

You were shocked, happy, confused, soaked between your legs and going insane before leaving Stu's house and going to your house where you couldn't sleep for the night because the excitement consumed you.

You snapped back to reality to what Tatum was saying; "Billy's gonna be there, maybe you can tag along with him, hm?" she continued and winked at you. You bit your lower lip at the thought of being alone with him yet again. You never really told anyone directly about you guys having a mutual crush, or that you've been on the kissing phase for a while but you had a feeling Stu and Tatum knew. I mean c'mon, Stu and Billy were best friends and Tatum was all in for the gossip so I'm sure she got the info out of Stu at some point.

After that night, you guys made out everywhere; your house, his house, at the park, behind the college campus, in empty class rooms, you name it. However, it never went further than that, until that night... The drive in night...

That left Randy and Sidney. They were kinda oblivious to the whole thing, especially Randy. He was too busy trying to win Sidney's heart when she clearly wasn't interested. Poor guy.

"Okay, fine. Since I'm not gonna be driving." -- "Who's not gonna be driving?" Billy joined the conversation with Stu and Randy by his side. "Me, because I'm going with you to the drive in according to Tatum." you answered. Stu smirked at you and then at Billy who glared at him then smiled at you softly. A silent agreement.

"Awwhh fuck! Everyone has a date but me?!" Randy whined and you widened your eyes. Date.

"We're just friends, Randy. Chill." Billy answered and gave you a reassuring look after his words. He didn't want to hurt you, and you understood.

"Good! So I can join you then?" Randy said and looked at you as if he could convince you instead of Billy, but of course that wasn't going to work. You really wanted to be alone with Billy at the drive in and see where the night took you guys, Randy wasn't going to ruin that for you.

"I uh... Y'know? I have a friend who's single and cute! I can set you up." You responded and winked at him. His desperate self accepted right away and you exhaled a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

"Fuck yeah! It's set, see you guys at 8pm!" Stu practically shouted before picking Tatum up over his shoulders and walking away.

•

Billy picked you up in his dads red colored 97' Benz. You didn't care if it wasn't his car, he looked hot as fuck in it. It was slick, the red looked intense with how polished and shiny the car was, and you were ready for a long night inside of it.

You had been fantasizing about that night since the invitation. You wanted to go a bit further than just kissing with Billy. Make a bold move or something. You didn't have any experience unlike him but you felt so ready and needy to feel more of him. To feel the unknown. However, you couldn't deny that you did feel scared to some degree. You knew nothing when it came to sex and you didn't want to do anything stupid.

At the drive in, you met with the rest of the group at the entrance and hung out for a while, drinking and sharing candy before the movie started. Then you all chose hidden spots to park, like most people did.

You didn't even know what the movie was about, just that it was some kind of cheap slasher. Billy and you made small talk for the first few minutes of the movie while sharing sweets with each other. The tension between you grew by the minute and you were starting to get nervous. You didn't know if you should've made a first move or something. It's not like you guys hadn't done anything before, but that moment felt different.

"Is that the only one left?" You asked him, frowning as he picked up a small chocolate bar from the assorted candy you bought.

"You wanna share it?" Billy asked, laughing at your little frown. He found it adorable.

You nodded and watched as he unwrapped it, waiting for him to split the candy, but instead he bit one of the ends and held it there. Billy cupped your face and pulled you towards his, poking your bottom lip with the chocolate and you instantly knew what he was asking you to do. You bit the other end of the bar and you guys split it in half, your lips meeting in the end. You gave each other one lingering kiss before parting and savoring the chocolate. You bit your lip and blushed at what had happened. It was too hot for you to handle and you were already feeling yourself getting wet between your legs.

"I didn't realize that was my favorite chocolate until now." Billy said and you giggled at his words. He was so freaking smooth it drove you insane, so you leaned in and kissed him again, deepening it and using your tongue to play around with his. You ran your hands through his hair and pulled it slightly which made him release the quietest moan. You smiled into the kiss and moved across the car dash to sit on his lap, on the drivers seat.

You immediately felt his hard on against your core and started to grind against it slowly. It was an instinctual move from your part. Billy placed his hands on your hips and made you grind against him a bit faster. His breathing picked up and you released little moans that echoed around the car.

Billy's hands traveled up your thigh and under your skirt. He squeezed the flesh and it sent goosebumps all over your body. He hooked his thumbs under your thong (bold choice of underwear that day,) and started to play with the fabric, testing the waters. When his fingers traveled close to your core you tensed up and stopped kissing him.

"Mm, sorry-" -- "Are you okay?" Billy asked immediately, concern evident in his words.

"Yeah, I just... I've never really... Gone further than making out." You replied, looking away from him, ashamed.

"Hey, it's okay. We can stop if y-" -- "No! No, I don't want to stop... You just..." You paused and ran your hand through his hair, "...have so much experience and I-" -- "It's okay baby, there's nothing wrong with that... Just means I can make you feel really good."

Baby.

You bit your lip and he smirked at you before tapping your thigh. "Get back in your seat, we're getting out of here." He said and you did what he said, no questions asked.

Billy pulled out of the drive in with the headlights off to not bother anyone, but mainly so you guys didn't get caught.

As Billy drove away from the place, he opened the windows and sun roof. The stars were on full display as well as the moon. You rested your arm on the door, admiring the scenery and feeling wildly content as well as a bit reckless. You were ready to risk it all that night with Billy.

•

Billy and you drove into a secluded area with a perfect view of a lake and the beautiful night sky. There were a few other cars parked in the area but you could barely see them, much less anyone inside them.

Once you guys were parked, Billy looked at you and patted his lap, smirking at you when you complied in sitting on him again. You didn't waste time and kissed him again, this time hungrier than ever. Billy grabbed your ass and moved you against his already hard cock, making you grind against him like you were before. You felt him grow more beneath you and moaned at the feeling. Pawing and pulling at his hair again you both made little noises that filled the quietness of the car.

"Fuck... We're taking this outside." Billy whispered and opened the door, walking out with your legs wrapped around his torso and arms around his neck. He placed you on the hood of the Benz, the moon light visible on the shiny hood of the car. He kneeled down and kissed up your sensitive thighs. You bit your lip to muffle any noise that could've come out of you but it was nearly impossible. Once Billy reached your core, he took your thong off with his teeth and tossed them God know's where in the woods.

