#people like the crazy girl until she’s actually crazy

[cherubunie]

the lamb and the wolf ~ dom! vampire! jake x sub! reader ౨ৎ .⋆。⊹ ♡

Sim Jaehyun, the popular yet somehow nerdy 21 year old at your shared university. All the girls swooned over him, claiming that he's the most perfect human being to have ever walked this earth. You, on the contrary, felt something off about him, had your suspicions about the blonde haired boy that started to rule your every thought, and he could sense such. of course he did! He was the one crawling into your brain and picking apart your skull in order to rearrange the puzzle pieces to fit perfectly isync with his. He was absolutely crazy about how you didn't pay him any lustful eye or tried too hard to come onto him, that was until he started yearning for you, every part of you in so many more ways than one. You were just as mysterious to him as he was to you, and it drove both of you mad. And he just had to do something about it before his precious little muse genuinely did go insane.

Word count: 14,000

Vampire! Dom! Jake x Sub! Reader. Bondage, blood kink, overstimulation, biting, scratching, slight cnc (reader likes it dw), slight manhandling, praise, degradation, fingering, slight hunter/prey dynamic, slight breath play, slight corruption

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This is more of a short story than a one shot and the reader has similar characteristics to me so it's a little bit of an oc. sorry. it's kind of a slow burn but oh well. Reposts and comments are appreciated thank you! ♡ - phoebe

"Sim Jaehyun and f/n l/n" the professor calls out. you look over your shoulder the same time Jake looks down towards you from the top of the room, your eyes fixated on each others for just a split second before you break eye contact just as fast as it appeared, turning towards your best friend who sits directly next to you. The psychology professor was arranging groups of people for an upcoming project. you look at your best friend, your lips sucked between your teeth as she giggles.

"don't laugh please." you say to in a groan. she shakes her head, her giggling dying down as she speaks

"he's really not that bad, I hear he's actually decently nice and charming. all that talk about being a fuck boy are all rumors from what I hear" you cock an eyebrow up at her words, a look of 'oh really' written across your face

"and how would you know that" you say when you go to grab your book bag and sling it over your shoulder, not yet standing up to move

"one of my friends is a friend of his, so I've hung out with him from time to time and he doesn't at all act like what people talk about. I might just be talking out of my ass but you know" she shrugs her shoulders before continuing

"I guess it's just his looks that everybody fawns over. You can't even deny how attractive he is" she speaks and grabs her bag, standing up to move to her group, leaving you to follow her actions and face the blonde haired man. you look at him and you really can't deny it, he is unbelievably attractive. his face chiseled perfectly, his hair framing his face in a way that extenuates his features. he looks at you, a smile appearing on his lips this time, inviting you over.

You return his smile out of fondness. You're not really the type to fall for looks, you want something genuine. Real feelings and love, so you've never had the opportunity to actually fall in love because a lot of people in this generation tend to follow down the path of hook-up culture that really wasn't designed for your heart.

I guess you could say you want an old type love, one where men weren't ashamed to talk about their feelings for a woman.

You walk over to your group of four people, the empty seat with your name written all over it sat directly next to the blonde. you take your seat and get out your MacBook, opening up your notes before resting your elbows on the table below you, your chin in your palms as you look over your group, your eyes finding jakes figure once more as his do you.

"I'm y/n, by the way" you say to your group and begin talking about the subject of your shared presentation due in three months. its a really big project that consists of the need for various statistics involving a psychological study. When you begin suggesting topics, jakes eyes pour into your movements when you speak, finding it quite cute how much you enjoy talking about your major. he inturrupts you, his voice cherry sweet as his tone cuts into you, your eyes finding his

"you know an awful lot about psychological studies and tests ran in the past, how do you know so much?" he asks genuinely. you smile at him because he seems to take actual interest in your knowledge, you begin to ramble, talking his ear off about how much you enjoy learning how the human mind works and why it works the way it does. the other group members listen to you as well, but not as intentely as Jake does.

"psychology is my major, ever since I was little I was fascinated about the way people operate and the explanation as to why they do the things they do, I guess its kind of like an extreme interest of mine that I decided to make into my life goal to study" you end your ramble, a small tint of red coating your cheeks once you realize you've been talking for over fifteen minutes. Jake's smile never falters at your voice

"you just answered my second question. you're quite an interesting one, y/n" the way he worded his sentence sticks with you, he's talking as if he was born at a different time because you have never, ever heard anyone talk the way he does. you shake your head and the rest of the period goes by in a flash, your group figuring out what to make your presentation on, finishing up on it being the root of different phobias and how they affect different people. its quite simple, but there is a lot of different types that you would like to go over.

"hey guys, I think we should exchange numbers so we can all get together outside of class to do this project" one of your group members says, you nodding your head and getting your phone out of your bag. Jake takes your phone before anybody else could, handing you his in return.

"here, its easier like this than having everybody read out their numbers" Jake says to you, typing his number into your phone. you nod your head in agreement and add your contact information into his device before the two of you switch. you take note of what he named his contact as while he exchanges his phone with someone else.

everyones phone gets passed around and you notice that he named himself "Jake" in your phone while "sim jaehyun" was his name in everybody elses. you take note with a small smile before you wipe it off of your face.

"I'll see you later" he says to the group, but only looking at you as he speaks, exiting the room shortly after, leaving you to tilt your head in agreement. The rest of your group pools out of the room as do you not long after.

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A buzz on your phone causes you to stop doing what you're doing, setting down your lipgloss on your vanity before picking it up to check the message.

It's from Jake, and he's asking if you would like to come study with him at a nearby cafe.

You nearly fall out of your chair when you realize you weren't hallucinating, quickly messaging him back a "sure", trying not to get too excited when you get dressed after deciding on a cafe and heading out the door. its not a long walk from your apartment, giving your legs a good stretch after spending hours in your bed studying other subjects for classes your enrolled in. you enter the cafe, your eyes automatically finding Jakes lean figure. he lifts his head up from his computer, sensing your presence enter the building as he waves you over. he stands up so you could scoot into the booth next to him, deciding it was better to see each others screens than have to turn them around every five seconds.

his toothy grin makes you smile as he looks at you, recropricating his fondness. the two of you get to talking about the beginning of your lecture project, and the more that he talks, the more you begin to realize how much he knows about experiments conducted in the past, his knowledge crystal clear and unbelievably accurate. you look at him in wonder, not understanding how he knows so much about things that have happened so long ago.

"how do you know all this stuff?" you ask him, cutting his sentence short as you look up at him. his glasses frame his face so well, and you can see why every girl wont shut up about him. he really is breathtaking.

he brings his bottom lip inbetween his teeth to stop himself from laughing at your question, the most heartwarming smile on his face. he pushes his glasses up to the bridge of his nose and you take note of his eye color; dark brown.

"psychology is my major too, y/n. I also love learning about how the human brain works" the way he says 'human' makes your stomach churn, but you pay it no mind.

"you're really smart for someone who's only 21" you laugh at him. just as he's about to say something, a waiter with your drink comes over and goes to hand it to you. Without thinking, you lean over Jake, one of your breasts presses up against his arm gently and your hair gets in his face; he doesn't move. he doesn't want to move. you smell good.

so fucking good as you get closer to him. everything moves in slow motion in jakes mind as you're oblivious to the thoughts coursing through his skull. his eyes start to become heavy as time begins to catch up to speed. you thank the waiter and lean back on your seat, your body peeling away from his. a distasteful look clouds his face as he wants to grab you and pull you to press up against him again, but he controls himself.

you take a sip of your drink with a hum before looking at the man next to you, freezing at the look on his pale face.

"Jake, are you okay?" your voice rings through out his head and suddenly he's snapped out of his thoughts as he turns to you, his eyes still heavy.

"yes, yeah im okay" he says, trying to push a reassuring smile out to comfort you. you dont look away, concern laced in your tone

"are you sure? you dont look so good" you say, leaning closer to him. your hand raises before you can event think. the back of your hand comes in contact with his forehead and much to your surprise, he doesn't have a fever, its actually quite the opposite.

he's cold. almost freezing. you gasp and furrow your eyebrows. Jake takes note and quickly grabs your wrist in your hand, gently so he doesn't hurt you, and brings it down.

"I'm okay y/n, really" his smile is genuine this time. he's never had someone worry about him so easily before and he's never had someone talk to him about their interests, let alone his. ever.

your lips part as a small, shallow breath leaves your throat, your cheeks warming up. you take notice in the fact that his hand the same tempature as his forehead. you stare at each other before you feel jakes thumb gently caressing the skin on your wrist, breaking you out of your trance. you lift your wrist away from his hold, but not before your fingers lace around his in a small squeeze, deciding to do something slightly risky.

you pick up the glass and take another sip. you almost choke when you hear Jake laughing from above you, loud and clear. you set the glass down and look up at him, your lips in a full pout as you cross your arms.

"dont tell me you're one of those matcha haters." you tighten your lips and glare at his laughing. he shakes his head and begins to calm before speaking to you through giggles

"matcha tastes like grass y/n, how could you like that stuff" you huff at his sentence, kicking his foot under the table before turning away from him, his eyes being met with your back.

"oh y/n, dont ignore me, im only expressing my opinion. you can't be mad at meee" his hands move before he can process what he's doing, his fingers find your waist and tickle you.

your body spins around as a loud shriek forces its way out of your throat, a loud laugh following in pursuit. you shake in his hold, your palms desperately trying to smack his hands away as laughter fills the whole building.

"okay okay im not mad let me go" he stops tickling you, but his hands dont leave your waist, and you don't even realize it. he can feel your warmth under his fingertips and the blood coursing through your veins, your body and soul very much prominent and alive. it fills Jake with so many emotions.

"what do you like to drink then, mr. picky" he almost answers your question honestly, but he bites his tongue.

"something much sweeter than matcha" his tone darkens playfully and it makes you slightly lightheaded. You can now feel his hands on you, his fingers tightening around your figure, but you don't say anything about it, and you can't understand why.

Jake comes to his senses when you squirm under his hands ever so slightly. your body's pulse as well as your flowing blood being felt under his hands becomes quickly overstimulating, making him clench his jaw. he lets you go before muttering a quick

"I'll text you later" before speed walking out of the cafe, leaving you lightheaded and almost breathless. you walk home in confusion after spending the last few hours of your day with Jake studying and talking. you hear a distant scream a few blocks away, but that's normal in a city like this, so you push it to the back of your head once you enter your apartment for the night.

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"y/n..." a dark voice sings you name. you turn around in what appears to be an empty, dark space with no walls and the ground around you is filled with shallow water that leaves your bare feel cold.

"y/n" the voice echos, louder this time. your heart begins to pound in your chest, but you can't get your feet to move for the life of you. your breathing is heavy and it feels like you're about to be snatched up. you look around, no light, sound, or anything can be seen or heard in the weird universe you find yourself in.

That's until you turn your body around, finally getting your feet to move

That's when you see it: a figure with a blurred face stands a ways away from you, but you can almost see it clearly, carrying something

no, somebody.

Your freaked out breathing increases, but you stand your ground. you squint your eyes, making out the small drops of a red liquid stained the clothes its wearing, you can tell now its a man carrying a woman in a short white nightgown stained in the same red liquid that matches the color of his clothes, similar to your own night gown you sleep in every night. the mans face is blurry, but you can still see the red that stains his chin and neck, your eyes working their way down his figure to see his fingertips painted in the same, dark color. you can feel the grin on his face from where your standing. The woman doesn't move or make a sound. she's completely limp in his arms.

within the blink of an eye, he's standing in front of you, his face still blurry as the woman disappears from his hold

"be careful with who you trust" he whispers. the way he moved was so quick, it scared you into falling into the water below you, and suddenly you jump up out of your bed with a gasp. your hand clenches your chest as your heave for air. you shake your head and turn on the light on your bedside table.

You look around, scared out of your mind before getting the courage to get up and walk to the kitchen, getting a glass of water and chugging the entire thing before putting it down on the counter, leaning down to stretch your back.

"it was only a nightmare" you say to yourself, standing up straight and running your fingers through your hair. You walk into the living room to check the time. 5:30 am and your psychology class starts at 8:00 am. You decide to take a shower and make yourself breakfast instead of going back to sleep, you're too awake to do so anyways, the dream forcing you into being fully alert.

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Walking into class, now tired out of your mind from getting up so early, you set your bag down and sit next to Jake. you lean over the desk with your head in your hands, face buried in your arms as you let out a groan.

"are you okay" Jake puts a comforting hand on your back that eases you. you turn your head to look at him, your eyes tired while you nod your head. Jake doesn't believe you and cocks his head to the side, a questioning look sweeps over his face as he looks at you.

"I woke up early and couldn't go back to sleep, I'm so tired." you say, not looking away from him, the cutest pout on your lips. Jake wants nothing more than to kiss you right then and there, but he holds himself.

"I know how that feels" he says, his face softening. class begins and you end up falling asleep for the entire two hours, Jake taking down notes for you. he watches your peaceful figure, your shoulders moving up and down gently as your breathing is calm.

You feel a hand rubbing up and down your back and the softest, sweetest voice lure you out of your sleepy state. you blink your eyes open as you realize Jake is the one coaxing you out of your little nap.

"hi sleepy girl" the nickname makes your heart swell in your ribcage as you look up at him with a smile

"how long was I asleep for?" you ask him, not moving. he chuckles before answering your question.

"the whole class" you sit up quicker than the speed of sound, looking around to notice the class packing up, the clock striking 10 am. you shake your head in disappointment

"you let me sleep through the lecture??" you ask him in a sassy tone without meaning to, but he doesn't take it to heart

"you needed the sleep, I didn't want to wake you. you looked so peaceful" he says, his hand on your back leaving. you look at your open MacBook, then back at him

"I took the notes for you, if that helps" he gestures at the screen and you look at the organized notes before your expression softens

"im sorry for having an attitude, I'm just kind of anal about taking notes, but you did them perfectly" you stand up and close your laptop, putting it in your bag before slinging it over your shoulder.

"y/n, do you wanna hang out? we can study too if you want"

I just want to spend time with you.

you're glad he asked before you could, because you're not too sure you would have due to the fact that you were just too shy. you nod your head and walk out of the classroom side by side.

"where do you want to go?" you ask him as you begin to walk off campus. He shrugs his shoulders as he thinks, not really knowing where to go. you also think for a moment before the two of you begin talking in unison

"do you wanna go get food and then go to a park?" you ask him as he cuts his sentence short to listen to you. he nods his head

"that's perfect" he says as the two of you make your way to a cafe not far from campus. the bell dings, signaling to the workers that the two of you entered the building. Both of you stand in the short line to order, but you suddenly have the urge to pee.

"Jake, can you hold my things, I have to use the bathroom" you say. without needing any words, he grabs your tote off your shoulder and slings it around his. he smiles at you as you grip his arm gently without realizing it, walking off after. your touch lingers on his arm, even as he's ordering he can still feel your warmth.

you walk out of the bathroom after washing your hands to be met with Jake talking to another girl. She's beautiful; long blonde hair and a button nose, she's skinny and her clothes bring out her curves. she's holding onto Jakes arm, and before you could feel any sort of jealousy, he shifts under her hold uncomfortably, peeling out of her grasp with the fakest smile you've ever seen. you pause in your tracks, picking up on the conversation.

"You're so handsome, it's incredible" she says, tilting her head and batting her eyelashes at him. he chuckles and shakes his head. How could she not see the obviously pink tote bag littered with keychains and plushies on it? He clenches his jaw and musters out a "thank you"

"do you want to, I dont know, hang out? we could go back to my place?" she asks, eyeing him up and down. he shakes his head instantly, denying her invitation

"no thanks, im good. I'm actually here with someone" he cocks his head in your direction and she spins around, glaring at you. surprise takes over your body as you question how the fuck he knew you were standing there in the hidden corner without him even glancing at you. Your jaw slacks open in a quiet gasp as his eyes shift over to yours, not even needing to move his body or head to look at you. his stare makes you feel things you shouldn't. his eyes are telling you to come to him, so you obey, the both of them staring at you

You go to stand next to him shyly and Jake can't help but admire how obedient you are. he's not meaning to have such perverted thoughts about you at a time like this, but he can't help himself you're just too fucking adorable.

good girl

he thinks to himself. the girl huffs and walks away without a single word. you turn to face him

"good riddance, these girls have no shame" he says, smiling down at you

"you don't like it when girls approach you?"

"correction, I don't like it when they throw themselves at me" he says and before the conversation can continue, he holds up an iced matcha for you. you smile and look at it, then at him again.

"you bought it for me?" you ask and cup the cold drink in your hands.

"don't even think of paying me back" he says, still holding your tote as his now empty hand finds its way to gently grasp the small of your back, ushering the two of you out of the building and towards a non-busy park. You walk side by side through the cool, crisp autumn breeze. the golden, red, and brown leaves falling and crunching under your feet and the smell of the earth is calming. you take a sip of your drink and hum. Jake looks at you, admiring the way you enjoy the small things around you.

the both of you silently approach the grassy park and sit down next to each other. you set your drink down as he mimics your actions with your bag, putting it down next to him.

you lay down, your hair sprawled out on the ground but you don't care, you have to shower today anyways.

"its so nice outside, Its finally sweater weather, I can use my hoodies now" you say out in the open, not directly to Jake but at the world

"are you cold?" he asks you, moving to take his hoodie off before you can reply.

"a little, but its nice" before you open your eyes, you feel Jakes arms around your shoulders, ushering you to sit up as he helps you put his hoodie on. you take his hoodie as a kind gesture and put it on. its comforting, but not quite warm. you would think that his body heat would make the jacket at least a little warm, but its not.

it smells like him and your body begins to relax into the material of the jacket, feeling comforted.

"thank you, but aren't you gonna be cold?" you ask

"I don't get cold" you look at him, confusion written all over your face, but you take his words as a joke.

"ha ha, I guess you're just built different" you fake a sarcastic laugh at him and lay down again, Jake following after, laying next to you.

"do you have a girlfriend" you don't mean to be so direct, but his earlier actions confuse you, making you wonder if he just isn't looking for anything, or he already has a girlfriend. he turns to look at you, a serious look on his face as he speaks

"no. I've never fallen in love before and I don't plan to." he says as you turn to face him now, a little sad, but you listen to him with undivided attention.

"why?"

"everybody wants to just use me for my body. I don't understand it. not to toot my own horn but I do know that I am attractive, but im so much more than a handsome face. I want somebody to love me for me." he says and you become breathless, feeling the exact same way. you nod before you speak, looking deeply into his now hazel eyes

"I feel the same way. ive never met anybody who thinks the same way as I do apart from my best friend. I want to love someone and I want someone to love me, I don't want just sex I want-

-passion" Jake says the same word as you do. your face turns a deep shade of red. no other words needing to be said. his eyes lure you in dangerously close and suddenly you're daydreaming of kissing him.

kissing him with so much force and emotion it makes heat rise to your core, spreading throughout your body like fireworks.

"they're wrong about you" you blurt out as you keep daydreaming.

"I know" he says sadly. you can feel his emotions, as he feels yours.

"you're so kind, I dont understand how everybody can say such things" you chew the skin on the bottom of your lip after the words leave your mouth, worried you've said too much.

"you're too sweet to me" he's being serious. he's done unspeakably bad things, and he's dangerous. He's been telling himself to stay away from you out of fear he might hurt you as well because you're different than all the rest, but that fact alone drives him in more. you're like his muse. you're all he's been thinking about as of late, but no matter how hard he's been trying, he just can't stay away from you. he thinks of how badly he wants to crawl over you and devour you, show you how badly you've begun to take over every thought in his mind and the reasoning as to every action he's started making.

you've begun to drive him mad, and he's never wanted to take, taste, keep something to himself so badly.

his eyes shift color ever so slightly and you can almost swear they darken, his eyes getting heavy. however, you're not the least bit scared. you're intrigued.

you want to know what makes him tick. you want to know what he's thinking and why. his eyes flood into you, making you feel like your drowning in his stare. a coil starts to form in your lower abdomen, and you wonder how in the hell that's happened when he hasn't even hinted towards touching you.

"Jake" his name rolls off your tongue in a breathless whisper, almost like a hushed moan and its music to his ears. he hums in response, urging you to continue.

"do you think you could eventually fall in love?" you ask him, wishing he would give you the answer you would like to hear.