"You're soaked and I haven't even touched you yet" He said and chuckled before licking a stripe up your folds. You threw your head back at the sensation. Billy licked and sucked your cunt like it was his last meal. He moaned against your core and it sent vibrations up your spine. Flicking and sucking on your clit repeatedly and softly you swore you were gonna pass out from the pleasure. Once it built up, you felt a need you hadn't felt before. You needed something inside you.

Your cunt throbbed and ached to have something fucking it, anything, so you grabbed Billy's left hand and moved it towards your center, and he knew exactly what you wanted. He ran his ring and middle finger along your slit and slowly dipped them in all while he was licking and sucking your clit. Finally, he inserted his fingers all the way in your cunt and started to finger fuck you slowly. All the myths you had heard weren't true, you definitely felt a stretch but it was so good. The feeling of getting filled up and getting your g spot stimulated felt amazing, especially while he was working on your clit.

"Yes! Yes, fuck... Fuck me, please Billy, please..." You started to beg. You needed more, wanted to feel him fuck you so desperately.

Billy smirked at your plea and pulled his fingers out of you, licking them clean after. "You taste so fucking good." He said and turned you around on the hood of the car. You heard him unbuckling his belt and unzipping his pants quickly before positioning you to align his throbbing cock with your center.

"Wait!" You said and looked back at him. He looked at you knowingly. "I'll pull out, I promise. It feels better this way." You didn't have the energy to fight him on the matter, you just wanted to get fucked, so you gave in.

Billy started to slide in slowly, allowing you to get used to the feel and stretch. You threw your head back in pleasure as you felt every inch of him fill you up. He felt big and you hugged his cock perfectly.

"You feel so good." He said and started moving inside you. "So. Fucking. Good." His thrusts divided his words. You couldn't say anything coherent at that point, you were moaning and whining. Digging your nails in the hood of the car which was probably going to leave marks but neither of you cared.

Billy turned you around to face him and you wrapped your legs around him. He held your thighs to keep you against the hood while he pounded into you. You pulled his hair and bit his shoulder to keep yourself quiet, and he groaned at the feeling. He likes pain?

"I'm not gonna cum until you do." He whispered in your ear and started to rub your clit while he fucked you raw. The pleasure increased immensely at the stimulation and you were surprisingly closer than you thought. The build up felt intense. Both stimulations combined and coursed through your body. You couldn't help but move against him. Feeling him impossibly deep inside you, that's when you came around his cock. You didn't care to be quiet at that point so you moaned and panted like a wild animal. Billy thrusted a few more times before pulling out and cuming on your thigh.

You both panted as you rested your forehead against his.

"That was-" -- "Amazing." He interrupted you and you let out a breathy laugh before looking at him, then looked around.

"So, who's cleaning this up?" You asked, half joking half serious. Billy laughed and looked up in defeat. "We'll figure it out."

[dragonridernoobie]

Glad to see a undertale au author still up and running.

Thoughts on writing a feral underfell bitty sans (possibly abandoned, escaped from a bad place, neglected? Who knows) the reader finds injured and patches them up + befriends them?

Some bitty fics include feral bitties travelling together, like a horror or classic sans with a fell.

Basically, go nuts, no strict requests. Interpret it how ever you like :)

Hope you like this request, idk just enjoying the fandom.

Enjoy the rest of your day/night ^-^

I am so happy to do this! It reminded me of a picture I found on Pinterest that I wanted to adopted fell san bitty. Here is the picture. Also, I'm gonna do it with fell and horror since they where abandon for there looks and attitude.

To anyone else reading this: You will adopt him, and if you don't, I will find out where you live and kill you. Then I'm gonna bring you're ass back from hell and make you write a sorry letter to a fictional character.

Enjoy <3

FellSansBitty X Reader X HorrorSansBitty

It was just a normal day in Ebbot city. All you wanted to do was get a coffee and some treats but mother nature decided that you where gonna deal with nature and threw the biggest Strom the city has seen.

You where currently running down the street, you're jacket over you're head to stop getting wet.

While on you're way back home, you ran by a alley you passed a million times. Though, this time was different. You heard crying. You stopped and tried to listen over the heavey thunder and rain but you couldn't.

When you got closer, you where able to hear it clearer. When a loud thundering boom made it's present, you heard a whimper. When you followed the noise, you came across a wet, broken down box. On the front it said "bitty for sale." There were numbers also scratched out.

25$, 15$, 5$, and free. You looked inside and you saw a bitty. Bittys where interduced to human kind when monsters arrived above ground.

Humans took them quickly and made more of them. They are now used for therapy, friends, pets, and teatchers for the disabled.

Though there were times when bittys did stuff they were not meant to do. Like bitting, talking back, and actually running away from their owners. People called then "broken bittys."

When that stuff happened, people would take them and dust them or put them down in human words. You did not believe in that way since it was wrong, and living things should have free will.

So when you opened the soggy broken box open, you came face to face with the bitty. It looked up at you, scared but also hissed at you in fear.

You used your best smoothing voice to calm into bitty and reach your hand out. Showing it that it can get on your hand if it wants.

When another loud thundering boom was heard, it quickly grabbed you're hand and you slowly raised it up.

Now that it was in your hand, you quickly brought it underneth your jacket and got a closer look at it

It looked like....

FellSanBitty

It looked like a little cherry. It had a big furry black and yellow jacket and shorts.

It had red eyelights.

It looked at you while you stood up and quickly ran to you're house.

Once you reached you're house, you where quick to grab a towel and help the bitty dry off.

It grumble and snapped at you, saying it can do it it's delf

Once it was dru, you interduce youreself. "Hi, my name is (Y/N). What's you're name?"

"....sans...but I like being called red...."

You nod and ask him if he wants food.

You make him some grilled cheese and give it to him.

He complains that the grilled cheese was too cheesy, but he was lying that he hated it since he was eating it faster, then he could chew it.

You had to tell him a few times to slow down.

While he eats, you asked him why he was in that box.

Red stopped eating and looked at the ground.

"No one wants a mean looking bitty..."

Obviously you don't like that so you pet his head and say to him. "I don't think you look mean looking. I think you look tough."

Red looks at you surpised. He looked at you like you were joking, but how you were petting him, you wernt joking.

He blushes and pushes you're hand away.

"I ain't cute."

You chuckle and nod. "Of corse you're not."

"I said I ain't fuckin cute! Now stop fucking petting me!"

You guys are gonna have a instresting relationship.

Pretend that's you're hand.

HorrorSansBitty

When you got a better look at the bitty in you're hand, it looked hurt.

It had a hole in its head, torn up clothes, and seemed to be shaking from the cold.

You held it aginst youreself and ran home.

Once home, you quickly grabbed a towl and help it dry it off, being mindful of its hole in the head.

Once dry, you asked him for a name.

"......sans......but people call me horror."

You nod and ask if he wants some grilled cheese.

His eyes seem to shine at the sound of food and quickly nods.

You make some and give it to him.

You watch him devour the grilled cheese in seconds.

You had to tell him to slow down.

Once he was done eating, you asked the hardest question.

"Why where you in that box?"

Horror stopped eating the crumbs and looked down

"No one wants a broken looking bitty."

You're hurt by his words but after a bit, you take 2 fingers and pet his good side of his skull.

He immediately looked at you surpised but smile and purred.

You just got a skeloton cat bitty.

[whore-ibly-hot]

Tw: Dubcon, coercion, orgasm denial, general guys being icky and manipulative.

(Its kinda ass idk)

Thinking about...

A couple of guys, not really delinquents bit certainly not 'upstanding' citizens just using you for some relief. It's probably after some event, maybe a rock show at some shithole downtown, or maybe you were just getting some snacks with guys you thought were your friends. Not thought, they are your friends, but you couldn't have imagined this.

The first fidgets with the lever of the backseats, trying to get them folded back into the trunk while number twos tugging at your skirt, your tits pressed harshly into the leather of his car. "Cmon, find the fucking lever!" He growls and number one, who raises his hands in defense. "What do you want me to do, its probably your fucking car that let this happen. This shit-bucket probably doesn't even have a lever for the seats anymore."

Number three is driving, slowly finding some small lot with minimal lights in the back of some old building, shifting into park. While the two in back continue to bicker, he makes his way to the front of you. "Are you two sure about this? Seems like going to far." He says, one hand gripping at his pants sleeve with tension.

"You're bricked up too, bro. You aren't exactly the virgin Mary here." Number two pauses, then chuckles. "But, maybe virgin does fit." One cackles too, prompting three to smack the shoulder of two. "You're not scared, are you? You want this plenty, right?" Two asks, squishing your cheeks together in a 'fishy' face with a free hand.

"Don't know." You're scared, tired from the the fun night, unsure why three guys you've always been platonic with are doing this, but you can't deny the aching in your gut, the way your thighs are rubbing a bit against the leather seams of the middle seat and the far right seat. "I'm not sure, you guys-" You yelp, a hard open-palm grazing across the sliver of exposed ass poking from under your slightly ridden up skirt.

"Fuck is wrong with you?" Three asks, suddenly the seat jolts down, making you gasp. "Easy, easy."

"Get that skirt off, I just know she's got a good ass." One's hands push up, grabbing a cheek each amd kneading them as he groans. "Fucking mint, look at this, baby!" One leans so he's over you a bit, hard clothed cock pressing against your ass as he whispers in your ear. "Why'd you hide this thing from us?" He asks.

"I wasn't hiding it-"

"Obviously." Two snarks. "We barely even had to lift this skirt up, you were practically flaunting it."

God, you're aching. Maybe it's half stress, half arousal making you run on adrenaline, but the lack of care they seem to have for how you feel about this is having a primal effect on you.

"Pussy's fat too..." One comments, yanking down the thin panties keeping your soaked lips from him.

"Careful!" You squeak, causing them all to actually pause for a moment. "Its... been a bit."

Two breaks out into a grin, realizing this should mean dwindling protests from you about the way they plan to use you.

"She's not saying yes." Three protests, hand coming to hover over your cunt, effectively blocking his eager friends wandering fingers.

"She said maybe, and look at her!" One tries to get his hands past threes hand. "She's dripping on his leather seats, she's wetter than a bitch in heat.

"Its not like we're holding her down in some alley or something!" Two adds, placing a kiss on your sweaty forehead. "This is loving compared to that. Vanilla stuff." He snips.

Three seems conflicted, eyes downcast as he reluctantly pulls a hand away, moving it to gently rub your back up and down, as if trying to soothe a cat.

"Finally. Glad you decided to knock off the cockblocking." Spreading the lips of your labia, one whistles lowly, dragging a digital from your hole to aroused bud from behind, gently circling once, then twice.

"Shit-" You whisper out, gripping the seat edges with slick hands. You can feel threes hand clench slightly, but you lay your cheek on his knee, casting a flushed and low-lidded glance up at him. This reassures him a little, but your head near his oh-so sensitive inner thigh makes this action also go right to his dick.

"Fingers, how many you want?" One whispers. You just mewl at the feeling of friction on your clit, whining when it suddenly stops. "Wait, wait, okay, two, two!" You exclaim. You jolt forward a bit at the slight intrusion, the digits working you towards a finish, but not at the pace you'd like.

"You're sucking him in like crazy, shit." Two chuckles, leaning to glance behind you. "Makes me wonder what kinda suction you'd have elsewhere." He fidgets with his belt, the sound of a zipper and belt clasp coming undone sounds out, and a snap of boxers being pulled slightly lower. Three looks disgusted as two just winks, taking his own cock in his hand and running his hand over it once, then twice before pressing it forward.

Your lips wet with the slightly sticky red tip he presses to them, prodding once or twice like he's seeking entrance. "You wanna out in? Just give it a taste, I promise I'm not gonna make you take it all the way, baby." Two chuckles as you awkwardly kiss the tip. "That's nice, but I'm not asking you to give it's first kiss." Gripping your hair, he guides it in a bit, groaning. "Yeah, there we go. Right around my cock, use your tongue." You let out a moan as one hits a spot with the tips of his fingers, curled inside. It reverberates around Two's cock, causing him to buck. He keeps his promise, you have to admit, he only bucks forward a bit before pulling his length back out. "You're taking it so fucking good, not gonna bruise your mouth though, she's taking it like a fucking champ, man." He glances at One. "You think she's close?"

"Her pussy's twitching like she's gonna pop any second." The bragging first member slows his pace, causing you to whine and pull your mouth off Two's cock. "Why'd you stop, wait- wait-" You're panting, on the verge of overstimulation and seeking that release rather than focus on all your conflicting feelings.

"Shh, calm down. You'll get your pussy rocked, calm down." Two elbows Three, nodding his head towards the man. He's been stoic since you out your head on his leg, conflicted and sickened, while simultaneously being sickening aroused. "Last chance to jump this, man. I know you want to.." Three just pushes him back, but moves to have you sit up, now facing him. His hands on your cheek. "Breathe. S' okay, you want to stop, or you want to finish this?" He asks.