"I will, I can feel it." he says answering your question. he doesn't want to, but he feels himself falling for you ever so slowly, a ticking time bomb he wish he could defuse. he doesn't want you to be a part of his life because that would put you in danger, making you one of the most beautiful walking targets, and he would hurt anybody who even thought of laying a finger on you because of him.

but he doesn't want to let you go. the internal battle he's having with himself only grows with every passing second he's with you, and he's falling into insanity. with his slow decent into madness, yours follows not far after.

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this universe is a deep shade of red, and its dark. the cool water floods around your feet, making them cramp with how cold the temperature is. you've finally worked up the courage to walk around, wondering why you always find yourself in this familiar place every single night.

the only sound that echoes in the never ending universe is water rustling around, and your shallow breathing. it feels as though you've been walking for hours, if not days trying to find the answer as to why you've been brought here so frequently.

a scream makes you jump, whipping your head around as your heart feels like its going to leap into your throat and out of your mouth. your nails dig into your palms, attempting to ground yourself. you can see the familiar figure, holding the same woman in the white night gown, still stained in red.

you dare walk closer, tired of being played with like a game in your own dream world. you clench your jaw and swallow, hard. you begin to walk over with confidence, but all of your thoughts are drained from your body once you realize what's happening.

He's holding her in his arms bridal style, his knees digging into the wet floor as his face is in her neck. she's facing away from you, so you can't see who it is, but you can hear the moans of... agony, pleasure? you can't tell as they roll off her tongue and into your ears.

the water begins to turn red underneath the two of them, and all you want to do is wake up

wake up

wake up

please

but your frozen as you attempt to piece together what's unfolding before you. your jaw slacks open when one of his free hands slides under the slip of her dress, touching her in ways that make you feel tingly, now realizing her moans are ones of pleasure.

you gasp when he lifts his head up, his hair covering his eyes as he chuckles darkly. his face isn't blurred anymore, and you can almost just make out his face-

your hands fly to your mouth, trying to stop yourself from gasping even louder as he looks up at you, his mouth stained a with deep crimson red liquid that drips down his chin and onto his suit. a smirk litters his face as you can see the undeniably prominent fangs that stand out like a rose in a field of weeds.

"Jake.."

you shoot up out of bed, trying to understand what's happening. a loud bang makes you just about jump out of your skin and your window flies open, your curtains dancing in the night wind. you get up quickly and slam it shut before running back into bed and under the covers. your hands rake through your hair, pulling on it out of stress.

you just had a dream about Jake and he was.. inhuman. its not possible, it can't be. your hands move down to cover your face as you whine, realizing he wasn't just inhuman, but he was fingering someone, touching them in all the ways you wished he would touch you, and suddenly you start to think the most disgusting, vile thoughts of the man you've befriended less than two months ago.

thoughts ranging from kissing each other deeply, his hands all over you, touching your every nook and cranny you possess as he sucks deep, purple marks into your skin, his hands traveling down to the hem of your panties as he slips them to the side, sliding his fingers in and out of you ever so gently as if you were the most fragile little doll ever made

to him fucking you deep into the mattress, biting and grabbing you everywhere he could reach, his cock breeding you and engraving his shape into your body for all of eternity, marking you his as he carves his name into his creation, his little doll.

you feel disgusting as your fingers slip inside your underwear, dragging against your clit as you make yourself wetter at the though of Jake using you in every way possible. you slip down into the mattress as you begin fingering yourself, wishing he would come and replace your dainty little fingers with his long ones, stretching you and abusing your hole as if it were his own, and honestly, you wish he would come claim you.

"y-yun,,," you moan quietly, but much to your obliviousness, he hears your call, watching you from the darkest corner of your room, watching you unravel yourself just for him,, all because of him.

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"okay only two weeks until the project is due and we have to present, we just need to do revisions" one of your group partners says to the group. your head is in your hands, shielding yourself from the sun coming in through the windows. Jake puts a comforting hand on your back, luring you out of your almost-sleepy daze.

"are you okay?" he asks gently, his tone sincere. you turn your head to look at him, nodding with a small smile on your face. he looks at you as if he doesn't believe you, but doesn't push the issue.

"Ive done all my revisions, so im pretty much all done unless any of you need my help with anything" he says. you shift under his hand still rubbing your back.

"I'm all done too, ive been staying up late at night to get this done because I have other classes I need to focus on" you lie through your teeth. The real reason you haven't been getting sleep is because you have the same exact dream every single night, and it wakes you up at exactly four in the morning on the dot. its been almost three months now and you're starting to feel restless, and now with the new information that the man in your dreams is indeed Jake, you don't know how to feel. One thing you do know for certain is that you've begun to grow feelings for the blonde haired boy. The way he looks at you is alluring, and it the fact that the two of you have been hanging out almost every other day isn't helping your case. Whether it be studying for an exam, or watching a movie at home, you always find yourself with Jake as of recently. His presence is comforting, and you're beginning to become attached.

You feel gross for thinking it, but you've also been feeling a sort of urge with him. Thinking about how well he would fit inside you and how good it would feel. What kind of sounds would he make when he's fucking you. Would he moan, or keep quiet? Little to your knowledge, he's been thinking the same thing about you.

Would you writhe underneath him, or take his cock like the good girl he's come to be obsessed with. Would you whimper or scream? He wants all of you, especially the part he's most scared of taking.

You just smell so good.

He can't help but want to taste you. not only is your pussy making him want to do unspeakable things, but so is your blood. pure, innocent, and so full of life. your heart is also calling out his name without you realizing it, and so is his.

Even though his isn't beating or pumping blood throughout is body, he wishes it would beat just for you, all because of you. He still feels that red hot firework throughout his stomach and mind whenever he's around you, and all he wants to do is hold you and tell you how badly he craves you, needs you, wants you.

Your mind, body, and soul he wants to take for himself.

"lets go back to your place so you can nap, okay?" he says into your ear and you nod quicker than you can even think. He packs up his back as well as yours and carries them out of the building the four of you decided to study in for the day and head over to your apartment.

"y/nnnn" Jake says, throwing his head back as you look up at him through your eyelashes, you don't say anything, but pout instead.

"y/n please" you shake your head no, the pout not faltering.

"if I watch this with you, can you at LEAST let me teach you how to play Fortnite. All my friends are ass at playing" you groan, throwing your head back now.

"please please please please please-"

"FINE oh my god I just wanted to watch twilight for fucks sake you can teach me" you throw a pillow at him from your position on the floor before turning around to plug the dvd into the dvd player. you hear Jake snicker from behind you. you whip your head around with a glare, your lips sucked between your teeth.

"why on earth are you using a dvd player" he laughs.

"i'm going to strangle you." you say seriously, but Jake takes it as a challenge.

"oh yeah?" he spreads his legs apart slightly, manspreading on the couch as his arms are folded behind is head, and the way he's looking at you makes you feel hot and heavy, quickly.

"I'd like to see you try" your cheeks heat up, but you decide to stand up and charge at him anyways with a laugh. you jump onto his lap and your hands find their way to his neck, attempting to choke him out, but he grabs both your wrists in his one arm and flips your back onto the couch below you, hovering over your body.

suddenly, this game isn't funny anymore, as your thighs clamp down together as his face is only a couple mere inches away from yours. your lips part as you let out a shaky breath. you clasp your thighs together and Jake can smell the arousal pooling in your panties.

"Jake" there you go again, saying his name in the most beautiful, breathless and airy way possible. he drops his head down and shakes it, trying so hard to control himself.

"fuck,,, y/n.." he says quietly and you hum. he's eyeballing your neck, his own arousal and lust just about clouding his mind before a harsh knock scares you, making you jump in his hold. your arousal is stripped away from you as you turn towards the door.

"pizzas here" is all Jake says before letting you out of his grasp and heading towards the door, pulling out his wallet and saying for your pizza. you lay there while he's paying, trying to figure out what the hell that was. you felt so extremely turned on and Jake looked at you like he wanted to either kill you, or fuck you until you were completely braindead. You sit up as he puts the pizza on the living room table and the movie starts playing when you hit play on the remote.

The two of you watch in comfortable silence as you munch on your second slice of pizza.

"That's not how vampires actually are" he blurts out randomly. you turn to him and tilt your head in confusion

"what?" you ask him, swallowing your bite and putting the crust back into the box.

"not all vampires have powers, only the strongest of the strong have powers. its actually rare for a vampire to actually get their own individual powers, they're just fast and strong" he says in a matter of fact tone and it makes you wonder. It's odd how much knowledge he has about this sort of thing and he's talked about it before in front of you whenever you talk about mythical creatures.

"how do you know that" you look at him, turning your body to look at him fully as the movie becomes background noise.

"the internet is free, silly girl" he covers up his knowledge and shifts his gaze towards you, the movie pushed to the back of both your minds.

"that could be true, but we dont know for certain because its not real" you say trying to comfort yourself. Jake rolls his eyes with a small "sure" before smirking at you, leaning in towards your frame.

"what..." you say, leaning in the opposite direction. his hands come to either side of your legs, trapping you. one of his hands places itself on your waist and in less than a fraction of a second, he's ticking the life out of you as you scream for mercy.

"Jake pleaseeee let me go- pl- Jake please" you scream at him while laughing, writing under his fingers.

"nuhuh, you asked for this" he laughs with you and your hands fling up and around his neck, shaking your head from side to side. he stops ticking you and looks down, a smile still on his face. he collapses to the side of you after a moment of staring, and pulls you into his body by your waist, your head on his chest. your body relaxes into his hold and you nuzzle your face into him. this is the closest the two of you have gotten, and now he's finally holding you in one of the ways he's craved for what feels like eternity, and you could basically say that.

He's waited for someone like you to come around for hundreds of years, never being able to fall in love in the centuries of being on this earth, and he can't repress his feelings anymore as you fall asleep in his hold. Your steady breathing and the beating of your heart bring him comfort that nobody, and nothing else ever could. he kisses your forehead gently before groaning to himself.

He is so fucked.

he thinks to himself as he closes his eyes as he breathes in your scent, his arms around you tightening as if that would help protect you from all the evil in this world, including him.

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"Guys we got an A...." one of your group members says with a huge smile. you squeal and jump, giving your group mates a high five before Jake is pulling you into him from behind, giving you a huge hug.

"I knew we could do it, we're all way too smart for this class anyways" Jake says to everyone

"it helps that we had the smartest girl in school on our team too" he whispers in your ear as a deep shade of blush coats your cheeks. you turn around and slap his chest with an eye roll.

"be quiet" you shake your head and wave off your other, now past group members as they walk out of the class for the end of the semester.

"lets celebrate, wanna go get something to drink and go to the beach?" Jake asks and you look at him like he's crazy.

"Jake it's almost winter, what on earth are we gonna do at the beach?" you ask him, not quite rejecting his idea. he grabs your tote bag and slings it over his shoulder.

"I just want to look at the ocean and walk around, you don't have to come if-"

"No I want to, lets go" you grab his wrist interrupting him, dragging him out of the classroom and towards the campus cafe. The wind is chilly a sit blows your white maxi skirt, the hoodie Jake let you borrow a couple months ago keeping you warm. you turn to look at the blonde behind you before looking at him in surprise

"how are you not cold" you motion to the thin black t-shirt he's wearing. he shrugs his shoulders and pulls you to walk next to him instead of in front.

"I don't get cold often, remember?" he says, making the memory of him telling you that before front in your mind.

"oh yes I remember now, are you sure you're not cold?' he nods his head and looks to you with a reassuring smile before opening the door to the cafe, holding it open for you as you trot inside. you order a hot chocolate, offering Jake something but he declines.

The cafe is pretty, the walls a nice pretty green color with fairy lights littering the walls around you. it's not super busy especially for it being the middle of the day. Your drinks are finished and the two of you walk to the beach, not too far from the college. you grab his cold hand and lace his fingers with yours and urge him onto the sand, the water crashing down and meeting with the small grains to make a beautiful sound.

"its been so long since ive been to the beach, ive been so busy" you say and breathe in the salty air, and finish your drink, throwing it away at a near trash can and you start walking along the beach, avoiding the ocean water to not get your shoes wet. Jake follows you, walking a couple feet behind you.

Once you realize he's behind you, you stop and turn around to face him, questioning why he's walking behind you and not next to you. He stops in his tracks too, watching your body. Suddenly, an idea hits him as a shit eating grin makes its way to his face and you get the urge to run, watching the gears in his head turn. You spin around without questioning it and run away from him, and he takes off after you. You laugh and turn your head noticing how close he's gotten in such a short amount of time. You scream and pick up pace, but much to your avail, his arms wrap around your smaller frame and pick you up in the air. you kick your feet trying to get out of his hold, but he's strong, keeping you in his arms. He spins you around and throws himself on the ground, your body falling on top of his with a squeal.

"oh my god Jake, didn't that hurt?" you laugh and he shakes his head. you rest your chin on his chest as he lays in the sand, admiring how perfect his facial structure is. the way his blue eyes

blue eyes?

glitter in tune with the crystal ocean water. he brings his hand up to you, pushing the stray hairs out of your face and behind your ear. you shift on top of him and he feels every inch of your body very quickly. the way you smell is overwhelming and the way your warm, beautiful body is pressed against him pushes his senses into overdrive. his eyes change from blue to a deep red and within the fraction of a second, he's pushing your back into the sand with a small yelp coming from you, his face is in your neck, inhaling your scent deeply through his nose and out of his mouth. you whine, shifting uncomfortably underneath him as you wrap your arms around his neck, your fingers finding his hair.

"Jake..?" you call out to him, but he doest hear you as he bites down on his bottom lip, hard as an attempt to control himself. he groans into your skin and it sends vibrations throughout your body. one of his hands is on your waist, his fingertips digging into your skin, but you can't feel it.

You pull his head up to look you in the eyes, but when you see him, your lips part and you become breathless.

Hes so incredibly handsome, but he looks like he's in pain. his nails dig into your skin and you yelp, tightening your grip in his hair without realizing, making him moan and fall into your neck again.

"j-jake?? are you okay?" your worry makes him want to split you open and fuck you right there in the sand, but he can't. he wont hurt you. He shakes his head and tightens his grip once more before letting you go gently, standing up and looking down at you, a harsh look in his eyes as he speaks.

"I can't y/n.. I can't- fuck..." he cocks his neck away from you and walks away, so quickly it's almost as if he disappeared. you lay in the sand, awe struck and trying to figure out what the hell just happened. you lay there for a few minutes, wishing he would come back, say something- anything to you. your suspicions grow with every passing second and before you could let your mind go into overdrive, you get up and brush the sand off. on your walk home, you try and think of something else, anything to take your mind off the raging, burning hot pit in the bottom of your abdomen. you bite your lip so hard, it starts bleeding when you approach the door of your apartment.

You slam the door behind you and lock it. you throw off your clothes, suddenly feeling hot despite the cold weather. you get in the shower, trying to wash yourself clean, but no matter how many pumps of body wash you use or how red you scrub your skin, you feel dirty.

Does Jake not want to be around you because he figured out you have a crush on him? or even worse... you want him to use you? fuck you? you groan and throw your loofa on the ground and turn off the water.

after getting dressed and drying off your hair, you think about what to eat for dinner, but instantly feel nauseous at the thought of eating, so you just turn on the tv to distract your brain, but the phone on the corner of the table is calling your name.

You stare at the device before scooping it up to see if Jake texted you.

Nothing.

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The red universe has now become your second home as you find yourself here once again. the water isn't as cold as it normally is, it's actually quite warm. you clench your jaw with an eye roll and begin to walk around, looking for the familiar blonde boy and the mysterious woman in white.

it feels as though you've been walking around for hours before your eyes land on the familiar scene, only this time, its clearer.

he's once again on his knees with her in his arms, his hand is slipped under her night gown, her moans echoing off the chambers of your skull, a pang of jealousy hits you straight in the heart as you scowl.

he lifts his head and turns to you, the blood of the woman staining his lip and clothes, the same black suit has undertones of red and you tense at the eye contact. his fingers work faster inside of her as she turns her head, looking dead at you as you gasp.

All these nights of waking up with your clit pulsating and your mind as tired as can be finally all make sense as you look at the woman

a perfect mirror

its you

"no,,," you whisper

"oh yes" he chuckles darkly, and you go to turn your head because when he spoke, the voice wasn't coming from Jake himself, but from behind you.

when you turn your head, your body freezes as you're now on the ground exactly where the mirrored version of you was and you moan loudly at the quick ripples of pleasure that flow throughout your body, caused by jakes fingers working inside you, pumping your walls as you become as wet as the ground beneath you.

you turn your head to look at the man above you. his eyes are a deep, vibrant red and even though its dark, his pale skin is shimmering as if you're in a room full of lights.

"Jake.." you whimper to him, his eyebrows pinch together and suddenly he looks like he's in pain, giving you the same exact look he had given earlier at the beach.

he lowers his head to your neck, and bites down.

Your moans pick up volume as they fill your dark room, the moonlight cascades in through your window as jakes silhoutte is illuminated perfectly, his shadow pours down onto the bed where you moan his name in your sleep so prettily.

You fling yourself out of sleep, sitting up with heavy panting, your chest heaving up and down. Jake looks at you as you awaken, his figure looming over you as he stands at the foot of the bed. you feel anothers presence and decide to look up and that's when you see him. his eyes are as red as they were in your dream, and there are prominent eye bags that soil his perfect skin. the spaghetti straps on your white nightgown fall off your shoulders and your hair is a mess. with parted lips, you breathy call his name, but he doesn't move, nor does he speak.

"Jake please..." you call again. he bites his lip and shakes his head.

"I can't.." his pained voice responds finally after your plea. you feel your eyes burning and your clit is throbbing more than it ever has in your life, your forehead is starting to get glossy as sweat begins to rise on your skin. you shake your head, not understanding the meaning of all of this, the dreams, him running away, why he's so cold all the time but can't feel it, his eye color changes, why you've never seen him eat, or drink.

Why can't you read him?

"I don't understand, Jake please" you whine at him and it drives him crazy, falling head over heels once more. his hands make their way up to his hair as he tugs on it out of frustration.

"I'm in love with you y/n." his words vibrate your body, your eyes widening when you understand them.

"but I can't be with you."

"why?" you cry out to him, begging him to do anything, touch you, hold you, feel you. you need something, you need him more than anything.

"I can't hurt you. I wont do it." he turns around looking out of the window, and for the first time in his pathetic life, he feels his eyes sting, his thirst increasing with every passing second.

"I want you, please. you could never hurt me, I don't want you to go, Jake I-" you cut yourself off as he turns towards you, his hands dropping out of his hair to dangle by his sides.

"I love you" he scoffs, not believing you.

"you love a person who kills people in order to survive." you shake your head in disbelief, knowing this would come sooner or later.

"you love a person who has been resisting the urge to take you since the first moment he's laid his eyes on you, y/n." his voice is dark but somehow sweet. you shake your head again, denying his words.

"you love a monster."

"you're wrong. I love you Jake, I love Sim Jaehyun, I need you please- please don't leave me" you squeak out the last bit of your sentence. your eyes pleading him to stay. the arousal only growing stronger the longer his around you and he can sense it.

"I don't care that you're a vampire, I don't care about any of it I just need you, im begging you Jaehyun. stay with me, please. I can't imagine myself without you I dont want that" you get up on your knees, crawling over to his body that stands near the edge of the bed. his lips are parted, giving you a full view of his fangs that you've never ever seen before.

if he had one, his heart would have been shattered in his chest with the way you're looking at him; worried and completely heartbroken. he would rip it out and gift it to you on a silver platter if it meant he could be with you with no risks. so the venom coursing through is veins at rapid speed replaces his heart. he's never felt hot in his life up until this moment, where the woman he's been waiting for for centuries is begging for him. his eyes hold pain as they meet yours.

His hand moves up to grip your chin softly, ghosting his fingers along your skin before cupping your cheek, caressing your face with his thumb.

"I won't hurt you y/n. I can't.. imagine having an existence without you in it, but I refuse to cause you any pain. I wont do it" his voice is stern, a single tear falling from his eye and down his cheek in frustration. you want him to understand how badly you need him.

"you could never do such a thing, please, im begging you please don't leave me.." your eyes reassure him. it takes a moment of silence and a lot of thinking before he speaks, finally giving you an ounce of hope.