"Finish it, baby. We'll stroke it over yo-" Three smacks off one, scolding him before turning back to you. "Your choice. Your decision. Don't listen to them." Three reassures you, arms on blocking you in and leaning over you slightly to keep the other two from interfering.

"Finish. I wanna cum, m' aching and-" You buck forward just a bit, and he gets the memo. "Okay, okay. Lay on your back, spread your legs, I'm gonna do the work."

You don't have to be asked twice; laying on the cool leather, this time back down, chest rising. Two hands get your feet tucked around Threes waist, and he lowers down on you. You're so hyper focused on how sensitive you are, and your 'friend'leaning over you you can barely register one and two jerking off, hoping to climax around the time you do.

Three gets himself lined up, but not before placing a few soft kisses on your neck. "I got you. Just forget about those idiots, okay? You and me, I'm taking care of you. I'll let you finish and make em' take you right back home."

You just nod, eyes squeezing tight as he enters. "Ah-" You groan. "You're big, fuck-"

He's not moving. "Too big?"

You shake your head, and he resumes several slow repitions. Eventually, he's fully sheathed, balls smacking against your ass as he thrusts. "Amazing, you feel so good, so good." He grunts. His hands brace on either side of you, but don't grip you harshly like one and two. "Is it good for you?" He asks.

"Up..." is all you can mumble. He gets the hint, angling his cock slightly. Soon, his bulbous tip is hammering that spongy place deep inside you, and you can feel your release finally hitting. "Yes, cumming, I'm finishing-" You start to yell, then gasp at a hot rush of fluids that's aren't your own.

"Holy shit!" Two cackles along with one, as three halts in his movements. "Mister 'i don't wanna, it's not right' might've just knocked you up!"

Your still riding out your orgasm, but three has immediately snapped out of ir. "I didn't mean to, sorry, I didn't-" he's pulling out, immediately smacking two who finished a bit ago. "Its your car, drive. Fucking drive, go to the pharmacy." Two puts his hands up, but obeys.

"M' so sorry." Three says as he sits you up. "I promise I'm clean and stuff, and we're gonna grab plan b, get you some water too-"

"Its okay." You blurt. "Its okay, I know you didn't mean to." Biting your lip, you think about what happened. Of any other guys did this, it'd be horrifying, and you admit it was scary. But... it also wouldn't feel nearly as hot with anyone else. "It was good."

"Hell yeah it was." Both of you were so caught up, you didn't realize One stayed in the back of the car. "Wait till you get a ride on me, baby. I promise I'll be even more of a gentleman. Shit, I'll tell you before it shoot my load in you."

You should go out for late night drives more.

[thegnomelord]

me very patiently waiting for that mothussy :3

oh and here’s another wittle thing i thought…i tend to hc price as a bear hybrid or other so i think he would go into hibernations,, since hes still on duty he wouldnt go into a long-term one like other bears, but simply sleep a LOT of the day…i would wanna cuddle big bear price so bad awaawaewfgwh 🥺 hes really hairy but instead of it being coarse hair, its more fluffy cause its the winter!! so his facial hair puffs up a bit…and his chest hair…and the happy trail…you get the idea :3 idk i just like bear price i want him to pound me into the mattress and suck my cock until it falls off hug me!!

-❀

Give me like a couple more days lol, I got ghost and soap more or less done in a rough draft format, just need to write out price and gaz then a quick rewrite to clean up the draft. Cause rn all mini drafts are about 1k and very rough so when I clean it up they're probs gonna be bumped up to like 2k? Just knowing me and how my drafts end up doubling in size lol.

Also duuude you are a treasure trove of ideas lol. I want bear price now and now I'm horny so here's a bunch of bear price

Help a Bear Out

CW:NSFW, MDNI, daddy kink, dom/sub, oral, somno, edging, foodplay, cockwarming. Bear Price x Top Male reader Ao3

Imagine Bear Price who is by no means a small man any time of the year, bear genetics + having to be physically fit to take down terrorists leads to him having a very strong and imposing build befitting a Kodiak bear. The fur only adds to the striking image, making him look larger and his arms appear thicker, letting him scare many young boars from trying to tussle with him lest he crack their skulls.

But he turns massive in winter.

He can't help it; There's no escaping the iron clad control nature has over his body as his dark fur thickens and gains a fluffy golden color. No evading the instinct telling him to eat and rest and grow fat for winter until his hard earned muscles disappear beneath the cloak of fat. No ignoring sweet lull of sleep's song when he's yawning every five minutes and the words on the report swim in his blurry eyes.

Imagine Bear Price who, in his younger days, used to be self conscious about the changes his body went through. Growing up surrounded by humans was tough, dread would start building in his heart the moment the first leaf from the trees would fall. He's lost count how many times the kids would laugh at him when he'd show up to school after winter break with a chubby face and barely able to run a lap with how tired he was.

As he grew and started being curious about sex, it only got worse. He'd snatch the porn mags his sisters would buy behind their parents back, spending hours looking in the mirror and comparing his pudgy belly and fat thighs to the chiseled abs and lean muscles of the models. He'd spend hours exercising and trying to loose the weight he'd gain, but it would be all for naught.

And it didn't stop when he graduated and went into the military. His superiors may have tolerated the extra sleep and rations Price needed because he was a monster on the field, but they by no means were happy about it. He'd end up with thrice the amount of work and run ragged in training until he returned to his pre-winter weight.

Imagine Bear Price who doesn't give a shit about how he looks like now. Why would he, when he sees how you look at him? How you touch him? How you worship him?

Your hands wind around his waist and the groan you let out when you realize the space between your fingertips has gotten bigger is hungry. Your face burrows into his chest, his soft fluffy fur tickling your face as you nuzzle his pecks. The way his pudgy belly and love handles jiggle under your wandering hands makes you wish you had more arms so you could feel every part of him.

A content growl rumbles from the bottom of his chest, eyelids open just enough to watch you. "My boy's forgotten his manners." He chuckles, but there's no way to hide the wagging of his little bear tail. The reverent way you touch him makes him feel like a king.

"Sorry sir." There's absolutely no shame in your voice or your actions, not when your mind is held captive by the soft fluffy fur and the warmth of his skin. Without thinking you slide your hands up to grope his chest and you groan — the squishy fat covering his muscles and makes his pecs so large they don't fit in your hands anymore, fat plumping up between your fingers and his flesh jiggling as you press his pecs against your head and motorboat him.