"if I stay here with you, y/n, you'll never be able to leave. you're life will forever be different. if you want me to stay, you'll be marked as mine, permanently. do you understand love?" he gives you the final opportunity to back out, and some sick part of him hopes you will stay. you nod your head in his grasp, but that's not enough for him.

"words, sweetheart."

"I want you and only you in this lifetime, and all the ones after, I promise. I'm yours" you say in a whisper, and that's exactly what Jake wanted to hear. he bends down so his face is right in front of yours

"I love you" he says quickly under his breath before his lips capture yours in a deep, heated kiss. giving up on the last bit of restraint he had. this kiss was one filled with so much desire and longing that it makes you whine into his mouth, and he happily swallows it. his free hand moves to the outside of your thigh, and before you realize, a flip switches in Jakes mind as he's picking you up by the bottom of your thigh, his huge hand swallowing you as he pushes you up farther on the bed, pinning you down. his teeth scratch your bottom lip as your teeth crash against each other. your hands fly to his hair, gripping on his blonde locks to keep you from floating out of your body. his hand then moves towards your knee, spreading your legs apart.

His hand slips up the silk of your night gown, his fingers met with the flimsy lace fabric of your panties that are soaked through and through. he growls lowly before he speaks

"you drive me so. fucking. insane." is all he says before pulling the fabric to the side and dipping his freezing fingers in your wet folds. you break the kiss as your eyes fly closed, white hot pleasure coursing through your veins as he rubs concentrated figure eights on your slit. your mouth slacks open in a perfect 'o' shape. Jake takes this opportunity to dip his face in-between the skin of your neck and shoulder, sucking the prettiest shade of purple into your soft skin. he can now hear your blood flowing.

he licks a stripe up the junction of your neck and collarbones and towards your ear, biting down on the lobe which causes you to arch your back into him. Jake takes this opportunity to plunge two long fingers into your tight cunt, and he chuckles at how tight you squeeze his digits. you turn your head to face him and he detaches from your neck, looking down at you.

your face buries itself into his neck, finding comfort in his cool skin against your hot face. your moans muffle against him as you flutter around his fingers deep inside of you.

he curls his fingers up, grazing your sweetspot perfectly and you moan his name rather loudly.

"let me hear you my darling" you detach from his neck and open your eyes, looking into his red ones as your parted lips moan his name in the most sinful chant he's ever heard. his fingers twist and curl into you faster, making your hips buck up into his palm.

Jake sits up and uses his free hand to push your hips down into the mattress, keeping you from moving.

"stay still" he commands, and you obey. Jake slowly sinks down onto the bed as his fingers pull out of you. you whine in protest, but quickly hush your mouth when he pulls your red lace panties down your legs with his teeth, his fangs on full display. you clench down on nothing at the sight and he sees this, chuckling darkly.

he throws your legs over his shoulders as he pins your hips down with one of his hand, the other coming to trace the slit of your pussy, gently rubbing a circle around your clit every time he makes his way back up. you groan in frustration after a minute passes, but that's quickly cut short as he forces two of his digits inside your pussy, curling upwards instantly to scratch your g-spot. you attempt to thrust your hips forward, but are met with the rough forcefulness of jakes hand keeping you pinned to your silk sheets.

his teeth graze your clit, his hair in his face making you feel the coil in your stomach form. you yelp when he bites down, sucking afterwards to soothe the pain as he begins to eat you out. his tongue is fast against you, the sweat forming on your body creates a beautiful glow on your skin and Jake can almost swear that you walked straight out of a painting. the most beautiful painting ever created. the moonlight cascades down over his figure, his jawline sharp as it moves when he laps at your cunt like a starved animal-

-and that's exactly what he was. your legs wrapped around him in a desperate, failed attempt to suffocate him as you squirm underneath his tongue. fast, wet, and cool as he fucking you from the inside out. his fingers splitting you open as they work inside you. your walls squeeze him tight and he wonders how you'll ever be able to take his cock.

"y-yun,, m'- ffuck" you moan out to him as you grip the silk sheets on either side of you. Jake can't get enough of how sweet you taste. the perfect girl having the most perfect taste, what more could he ask for? He groans into your pussy, his fingers pulling out of you to wrap around your legs, the hand on your abdomen mimicking the others actions as he pulls you into his face. if he could breathe, he would be suffocated. a part of him wishes he could be suffocated because this right here is the closest he's going to be getting to heaven ever. especially with the sinful thoughts that have collected in his head since he met you. he's the devil himself when it comes to you.

You gasp at his actions, gripping his hair tightly between your fingers and grind onto his face. his long tongue fucks itself into you, pulling out to lick, suck, and bite your clit at a perfect rhythm that has your back arching and Jakes name dancing off your tongue creating the sweetest harmony that fills his ears. your juices spill out of his mouth, much to his dismay, and down his chin and onto the bed, soaking the sheets under your ass. your legs shake in his tight grip, your grinding onto his face becomes sloppy as your moans become whimpers. your pussy flutters, and Jake takes note of this. His eyes watch you as he tips you over the edge, spilling all over him as he brings you to your first orgasm. you cream around his tongue as you squirt liquids everywhere. your breathy whine of his name makes his eyes roll into the back of the head with a groan that sends vibrations throughout your body starting at your cunt. he helps you ride out your high, slowly licking and sucking your clit to comfort you on your way down.

you collapse onto the bed as he stands up at the foot of your bed and you hear a click. his belt coming undone as you sit up on your forearms, eyeing him. You're breathless as you stare at the man before you. his eyes glow a deep red and the moonlight hits him perfectly as he takes off his belt in one quick motion, holding it in his hands staring at you.

"so pretty..." you say under your breath towards the creature before you. he chuckles at your words and throws the belt above you on the bed. you go to turn and look at it, but the feeling of his hands wrapped around your ankles prevents you from doing so as he yanks you down to the foot of the bed where he stands. you yelp in surprise as you're face to face with his chest. he grips the base of your jaw in his huge hand, forcing you to look up at him.

"I wan'.. to... want.." your words trail off, not knowing how to word what you want. he tilts his head to the side and brings his hand to the side of your face, cupping your cheek

"tell me what you want baby" his thumb caresses the soft skin, comforting you.

"I wan' you to... taste me..." you whisper and his ears perk up. he sighs, shaking his head.

"oh honey, I wish I could. I really do... but I can't.. I'll hurt you.. I'll lose myself" his hand entangles in your hair, massaging your scalp softly. you whine, shaking your head and furrow your eyebrows. you look up at him and place your fingers in the loop bands of his pants.

"please, yun.. please please please I want you to, need... please plea-" he quickly forces your nightgown above your head and throws it in the corner of the room to be forgotten before his hands find your hair again, yanking it back as you interrupt yourself with a loud scream at the pain. he forces your back down onto the bed as he reaches above you to grab his belt. he ties your arms above your head and around the bed post quicker than you can contemplate. he stands back up at the foot of the bed, watching you squirm under his gaze. he laughs at your helpless figure, finding it way to amusing how easy it is to get you to submit to him.

"you look so cute when you squirm around, my dear" he says unbuttoning his suit jacket and sliding it off, revealing the silky dark brown collared button up. he tilts his head at your whine as he unbuttons the dress shirt painfully slow, sliding it off of his arms to reveal his pale skin and toned body and your mouth waters. he slides the silky material off of him and shoots you a toothy, shit eating grin. one full of lust that makes your thighs clamp together. he unbuttons his dress pants and unzips the zipper, so slowly as if to taunt and tease you.

he slides his pants down passed his ankles and kicks them away, his boxers shielding you from seeing what you want the most. you whine again, signaling him to hurry. he shushes you and pulls his boxers down. his cock springing up to slap against his abdomen, precum leaking from his pink tip. he's huge. long and girthy as you wonder how the fuck that was going to fit inside you. everything about him is perfect, and he just now proved that to you. he crawls over your small frame, his hands enveloping your waist as he caresses your bare skin. the cold air hits your nipples, making them perky and hard, goosebumps littering your skin.

Jake takes his fingernail and presses it against your upper hip on your stomach, his eyes never looking away from you. before you could realize what was happening, he scratches you, hard. you let out a soft yelp at the sudden pain, blood trickling out of the fresh wound and slowly down your hip bone, pooling on your skin. he does it again with his other hand, above the other hip. you yelp, arousal pooling in the pit of your stomach once more and Jake can smell it. his eyes widen as he continues to look at you.

"god, look at you. such a messy, disgusting girl. you're enjoying this hmm?" he says before he cuts you open again. you moan at his words and the pain. your face heating up in embarrassment because what he said was true. you feel hot tears in the back of your eyes you feel so embarrassed, but in a good way. he takes note of your glossy eyes and pouts at you.

"no need to cry sweet thing, ill take care of you." Jake leans over you and kisses your tears away. his kisses trail from your cheeks, down your collarbones and in-between your breasts and down your stomach. he smells your blood before he looks at it, so close that he can basically taste it. his hands find your waist as he holds you in place, his tongue darting out of his mouth to lick the smallest bit of blood off your stomach. His mind goes into overdrive as white hot pleasure rips through him. you're the sweetest thing he's ever tasted, and it makes him want to suck you dry as you struggle underneath him. his grip around you tightens as his long tongue licks up your blood from one of your wounds completely, his lips latching around the cut as he sucks. your walls clench around nothing as you pull at the restraints around your wrists.

he groans into your stomach, your sweet taste covering all his senses as he moves to lick another fresh cut. the way you taste, he will never ever need anything else ever again. nothing could amount to you. you grind your hips into his body as his mouth moves to the final wound, licking it clean and when you look down, surprise overwhelms you as the deep cuts he made are completely healed up scars.

as you look into his eyes, you see Jake for exactly what he is; a vampire. that doesn't scare you away, however it turns you on even further. he quickly pushes himself above you, his lips crashing against yours as he bucks his hips into you, his dick pressing against your heat but not quite going in. you whimper into his mouth, a plea for him to fuck you. you can taste blood on his tongue as you grind against his length, begging him, needing him to use your body.

so that's exactly what he does.

He grabs his cock in his hand and presses it against your entrance, pushing his tip inside of you. you hiss at the stretch, tugging at your restraints. you whine from underneath him. his face finds its way to kissing your neck, littering your skin with his lips. he pushes his dick inside you slowly before bottoming out, his balls slapping against skin.

"so tight, so good baby,, feels like fucking heaven" he says, taking his cock out before pushing it back inside you, his tip instantly kissing your cervix in the sweetest way possible. you scream in pain and pleasure, his dick filling you up perfectly. he lifts his head from your neck so his lips ghost over your skin, breathing hot air on you making you shiver, goosebumps rising to your skin. you squirm in his hold, his hand coming to your waist to hold you in place as the other comes to grip the headboard above you.

His thrusts start off slow and gently, making sure you keep up with his rhythm. your walls flutter around his cock, driving him up the wall before his pace increases, thrusting into you faster and faster, the breathing on your neck giving you chills now as he moans into your neck. your boobs jiggle up and down with every thrusts while your moans begin to sound broken as you choke them out.

Jake licks your neck, making you moan even louder than before and you finally feel scared for the first time, wondering how it's going to feel when he finally sinks his fangs into you. will it hurt? you don't know, but you can't wait to find out. your legs shake and thrash around, and your jaw slacks open in a perfect "o", inhumane sounds spill from your lips as you beg for something you're not even sure of.

Jake growls against your skin, the grip on your waist increasing until his fingernails break the skin of your hips. the smell of blood hits his overdriven senses and he finally bites.

as he sinks his teeth into you, a blood curtailing scream is ripped from your throat, white hot pain shoots down your body in ripples as he sucks the blood out of you through your neck. you kick your legs under him, not sure if you're trying to get away, or make him chase you.

your scream of pain is replaced by pleasure as his venom spreads through your veins, your entire body feels like its on fire and you've never felt so good in your entire life. you pull at the restraints as you shake in his hold. his hand on your waist wraps around your back, pulling you into his body as he thrusts up into you.

Everything becomes too much and you can feel every inch of your body. even with jakes arm wrapped around you, you arch your back somehow closer into him, trying to fuse your body into his, wanting nothing more than to feel complete. you press into him with all your strength, wishing hard enough that you could intertwine your body with his own in order to finally feel as if you were one. he wasn't close enough even though he was all over and in you, spreading through you like ice. you want nothing more than to be whole with him in every way possible.

your pussy flutters around him as the knots in your tummy begin to unravel. your moans change and Jake picks up on it, noting how your body starts going limp in his hold. With much force, and an internal battle, he detached from your neck, moving his face to look into your eyes.

He looks handsome, your blood dripping down his chin, his lips stained the most beautiful shade of red. you being painted all over him.

"Let go baby im right here, I got you" is all he says before you let go, Jake being the one to catch you when you fall. the way you clench around his cock milks him dry as he cums inside you. the both of you orgasm in unison, your mixed fluids coming to hit the bed beneath you. Jake fucks you through your orgasm, it's not enough. he's not close to being done with you.

you harshly tug at the belt, your wrists feeling raw. you need to touch him, bring your sweaty body closer to his. He takes notice of your begging face and the tugging at your bonds. you look at him with teary eyes as he gives you a genuine pout. his thrusts not faltering as you feel another coil in your stomach begin to form.

"please, please please please please" you beg him before his arm unwraps itself from your body, undoing the belt in one quick, swift motion. he throws it across the room as it lands on the ground with. a clank. your now free hands fly to his back, your fingers digging into his skin, pulling him closer.

He kisses you deeply, your blood smearing on your face now. he bites your lip with a groan before rolling his eyes. His hand grabs your hips and forces you off the bed, his dick slipping out of you. Jake flips you over on your stomach as he moves behind you on your knees.

One of his hands grips your throat and forces you to sit up, your back pressed against his front. he bends his head down to your ear and whispers sinisterly.

"who owns you, pretty girl?" he asks and you gulp.

"you do" you answer and he smiles.

"that's right darling, such a good girl hmm?" he says. his cold body feels good against your burning one. its like you were made for each other. the moon and the sun, water and fire, two halves of the same whole.

He likes your neck, the one that has yet to be bit. you shudder at the feeling of his tongue on his skin before he gently nips you, the smallest trail of blood rushes down your neck, collarbones and down your breast.

His free hand snakes around your body, pressing two fingers against your clit, rubbing circles on your bundle of muscle. you moan, pushing your back against him. Jake licks the blood on your neck before biting down harshly. Another scream exits your throat as you jump, trying to get away from him, but your attempt to run is unsuccessful as he presses your ass against his dick, his strength overpowering you. the hand on your throat squeezes tighter, making you light headed as that white hot pleasure goes off in your body, spreading quickly once again and you're a moaning mess as you fall apart in his hands.

your body starts feeling like jelly, so Jake unlatches his mouth from your neck and pushes you down on your stomach, your hips hitting the soaked bed beneath you. His body crawls over your limp one. his arm snakes under your body and around your breasts to grip your neck once more, his other hand forces your thighs apart before grabbing his hard cock in his hand and pushes it inside you.

Your quiet mewl fills jakes skull as he groans at your sounds spilling from your mouth. his dick pushes against your sweet spot that has you a moaning, pathetic mess underneath him. your fingers lace inbwetween the bedsheets as you fist them in your palm.

Jakes thrusts are relentless, fucking himself inside you at an animalistic pace. the two of you are so disgusting and messy, the smell of copper and sweat leaks through the walls. you can feel is breath against your ear again as he moans into you, his sounds have you clenching around him, fluttering like an innocent little butterfly as you begin to lose all train of thought, your eyes beginning to look dead as a trail of drool exits from the corner of your mouth.

"aww, my precious angel, you look so adorable when I'm fucking you dumb" he coos at you, his teeth nipping at the skin of your neck behind your ear. you take his words with a clench around his dick, making him moan loudly. his grip on your throat tightens as does the one on your hips.

"takin' my cock so well, its like you were made for me pretty" his teeth sink into you one last time as he drinks your sweet liquid, the overwhelming pleasure coursing through your veins once more as you become overstimulated with everything around you. your body attempts to crawl away from him, but he doesn't let that happen

"s' too much, can't, please I can't" you beg, hot tears spilling from your eyes as saliva drools out of your mouth. he chuckles at your attempt to run

"you can take it sweetheart, doin' so good for me baby, you can do it" he says, his venom causing you to spill over the edge as his hips snap against your ass ruthlessly, fucking you into the mattress that you wouldn't be surprised if there is an outline of your body engraved in the plush material. you're also pretty sure the skin is red where his hips meet the flesh of your ass. you mewl as broken sobs fill the room along with the sound of skin slapping. the knot in your stomach snaps as you're creaming all over his dick, milking him dry as he shoots ropes of cum deep inside of you. his head falls onto your shoulder as he preps your skin in kisses as you come down from your conjoined highs. your bodies interlaced for all of time with the way he's marked you in more ways than one.

you're his and he's yours.

your eyes close as sleep overwhelms your mind as your breathing steadies. Jakes venom starts to exit your blood stream, making you unbelievably tired. Jake kisses your shoulder blade once more before you fall asleep.

"goodnight, y/n" is all you hear before you pass out in his arms.

.¸¸.♡.¸¸.☆¸.♡.¸¸.☆.¸¸.♡.¸

When you wake up, it's still dark outside, meaning you've only been asleep for a little bit now. you sit up and look around. the bed is clean, there are no marks on you from what you can see, and you're dressed in your white nightgown. your mind instantly goes into panic mode, worried that everything that happened between you and Jake was a dream. Your head fills with anxious thoughts before you lift your eyes to the window across the room, seeing Jake's silhouette cascade through your room thanks to the moonlight. you sigh to yourself before standing up out of bed, but you almost collapse onto the floor with how week you are. Jake hears your struggle and turns around, noticing you awake, he walks over to you, embracing you in his arms gently.

You look up into his now dark brown eyes, admiring how handsome he looks in this exact moment, your pupils dilate and Jake swear he can feel a pang in his chest. you wrap your arms around his neck and bite your lip anxiously, not knowing what to say.

"what's the matter my love?" the nickname calms you slightly, putting your thoughts together before you speak.

"that wasn't a dream... right..?" you ask shyly and Jake smiles at you.

"it was very much real baby" his fingertips trace the beautiful purple and red marks on your neck, and the bite scars that follow along with it. you let out a deep breath you didn't know you were holding. his hand cups your cheek and you lean into his comforting touch, closing your eyes. your mind goes against you as begin to overthink again, worried that he would leave you now that you know everything. as if he read your mind, he speaks.

"I've waited centuries for you, y/n. I'm not letting you go." he says before kissing your forehead.

"you're mine" he kisses your nose

"and I'm yours" he brings your hand up to his mouth and kisses your palm

"forever"

[gimmeurmoneyagh]

hehe my twst panic oc 😼😼😼

*i was too lazy to draw the other eye😭😭😭 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐚 𝐋𝐚𝐦𝐢𝐚

𝐐𝐔𝐎𝐓𝐄: ❝Puh-leaze! As if I’d like losers like them!❞

𝐓𝐖𝐈𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐃 𝐅𝐑𝐎𝐌: Pain (disney hercules)

𝐈𝐍𝐅𝐎:

Class: 3-C

Dorm: Ignihyde

Birthday: June 18!!!

Age: 18

Height: 6,2

Dominant Hand: Right

Sexuality: Polyamorous and Queer

Favorite Subject: Ancient Curses

Hobby: attending comic convections, playing guitar or piano

Likes: Money, her friends, Idia!!! Melaina!!!

Dislikes: Judgemental people, ppl being rude to her

Favorite Food: Baklava

Least Favorite Food: Meat Pie

Club: Pop Music Club!!!

Homeland: Fleur City

Special Skill: sniffing out rich ppl

𝐔𝐍𝐈𝐐𝐔𝐄 𝐌𝐀𝐆𝐈𝐂:

𝐄𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐍𝐀𝐋 𝐅𝐑𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓*

*broski so the name might sound a lil’ crazy its not!!

it just means if she touches someone she can just place her unique magic on them and they’ll be scared or worried or well panicked for no reason

That means theyll be skittish, won’t think clearly, and in a state of some kind of mental fog

Which Thana usually takes advantage of

𝐏𝐄𝐑𝐒𝐎𝐍𝐀𝐋𝐈𝐓𝐘:

A loud brash girl who will fight you if you try to disagree with her

Will fight you if you say anything about her friends

Smug, and will always hide her true emotions 

𝐀𝐏𝐏𝐄𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄:

A tanned girl with some scars, and a snaggletooth smile

Sharp teeth

Very, very bright yellow eyes

Horns!!! Has a tail and wingswhich she hides,

𝐁𝐀𝐂𝐊𝐆𝐑𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐃:

When Thana was young there was one thing she knew for sure. Never bond with others.

Bonding meant telling others her thoughts and secrets. It would do her no good to befriend others.

It was shoved down her throat by relatives and family friends, and over time she started to believe it.

Until Idia and Melaina(twst pain oc!!!😜😜😝😝) came into her life.

She loved them and thought they loved her too!

Until the day he died. Thana disn’t think he actually belive her! It wasn’t her fault! It wasn’t her fault.

At least that’s what she told herself.

Idia was in shambles, he wouldn’t talk to them anymore and they weren’t allowed inside.

She knew he hated her, and she didn’t blame him either! She hated her for this too... Melaina tried to talk to her but Thana blocked her calls. Melaina didn’t deserve her.

Until eventually... they stopped coming.

Thana couldn’t believe it. Her friends left her! They left her. They left her! They were horrible she couldn’t believe them!

They all lost contact for years. And Thana was happy! For sure! Who needs those losers anyway!

Until that carriage came. A carriage to Night Raven College.

Fuck.

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒 𝐅𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐒:

Loves researching mer-folk!!!

Will bite you!!

Scene girlie!!

Eats anything edible!! Big-back alert!!

May or may not blame herself for Ortho’s death!!

Taglist!! @babyghoul138 @cheerleaderman @jewelulu @beneathsakurashade

@bunniehunn @the-rini-rush @skibidibabygirl @screamintoad

@teighveepao @skrimpyskimpy @cloudiepuffs @kuragebride

@4necdote @twtysevapr @blood-red-bumblebee

lemme know if u wanna be tagged or not!!!

[themoonunderstoodmydadjokes]

If you can’t handle her at her extreme abandonment issues and bpd mental breakdowns about a perceived reality when someone’s tone was different, you don’t deserve her at her hypersexual/euphoric manic episode….

[firehose118]

“We’re just helping each other out on a long shift. It’s not gay,” Sal says into the air of the empty station bathroom as he wraps a hand around Tommy’s dick, and then in the same breath, “No one can ever know.”

Tommy nods, too far gone in the fantasy-come-to-life of what’s happening to dwell on the irony there. He’ll pick that apart later. For now, he has what he’s craved for so long within his grasp, he just has to reach out and take it.

He gets his hand on Sal’s dick in return and revels in the way it twitches under his touch. Tommy wants to moan with how good it feels to touch another man like this, to be touched by one. But he has to pretend this is friend stuff—normal straight guy shit, not the stuff of waking wet dreams—or else it will be taken away from him.

{finish on ao3 or continue below}

Tommy tries to match Sal’s pace: hard, fast, efficient. He thumbs through the liquid gathering at the head, twists his hand on the upstroke, but doesn’t let himself linger—even as his body is screaming for him to slow down and savor it. This might be his first and last chance to have this.

The way Sal is looking right at him is unexpected. He’d thought Sal would look away, pick a tile on the wall and stare at it, pretend this isn’t happening, but no: Sal is in it, studying Tommy’s face in that passive slack-jawed way of his. Tommy keeps his expression carefully neutral but he’s worried even that will give him away.

Sal’s mouth drops open on a silent moan when Tommy’s thumb drags along the vein on the underside just right, so Tommy does it again harder. He wants Sal to like this. He wants Sal to want to do this again.

Tommy is losing focus quickly. Sal isn’t working as hard to impress him, isn’t pulling out different moves to see what he likes, but his hand is big and warm and calloused and masculine around Tommy’s dick and it really doesn’t need to do anything else to have him panting and leaking.

He’s thought about this so many times and the reality of it is even better than he could have imagined. Every bit of energy he’s not using to give Sal the handjob of his life he’s putting into not whining and humping Sal’s hand like a dog.

He takes half a step forward before he can stop himself; needing to be closer. Sal huffs but he doesn’t say anything, doesn’t step back.

They’re so close to each other now that Tommy could wrap his hand around both of their dicks and jerk them off like that. He knows it would feel good, wants it more than anything in this moment, but it would be a definitive step over the ‘not gay’ line into territory he’s not sure Sal will follow him willingly. It’s this or nothing, so Tommy chooses this.

“You close?” Tommy asks. He is. He can already feel it rising in his stomach, his balls, licking along his spine. He wants Sal to come first, to hide whatever his own orgasm is going to look like in the mists of Sal’s pleasure.

Sal nods. His face is inches away from Tommy’s and he looks like he wants to say something, but he doesn’t.

When it happens, Tommy feels it. He doesn’t know why he didn’t expect to—he always feels the pulsing of his own dick as he comes—but to feel another man’s dick twitch and spasm as it shoots warm into his hand has Tommy biting back a moan so quickly he chokes on it.

Sal comes with a low groan and Tommy is helpless to follow. For as long as he’s wanted this—wanted Sal—he thinks he could’ve come from that sound alone, but the way Sal’s big hand tightens on the next few strokes is the last thing he needs to send him hurtling over the edge.

Tommy’s forehead drops to Sal’s shoulder without permission and he keens high in his throat as the pleasure rips through him. It’s easily the best orgasm he’s had in years and he’s instantly terrified of what that means.

He shoves it down. Later. He’ll think about that later.

Tommy pants, coming back to himself, and he gives himself two more seconds of physical contact with Sal before he pulls back completely.

They both lean against the hard tile wall of the bathroom and catch their breaths.

“Good?” Tommy asks, giving a joking half-smile. He knows the answer but it seems like a safe enough way to start talking again.

“Jesus, kid,” Sal laughs. “Yeah. It was good. Where the fuck’d you learn how to do that?”

He grabs some paper towels to wipe his hand off, then gives them to Tommy to do the same.

“Lonely childhood,” Tommy says. It’s true but it’s not the answer. “Dad had a lot of porn mags he’d leave around. I spent a lot of time jerking off. Figured yours doesn’t work too differently from mine.”

That look is back in Sal’s eyes like he wants to say something, but he stays quiet again. He just shakes his head and laughs.

Sal walks towards the door but stops before he opens it. “Give it a few,” he says. He doesn’t look back at Tommy but he has a small smile on his lips still. Tommy takes that as a win.

Sal leaves and Tommy is left alone with the enormity of what just happened. It was good. It was hot. Sal clearly doesn’t hate him, isn’t disgusted by him. He seemed almost… intrigued.

Tommy will sort out the shame and elation he feels swirling inside of himself like oil and water later.

For now, he washes his hands, splashes some water on his face, and gets back to work.

[bubble-you]

desperately hugging you after not seeing you for 15+ months as if my body remembered that the thought of this hug had comforted me when i felt cold and imagining helped me feel safe, helped me feel warm, helped me sleep, and still helps me sleep sometimes. is it no wonder i let my mind fantasise about you in a different way now? i don't wish that ever comes out in any interaction with you. but, i know any desire to stay in, develop, and grow that social club will just be an excuse to be around you. i want being there to feel as safe as the imaginary you makes me feel. i do wish you were mine, but i know you were made by hands warmer than mine, and time. someone who was mine, and my age, made by me, would not be of your quality of gold. if i want you, or someone like you, i have no choice but to start by knowing myself better, even if i don't really want to. i guess i have to want to.

[malxshrine-a]

.

[atebyflowers]

︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ ︎ fuck buddy loser!ellie ໒꒰ྀི˶˙Ⱉ˙˶꒱ྀིა

fuck buddy loser!ellie who you met in ur sophomore year of college through dina, your roomate. immediately taking interest in her appearance despite the way she carried herself.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who pretended to dislike "your people", always partying, big friend groups, everything she disliked.... but deep down, you were exactly what she wanted.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who has an insanely high sex drive when she's around you.. sex wasn't something she ever thought about actually doing until you met... but from that day on it was all she could think about.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who is disgusting the first time you two are together. it's was as if she had been strived of physical touch for so long she didn't know how to behave, she had craved your body for so long — and it was exactly how she dreamed.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who loves to eat you out, she refuses to do anything beforehand. she gets wet off on the way you grip her hair and arch your back while her fingers pump in and out of you as her tongue sucks on your clit. she swears she can cum just at the sight of you looking down at her, whining out her name for more as she slows her pace in an attempt to tease you.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who is a sub most of the time, and always has to deal with your harsh responses to her teasing. she loves when you're in control and tell her how to get you off, but it kills her when you won't let her touch you. she'll watch you closely as you touch yourself, smacking away her hand anytime she gets close. "please baby..... j-hust wanna make you feel good" she'll beg, and you'll ignore her until you think she's been good enough.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who masturbates to your photos whenever you're apart. one night you tried to get her to go out and party with you, but she refused. a few hours later you send her a video of you i dressing in the bathroom, showing her what she missed out on by being a loser and staying home..

fuck buddy loser!ellie who will fuck you anywhere. she's so needy it's pathetic.. whether it's in her car, the bathroom, the locker room, she doesn't care if it's "risky" — she just needs to feel you.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who loves scissoring, and she's so vocal about it, especially when you're on top. "fuck .. speed u-up please" she'd be such a mess, desperately trying to grind herself into you — sucking on your boobs as you leaned down over her to steady your speed.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who squirts every time you finger her or use the double sided dildo with her. she's so beyond sensitive it's impossible for her to control herself — though you've vocalized finding it hot in the past. not to mention how much of a mess she is when you overstimulate her... you know her body better than she does, touching her in ways that send her over the edge.. "come on els .. can't you give me one more" you'd mock her for a third time as she cries at your words, crumbling underneath you multiple times in a single night.

fuck buddy loser!ellie who calls you pet names often, especially "my girl". you both swear there's no attachments, but in reality she has such a bad crush on you. it feels stupid on her end to have such a silly crush on someone she's fucked a million times... but when you're not having sex, she's so shy around you and blushes like crazy ... even though behind closed doors you were practically consuming eachother, she was to scared to tell you her real feelings out of fear of ruining things.

[pshcomforts]

➳ brought the heat back | psh.

situationship!sunghoon x fem!reader (feat. gunwook from zerobaseone)

“i’m so jealous, i’m going crazy, my patience will run out”

synopsis: sunghoon definitely wasn’t amused when coming to a party and seeing some guy talk to you.

warnings/content: written in third pov. mentions of alcohol. suggestive. little fluff. tension. possessive and jealous sunghoon (what did you expect). cursing. not proofread.

comments, likes, and reposts are appreciated :)

word count: 2.7k

༘˚⋆𐙚｡masterlist⋆.✧˚

current song playing: brought the heat back by enhypen

↻ ◁ II ▷ ↺

0:34 ──|───────────────── 2:22

y/n had just arrived to the dim-lit party, music loudly blasting through her ears as she moved past waves of people.

the girl struggled to find her friends as they remained scattered all around.

“damn heeseung just had to throw a huge ass party..,” she mumbled to herself, sighing softly once she realized she wouldn’t be able to find anyone.

she even sent texts, but she deemed that all had gone off of their phones for the night so she settled on a drink and time well spent of being alone.

that was until her coworker had approached her.

“hey y/n!” gunwook yelled out, grinning at her shocked expression.

“gunwook?? i never thought i’d see you here!”

the male laughed before taking a step closer to her. “never thought i would’ve either, especially when you’re alone.” he frowned, earning a playful smile to form on y/n. “where are your friends?”

“they’re off somewhere… i can’t find them honestly..,” she admitted to him.

gunwook quickly wore a grin that reflected hers, presenting a sweet expression as he said, “so.. i take it you’re alone then?”

she cocked a brow at him before the two broke out into laughter. “what do you mean by that, gunwook…?” she softly teased, breaking another chuckle out of him.

“just saying… if i’m alone, and you’re alone, we can be each others company.”

the girl tensed up for a second, stopping to process the words her coworker had just uttered out to her.

that wasn’t what she thought it meant.. right?

she glanced at the tall boy to search for what his intentions were, but given that they were just coworkers, she deemed it was nothing, so she agreed.

surely, no one would be upset with that option, right? (no)

gunwook offered to get the next cup of liquor after she downed her first, both sitting on the couch that had been crowded by others.

“why didn’t you help that customer out??” he laughed with a huge grin plastered across his face.

“because!—“ y/n yelled, pausing to sip her cup. “she looked like she would’ve much rather talked to you so i let her go to you!”

the boy sputtered out a giggle. “so you let me have your sale then?” he teased, earning a soft hit on the arm.

“well that wasn’t my intention, she just seemed more interested in talking to you so i didn’t know what else to do.” she rolled her eyes, scoffing as she remained hearing hearty laughs erupt out of him.

he let his tongue slip through his lips when he furrowed his brows and shook his head. “you could’ve just stolen that sale from me, y/n. i would’ve let you,” he sighed.

“well i’m sorry, gunwook, i thought you would’ve actually appreciated getting that sale.”

the two laughed out her play on sarcasm, unintentionally getting closer with their body movements.

just when their heads were about to bunk, a buzzing notification caught y/n’s attention and thinking it was one of her friends, she quickly glanced at it.

just a friend ‼️:

Stop getting close to him.

Do you want me to do something about it?

✩ ‘who is that guy who said hello earlier?’ ✩

her heart instantly dropped at the texts. where was he? and how did he know? she tried to scan around the area, but another notification pulled her back to her phone.

just a friend ‼️:

Looking for me?

y/n began to text back with her heartbeats getting louder by the second. her hands were softly shaking and she didn’t know what to do.

encountering jealous hoon was something that happened occasionally, but it was always minor and not noticeable enough to make it seem like they were more than friends.

✩ ‘i’m getting jealous’ ✩

‘where are you? and why are you watching me??’ — she quickly messaged back, chewing her lips as gunwook started to notice the change in her demeanor.

just a friend ‼️:

Don’t worry about where I am, pretty girl

Now get his hand off of your leg or I’ll come over and do it myself.

✩ ‘it’s weird, i don’t want to but i’m envious’ ✩

y/n felt her stomach rupture with butterflies at the possessive tone in his text. her eyes fell down to her leg and finally noticed the unintentional hand slip there.

“gunwook, your hand..,” she awkwardly mumbled, gesturing down to where it laid.

the boy quickly gasped and removed it with a blush forming on his cheeks. “oh god, i’m sorry! i didn’t know my hand was there…,” he admitted in shame. “that won’t make it awkward at work right..?”

she shook her head in reassurance and laughed at the way he panicked. “noo, you’re fine!! i didn’t realize it was there either..,” she chortled.

gunwook nodded, cheeks still flushing with embarrassment as he scratched his neck.

“sorry about that…,”

“what are you sorry for!” y/n swiftly chuckled. “you did nothing wrong, gunwook!” her hand placed itself on his arm out of habit, attempting to reassure the boy but the only thing it did was set off alarms in sunghoon’s head.

the older male who watched from afar felt his jaw tighten at the little action, eyes squinting and staring down at the two who were innocently on the couch.

✩ ‘why are you smiling at him like that?’ ✩

his hands went to his phone, typing his message out of irritation.

‘Why do you have your hand on his arm? Take it off.’

✩ ‘it feels like burning, hotter, hotter’ ✩

he glanced up with crossed arms, hoping that his girl would listen. he watched her mumble incoherent words that he couldn’t make out and soon enough, her hands slipped away from that stupid guys arms.

✩ ‘rough madness’ ✩

his lips began to curl and a smirk started to form as his gaze remained on the two, not even caring that there was a party going on.

✩ ‘it’s getting stronger, stronger’ ✩

jake even tried to offer a drink, but sunghoon declined, not wanting to feed the jealous rage that still fumed in the pit of his stomach.

but when he found that tall boy inch closer to y/n, his heart was quick to sink. he straightened himself before walking to the scene without even thinking, fists clenched and brows furrowed to display his pissed reaction.

✩ ‘i can’t stand it’ ✩

sunghoon stood before them, eyes narrowing down at the guy he couldn’t recognize.

“y/n,” he gritted out with a tightened jaw, hating the way his heart burned at this.

✩ ‘i can’t hide it, my head is spinning, crazy, yeah’ ✩

he watched how the girl instantly pieced that it was him as she glanced back. “sunghoon…,” she gulped, finally taking in the handsome features present on him.

he quickly let out a soft scoff, eyes rolled while keeping his glare directly on her.

a soft lick was made between his lips. “what are you doing, hm?” he taunted, smile slowly curling once he saw how she lowly panicked.

“nothing, hoon. i’m just catching up with my coworker.” y/n quickly excused, gesturing to gunwook, who awkwardly sat there.

✩ ‘don’t test me’ ✩

but the older male didn’t bother to glance at him, letting his attention lay completely on the girl who he wanted as his.

before he could speak, gunwook intervened with a murmur — “we’re really just coworkers, man.”

sunghoon glared back at him for a second, disbelief written on his face as he scoffed. that’s not what it looked like seconds ago when he was inches away from his girl.

✩ ‘trying hard to endure, endure’ ✩

he got a hold of y/n’s wrist, fingers tightening around while pulling her away from the scene. his nails were close to digging into her skin as his heart picked up on the jealous energy that chucked at him.

✩ ‘i’m going crazy like this, i’m going crazy’ ✩

she softly winced in pain, feeling every press of his slim fingers that wrapped around her wrist.

“sunghoon..,” y/n whispered, but he ignored her, making the girl unable to clarify that gunwook was just leaning in to remove something from her hair.

truth be told though, he almost fell weak to his knees when his name had slipped out of her mouth. his possessive demeanor nearly dropped, but only grew stronger once he realized it fueled flame to fire.

✩ ‘no, it ain’t my fault, ain’t my fault’ ✩

the inner corner of his lips curled in satisfaction before bringing her to an empty room.

the door quickly closed and y/n was slammed against it with hoon caging her to himself. his arms were securely palmed against the door as his eyes stared down at her.

“sunghoon..,” she quietly murmured out again, heart fluttering at his tall frame towering over hers.

he tilted his head with a slight brow raise in response, loving how weak she could fall within seconds of barely making contact. he leaned himself in, closing the gap between their heated bodies.

✩ ‘ain’t my fault, it’s because of you’ ✩

their lips barely grazed against each others as his breath hit her skin. “what are we doing?” y/n mumbled to him, truly confused at their situation.

sunghoon swallowed down a harsh lump in his throat, trying to find words that would answer her question. “i don’t know, y/n. you tell me,” he squinted his eyes in jealousy again. “one second you’re texting me about how we should go watch this new movie together, and the next you’re talking to your coworker who obviously likes you.”

one of his hands that laid flat against the door began to clench, turning it into a fist as he remembered just how close the boy was getting to her.

“do you like him?” he questioned, feeling his heartbeats rise with every silent second that passed.

✩ ‘don’t be confused, is it me or him’ ✩

y/n stayed quiet, unable to admit her feelings for the guy in front of her when she suddenly felt a finger hook around her chin. sunghoon pulled her attention onto him, eyes boring into hers to get a straight answer.

“tell me, pretty.” he spat, already knowing that she liked him, and not the coworker.

at this point, his lips were about to get a taste before he could even think. he was close to caving in with how her silence was saying much more than needed.

he let his top lip graze against hers again, noses bunking and foreheads almost colliding when the room began to get hotter.