The surprised laugh you earn is like ambrosia to sweeten the heaven you're drowning in.

Imagine Bear Price who gets so sleepy as the nights get longer and colder. While he still gets the work done, and for the most part doesn't mind the 'old man' jokes his boys make, it's obvious how irritated he gets when he's forced to stay awake longer than he needs to; each extra second spent explaining to a muppet how to do his job makes his eyes darker and voice rougher until he's passively growling like a construction engine.

Luckily you're there to calm down the beast.

Groping his ass or scratching the base of his tail to distract him so you can kiss along his jaw and rub your cheek against his beard. "You're doing it again sir." You mutter, voice smooth and low enough to soothe his prickled mind. Kissing him sweet and slow so you can tug his lazy body back into his room, into his den, where you can give him what his mind and body craves the most — sweet sweet sleep. . . and you.

Imagine Bear Price who's chest rumbles with a purr without stopping the second you settle into his den, his clawed fingers sliding over and groping your naked skin with just as much love and adoration as you show him.

Wrapped in so many layers of blankets and furs, engulfed by his bulk and his own fur, you are so so warm that neither one of you need clothes. Price's favorite position is to hug you like a Teddy bear. Despite the irony, it lets him wrap his body around you so you're safe and protected, practically suffocating in his fur. Not that you mind, especially when Price can nuzzle his nose into your hair or skin, to breathe in your scent to his heart's content and purr low praises into your ear: "Good boy,"

And, if you're especially good, he lets you use his ass as a pillow. He'll growl and grumble about not being able to scent you or hold you, but he'll soon be sleeping peacefully with you slumbering on his large ass.

Imagine Bear Price who, between the long stretches of sleep, get's horny. It's a natural reaction from sleeping next to his naked mate, wanting to feel you and hear your moans, but he doesn't have the energy to actually fuck. His lethargy turns the feeling of languid arousal into Hell.

Both of you try to initiate a couple of times; fumbling beneath the sheets, wandering hands roaming and groping as far as they can reach, his teeth nibbling on your neck and your hungry lips laying hickeys on his thick neck. Not wanting to undo the tangle of limbs you two end up grinding against each other, breathing the same air between kisses as sweet pleasure burns in your belies.

Then you stop just long enough to grab the lube, and Price's mind, still half way in lala land, only needs a couple of seconds of inaction to pull him back into deep sleep. By the time you return to him he's already snoring, limbs reaching out to grip you tightly and pull you close, but all thoughts of sex are forgotten.

And Price is so, so, angry with himself when he wakes up and realizes he left you high and dry again, shame eating away at his stomach because what kind of bear leaves his mate unsatisfied? The unworthy kind.

Imagine Bear Price who's mind is blown when you suggest cockwarming. Hibernation is about sleeping and relaxing, not strenuous sex, so the thought of being able to feel you while still fulfilling his body's need to rest? Oh it gets him hard.

It takes a while to figure out the perfect position, Price is too big and heavy to lay on top of you without crushing you, and his fingers earn to grip and hold you close so spooning him viable either.

Finally you end up with him laying on his back, legs spread with you laying on top of him and oh, it's perfect. You can feel him purr as you slide inside his blistering hot hole, his strong arms wrapping around you and claws scrapping along your spine. "That's my boy, perfect f' daddy." He mumbles through the fog of sleep, throwing one heavy leg over yours to keep you close.

You can't help the shudder that races down your spine, his musky earthy scent curling in your nose and making your cock throb inside him. You only stretching him long enough to be able to take you without tearing something, and Price relishes the slight sting of pain nibbling on his nerves when your cock hardens.

You don't try to fuck him, by the time you're fully settled inside him he's already snoozing. A slow roll of your hips and the resulting tightening of his hole is enough to sate your lust when it arises, enough to keep you half hard and stretching him out. His pecs make such a good pillow, thick fluffy fur and chest hair tickling your skin, the slow and calm beating of his heart lulling you to sleep before you know it.

Imagine Bear Price who gets an insatiable sweet tooth. There’s not a single secret stash in his room that doesn’t have his favorite bottle of honey in it. Hell, there’s more honey hidden in his room than cigars.

And his lazy mind decides to combine his hunger with honey with his hunger for you.

"Hold still for daddy, baby boy." Price mumbles against your abdomen, big hand gripping your hip to keep you still so not a drop of the honey he drizzles on your cock goes to waste. "Good." He purrs, wide tongue lolling out of his mouth to lap at your tip, claws massaging the skin beneath them.

He can spend hours laying between your legs, lazily lavishing your cock with attention while satisfying his craving for sweets. Whine and moan as much as you want, uselessly buck your hips as best you can against his unfair strength, nothing will make him rush — with his energy drained he'll spend meticulous minutes following every vein on your cock with his tongue before he even thinks of gently suckling on your tip. "Relax my boy, just enjoy this." He mutters, lips pressed against the sticky flesh of your shaft.

And when he does take you into his mouth, it's just as slow. His mouth hangs open so you can see your tip resting on his tongue before he laps at your slit, drool and honey running down his chin and sticking the strands of his beard together. When all the honey is in his stomach he just drizzles more, nibbling on your thighs or stomach to keep his mouth and mind occupied with you before starting the torturous process all over again.

The slow torturous pleasure is easy to endure just so you can see his eyes light up when you start leaking precum.

Imagine Bear Price absolutely loves loves loves the salty tang your cum adds to the sweet honey, the delicate combination of flavor dancing on tongue and only fueling his gluttonous mind to demand more.

The distinct taste is the only way to cut through the fog of lazy pleasure in his mind, turning him greedy. Price mumbles and growls incoherent words around your cock as he swallows you down to the root, swallowing around you and holding you down when you try to buck up. "My boy tastes so good." He mumbles as he rises up, nuzzling his cheek against your weeping tip, looking up at you with hungry blue eyes. "Just for daddy, yeah?"

"Ye-yes sir." You whimper through your clenched teeth, your head lolling back against the pillows when he swallows you whole again, your tip bumping against the back of his throat. "Just fo- fuck, fuck,- just for you." You don't know how he doesn't choke on you but you don't have the mental faculties to even think about that when your brains are leaking through your cock.