“say it,” hoon whispered near her skin, faint groans slipping pass his throat when he felt her try to resist.

y/n gulped, softly biting her lips to temper herself down but couldn’t when they were so close to taking it to the next level. “i like you, sunghoon, not him.” she confessed, feeling her stomach bubble with butterflies.

his lips were quick to coil into a shit-eating grin, causing her to feel it against her skin as he murmured, “you drive me crazy, angel. you don’t even understand what you do to me.”

before she could even speak, he smashed his lips against hers, finally colliding into a much needed kiss. y/n quietly gasped, allowing more entrance for the male as her hands instantly ran to his muscular arms.

she squeezed them, trying to signal for him to pull away with how rough he moved against her, but he couldn’t stop. even if he wanted to, he couldn’t with how much he had been craving this.

sunghoon’s thick brows furrowed as he continued, loving the sweet taste her lips offered while his hands slipped down to her waist. he pushed himself closer, allowing her to melt into the harsh movements.

and once she did so, her hands quickly moved up to the messy hair that covered his forehead, softly tugging at them to stimulate his satisfaction.

he let out a soft groan, pulling back ever so slightly to take a breather with all that was going on.

y/n felt his breath fan against her skin, making her glance down at his now-swollen lips that were running pink around the edges from his initial intention to go for it.

sunghoon quickly leaned it, urging for another kiss when her hands stopped at his broad chest. “hoon, let me breathe,” she whined, earning a low chuckle.

a soft sigh left him as he wore a mischievous grin. “fine, breathe then.” he uttered out before leaning in closer to her neck.

he pressed firm kisses against it, causing a gasp to be heard from his girl. “sunghoon!” she yelled, trying to push him away, but he didn’t budge.

the asshole only smiled, continuing to leave pecks around her neck to tease. “what? i’m letting you breathe,�� he taunted with a coy tone. “isn’t that what you wanted?”

she whined at his words, still attempting to push away at his shoulders. “you better not leave anything noticeable.” she warned once she felt his vampire-like fangs begin to nibble.

a scoff immediately fell from his lips. “why? can’t i let everyone know that you’re mine now?” he growled.

when she kept her mouth shut, he let another puff of air slip by. “oh i see.” he peered into her gaze. “you don’t want that coworker of yours to know, hm?”

sunghoon quickly narrowed his eyes and poked his tongue out through his cheek. “aren’t you gonna admit it?” he asked, thumb pulling her bottom lip down.

y/n choked out, completely falling in a daze at how jealous he was. “it’s not that…,” she murmured.

“then what is it?”

“i just don’t want anything noticeable, hoon.” the girl frowned. “it’s hard to cover up.”

hoon widely grinned, raising his brows as he uttered, “isn’t that the whole point?”

she rolled her eyes and shoved his arm. “i can’t have it show anywhere, idiot, especially at work.”

“so i’m right then?” he joked, earning another nudge on the arm as he laughed. “you could’ve just admitted it, you know?”

“that’s not what i meant, dumbass!” y/n defended, now smacking his arms and giggling alongside him.

the two continued their banter until sunghoon decisively wrapped his arms around her, stopping the constant hits he was receiving.

“fine, no marks.” he huffed, muzzling his head into her shoulder. he breathed in her intoxicating scent as he tightened her closer to his chest.

“you’re mine now though, right?”

y/n laughed at his words before bringing her hands up to hit his arm. “obviously.. idiot,” she responded.

sunghoon’s lips formed a huge smile that was now plastered across his face. “good…,” his soft voice whispered — “because i hate that coworker of yours.”

“hoon, he wasn’t even doing anything that bad.”

he playfully scoffed. “so now you’re trying to defend him?”

she quickly rolled her eyes. “sunghoon! he was—“

he leaned in with a grin, pressing his lips against hers to shut her up. his hand firmly held her cheeks as he couldn’t stop himself from smiling.

hoon finally pulled away after her arms wrapped around his neck.

“i hate you,” she murmured.

“as if.” his lips connected with hers again for a soft peck, unable to restrain himself.

and when he leaned in again, y/n put a hand to his chest once more. “we should go back to the party,” she said, knowing how much he wanted to kiss again.

“come on, baby.” sunghoon whined, giving a slight pout. “don’t say that.”

she giggled before shaking her head. “let’s go, hoon, before they start to get suspicious.” the girl replied.

he declined for minutes, trying to convince her for another kiss, in which she eventually gave in.

y/n planted a soft peck on his lips that lasted only seconds, leaving him to scoff.

“okay, what was that?”

“that was a kiss?” she teased.

“you know i want more than that.”

his brow raised and she only laughed before pushing the door open and holding his hand. “later, dummy. come on!” y/n quickly dragged her grumbling boy out to the party and ignored his petty behavior that came afterward.

safe to say that sunghoon was definitely gonna get another kiss that night.

★・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・・★

a/n: heyy… i know it’s been a while.. i’m sorry! i’m currently working and also doing a summer session so i haven’t had any time at all to write, but i’m hoping to be posting regularly again. but if not then.. you will be hearing from me once a month…

[leilanihours]

# IMGONNAGETYOUBACK

pairing: paige bueckers x ex-gf/iowa!reader

word count: 4880

warnings: suggestive content, arguing

summary: your "rivalry" with a certain uconn blonde has its speculation, but no one knows what happened behind the scenes.

⭑ from lani: why is every single thing ive posted based off of a song..anyways..hope yall enjoy this as much as i enjoyed writing it

masterlist !

AS YOU SLIP into your black jersey, adrenaline courses through your veins. you and your teammates have successfully carried iowa to the final four of march madness. you've all come this far and refuse to break the streak.

but similar to your previous game against lsu, there's a lot of speculation surrounding the tension on the court with uconn. people are going crazy over the paige bueckers and caitlin clark face-off, but they’re going even crazier over your own heated interactions with the blonde.

the internet has decided to constantly pit you two against each other after observing your intense taunting and confrontations in previous years. they believe that it’s merely competitive tendencies but they have no idea where it all actually stems from.

you haven’t always been a hawkeye. for your first two years of college, you were a husky through and through. the public knows this, of course, which adds to the stigma around your name. but after a season-ending injury, you decided you needed a change of pace and environment. it was nothing personal against your teammates, coach, or school in general, you just felt like uconn wasn't where you were supposed to be.

so after you were in the transfer portal, everyone went ballistic. there was a plethora of reactions - some encouraging and supportive, others targeted and calling you a "traitor."

that's what the public is aware of. but they have yet to discover the deeper scars.

"you gonna lock in, y/n?" one of your teammates asks from behind you. turning around, you are met with caitlin, the other hawkeye under extremely close observation tonight.

"i gotchu," you smirk, "what about you? you gonna carry the team again?”

"you already know," she says, mirroring your expression. the two of you have gotten very close over the past couple years, which honestly makes the whole paige situation worse as people make comments like "caitlin and y/n versus paige is crazy" or "ready for this 2v1 game tonight!” they piss all three of you off but really just add to the hype and buildup of the game.

soon enough, your coach is ushering all the girls out of the locker room and onto the court. screams and cheers fill your ears as the crowd observes your entrance. and damn, if your ego wasn't high before, it definitely was now.

the two sides of the arena were filled, one side a sea of navy and white, the other a myriad of gold and black. music blasts from the speakers and makes the walls shake with energy. as you make your way over to the bench, you raise your arms repeatedly to get the crowd going. gaining an immediate reaction, you smile big and put your hand to your ear to play into the praise.

your teammates shake their heads at your antics. they know how competitive you can get. you tend to interact with the crowd and cameras a lot, but no one (especially fans at home) complains.

the crowd before you quiets down for a split second as you focus back onto what your coaches are saying in the huddle. suddenly you hear echoes of booing and other taunts as everyone turns around to see the uconn girls run out excitedly. the last one to come out is none other than paige bueckers, blonde hair in her signature braids and ponytail immediately catching your eye.

part of the reason people always compare you to her is because of how similar you are. your game style, skill set, and energy has always resembled the husky's, but you never understood it until she does the exact same hand motions you did but to the uconn supporters.

as she turns away from the crowd, her eyes dart around to find yours, doing so in a matter of seconds. her icy blue eyes send a chill down your spine as she holds intense contact. fuck. she knows exactly what she's doing. 

you can tell from the few seconds your eyes are glued to hers that she still wants you. you just know. there's too much emotion behind the stare, saying everything that needs to be said and more.

coach bluder gives the run-down on defensive assignments quickly and explains some of the plays. somehow, by some force of nature, you're stuck guarding the one person you were conflicted with: number five, paige bueckers.

your teammates all turn to you as soon as the words leave your coach's mouth. they are well aware of your special history with the blonde as well as your complicated relationship now.

"you got that, y/n?" caitlin asks you.

"yeah," you shrug, "you don't have to worry about me. i'm good." and you meant it. you were sick of being compared to paige all the time and were ready to show people who's better.

did you still care for the girl? of course; you always have and always will. but will you let that get in the way of your winning streak? hell no.

the referee beckons each team to the center of the court for the tip-off. hannah sets herself up for the jump ball, standing across from aaliyah edwards on uconn's side. 

you confidently walk over to where paige is standing. your eyes meet hers once again as you wordlessly dap her up, offering a civil front. you already know you'll being seeing the clip on your feed a lot tomorrow morning.

despite the cordial interaction, your mind is running wild at the feel of paige's long fingers brushing against yours. you missed her like crazy, but were also upset with her for multiple different reasons. right now you were enemies, opponents, rivals. but in a few hours after the game? well, you would have to wait and see.

the ref throws the ball in the air and aaliyah manages to get her fingers on the ball first to swat in her teammates' directions. uconn almost immediately turns it over due to paige missing kk's pass as the ball goes out of bounds. it's just too easy.

------

the buzzer sounds loudly, signaling the end of the second quarter and halftime. you and your teammates jog to the locker room, sweaty and out of breath. the score was currently 32-26 with uconn in the lead.

you had to admit, that definitely wasn't your team's best first half but you were ready to come back twice as hard.

"c'mon guys," lisa yells, "we gotta seriously up our game right now and fight against their defense. keep giving them as many fouls as possible.

"caitlin, we're gonna try to give you more threes, so everyone else, if caitlin has the ball, set those screens, got it?"

you all nod wordlessly as you pay attention to her words. your coach turns to you, looking you directly in the eye, her stare deadly.

"y/n, you gotta push bueckers more, don't direct all your focus on getting cait the ball. really use that energy that i know you have."

"yeah i hear you," you pant as you wipe your forehead with a towel. 

one of the coaching assistants hands you a waterbottle, so you immediately squeeze the ice cold water into your mouth without putting the nozzle on your lips. it's a habit that you have whenever you're in a rush or busy thinking about something.

"and one more thing, y/n," you hear your coach call you before you make your way back on the court, "please, for the love of god, leave your emotions out of it tonight."

the words shoot a prick in your chest, not expecting such a direct statement. nonetheless, you nod firmly, agreeing with her as you jog to where your team is lingering.

you may or may not have had a few...touchy altercations with a certain number five.

like in the middle of the first quarter...

------

"bueckers with the lay-up, does she get it? no! it is rebounded by l/n!"

your hands grasp the ball tightly under the net but before you can make your way over to the opposite side of the court, another set of hands on the ball stops you.

you look up to see paige also grabbing the ball as it sits in your hands, starting to fight to get it in her possession. with the two of you pulling back and forth, the refs whistle blows to put an end to the quarrel.

however, you two continue to push until one of your teammates wraps their arms around you to pull you off. walking away, you laugh, energized by the interaction. you put your hands up in surrender as kate releases you from her grip.

you turn your head back around to see that paige has also been forcefully pulled away by one of her own teammates with a similar expression on her face, clearly as equally as fired up as you.

------

and the middle of the second quarter...

------

"THREEEEEEE! Y/N L/N!"

you flex your arms and let out a proud yell. it's your fourth score of the night and you feel amazing. your teammates clamor over to you, patting you on your back and bumping you with their chests.

paige failed to block your attempt, putting her arms up and jumping but not being able to reach the ball before it falls in the net.

seeing her tough front falter for a second, you point a finger to her just to spice up the game a little more and get the crowd really going. she shakes her head and chuckles darkly, waving you off with a hand.

"did you see that? bueckers and l/n back at it again with their supposed rivalry, what a dynamic duo, am i right?"

------

time flies rapidly as the clock runs down. it's the last quarter of the game and tensions are at an all time high. with less than ten seconds left, iowa has the lead 71-69. it's way too close for comfort.

everyone's on edge. the announcers narrating the game for folks at home, coaches, benched teammates, the audience on either side of the court.

when uconn forces a turnover, you stand out of bounds waiting to pass the ball in. 1.1 on the clock. paige stands with her back to you. no one could've predicted your next move. 

you take advantage of her guard let down and quickly bounce the ball off of her, chopping the time in half as she fails to catch it in time and lets it out of bounds once again.

you feel a second of remorse once you catch the defeated look on her face. but you couldn't let the game slip out of your hands that easily. not without a fight.

less than one second on the clock, there's no way for uconn to win. caitlin passes the ball to gabbie who simply throws it high in the air to run down the clock.

the buzzer sounds as you and your teammates run into a group hug, screaming and cheering. you have a small celebration before going to the handshake line. as you pass and commend the uconn coaches and players, you allow your fingers to linger on paige's for a second longer than others.

when she meets your eyes there’s a look of hurt apparent in them, yours filled with guilt. you know how important that game was to her, to her entire collegiate career. but this game was also important to you, she had to know that.

------

your teammates insisted on celebrating at a nearby bar and restaurant, feeling high off the recent victory.

you were obviously down to go with them, but decided to take a little extra time in the locker room showers just to get some peace and quiet to yourself. you tell the girls that you'll catch up in your own car.

so now you're changing into a fresh set of clothes in a dim, empty locker room. some people might find the setting eerie but you enjoy the stillness of it all, especially after the day you've had. 

you’re wearing a basic white crop top and a muted purple skirt, a thick black leather jacket draped over your shoulders to protect yourself from the cold evening air. as you grab your backpack and make your way out to the gym’s parking lot, you spot a familiar figure wandering around aimlessly.

of fucking course i'm left here with her, you think.

you let out an irritated sigh as you continue to rub a small towel against your head to dry your hair.

the sound of your shoes against the pavement catches paige's attention and causes her to turn around. when she observes your relaxed, freshly showered figure, her chest tightens. whether it's from hatred or attraction, she doesn't know.

"hey," she yells to you, stalking over.

you look up to her direction and laugh, "you look like a lost puppy, bueckers."

"damn," she says, "first you decide to beat me and now you're insulting me and calling me by my last name? way to kick me when i'm down, y/n.”

you try not to display how flustered you feel when she says your name like that, “i didn't decide to beat you, i just did. deal with it."

"attitude much? i'm just tryna be civil, ma, no need for the hostility."

that fucking nickname.

"did you need something from me? i'm just tryna meet up with the team so spit it out."

"you heading to the bar?"

"yes," you say skeptically, "how the hell do you know that?"

"i'm heading there too, dumbass," she replies.

"what the hell are you talking about?"

"your team invited mine to hangout," of course they did, "is that a problem?"

"might be," you respond shortly, "so why are you here if the rest of your team is at the bar?"

"i could ask you the same question, l/n," she mocks the way you say her last name.

"i asked you first."

"eager to hear me talk i see." before you can reject the idea she interrupts you, “it’s okay, i know how much you love my voice."

she's not wrong, of course, but you would never admit it to her face. you ignore the question with a roll of your eyes.

"i took a longer shower than everyone else,” you shrug, “told 'em i'll just meet them there. your turn."

she laughs nervously before answering, “uh, i was actually supposed to get a ride from azzi but i guess she forgot," she says as she looks around the empty parking lot. now it's your turn to tease her.

"that's crazy," you laugh and shake your head, "your own friends don't even wanna be around you."

"man, shut up," she scoffs.

there's a beat of silence before you begin to walk to your car, getting the hint that the conversation was over.

you hear paige groan behind you before asking, "yo..do you think you could give me a ride?"

the nerve.

"excuse me?" you say incredulously as you unlock your car door and slip into the driver's seat. the blonde jogs up to your car, resting an arm on the frame of your door. you become hyper aware of how close you are, and how good she looks.

for the first time since you started talking to her, you take in her appearance. she's wearing a light blue cropped tank top, almost like a sports bra, and dark gray distressed jeans. there's a white uconn hoodie in her hands.

the amount of skin exposed makes your body heat up. the way her arms are flexed against your car makes you think back to the many times they've been flexed underneath your weight.

“can i. get. a ride.” she staggers out, like it’s painful to ask you for a favor. you take advantage of her position immediately.

“i dunno, can you?” you smirk.

“i fucking hate you, do you know that?”

“i dunno, do i?”

“dude.”

you throw your head forward in a laugh, shoulders shaking at her irritation.

“you’re so easy to piss off, i love it.”

“yeah well there’s a lot of other things about me that i know you love but we don’t have to talk about that.”

“do you want a ride or not?” you deadpan, “’cause if you’re gonna act like this all night i don’t want you at the bar, bro.”

“‘bro’? that’s what we’ve come to? that’s even worse than just bueckers, y/n.”

“just shut up and get in the car.”

“yes ma’am,” she says with a mock salute as she closes your door and jogs around the front of the car to the passenger seat.

as you turn on the engine, paige settles into the spot next to you and immediately reaches for the aux cord .

“um,” you pause, “what are you doing?”

“blessing you with my awesome music taste? what do you think i’m doing?”

“absolutely not,” you say, “my car, my rules.”

“um, no. the ‘rule’ is that the passenger chooses the playlist while the driver sets up the queue. we’ve been over this.”

“okay but,” you start carefully, “that was when we were together.”

silence.

“so do you want the ‘late night drives’ playlist or the ‘oldies but goodies’ playlist?”

“what?”

“you heard me.”

she brushes over your comment painfully fast. you had no idea why. you refuse to leave it at that.

“just put on our playlist."

more silence. you gotta be kidding me.

“i don’t-“

“don’t even try, paige, i know you still have it.”

“but-“

“don’t fight me on this. all i want is to celebrate with my team and get a drink so can you please hurry up so we can go?”

“shit,” you hear her say under her breath, “yeah.” she pushes her hips forward as she gets comfortable in the seat.

your eyebrows furrow at the reaction. this girl is so fucking complicated. you weren’t sure if you wanted to curse her out or take her right there.

———

“y/n!! you made it!” jada squeals as you walk into the bar, “and…paige? wait. are you two back together??”

“hell no.”

“definitely not.”

you and paige turn to each other.

“oookayy..” jada trails as she pulls you away from the blonde in the direction of where your team was sat.

the girls cheer your name as you take a seat next to caitlin. you can tell they’ve already had at least two drinks each.

“hey,” caitlin says with a warm smile, “you got some catching up to do. let’s go get you a drink.”

she ushers you to the bar where you are able to sit and observe the environment. the venue is fairly dark, the ceiling lights dimmed to a warm hue with a few candles on each table. the stools at the bar were a cold metal that gave you goosebumps. all the table booths have dark brown leather couches on one side and wooden chairs with intricate designs on the other.

“so,” caitlin starts after she’s ordered you a drink, lord knows what it was, “i saw you and paige walk in together. that mean anything?”

“please,” you scoff, “i’m done with her, cait, like seriously.” she stays silent, waiting for you to continue, “i mean, she’s so annoying and cocky and confusing, it’s exhausting - i hate her.”

“you sure about that?”

“yes.”

“then why do you still put up with her?”

“what do you mean?”

“i mean,” she says as the bartender delivers two of the same drink, one for you and one presumably for herself, “just stop talking to her. ignore her.”

you pause to think. “but she’s always the one starting these dumbass petty fights.”

“then don’t answer her?”

“i have to.”

“and why is that?” she eggs you on, sipping on her drink.

“because,” you sigh, “i can’t let her win.”

“or,” caitlin smirks as the two of you get up to head back to your table, “you still like being around her.”

“as if.”

“okay. tell me this then - why do you two still smile at each other like nothing has changed?”

“we almost never see them, cait.”

“no, i know but…i saw the way you looked at her today. you still like her, y/n.”

you two have returned to your seats with the rest of the team. you find yourself looking for a particular blonde (again) across the room. the uconn girls were sitting at a similar table to the one you were currently at, just on the other side of the bar.

to your relief, caitlin drops the conversation to engage in one with kate about the game. you quietly sip on your drink as you continue to stare at paige. she’s smiling - laughing - with azzi and aaliyah. you missed them. you missed her. you didn’t acknowledge it until now, until caitlin knocked some sense into you. you did enjoy being around her, mainly because it reminded you of how it was before you transferred to iowa. even though your conversations consist of constant jabs and insults, it was better than radio silence.

but you also hated it. you hated how you couldn’t be with her like you used to. you hated how you left. you hated how she treated you when you left. you hated how she acted like nothing happened. that’s why you have to win every time you’re up against her - literally and figuratively.

paige scored four three-pointers in a game? you score five. paige got six rebounds? you got seven. paige had eight assists? you had nine. it wasn’t just for yourself, it was for the media. with how they constantly have a magnifying glass on your life, you can’t jeopardize your career. so you have to be better than her.

your jaw clenches at the thought of the pressure, the expectation. you down the rest of your way too light cocktail and make your way back to the bar for a stronger drink.