Price smiles around your cock, the purr rattling his chest and making his throat vibrate around you. "Smart boy," He praises after he pulls off, precum and honey swirling on his tongue as he takes the moment to savor the taste. He knows how close you are, he can feel the cum churning your balls when he rolls them in his rough palm. "You can give daddy a bit more, can't you?"

You honestly don't know how long you will last.

Imagine Bear Price who can get so insatiable he growls like a tractor when you try to weakly push him off your cock, so aroused that you think even the slightest gust of wind will make you pop.

Price bites your thigh enough to hurt and only his hand squeezing down on the base of your cock keeps you from cumming. "And where do you think you're going boy?" He demands, claws digging into your skin to pull your hips closer, little kitten licks of his tongue driving you to the brink of madness.

"S-Sir!" You moan before you can stop yourself, your hips twitching uselessly against his hands, thighs shaking. "'m sorry, I'm fuck, I'm so close." You whimper, fat tears rolling down your cheeks. Every nerve in your system is on fire, pleasure so strong it's turned to pain along your body.

Price huffs, but his tight hold lessens. "It's alright sweet boy," He hums, placing a sweet kiss on your cock head. "I know how you can make it up to daddy."

Imagine Bear Price who's only placated when you slide your cock back inside him. Your muscles ache from the strength it takes you to hoist his heavy legs over your shoulders and keep them there, but your rewarded with the tightening of his sweet hole, a pleased rumble leaving his throat.

“G-good boy-.” He growls, long claws scratching down your back as you pound into him. Your thrusts are slow but deep, making his toes curl every time you bottom out, tip scraping his prostate and making his cock spurt a dollop of precum with every thrust. “Fucking daddy so deep. I taught you well, yeah?”

"Yes, yes, yes!" You agree to everything he says without hearing any of his words, your body moving automatically to bully your dick into him. Every thrust is heaven and every second spent pulling out from his tight heat is hell, the sensitive veins of your cock scraping against his walls.

He moans when you manage to clip his prostate with your thrusts, one clawed hand sliding down to grip your hip hard enough to bruise. "Harder boy," He demands, rolling his hips to meet you half way, other hand raising up to scruff you. "You can go har-hm!- harder. . . don't you wan- fuck, want to make daddy feel good?"

Clenching your eyes shut you slam into him as hard as you can, feeling the fat widening his frame jiggle with every hard thrust. Without thinking Price pulls your head down to smother you in his pecs, soft fluffy fur tickling your face as the ample flesh suffocates you. The sweet scent of honey mixed with his musk erases any vestiges of sentient thought in your head, leaving your animal brain to pick up the pieces — Pin him down harder and mate him, rut into him until he's roaring with his full chest, his hard cock slapping against your stomach.

Price reacts to the change in your behavior by pressing your face even harder against his chest, his walls clenching around your cock like a vice so you have to try harder to push into him. Price’s lips brush against your ear, voice low and rumbly. “My boy, come in daddy.” He urges you on, both legs now tightly wound around your waist so you can only hump your aching cock into him. “Co-mh!- cum, cum in me son, you want to be good for daddy right?”

That's all it takes to drive you over the edge, mind going black like a piece of paper as your orgasm rocks through you with the intensity of lighting. The sensation of your hot cum spilling into his hole triggers his own orgasm and he cums with a thunderous roar, sticky seed shooting across your abdomen.

You collapse on top of him, his legs keeping your softening cock inside him, not that you have even a single functioning muscle to try to pull out. His big hand cradles your skull, honey flavored lips placing soothing kisses on your temple. "That's my boy." Price murmurs, his chest rumbling with a soft purr. "Did so well for me." He yawns, eyelids fluttering as that fog of lethargy settles over both of you. "Now rest," The order is spoken in the softest voice he's ever used, and it works like a horse tranquilizer on you.

As you drift off to sleep, you feel his hole clench around your soft cock, the cum inside him squelching as his body unconsciously tries to persuade yours into filling him up just a bit more.

It's gonna be a long winter.

[catiuskaa]

Game On, Game Boy.

SUMMARY: dating someone from the opposing team is banned? So what? Minho isn’t dating that cute girl with the purple headset, they clearly hate each other! …wait, what? You never said it was her? O-oh… um, well…

REQUESTED! here by my pookie dookie @15092000volcano, who OMG LOVE YOU GOT SOME IDEAS™️ and i’m 100% here for it!

WC: 3.8k

CW: extensive use of curse words, use of petnames, gaming lingo that i won’t explain (sorry), a sneaky mention of changlix and a ridiculously explicit mention of hyunin because idk broski i just felt like it

[♦️★ 🎯 ★♦️]

“Are you sure this is the section you’re supposed to be in, Lee?”

Minho’s eyes turned darker and he chuckled a cold laugh that could’ve frozen the Han river over a hundred times.

No one noticed the slight smile he let out that was quickly hidden again.

“Look who it is,” Minho beamed a newly found energy, as if a dark, bad, and rude soul had just taken control of his mean smile. “If it isn’t other than the wrongly chosen personality hire of… mhh… I don’t remember… sorry, dollface, what’s the name of your team again?”

Behind him, a blond guy stared at him, eyebrows shot up, eyes wide. He turned around and faced one of his other team players.

“Hey, hyung. Does Minho know that girl?” Felix asked in a low voice. “He… doesn’t look too happy.” That was a nice way to put it.

Changbin rolled his eyes at the encounter, throwing his arm over Felix’s shoulders.

“Her username is something like ‘soondondori25”. Minho and her met a while back, in high school. As little as he’s said, one thing’s for sure: they really don’t like each other.”

Despite it not looking too good for the team the fact that its leader wasn’t behaving with their opponents, Seo huffed, not paying any mind to the arguing pair, unlike Felix, whose eyes stayed glued to his other hyung and the new girl, still going at each other.

"I bet you’re still using the overpowered weapon. Can’t really get past Nerf Bastian, can ya?” You stated mockingly, your cheeks red as you kept arguing. “I guess you need all the help you can get."

"Says the one who relies on camping. Can't face me head-on, huh?” Minho grinned with a sense of superiority, stepping forward. “Scared, dollface?”

You bit your lip, your eyes locked on his.

"You won’t need to worry about my team’s name, sweetie. I’ll make sure you never forget it.” Your stare would’ve burnt a forest just by staring at the grass for a bit too long.

“Still can't win without relying on cheap strategies, can you?"

Minho settled his hands on his pockets, halfly staring down at you, as if mocking your height.

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” You chuckled lowly. You said it with a smirk, which Minho was fast to return. “Still stuck on that low-tier character, right? It seems like you need to step up your game, buddy."

“Oh, please!” Minho passed a hand through his hair, his tone hinting mocked amusement. He bent down lightly, his face in front of yours. “You're just a sore loser who can't handle a fair fight. Go back to your corner and cry some more, dollface.”

“Keep telling yourself that. We both know you're just jealous I'm better at this game than you."

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, dollface. I still manage to win against you. Seems like you're just bitter about losing."

The battle of comebacks kept going on, both of you stepping closer to each other with each sentence, as if about to throw hands.

“Ah, fuck! They do this every year!” Someone from your team approached the both of you while cursing. You ignored him at first, but then halfly gasped, facing your teammate.

“Jisung, I swear he started.”

“Yeah, Jisung. I started.” Minho cackled mockingly. “Tell Santa so I don’t have toys this Christmas.”

Han squinted at Minho. “Sure. As if I fucking care.” He then turned to face you, handing you a red shirt. “Yours. We’re red for the first round.” He stated seriously, taking on the role of team leader.

Minho and you stared at each other deeply just as Jisung flew the scene, missing how you two were basking in the glow of shared secrets.

“I’m team red, bunny,” you snickered at him in a smug tone. “You know what that means.”

“Superstition is for the rookies, dollface,” he said, his smile confirming the nickname you gave him was well justified.

No one knew the troubles the both of you had gone through. That’s why you smiled, knowing that when the round ended and you were both done for the day, —when you won, of course—, your boyfriend would still owe you a kiss.

All this mean smack talk was purely for the benefit of the other rival teams. Minho was happy to let you prove yourself to those who couldn’t grasp the idea that a girl in sparkly, cute dresses and what some would call ‘over the top’ makeup belonged in the competition. Minho and you both knew that one of the toughest rounds would certainly be against one another. You know exactly how good of a gamer he is, and likewise, his team had already heard about how your team had broken records during trials —named team Levanter, even if your endearing opponent pretended not to know it—, but there was no real animosity here.

Not an easy thing to hide, considering that to you it was obiously noticeable how Minho’s eyes hadn’t left your lips in what seemed like ten minutes. But yeah. No animosity. Just a knack for competition. And a bet that decides who’s making dinner for the night, but right now…

Right now was about the fight.

Both team Levanter and team Thunderous were sat in places, red vs blue once again as several cameras from the streaming platform that broadcasted the event were turned on, recording each player while the ref briefly introduced them with a loud tone for the crowd.

“Levanter, ready?” He asked with a smile meant for the thousands and thousands of viewers streaming online as the camera focused on him shortly.

“Ready,” Jisung smirked, to which everyone in your team logged in the computers before you as a response.

“Thunderous, ready?”

Minho smiled in your direction, holding back a chuckle when he noticed you had already been staring, then threw a wink at him.

“Ready,” he said.

You two exchanged a glance, openly competitive, any other meanings hidden between you two and the red thread that joined your little fingers, a silent agreement breaking the rules —the same ones you broke barely half an hour ago, when his lips consumed yours, or that you’re probably going to be rehashing the whole gameplay in your shared apartment and no one will know.

(And sure, you might do other things, too.)

The sound blasted in your headset when you settled it in place. You gave one last look to Minho, and he mumbled towards you with a smile.

“See you on the other side, dollface.”

“You’re the worst.” An easy shorthand for love you.

He smiled, and there was a knowledge that made your heart smile too, because winning or losing, in the end, you were coming back to his arms.

Your hands tightened and you cracked your knuckles, settling them back in place, one over the keyboard and the other on the mouse. You were nervous, yeah, but not afraid. This was your comfort zone. This is your comfort zone.

“COUNTDOWN,” the ref shouted, the numbers showing up in the complete view in the big screen behind him. “STARTING IN 3…! 2…! 1…!”

[♦️★ 🎯 ★♦️]

The vehicle shuddered when you closed the door with a thud.

You two stayed in silence for a bit, merely listening to the rain as the droplets hit the car nonchalantly.

“Can I be smug about it?” You smiled cheekily.

“Just ‘cause I ain’t that much of a sore loser, you get two minutes.” He scoffed with fake annoyance, which wasn’t truly worrying because he didn’t put any effort on hiding his smile, too.

You snickered, turning your body to face him, teasing him even before starting.

“But you owe me something first, dollface.”

You rolled your eyes. “It ain’t even that good of a nickname, Min.”

But then his hand, always a little colder than yours, swiftly gripped you by your neck, fingers stroking your nape as you held back a shiver, easily less than an inch away from him now.

“Would you rather I call you buddy?”

You smiled, eyes wondering where to focus, in a trance between his eyes, deep and enticing, or his lips, sweet and so stupidly kissable.

“Hurt much?” You pouted mockingly. You were obviously not expecting him to bite your lower lip.

He laughed, a menace he was, but he was quickly winned over —dare I say once more— when you pulled him towards your lips by tugging at the collar of his shirt.

Minho smiled as you let him take control.

“Your two minutes are over.” He whispered over your lips, leaving a small peck on your forehead before turning to the steering wheel.

You were about to complain, but that was before his hand, a bit warmer now, was strategically placed just a bit further up your knee.

He gave you a playful side eye.

You rolled your eyes again, to which he chuckled.

“Before you start snickering and bitching about what you want for dinner, princess,” Minho started speaking with a smile, his hand not leaving your leg as he started the engine, “seeing as I didn’t go to the grocery store and neither did you, we’re doing take-out.”

“That’s so unfair!” You argued as he manoeuvred to get the car out of the parallel spot. You stayed silent until he did, faking a pout. “You made me buy groceries last time I lost.”

He cackled. “Because I drive, silly.”

You glared at him. He grinned.

“I’ll call your mom.” You threatened. “I’ll make sure she takes the cats with her the days you have free.”

He gave you a stare with wide eyes once he encountered a red light.

“But honey, those are my children too.” His fake tone of worry was too funny to not burst out in laughter, to which he happily joined in.

“Shits and giggles aside, don’t,” he smiled. “Last time you did she told my dad and he still makes jokes about it.”

You acted smugly as you fetched for the aux cord and plugged it to your phone, scrolling down through your music app.

“Of course he does,” you snorted with a toothy grin. “I’m amazing. And even if we’re doing take-out I will beat the shit out of you if you don’t make lasagna before Friday.” You threatened again with a silly smile. “You know I can.”