“hey,” you say to the bartender, “can i get a sex on the beach, please?” he nods with a polite smile as he walks away to make your order.

“still rockin with those?” you hear an all-too-familiar voice say.

“if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it,” you mutter, not bothering to turn to her.

she scoffs. what is her problem now? you think.

“you’re so damn predictable,” she laughs, “it’s hilarious.”

“at least i’m reliable,” you retort, “when’s the last time you had any stability in your life?”

“when i was with you,” she says immediately.

that makes you turn your head. you are greeted with paige’s cold eyes and an unreadable expression.

“what are you doing, paige? what are we doing?” you sound exhausted.

“you tell me. i never got a good explanation when you…left.”

“i tried. you wouldn’t let me. didn’t think you wanted to hear from me after our last conversation.”

“don’t pin this on me,” she says pointedly, “you left me.”

“i didn’t have a choice, paige, you have to understand that.”

“but did you have to leave me? you know we could’ve worked it out.”

“could we have?”

she sighs. the conversation has elevated quickly. you didn’t expect her to open up like this now, to bring all of this up now. maybe it was the ambient atmosphere or the influential alcohol, or both. the man behind the bar sets your drink down on a small napkin in front of you, but you decide against going back to your table.

“so…” she says quietly, “have you been seeing anyone? i know how the fans like to twist shit, but is any of it true?”

“wouldn’t you like to know,” you laugh.

“hey, i’m just tryna gauge where you’re at right now. scope out the competition, you know how it is.”

“‘scope out the competition’?”

she shrugs.

“have you been seeing anyone?”

“have you heard that i’m seeing anyone?”

god, this girl could not give a simple answer to save her life. but two can play that game.

“maybe i have. maybe i haven’t. and maybe i’ve seen you with a certain husky named azzi?” you have no clue where you got this idea knowing damn well that they’re nothing more than friends.

“and what if i am? you jealous, ma?” they’re nothing more than friends…right?

“hilarious.”

“that’s not a no.”

“no, it’s not..” you mumble under your breath, turning away from her to avoid her burning stare.

“good.” what the hell is this girl getting at? her avoidant yet suggestive responses set something off in you. “you never answered my question.”

“i am with someone,” you lie through your teeth, wanting to get a reaction out of her.

her breath hitches, “who?” her tone is targeted with a hint of…anger?

“why do you care? you’re with azzi right?”

“i never said that.”

“but you didn’t deny it,” you point out, using her own tactics.

“i am now. i’m not with her. so who are you with?”

“i don’t need to tell you anything.”

“so you’re not with anyone?” she laughs. this girl.

“i am.”

“then tell me.”

“no.”

“fine. be like that,” and suddenly she’s pulling you up from the barstool and into a poorly-lit hallway.

“where are we going?” you demand as you two turn a corner, the only light is the distant hue from the main part of the bar.

“we need to talk about this.”

“talk about what?”

“this,” she motions between the two of you as she pushes you against a wall, one strong arm preventing you from leaving.

“there’s nothing to talk about.”

“i’m not gonna let you keep dodging this, y/n. you left me to go to whole different state with no explanation whatsoever.”

“because you ghosted me first! what was i supposed to do?”

“we were supposed to work it out. remember? when we were teammates on and off the court?”

“you shut me out.”

“because, y/n,” she sighs deeply, “i knew i couldn’t handle it if i had to say goodbye to you. i would’ve-“ she stops herself.

“you would’ve what?”

after about ten seconds of silence, she whispers, “i would’ve begged you not to go - not to leave me.”

your eyes shoot to hers, but she’s looking down at the floor. her head is almost resting against yours as you observe her adamant yet vulnerable state. you’ve never seen her like this.

from what you’ve seen online, paige seemed to have the time of her life after you transferred. you assumed that she moved on so easily, so quickly. you didn’t consider that it was all just a front.

“paige,”

“what?” she barely gets out, still avoiding your eyes.

“look at me,” she doesn’t, “please.”

her head flies up at that, “what?” she repeats.

you don’t know what to say, you just needed to see her - really see her. her eyes are filled with such clear emotion yet you can’t put your finger on what she was feeling. from her body language you can tell that she misses you. and as you realize you subconsciously put your own hand on her waist, you body is telling you that you miss her too. 

you contemplate your next move for a second, questioning if all of this is worth it. but she’s worth it. in the time you’ve spent apart from her, you grew and matured. you also realize that you need her like you need oxygen. you come to the conclusion that you always have, but it took distance and space to accept it.

not wanting to get too in your head, you smash your lips onto hers as your shoulders instantly relax. you feel paige pause but eventually melt into the kiss, moving her hands up to the nape of your neck. you bring your other hand up to her wrist, resting it there as you relish in the feeling of her lips finally against yours after almost two years. you guide her hand down to your thigh as you move to grasp her shoulders. she glides over your upper thing, riding up your lilac skirt.

she breaks the kiss for a moment, “i’ve always loved you in purple.”

before she can resume the heated kiss, you push against her and observe your surroundings. to your left is the open area you just came from, all your friends oblivious to your activities. all the way down to your right is a door leading out to the back lot and a closer door - presumably a supply closet.

you weigh out your options: do you want to stop the interaction completely, drag her into your car all the way outside, or simply shove her into the closet and have your way with her?

smirking up at her, you pull her into the closet as she laughs at your desperation but follows you nonetheless. 

yes, there were still broken pieces in your relationship. yes, you have always claimed to hate each other. but no, you weren’t leaving without her, even if you had to use handcuffs.

she was never not yours, and you were never not hers.

— leilani signing off ! 📁

[finelinefae]

semi-finals [tennisplayer!harry x tennisplayer!y/n]

synopsis: y/n gets distracted and harry just wants the girl he likes to like him back

word count: 10.7k

contains: fluff, angst, enemies to lovers, set at a boarding school, slow burn, angst, tennis rivals, strict parents, first kiss(es), jealous!h, jealous!yn, inaccurate height of certain characters who may actually be taller in real life but this is an au so it's fine, a crazy confession but not really bc we all saw it coming

this is part 3 of the game! read part 2 here

. . .

Y/N watched him from across the room, studying the way people walked up to him as though he was some kind of celebrity. He smiled and laughed but it didn’t reach his eyes, not in the way it did when they were together. 

But it wasn’t his charismatic smile and booming laugh that constantly grabbed her attention when she was trying to listen to Sarah’s story about the cat her parents had fostered back home. It was the blonde girl beside him, the one who hadn’t left his side for the entire night, who laughed along with him and stole glances whenever he wasn’t looking. 

Her opponent for the next tournament that was now a month away. 

Astrid Anderson had once been a student at Crestwood. They’d all been in the same infant class together and every boy in their year group was obsessed with her. Harry and Astrid hadn’t started dating until the year before Harry left for Australia. They were the ‘It’ couple of Crestwood, everyone treated them as though they were some kind of celebrity couple. 

All that lasted until Harry had to leave for Australia. He broke things off and then Astrid moved to Trinity Academy which was Crestwood’s biggest rival in most competitive areas. Y/N didn’t know or care what Astrid had gotten up to since she left school. There was no bitterness between them but they both knew they weren’t the type of people to share the same social circle. Whilst Astrid cared more about her social life, Y/N was completely focused on academics and there was nothing wrong with either of those things but it didn’t give them much to talk about. 

“Right Y/N?” Sarah asked, her head whipping around in her direction only to realise she had no idea what she was talking about. 

“Right,” Y/N nodded, having no clue as to what she was agreeing with. 

Adam held back a smile as he sat on the couch across from her, “Mitch, come get a drink with me,” Sarah stood up, tugging the hem of her skirt down, “I need you to push past all the tall people.”

Mitch, all five foot eight inches of him, rose from his place beside Jake on the couch with a self-satisfied stretch, as if flaunting his height as proof that his girlfriend needed him. "Coming, babe," he declared, a hint of smugness in his voice.  Everyone laughed as Mitch winked, following behind Sarah through the crowds of dancing bodies. 

Y/N glanced over at Harry who was now standing with his back to her, talking to Astrid with his hand propped up against the refrigerator. “If you’re not careful, you’ll burn holes into his back,” Adam spoke from beside her. 

“That’s the idea,” Y/N murmured. 

“Hm, I thought you didn’t like him?” Adam asked the question causing her to turn and face him. 

“I don’t,” She answers immediately but the words are like metal on her tongue, “I-I mean I-” 

Adam’s lips curve into a knowing smirk, “I see,”

Y/N wanted to protest but found herself unable to muster the words. Her mouth seemed to glue itself shut as she attempted to argue against Adam’s assumption that she liked Harry even a little bit. Her emotions had been all over the place ever since she asked Harry to coach her. He seemed to bring out a part of her she didn’t even know she had. One moment she was angry, the next she was laughing, and sometimes her heart would beat so hard against her chest that she felt like it was trying to leap out and walk right into the palm of his hand.

She couldn’t comprehend how the wires in her brain had seemingly rewired themselves, transitioning from loathing someone to now seeing visions of them before she drifted off to sleep. It both frightened and excited her, this inexplicable shift in her feelings consuming her thoughts and diverting her attention from the actual game - a game that had never required feelings before. 

“We both agreed on not seeing anyone if this was to work out,” She confessed.

“Did he make that rule or you?” Adam quirked a brow.

“It was a mutual agreement I guess,” Y/N shrugged. 

Adam nodded slowly, his eyes darting to and from Harry. “C’mere,” He motioned with his finger. Y/N leaned in at the same time as he did, until they were only inches a part from each other, “Laugh,” He says.

“What?” Y/N questioned. 

“Trust me, just laugh.” Adam glanced over her shoulder again before smiling. 

Y/N hesitated for a moment before complying, a hesitant laugh escaping her lips to which Adam joined in. The more he laughed, the more she laughed with him until he stopped, “Uh oh,” He smirked, leaning forward and grabbing his drink from the coffee table, “Looks like you started something now.” He motions his head behind her and Y/N turns to find Harry no longer with Astrid but striding towards them, anger radiating from him. 

“Adam, what did you do?” Y/N exclaimed, sitting on the edge of the couch as Harry approached them. 

His eyes were darkened, his jaw tense, “Y/N,” He said her name over the music, “Can I talk to you?” Each word was tense as he spoke them like he was trying to control himself. 

Maybe it was the bit of alcohol she’d had that was taking over her senses but she felt a sudden boost of confidence. Y/N folded her arms, “Ask me again,” She smirked. 

Harry scoffed, “Can I talk to you?”

Y/N’s expression was smug as she spoke the next word carefully, “Again,”

Harry’s jaw tightened, gritting his teeth he spoke again just as she asked, “Can I talk to you, please?”

Adam snorted beside her and Y/N’s lips curved, “Okay,” She stood up, ignoring the way her head spun, and stumbled as she followed him down the hallways of his apartment to a room near the back right by the bathroom that people were queuing up to use. He stood in front of an unopened door and pulled out a key from his back pocket to unlock it. 

Stepping inside, Y/N glanced around the room and noticed how different it was from the rest of the apartment. It had calming blue walls and a simple bed with white sheets. A big window let in soft light, making it cosy. There were personal things like photos and an old music player. There were posters on the wall and pictures of his friends on the corkboard by the desk. On one of the shelves in the corner, she saw the trophies she had previously seen in boxes now displayed on his shelf. 

She smiled but it quickly disappeared as she faced an angry-looking Harry. “What are you playing at?” 

“What do you mean?” Y/N crossed her arms.

Harry's eyes narrowed, his frustration evident as he took a step closer to Y/N. "Don't play dumb with me, Y/N," his voice tinged with a raw edge. "You know exactly what I'm talking about. You and Adam? I thought we agreed not to date anybody?”

Y/N scoffed, “So did I until I saw you hanging around your ex-girlfriend who - might I add - is my opponent for the next game!”

Harry took a step forward and Y/N took one step back until she was backed up against his door. He placed one hand on the wall right by her head and hung his head to look down at her. Y/N’s breath hitched at how close he was, “Are you jealous?” He murmurs. 

“Jealous of who? You and your ex?” She emphasised the ‘ex’ like she was reminding him that Astrid was his ex-girlfriend. 

Harry's eyes flickered with a mixture of emotions, his lips curling into a knowing smirk. "You are, aren't you?" he murmured, his voice low and filled with a hint of amusement.

Y/N's heart pounded in her chest as she felt the heat of Harry's body so close to hers. She swallowed hard, refusing to let herself be intimidated by his proximity. "I'm not jealous," she insisted, her voice tinged with defiance.

Harry's smirk widened, his hand still resting against the wall beside her head. "Really?" he challenged, his breath warm against her cheek as he leaned in closer. “You don’t think I didn’t see you and those pretty eyes staring holes into the back of my head?”

Y/N rolled her eyes, her frustration evident. "You're more arrogant than I thought," she muttered under her breath.

"Do you like him?" Harry's question caught her off guard.

"I've already told you I don't," she replied, a hint of annoyance colouring her tone.

"You know it kills me?" Harry's voice softened, his expression pained. Y/N's confusion was clear as she waited for him to continue. "It kills me to see you with him, to see you with anybody but me. Especially when you laugh like that, I only want you to laugh like that with me."

"Well, unfortunately for you, you don't tell me what to do," Y/N shot back, her heart pounding against her chest.

"I thought I was your coach?" Harry smirked, attempting to lighten the mood.

"You're my coach, not my keeper. If I want to talk to Adam or laugh around him, I will. In fact, I'm going to," she declared, spinning around and pulling the door open, the noise from the party flooding her ears.

As she walked back into the living room, Y/N spotted Adam with Mitch, Sarah, Jake, and some others playing beer pong at the dining table. Adam's smile faltered when he noticed Harry behind her. "Hey, everything okay?" he asked, concern evident in his voice.

Y/N nodded determination in her eyes. "Can I play?"

"Sure, it's my round so you can be on my team if you want," Adam offered with a smile.

Y/N grinned. "Who are we playing?"

Suddenly, the boy she had been locked in the room with stood at the opposite end of the table. "Mind if I join?" Harry's question hung in the air, his eyes fixed on Y/N.

Y/N tried not to react as Astrid approached him, placing a manicured hand on his shoulder. "I'll be on your team, H," she said with a smile, and Y/N's jaw tensed at the sight.

Harry smirked, glancing at Y/N, “Alright then,” 

“You sure about this?” Adam asked.

“Mhm,” Y/N nodded, “It’s just…How do we play?”

Adam laughed which caught Harry’s attention as he spoke to Astrid, “Just follow my lead, you’ll get the idea.”

As the game started, Y/N sensed Harry was intentionally trying to make her jealous when he laughed and spoke to Astrid far too enthusiastically. But she refused to let it bother her the way he wanted it to. She focused on the game with Adam, watching as he tossed the ping pong ball into one of the cups.

She noticed Harry scowl whenever they got remotely close to each other, high-fiving or giving each other a hug whenever one of them managed to get the ball into a cup. It gave her a sense of satisfaction whenever she’d see his eyes narrow as Adam placed a hand on her elbow to help her aim the ball in the right direction. 

Towards the end of the game, Y/N could feel herself slowly starting to fall under the effects of the alcohol. She had only ever drunk alcohol at functions or dinner parties with her parents and now she was countless drinks in. Her brain was turning fuzzy, there was no thought behind her words whenever she spoke and every time she aimed the ball, it would fly off the table somewhere across the room. 

As Y/N took her last turn, she was already very drunk and she knew she'd feel bad about it in the morning. Even with her friends cheering her on, she struggled to focus. She aimed carefully at the last cup, but the ball bounced off the table and landed in a plant pot nearby.

"Oops," Y/N slurred, her lips curving into a drunken giggle. "Looks like it's my turn to drink."

Before Adam could reach her, she took a step forward, catching her foot on the table edge and tumbling to the floor. Y/N laughed as she lay flat on her back looking up at the ceiling, “Are you okay, Y/N?” Sarah’s voice called. 

"Are you alright?" Adam asked, helping her stand back up again.

"Whoa," Y/N said, putting a hand to her head as it started to pound.

"Okay, I think that's enough for you," Adam chuckled.

"Are you okay?" Harry appeared in her view. "Hey, look at me." He gently lifted her chin with his finger.

"I'm fine," Y/N swayed. "I'm really, really great."

"Yeah?" Harry smiled. "Your knee's bleeding."

Y/N's brows furrowed. "It is?" She looked down.

"Mhm, c'mon, let's go clean it up." He took her hand.

"Oh, but the game!" Y/N looked over her shoulder to see everyone returning to their own groups.

"The game's over, love," he sighed when he realized she wasn't going to take another step on her own. He threw her over his shoulder and carried her down the hallway to his room.

"Hey, quit calling me that!" she slurred, banging her fists against his back.

The noise from the party softened as Harry closed the door behind him. Y/N found herself on Harry's bed, her body bouncing lightly as he carefully laid her down. She gazed up at the ceiling, her legs dangling over the edge of the mattress.

Harry stumbled into his bathroom and dampened a cloth under the cold water before walking back to her. Y/N propped herself up as he approached, observing him closely as he knelt between her legs.

He gently took her calf in his hand, “Are you drunk?” Y/N asked. 

Harry chuckled, his cheeks flushed. "Just a bit," he admitted, a lazy grin spreading across his face. "Maybe more than a bit."

Y/N giggled, “Me too,” She confessed.

“I know that,” He chuckled, his hair falling in front of his face, “You play a mean game of beer pong.”

“If it weren’t for you I probably wouldn’t be so competitive,” Y/N admitted.

"But it was fun, right?" Harry's smile softened. “You like spending time with me?”

Y/N relaxed, her shoulders dropping, “I think…” She starts, her mind whirring, “Okay shhhhh,” She puts her finger to his lips and his lips pout automatically against them, “Don’t tell anyone this but everyday I wake up and I look forward to spending time with you.”

Harry smirks, “You do?” 

“But don’t tell anybody,” She insists.

“Okay,” He nods, “I won’t tell anybody.”

“How do I know you won’t tell anybody?” Y/N frowns. 

“Hmm,” Harry thinks, “How about I tell you something?”

Y/N nods, “Okay.”

Harry’s eyes look into hers, “No amount of time in the day is ever enough for me. I want to spend every moment of my days with you, every second of time and even more than that.” 

“Woah,” Y/N’s eyes widen, her hand resting on his shoulder, “That’s a lot of time.”

“And it’s still not enough,” Harry whispers, his head leaning closer to hers. The cloth slipped from her thigh, Harry’s cold fingers wrapping themselves around her ankle that was right by his knee as he knelt on the floor. 

“Harry,” Y/N murmurs, “Do you still love her?”

Harry shakes his head immediately, “No,” He says, “For someone so brilliantly smart how do you still not know?” 

“I’m not smart when it comes to people,” She whispers, “Or you. I think that’s why you frustrate me so much.”

“You frustrate me for an entirely different reason,” His hand lifts to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. She could feel his breath fanning her face, smelling the scent of alcohol. 

Her hands go to his shirt, scrunching the fabric into tight fists, “Tell me,” Her eyes flutter shut as his lips ghost over her cheek.

“Not today baby,” He says. 

“Y’ said it again,” Her lips curve, “You called me that in the car too.”

“You remember that?” 

“I remember everything,” 

As Harry parted his lips to reply, Y/N seized the moment, her hand darting to the back of his neck as she planted a quick peck on his lips. His eyes widened in surprise as she giggled, "Whoops."

Before she could fully retract her hand, Harry leaned in, closing the gap between them and pressing his lips to hers once more.

Y/N melted against him, feeling his lips merge with hers as he caught her bottom lip between his. Her eyes were closed and her senses were overwhelmed with the taste of alcohol and the scent of his aftershave. His lips were soft and everything about him was so warm. Every time she would try to catch her breath he would just steal the air right out of her as if she were his source of oxygen. 

They both pulled away. Y/N needed a moment before she could open her eyes again as she tried to regain her breath. When she did, green, hazy eyes looked into hers. Her lips curved before she spoke, “I haven’t kissed anyone like that before,” She admits.

"Really?" Harry asked, his voice tinged with surprise.

Y/N shook her head, her laughter bubbling up. "I mean, I kissed Jamie Keller once in the fourth year, but it wasn't a proper kiss."

Harry rolled his eyes, a hint of amusement in his expression. "Fucking Jamie Keller," he muttered.

Y/N laughed, unable to tear her eyes away from him. "Yeah," she murmured, "Fucking Jamie Keller."

Harry's fingers brushed against Y/N's cheek, “Do you think we’ll remember this in the morning?” He asked. 

Y/N couldn’t find an answer, instead, she brushed the curls in front of his eyes to the side and wondered just how much she had had to drink to end up in the one place she’d been trying to avoid. 

. . .

“Shit,” Y/N hissed, “This isn’t real.”

Her head was pounding like someone was hammering against her skull and her spine felt like she had been sleeping folded in half as she sat up straight in bed. She was in a room, a room she didn’t recognise and hoped it wasn’t just some random stranger’s. 

The last thing she remembered vividly was sitting on the couch with Adam and Harry standing somewhere across the room with Astrid, everything afterwards just seemed to blur all into nothing. 

It was her first time getting drunk and probably her last too from the awful state her body was in. She wanted nothing more than to shower and sleep in her own bed, eat foods high in sodium and drink gallons of water. 

Her heart leapt inside of her chest when she heard soft snores coming from somewhere in the room. She looked down and saw Harry curled up asleep on the floor, his arms wrapped around her ankle and holding it to his chest like a teddy bear.  

Y/N's heart swelled with a mixture of confusion and tenderness as she gazed down at Harry's sleeping form. She couldn't deny the warmth that spread through her at the sight of him, even if she couldn't quite understand how they had ended up in this situation.

Carefully extracting her ankle from his grasp, Y/N shifted to the edge of the bed, wincing as her head throbbed with each movement. She needed to get home. She had so much to do and prepare for now that her first game was over. She cursed herself as she tiptoed past Harry, not before grabbing a blanket to place over him as she walked to the door. 

Harry sighed, “You don’t remember do you?” 

Y/N frowned, wondering if he was talking in his sleep or actually asking her a question. She shrugged and pulled the door open, closing it softly behind her. 

Harry’s apartment was a mess. 

There were beer cans littered across the room and silly string on bits of furniture. She wondered whether or not she should stay to clear up but then remembered it was technically Mitch’s party which also made it his responsibility. 

She tried to spot someone who might have been able to offer her a lift home so she didn’t have to get the bus back to her dorm. Fortunately for her, Adam was lying on the couch asleep so she walked right over and gently shook him awake.

“Hey,” She whispered, “Sorry to wake you up,”

“Y/N?” Adam groaned, “I thought you went home,”

Y/N didn’t know why she was suddenly blushing but she replied, “Any chance you can give me a ride home?” She knew he had a car because he lived with his parents.

“I’ve been drinking,” He groans.

“Please?” She was desperate, “I know you only drank water for most of the night,”

He yawns, “Fine,” 

In the car ride back to her dorm, Y/N tried to recall the memories that had been missing from the previous night. She vaguely remembered playing beer pong and Harry playing alongside Astrid but the more she drank, the more her memory seemed to fade.

“You okay?” Adam asked, glancing over at her from the driver’s seat. 

“No, I can’t remember anything from last night,” Y/N groaned, running her hands over her face. 

Adam chuckles, “So you don’t remember falling over?”

Y/N’s eyes widened as she turned her head to look at him, “I fell?”

He nodded, “You tripped over the dining table when we were playing beer pong. Harry took you somewhere to fix up your knee,” 

Y/N looked down at her knee and frowned, “My knee?” She murmured, seeing the cut on her knee and the blood that had dried up around it. 

Seeing the cut on her knee must have triggered something in her brain because all of a sudden everything was beginning to piece together. 

Harry’s eyes look into hers, “No amount of time in the day is ever enough for me. I want to spend every moment of my days with you, every second of time and even more than that.” 

Harry's words echoed in her mind, sending a shiver down her spine. She could almost feel the warmth of his breath against her skin as he spoke those words and when he leaned and… 

“No fucking way,” Y/N blurted after everything came flooding back.

“Are you okay?” Adam looked at her concerned.

How could she possibly answer that? Was she okay? Clearly not, considering she had ended up in the bedroom of her longtime rival and kissed him.

She had kissed him.

And she had enjoyed it enough to want to kiss him again.

This wasn't good. It felt like she was breaking all the rules she had set for herself. Harry wasn't just any boy she went to school with; he was her coach, her rival, and someone she had known for years. He was the boy who used to tease her on the court, the one who always seemed to be one step ahead.

It must have been a drunken mistake. Y/N had no idea what she was like when she was drunk and clearly, she wasn’t the most sensible. It didn’t matter if things had suddenly changed between them, she couldn’t be with him, she wouldn’t allow herself to. Her focus was on winning that scholarship at the end of the school year where afterwards they’d be on two separate paths moving away from each other. 

Her feelings weren’t forever, tennis was. 

Thankfully, Adam had pulled into the front of her dorm building. She opened the door and leapt out of the car, “Thanks for the ride, Adam.” She tries to smile. 

“Hey Y/N,” Adam stops her, a look of concern on her face, “Are you okay?” He asks again and she realises she never answered him before.

She bit the inside of her cheek and gave him a tight-lipped smile, “I’m okay,” She lied and closed the door, spinning on her heel and walking to her dorm where she hoped she’d be alone so she could have time to work through her thoughts.

Even when she felt like she was winning, he always managed to one-up her, and this time was no different.

. . .

Y/N walked into school the Monday after the party at Harry’s house. 

When she returned back to her dorm, the first thing she did was shower and then spent the rest of the day wallowing in self pity and trying not to cry at the thought of kissing Harry. 

She had managed to go avoiding him the entire weekend and planned on doing the same today. He had sent her text messages asking her if she was okay but she’d ignored them, putting her notifications on silent like it was enough to trick her mind into believing nothing happened between them. 

Sarah had walked in on her hiding under her bed covers, watching episodes of Gilmore Girls and eating cold pizza. It was a sight she had never seen before which left her wondering if something had happened at the party but Y/N refused to tell. 

People congratulated Y/N in the hallways as she walked to her locker. She wasn’t used to getting attention from everybody. Most of the time, people didn’t really acknowledge her unless they needed help with their homework.

“Heyyy court queen,” Sarah beamed.

Y/N immediately shook her head, “Sarah, no,” she snorted, trying not to laugh.

“What?” Sarah frowned, “I’m trying to think up a catchy nickname so it catches on and people put it on merch and signs for your game.”

This time Y/N did laugh, “Are you trying to make money off of me?” She teased.

“No, of course not, I’m just being a supportive friend. You know my mother is designing a new clothing line? I can totally get her to design something for people to wear for your games.”

“Sarah,” Y/N put her hands on her friend’s shoulders, “I’ve won one game for a school competition. As much as I love you for it, I don’t need you to create merchandise or give me catchy nicknames.”

Sarah’s shoulders slumped, “I know, it’s just… You’re playing against Astrid Anderson. Not only is she popular at her new school, but she’s also still pretty popular here too. Jake told me he saw her volunteering at a homeless shelter, offering them invites to come to the semi-finals.”

Y/N rolled her eyes, “We’re playing tennis. It’s not a beauty pageant. Whatever happens, won’t be up to how many people turn up or what everybody’s wearing.”

“But don’t you think she’s trying to do it to throw you off?” Sarah asked, “I’m pretty sure she still has feelings for Harry. Isn’t that weird?”

“Weird?” Y/N replied quickly, “Why would it be weird?”

Sarah looked at her suspiciously, “Because she’s Harry’s ex-girlfriend? And your opponent for the next game and did I forget to mention Harry ‘your coach’s’ ex-girlfriend?”

“What Harry does outside of our training is none of my business,” Y/N cleared her throat.

“Did something happen between you two? At the party, Mitch said he saw you two go off somewhere and now you’re being weird,” Sarah questioned.

“Nothing happened, Harry was just being his usual, annoying self,” Y/N hoped she was convincing enough to drop the subject, but Sarah continued to look at her like she knew there was something she wasn’t saying.

Thankfully, the bell for the first period was a perfect interruption. Y/N slammed her locker shut, “I’ll see you later?”

Sarah nodded, “Lunch, right?”

Y/N froze, remembering that Harry was a member of their usual lunch group, “Um, I-I have tutoring.”

“What?” Sarah furrowed her brows, “I thought you tutored on Wednesdays?”

“Change of schedule?” Y/N blurted out, grasping for an excuse.

Sarah’s eyes narrowed, “Something very weird is happening… Are you pregnant?”

“Okay, love you so much, bye,” Y/N rushed, giving Sarah a quick hug before walking quickly past her to avoid blurting out any more hideous lies.

As she turned the corner, she accidentally bumped into someone, her shoulder colliding with theirs. Y/N looked up, and her heart was in her mouth when she saw Harry looking down at her, something flashed in his eyes, his lips parting the same way hers did as she finally laid eyes on him after ignoring him all weekend. He was wearing his blazer for once, but his tie was loose around his neck.

“Y/N,” he breathed.

Y/N’s eyes softened, she wanted to speak to him, but then her cheeks flushed as she remembered the night in his bedroom. “I-I-” Her throat felt like she’d swallowed cotton wool as she tried to get her words out, “I can’t.” She shook her head, walking past him and ignoring him calling her name.

. . .

Y/N had hoped by ignoring the things that were bothering her, everything would fix itself on its own. It was a bad habit she hadn’t learned to kick and the situation with Harry was no different. 

They hadn’t spoken a word about their kiss since it happened, in fact, they barely spoke about anything at all. Y/N had hoped Harry would go back to their usual back-and-forth arguments and forget about everything but whenever she tried to say something that would push his buttons, he’d just ignore her or use one-worded replies. 

During tennis practice, he’d barely even look at her when she asked him a question and stopped arguing with her when she wanted to do things differently from the way he worked. She was even beginning to think her friends had figured out that something had gone down between them from the way Harry would completely shut down whenever she opened her mouth to speak during lunch break, 

As much as she hated herself for it, she missed him. Missed the way they would argue over everything but smile at each other because they both knew it wasn’t serious, missed the way he calmed her down whenever she would get too passionate about something and the way he looked at her like she was the only person in the room. 

She had tried to forget the kiss but she went to sleep dreaming about it. Every time he got anywhere near her, thoughts of his lips on hers flashed through her mind like a showreel. His low, drunken mumble when he spoke to her outplayed the music in her ears whenever she tried to listen to the playlist he had made for her. 

Worst of all, it was affecting her gameplay. Y/N was pretty sure she had never seen such terrible volleys or groundstrokes in her entire life. Every time she would try to aim the ball, she’d get distracted by Harry wiping sweat from his brow or watching her so intensely when she wasn’t looking like he was trying to set her on fire with his own eyes. 

The game was two weeks away and the dream of winning that scholarship was slowly slipping out of her grasp with every passing day. 

It was the end of the week and Y/N was sitting in her dorm room, eating cereal at her desk with her pyjama bottoms and her school shirt on. She was finishing up the last few questions of her math homework when Sarah walked in. 

“I need to show you something,” Sarah dropped her bag on the floor and pulled out a newspaper. 

“What’s wrong?” Y/N frowned, taking the rolled-up paper in her hands and unrolling it on her desk. Y/N’s eyes widened, her mouth falling open when she took in the image before her. 

It was a blown up picture of her and Harry on the front cover of the school newspaper. Harry had one arm around her waist and they were both looking into each other’s eyes, a smile on his face and a surprised look on hers. 

To everyone else, it looked like the front cover of a Nicholas Sparks novel and it probably didn’t help that the title was written in big bold letters with the words ‘The coach and his student’. 

“What the fuck!” Y/N stood up, gripping the newspaper in her hands she thought it might rip apart. 

“I know,” Sarah cringed, “I had no idea they were going to do that, Y/N, if I did I would never have gotten Luke that interview.”

“Sarah, ‘The coach and his student’? What is this? The title of a porno?” Y/N couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “How many people have seen this already?”

Sarah didn’t answer until Y/N gave her a stern look, “Everybody,”

Y/N groaned and threw the newspaper in the trash can beneath her desk before sliding on her trainers and storming down the hallways of her dorm. 

“Wait where are you going?” Sarah ran after her. Y/N ignored her as well as the people whispering about her as they held copies of the newspaper in their hands. She made a beeline for the car park, her gaze drawn to the familiar sight of his black Audi parked in its usual spot. There he was, leaning casually against it, engaged in conversation with Mitch, Adam, and Jake.

Mitch’s head turned when he saw her pacing towards them, Sarah still running behind her. Harry’s attention shifted to her. She saw the flash of amusement on his face before it fell flat again. 

“Have you seen this?” She held the newspaper up in front of him.

Harry’s eyes darted to the newspaper before landing on her face again, “Yes.” He said the usual one-worded reply he had been giving her all week. 

“And you approved of it?” She could feel the anger bubbling beneath the surface of her skin. 

“No,” He replied, “But it doesn’t bother me as much as it bothers you it seems.”

“Of course, it would bother me!” Y/N exclaimed, “If I’d have known they would make it look like we were a-”

Harry stilled, his jaw clenching, “If we were a what?”

Y/N paused before answering, “A couple.” He seemed to react in a way she couldn’t put her finger on, “I would have never done that stupid interview in the first place.”

Harry scoffed, “Why does it bother you so much to like me?” 

“It doesn’t bother me,” It did but she wouldn’t tell him that.

“You haven’t talked to me since Mitch’s party,” Harry started but she cut him off before he could say anything else.

“There’s nothing to talk about,” She stressed.

“You and I both know that’s not true.” 

“Harry you’re being ridiculous,”

“Says the girl who ran out here in her pyjama pants,” He quips.

Y/N looked down to realise she was, in fact, still in her pyjama bottoms. She glanced around at her friend’s who quickly looked away to act as though they weren’t all watching their argument like it was some kind of reality TV show moment. 

Harry’s shoulders dropped and he let out a sigh. He reached for her wrist and pulled her in closer. Y/N inhaled, it was the first time he had touched her since the party. “Look,” He murmured, keeping his voice low, “If I’d have known this was how you’d react I would have never have done it.”

Y/N looked surprised, “Really?” She couldn’t help but feel a sting at his words but she ignored it. 

He nods, “I went too far and I know things with you are different,”

“What do you mean?” But before Y/N could get a reply, she felt her phone vibrating in her pocket. 

She pulled it out and felt a pit form in her stomach when her mother’s name lit up the screen. She immediately answered it and walked to the back of Harry’s car to speak to her. “Mum?” Y/N answered. 

“Your father got an email this morning,” Her mother replied. No hello, no how are you or how’s school, just straight to the point. 

“He did?” Y/N already knew where this was going. 

“It was a copy of the school newspaper,” Her mother’s voice sounded as though she was trying to keep her anger at bay, “We opened it hoping to see our daughter somewhere on the scholar’s page but low and behold there you were right on the front cover - with a boy no less.” 

“Mum-”

“We want to see you,” Her mother snapped, interrupting her, “Your father has reserved us a table at Château Blanc two weeks today. It’s the only day off he could get so be grateful.” 

Two weeks from today was the day before the semi-finals. She needed to train but she couldn’t say no to her mother, “Okay, I’ll be there.”

“Good.” Her mother replied before hanging up the phone. 

Y/N slipped the phone back and sighed, “Are you okay?” Harry’s voice sounded. 

“My parents have seen the newspaper,” Y/N’s jaw clenched, “They want me to have dinner with them.”

“Do you need me to come with you?” Harry looked at her with genuine concern.

“No, what I need you to do is leave me alone.” Y/N had shut down. It was the way she always got whenever she spoke to her parents. 

“Y/N I didn’t know-” He reached for her hand as she walked past but she quickly pulled it away. 

“Leave me alone Harry,” She said, completely defeated. 

Y/N made her way back to her dorm and collapsed on her bed letting out a sigh of frustration. She looked up at the ceiling and wondered if she would ever find the off switch that would finally offer her a break from the life she was living. 

. . . 

Harry stood on one side of the tennis court, sending tennis balls flying with his racket toward Y/N, who stood on the opposite side, swiftly striking them back. She tried to ignore the intensity of his gaze, which seemed to linger on her every move as if he were observing more than just her technique. 

Every time she attempted to slice or backhand the ball, it would completely falter landing somewhere off the court. Whilst her body was on the court, her mind was elsewhere like it had been every day since her parents had called. 

She made an attempt to drop-shot the ball only to end up missing it completely. “Fuck!” Y/N cried out and hit her racket against the ground over and over again in a fit of rage and frustration. 

“Okay, slow down there, love,” Harry chuckled, “Y’ gonna break the racket and I’m pretty sure it’s school property.”

“It’s my own racket,” Y/N replied. 

The corner of his lips tilted upwards, “You still mad about that kiss?” 

Y/N glanced around them to see if anyone heard him. It’s not like it would change anything, everyone already thought they were dating after the school newspaper came out, “No, I’m not mad. In fact, I’ve already forgotten it ever happened, my brain has fully wiped it from my memory.”

Harry’s lips transformed into a smirk, “Oh really?” He took a step forward and she took one back, “Replaced with all those books…and…tennis,” His eyes dart down to her lips. 

“Tennis…” She whispers, her heart thudding in her chest. 

“So you don’t think about it at all?” He asks. 

“N-not at all,” She lies, terribly. 

“Okay,” He shrugs, wiping the smirk from his face, “Well clearly something’s bothering you because those hits were the worst thing I’ve ever seen.”

Y/N gives him a look, “It’s my parents. I’m meeting them for dinner this Friday and I haven’t seen them since they dropped me off here at the beginning of the year.”

“Are they that upset with you over the paper?” Harry looked concerned. 

“I guess so. My dad even reserved a table at Château Blanc. It’s his favourite place to get mad at me and my mum. He can book a booth and then try to control his anger whilst eating steak and mashed potatoes - honestly, it’s his dream scenario.” Y/N laughs but Harry doesn’t see the humour. She sighs, “I’m worried it will throw me off of the game.”

This time, Harry does smile, “I don’t think anyone could do that.” 

“Everything is piling up and I just feel so mad and I don’t know where to put it,” She huffs. 

Harry's smile softened. "Here," he offered his racket, "Use mine. Can’t have you breaking yours when you have a semi-final to win."

Y/N hesitated, then accepted the racket, seeking confirmation from Harry. With his nod, she began to hit the racket against the floor repeatedly, releasing her frustration with each strike. 

"Ugh," she screeched, "I’m so pissed."

"Oh, yeah, let it out," Harry encouraged with a chuckle.

With each slam of the racket, Y/N vented her frustration. "I just wanna play tennis!"

“I just want to win my next stupid game!”

“I just want my parents to like me!”

Suddenly, Harry joined in, mirroring her actions. “I hate that I have this stupid injury!

“I think my dad’s disappointed in me!”

“I just want the girl I like to like me back!”

They continued hitting the rackets on the ground until they started to crack and split from the force. As the rackets began to splinter, they exchanged a glance, a mix of exhaustion and relief evident in their eyes. With a final forceful slam, they both dropped their broken rackets to the ground, the sound echoing in the quiet of the tennis court.

Y/N looks down at their broken rackets on the floor, her chest heaving up and down. Unable to help herself, she starts laughing feeling relieved to have finally gotten all her anger out. Harry watches and then starts laughing with her. 

“Feel better?” He asks. 

Y/N nodded, a small smile tugging at the corners of her lips. "Yeah," she replied softly, meeting his gaze, “I do.”

. . .

Y/N’s parents sent a car to pick her up on the night of the dinner. She sat in the back of the car in a pair of tights and a navy blue dress with a pair of brogues laced up on her feet. Her hair was in loose curls fastened with a clip at the back. Whenever she was around her parents, she always had to dress smart. 

She glanced at her phone to make sure she wasn’t running late as they pulled in front of the restaurant. She tipped the driver before leaving even if her parents wouldn’t agree if they found out later. 

The dimly lit restaurant looked elegant, with fancy lights and dark wood furniture. There were long curtains on the windows and the tables had white cloths and polished silverware. Gentle jazz music played in the background as people chatted across tables.

Y/N spotted her parents in their usual booth at the back. She made her way towards them but immediately began to panic when she realised they weren’t alone. 

Sitting across from them was Harry’s mother, Anne, who Y/N had last encountered briefly before when she had visited his apartment for the first time. She looked regal in her fancy dress and matching pearl jewellery. 