He snorted too, his hand playfully squeezing your leg for a second.

“I know,” he mumbled absentmindedly, tracing patterns over your knee. “But we’re getting sushi tonight.”

The idea seemed nice enough, so in a silent agreement you settled on a playlist you knew he’d sing along to. Just as Wonder Girls started to play, he giggled, his hand tickling your knee —something as ticklish as confusing, really—.

“Cheeky.” He snickered, unable to not join in to your efforts into making the korean lyrics make sense, singing for a fun time, not a long one, specially when after Tell me finished, the next songs calmed down the upbeat vibe and soothed it sweetly, your boyfriend humming only when he concentrated on the road ahead.

He shoved you one of his hoodies that he had kept in the seats in the back, because he knew you’d show up with clothing that as beatiful as you looked with it, he just clicked his tongue and tutted at you when you tried to enter the restaurant after he parked, and sneakily locked the doors. You squinted your eyes at him.

“Put that on, missy.” He snickered, eyebrows up. “As funny as the idea may seem, cold as a concept isn’t psychological.”

You chuckled at his commentary, and quickly threw it on, a silly smile on your face when you realized that it smelled like him.

“Sure, Mr Charmer.” You shook your head sideways, smirking once he unlocked the car and you could open the door. “For the record, pretty boy, I’m just doing it cause you left money on the pocket.” You cackled and skipped inside the restaurant, with him chuckling just a bit behind you.

The restaurant was fairly empty, saving a couple of tables that were reserved for later and other customers that had barely started to eat.

You hid the twenty bucks bill you found in your phone case, and Minho pretended to forget about it when he saw you grin. You smiled at him gingerly, thinking where would it be a good place to put the it in where he could find it later.

He let you choose from the menu, trusting your taste and letting you pick the items for the both of you, doozing off slowly, distracting himself with the strange tipping device that the restaurant had on the counter top. Upon inspection, it was clearly a lucky cat figure, that when coins were placed on its hand, he’d just… eat them…?

“To go, yeah?” the young man at the counter asked with a tiny smile, wearing a small name tag that read “JEONGIN” in big letters.

You nodded, but noticed ‘Jeongin’ gave your really-interested-in-the-stupid-ass-tip-animal-robot company a look, and you stared at Minho too, scratching your cheek absentmindedly.

“Is he with you?” He asked nonchalantly, merely starting small talk.

You smiled. “Yeah. A girl needs a wallet from time to time.”

He snorted, nodding in agreement. “He’s… something.”

“Thanks. He’s rescue.”

You felt a hand slither into the pockets of your hoodie. Well. Technically his.

“Stop telling people that.” He huffed, laying his forehead on your shoulder.

Jeongin snickered at the two of you. “My boyfriend is a rescue too,” he winked. “This is his uniform, because he used mine by mistake and stained it with soja sauce.”

“Oh. So you’re not Jeongin, I guess?” You chuckled gently.

“I’m Hyunjin.” He corrected with a smile. After a bit, he handed you your order in a plastic bag. “It was nice to meet you two!”

You waved back with a sheepish smile as you two exited.

[♦️★ 🎯 ★♦️]

“WHAT?!” You screamed, the mic on your purple headset able to catch it flawlessly, as in response you started hearing laughs.

You stared at the screen, the music lowering as your character approached your house —or what used to be your house—.

“Y-yeah,” Seungmin’s voice chimed in, who tried to explain once more in between laughs, “Changbin added landscape mods o-or something,” he chuckled. “The storms can start fires.”

“B-HUH?” You frowned, trying to extinguish the fire that remained around. “Fuck that! What the fuck was Notch onto with this bullshit?”

Felix and Changbin still were unable to speak, as they continued to laugh loudly in the call. You went to Discord for a second, and muted them both. “You guys, shut up!”

They were muted, so you couldn’t possibly know if they had listened to you —most likely not—. Going back to Minecraft, you went in your house, and started looking around in your chest room if you had any wood to spare to repair the ceiling.

“Motherf- I gotta go chop wood?” You scoffed. “Brother.” You were starting to get pissed off, so you breathed in, fixing your glasses in position and your mind went back to the stream, and you started talking to the chat while getting the materials.

“Shit, I ran out of torches,” you cursed, going on your inventory to see if you had more. Oops. You didn’t. And you didn’t have much food either. Suddenly, zombie noises started to blast in your headset, several arrows hitting you.

“Fuckfuckfuck,” you used your shield, trying to find your enemies. “Where is this bitch?”

Minho went to the kitchen, that was a door away from your streaming room, able to hear loud noises coming from inside. He raised his eyebrows, wondering what could be happening in the gameplay.

“MOTHERFUCKER?! I DON’T— FUCK THIS SHIT! IT’S DISGUSTING. HEY, IT’S DISGUSTING THAT- THIS FUCKING ASSHOLE. HE’S AN IDIOT. HOPE HE CHOKES ON LENTILS, FUCK!”

You stormed out of the room, encountering Minho barely a couple steps away from the door.

He blinked, puzzled. “I’m making lasagna…?”

You struggled to calm down, just knowing you didn’t want to lash out at him.

“Time-out?” He questioned, wondering if you wanted some time on your own.

You flinched when you finally realized he was in front of you, your shoulders lowering and your body physically relaxing as you sighed and shook your head sideways.

“A storm burned down part of my roof and then a creeper blew me up when I was trying to fix it.” You sighed. “And then Changbin stole all my materials.”

“Did you turn off stream?” He wondered soothingly, his hands cupping your face and lightly scratching the back of your head.

You shook your head again. “I just turned the camera and the mic off, but it’s still on.”

“And you want to keep playing?”

“Yeah.” You smiled, one of your hands traveling to his. “Thanks, Min.”

He entered the streaming room with you, his arms over your shoulders.

“Where is she though?” Changbin questioned. “She’s not answering.”

“Dude.” Felix let out in shock.

“Lix?” Seungmin questioned.

“Guys, look at her stream.”

Minho left a peck on your head and ruffled your hair.

“Text me if you need anything, yeah?”

You smiled. “Thanks, bunny.”

You put your headphones back on, moving the mouse to turn on the screens again.

…maybe the camera hadn’t exactly been turned off.

You stared at the stream, eyes wide open as the chat started going wild.

…oops.

[♦️★ 🎯 ★♦️]

catiuskaa, may 2024 ©

~kats, who now wants to go play some minecraft.