Beside her sat a man wearing a finely tailored suit and tie who resembled an older version of Harry, with grey hair and a face lined with wrinkles, but he didn't seem a day over sixty. His eyes were a darker shade of green than Harry’s were and his demeanour wasn’t as friendly. 

“Y/N,” Anne was the first to acknowledge her presence, smiling as she walked over.

It caught the attention of her own parents, who turned and forced a smile as though to project a united front in front of Harry’s parents. “Hello,” Y/N bent over to kiss her mother and father on the cheek in greeting. 

“Y/N, you remember Anne and James from the country club?” Her mother, Theresa, spoke.

“Of course,” Y/N sat in the chair beside her mother.

“We invited them to eat with us considering this matter contains them both.” 

Y/N nodded, not knowing what to say in response. She knew the dinner with her parents would have something to do with her participation in the Academy Slam but she hadn’t been expecting to see Harry’s parents too. 

“Did you see Harry on his way in?” Anne asked, “He said he was on his way earlier.”

“Mind if I sit here?” His voice appeared out of nowhere and Y/N’s entire body reacted in a way she couldn’t control around him.

Her head lifted to look up at him and the air knocked out of her. Unlike his usual casual attire, he was wearing a black suit with golden buttons and a black tie. His hair was better styled than the usual unruly mess of curls. He smiled down at her, his eyes seemed to brighten beneath the dim lights at the sight of her. 

He winked and sat down in the chair beside her, “Sorry I’m late.”

His presence overwhelmed her senses, the faint scent of his cologne filling the air as he settled into his seat. Whatever this dinner was meant to be had completely changed for her; she suddenly felt less alone.

“Harry,” Y/N’s father, David, spoke, “Haven’t seen you since you left for Australia.”

“It’s certainly been a while,” Harry spoke, smiling forcefully. 

After ordering their food, David speaks, “I assume you know why we’re here,” He directs the statement towards Y/N who feels everyone’s eyes on her.

“The newspaper?” She says.

“The tennis,” Her father replies, saying the words with a hint of disappointment. “Y/N, you don’t seriously think you’re going to get anywhere with this tennis thing do you?” 

Y/N’s cheeks warm in embarrassment, “What?”

This time Theresa spoke, “We understand you enjoy it for fun but don’t you think you’re being greedy taking the opportunity of a scholarship away from girls who want to waste their lives on it?”

“Mum,” Y/N starts, “Tennis… tennis is everything to me. I-I’m not doing this because it’s some game to me. I’m doing this because I don’t have a choice.”

Y/N feels Harry’s knee bump hers beneath the table like he was silently praising her for sticking up for herself, “Don’t be ridiculous Y/N,” David says, “All you’ve ever talked about is going into medicine.”

“Because it was all you were willing to hear,” Y/N quickly responded.

A throat cleared from across the table and Harry’s father looked directly at him, “Don’t think this doesn’t apply to you.”

Harry frowns, “What are you talking about?”

“Coaching Harry? Seriously? After your injury? You know the doctor said you could worsen the damage if you continued and you disobeyed that for what? A silly game of girl’s tennis?” 

He scoffed, “Here we go,”

“Harry,” His mother warned. 

“You know we all agreed that if you were to go back to school you’d need to pick up on other subjects so you could actually go somewhere in life? Instead, we have to hear from your teachers how your grades have fallen only to find you on the front cover of the school newspaper with a girl who can’t hire her own coach and has to put you at risk?” 

Harry’s hands ball into fists beneath the table. Y/N didn’t know whether she felt more embarrassed or ashamed, all this felt like her fault and she didn’t know what to do. 

“I-I didn’t mean to put him at risk, Mr Styles,” Y/N stutters. She feels Harry place a hand on her knee. 

“Y/N, this will stop at once. I’m requesting the school pull you out of the competition.” Her father says and Y/N swears she feels her heart breaking.

“No please,” She was willing to get down on her hands and knees and beg, “Please Dad, this means everything to me.”

David raises a hand, “I won’t hear any of it. If it means you can focus on passing your exams and Harry no longer has to think about his injury then you can quit.” 

“N-no, I won’t let you take this away from me. I’ve been good, I study every day and I’m top of all my classes, why can’t you let me just have this one thing?” She didn’t care if she sounded childish or insane, this competition was all she had been working for. 

“Oh quit blubbering Y/N,” Her mother spoke, rolling her eyes, “You know I hate it when you do that.”

“Please, please,” Y/N doesn’t know what more she can do or say, they wouldn’t listen. 

Harry pushed his chair back, the sound catching everybody’s attention as the legs scraped against the floor, “I think Y/N and I will eat elsewhere,” Harry spoke, taking her hand beneath the table and flipping it over to intertwine their fingers. His thumb rubbed over the pulse point on her wrist in a way to calm her down. 

“What are you talking about?” James huffed. 

“Do any of you actually know how hard Y/N works?” Harry spits, “I doubt it because you’re all too busy counting the paper in your wallet to look up at your own fucking kids.” 

“Harry,” Anne gasps.

“No,” He glares at both his father and Y/N’s parents, “Y/N studies six hours a day, every day. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her take a break from it. When she’s not studying, she’s on the court blistering her hands just so she can get at least one perfect shot. She is the most brilliantly smart person I know and you may not care or fight for her but I will. I always will and right now I will not let you take away something she has worked so deeply hard for.” He stands from the table, still holding Y/N’s hand and everyone can see it as she refuses to let go. 

“Harry, sit down,” James orders but he ignores him.

“You’ve been disappointed in me since the moment I injured myself. I know you think I’m no good to you anymore, in fact, I’ve accepted it and I am glad for it because I have never been so happy and if you looked long enough you’d realise it.” Harry looks down at Y/N, his eyes filled with passion and anger and sincerity, “I am happy.” He says, “Because of what she has given me.” 

James scoffs, “And what is that?”

Harry’s head spins in the direction of his father, “Something you know nothing about.”

And with that, Harry tugs on Y/N’s hand to lead her out of the restaurant. 

Before they could fully walk away, Y/N felt her mother pulling her back, “If you walk out of this restaurant…”

“You’ll what? Never speak to me again? As if that’s anything new,” Y/N scoffs, “Nothing I do will ever be enough to either of you, will it?”

Y/N ignored the throbbing in her chest at her mother’s lack of reply, instead, she walked alongside Harry, holding his hand as they left the restaurant and reached his car.

Outside, the cool breeze felt nice on her warm skin. They shared a glance before Y/N started laughing so hard she started to cry. Tears rolled down her cheeks as she sobbed softly. Harry looked at her with a gentle expression, giving her space to let out her feelings and make sense of everything that had just happened.

“I don’t normally cry so can you look away?” Y/N sobs, unable to help herself as the tears fall from her eyes.

“No I don’t think I can do that,” Harry says, “You’re too pretty,”

Y/N huffs a laugh through her tears as she tries to wipe them away with the back of her hand, “I feel stupid,” She whispers to herself, her head falling forward. 

She sees Harry’s shoes on the ground and lifts her head up to look up at him towering above her. He smiles and pushes her hair out of her face, “Hi Y/N,” He murmurs.

“Hi Harry,” She whispers.

“Sorry for kidnapping you,” He says and Y/N chuckles.

“S okay,” She murmurs, her hands balling at her sides when he steps closer until his face is right in front of hers. 

“Can I admit something? You can pretend to be a little shocked if you want,” Harry asks. 

“Okay,”

“I’m crazy for you,” He admits, the words stealing her breath, “I’ve been crazy for you since third year since you followed me around the playground threatening to beat me up with a tennis racket if I didn’t show you how to use one.” 

Y/N’s lips parted, unsure of what to respond with so she let him talk, “And I’ve spent all these years pining for your attention even if it was just a scrap but I don’t think I can take it anymore. I like you Y/N, I like you so much I don’t know how to breathe until I’m around you. I thought tennis was what bought me happiness but I don’t think it ever has. The only reason I ever loved tennis as much as I do is because of you.” 

“Harry,” Y/N’s eyes glisten at the boy in front of her. The boy she had spent her whole life arguing with because no one had ever frustrated her as much as he had. 

“Do you hate me?” He asks, his eyes worried, “Because after that kiss I thought you did for a moment.”

Y/N shook her head, “No,” She murmured, “I don’t hate you.”

He let out a sigh of relief, “Okay, well that’s good.”

“No one has ever stuck up for me before,” Y/N says, “Or believed in me the way you do. I’ve always done it all on my own.” Harry’s expression softens, “I think all this time I thought I was hating you, I was actually afraid of you because you make these things happen in my brain that I couldn’t seem to ever figure out.”

“Have you got them figured out yet?” Harry cups her cheek in his hand, it’s warm and soft and everything she needs.

“Not everything, but I do know one thing,” Y/N stands on her toes, looping her arms around his neck and smiling harder than she’s ever smiled - ever. “I like you an awful lot, Harry,” 

Harry’s smile outshone the moon. It was the happiest she’d ever seen him and maybe the happiest she’d ever been too. A sense of relief seemed to feel the air, Y/N felt lighter like she was a tennis ball flying through the air right into the palm of his hand, “You mean that?” He murmured, lips ghosting her cupid's bow. 

“I do,” She says, “But if you make me say it again I’ll lie and say I don’t mean it,”

“Okay,” He whispers, his mouth grazing hers as he holds her face in his hands, “I won’t make you say it again.”

Instead, Harry surged forward with such urgency and kissed her upper lip between his. Y/N’s eyes flutter shut but the whole world becomes brighter when she does. She was consumed by him, all of her senses had just become Harry. His tongue darted and tangled with hers, his hands pulling her in impossibly close trying to mould them together. 

When Harry’s lips pulled away, Y/N’s eyes remained shut and she was immediately desperate to experience that feeling all over again. Harry chuckled and she opened her eyes, his lips were pinker from the lipstick she was wearing, his eyes hazy and she was pretty sure her own pupils were carved into hearts just from looking at him.

“Can we go back to my place?” He asks.

Y/N didn’t even need a moment to think about it, “M’kay,”

. . . 

Harry could barely contain his desire as they made their way to his apartment. With a forceful push, the door swung open, and he pressed Y/N against it, his lips hungrily exploring every inch of her face and trailing down her neck. Despite her attempts to remove his shirt, her hands kept gravitating back to his tousled curls, pulling him closer for more intense kisses.

As they tumbled onto the couch, Harry hovered over her, his gaze filled with desire. "Harry," Y/N's voice quivered with a mixture of excitement and nervousness, "I-I've never done this before," she confessed, her cheeks flushing with embarrassment.

"What? Never kissed anyone? That's hard to believe because you're really good at it," Harry teased, peppering kisses along her neck.

"No, I mean... I've never..." Y/N trailed off, the implication clear.

Understanding dawned in Harry's eyes. "Is that what we're doing?" he smirked, enjoying her flustered reaction.

His expression softened. "Would it make you feel better if I told you I haven't either?" he confessed.

Y/N's eyes widened in surprise. "What? But what about Astrid? You were together for a year."

"Astrid's family is Catholic," Harry explained. "And if it ever came to that, I don't think I could go through with it."

"Why?" Y/N questioned, her curiosity piqued.

"Because," Harry shrugged, "I've only ever wanted you."

Y/N's heart fluttered at his words, a rush of emotions flooding her. "Don't act so surprised," Harry chuckled.

"Why didn't you tell me before?" Y/N inquired, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Because..." Harry paused, his gaze locking with hers, "I knew I needed to be careful with you.”

Y/N huffs, “I’m not fragile,” 

His smile is sweet and gentle when he replies, “Maybe not to everyone else,” His breath fans across her cheeks, “But you are to me.” 

Y/N melts into the couch when he kisses her again. She didn’t know kissing could be so magical but suddenly they were eight years old again where life was simpler and games were just for fun, books were read for enjoyment and Y/N’s emotions weren’t so difficult to navigate. 

It was strange having someone understand her the way Harry did. Her whole life she thought no one was paying attention to her, not even her own parents, but he had been admiring her from afar for most of their lives together. 

“We don’t have to do anything tonight,” Harry says, “I don’t want to rush this with you. I want to do it right,”

Y/N’s lips curve, “You could never do it wrong,” 

He holds her to him, their legs intertwined on the end of the couch. Y/N had always thought the court was where she was meant to be but maybe this was where she needed to be all along. After all, tennis would not be in her life if it weren’t for Harry. 

. . .

“Okay, you gotta go baby,” Harry slurs against her mouth as she continues to kiss him. 

“Wait,” She whines and he smiles, feeling delirious whilst their lips connect repeatedly. His hands reach are holding her thighs as they wrap around him, her hands in his hair pulling him closer. 

They hear Y/N’s name from the umpire once more and Harry has to find the strength to pull away. His lips ghost the skin of her cheek, “Y’ gonna go and win this?” 

“Mhm,” She sighs, releasing herself from his hold and grabbing her tennis bag.

“Hey,” Harry pulls her back into him and she makes a little ‘oof’ sound. He holds her face in his hands, “You think you’re so hard to read? Not with me,” 

Y/N huffs, “I’m nervous. What if I don’t win? She’s your ex-girlfriend and everybody’s made a big deal about this because they already think we’re dating.”

“We are though aren’t we?” Harry quirks a brow, “Dating?”

Y/N looks at him blankly before hitting him on the shoulder, “Obviously Harry!”

He chuckles, “Okay, okay,” His hands slide down her arms to thread his fingers with hers at their sides, he lifts them up so their hands are pressed against each other and leans in close, “Remember what I told you about your anger? And how it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen and now that you’re my girlfriend I’m allowed to say that but honestly it’s the hottest thing ever and I almost die everytime I watch you play and I see you get all mad and-”

“Harry, focus,” Y/N snapped before she grinned and kissed him quickly, “But thank you, your ass looks pretty good on the court too.”

“Are you being for real?” Harry says, his mouth falling open, but he shakes his head to bring himself back to the main point at hand. He couldn’t pull her away for another make out session not when they were already late as it was, “But anyway, this game is no different to the others just because you’re playing against Astrid. Use everything you have and channel it against her.” 

Y/N nods, her eyes twinkling when she looks at him, “You’re a pretty good coach,” 

“You’re a pretty hot tennis player,” 

“Okay stop,” She pulls away and grabs her tennis bag.

“What?” He throws his hands in the air and laughs, “Now that I’m your boyfriend can I freely look at your ass under that skirt whilst you play?”

Y/N spun on her heel and glared at him, “That’s misogyny.”

“But I’m obsessed with you,” He argues.

She pauses for a moment and then nods, “Fine but don’t make it obvious,” 

. . .

Harry stood on the sidelines, his heart pounding as he watched Y/N prepare for Astrid's final serve. The tension in the air was palpable; it was match point, and the game had been intense.

Harry had always considered Y/N the greatest tennis player he had ever seen. Maybe he was biased because he’d also been hopelessly infatuated with her since they were in third year but nothing compared to seeing his girl play on the court. 

He couldn’t seem to breathe as Astrid threw the ball into the air and hit it so hard with her racket, the sound echoed across the court. 

Y/N ran to retaliate, backhanding it straight back to her. His eyes stayed fixed on the girl who he had confessed his feelings to just last night. 

Astrid had tried to throw Y/N off multiple times during the game. Waving to her fans in the crowd whenever they would take a moments break or trying to remind her that she was Harry’s ex-girlfriend. Harry had told her to ignore it but Y/N didn’t exactly need advice on how to hit back at her opponent, she’d do it all in the game. 

It was a long match of back and forth before Y/N finally decided to go all in, hitting the ball with so much power and precision it landed in the line and bounced straight off the court. 

Crestwood students erupted in cheers as Astrid threw her racket to the ground having lost the game. Harry could feel the rush of elation over his entire body, his fist pumping the air when the scores appeared on screen with Y/N winning the entire thing. 

Y/N didn’t need to go anywhere to celebrate because the one person she wanted was standing right in front of her. She dropped her racket to the floor and ran into his open arms, “That’s my girl,” He spun her around, “You did it, baby, I knew you could.” 

Y/N was beaming, leaning down to kiss him in front of the whole crowd of people. “We’re going to the final,” She squealed, hugging him tightly. 

“You and me,” Harry responded. 

. . .

taglist: @storyschanging @lilbredsticc @esposa-do-harry @st-ev-ie @itschelseacisneros @hermionelove

[clrasecretdiary]

Why does she give a damn about me? | Spencer Reid x Reader

cutesy, cheesy fluff

In wich Spencer thinks reader is out of his league but she could not be more into him.

Content: Garcia is a queen as always, sunshine!reader

Warnings: Maybe some light lack of self steem from spence, but nothing crazy!!

He was used to it at this point. Being the weird kid in high school and college, Spencer never really expected anyone to be into him and, after being rejected a couple of times, he had practically closed himself off in that sense. But then, you came into the picture.

You are one of those girls that everyone seemed to gravitate toward, not only because of your beauty but because of your essence. You were genuinely kind, smart and good with people in a way he wished he was, maybe that’s why he was so drawn to you, you had all the qualities he wished he had and being close to you made him feel complete.

Needless to say that he was in love with you, it had started as an admiration and when he realized he was thinking about you all the time, but he was sure you would never be into guys like him, he was sure you’d never see him as more than friends.

–

You had joined the team a few years ago, you were excited to finally be doing what you really wanted when you joined the BAU, going out in the field and being on cases instead of just working a desk job all the time. When you first met the team, everyone seemed very welcoming but you felt yourself especially drawn to Spencer out of all people, at first he seemed distant but with time you noticed how sweet he was and how much he cared for everyone around him and god that man was so funny, you loved his weird science jokes and his magic tricks. How were you supposed to not fall in love with him? You asked yourself that question every time he brought you coffee in the morning or went on his rambles about some random thing.

After a particularly intense inquiry from a very drunk Garcia in one of the girls' nights she organized at her home, you told her your feelings for Reid and she made you swear you would act on it.

“Garcia, I'm not confessing. He's not into me like that, i’ll just ruin our friendship”

“Oh honey, he practically kisses the floor you walk in, he follows you around the office like a lost puppy and practically kills any officer that dares to be the tiniest bit mean to you. There’s no way he’s not into you, at least try pretty please” She says, doing puppy eyes at you. Garcia took her job as a cupid very seriously and was not going to let this be her first fail.

“Alright, i’ll try but if he ends up hating me you’ll have to bake me cookies everyday until i die” You say rolling your eyes and finishing your glass of wine.

“Ohhh i’ll be cooking cookies for you guys wedding!”

–

So, here you are holding his favorite order from the local coffee shop and gathering the courage to press the button to the elevator

“Hey are you fine?” A familiar voice calls you, when you turn around its spencer.. Great, guess you’ll have to do this right now

“Oh hi yeah, I was just um… meditating”

“Did you know meditanting has been proven to increase your memory and is also great for reducing anxiety. I really should start doing it, what method do you use?” Spencer says while pressing the button to the elevator

“Ummm breath in, breath out i think” You say, unsure how to respond

“That's actually one of the best ways as it oxygenates your brain and helps it work better, it can also help you feel more calm since deep breathing activates the parasympathetic nervous system that sends a signal to your brain to tell the anxious part that you're safe and don't need to use the fight, flight response” He says, doing the little smile and head nod thing he always does after info dumping.

You smile back at him, as you both enter the elevator and press the button to the BAU floor.

“I brought you something” You say, handing him the coffee shop bag

He opens it and smiles at you “I can’t believe you remembered my favorites, thank you so much” You love that smile so much, all you can think about is how perfect he is and how there’s no way you can continue on without dating this man.

“Actually, I need to tell you something spence… I was thinking, maybe we could go out together as like, a date or something” You say, already blushing from the embarrassment you felt and how scared you were that he did not reciprocate the feelings.

“Really? Of course i want, to be honest i’ve wanted to ask you to be honest but i thought you’d never see me like that”

“Are you kidding me spencer? I’ve had a crush on you since we first meet”

The elevator gets to the office, and you both walk in blushing and joking about how you two were so blind to each other's feelings. As you get in, garcia passes by you two stopping to stare

“There’s something happening here…” She says, pointing between you two and pressing her eyes together as if she’s profiling you two

“I asked him out”

“Oh my god finally, you see? I’m always right, I don’t even need to ask what he said, look at Reid, he’s glowing, ohh i’m so happy” She says, walking out to probably tell the news to everyone on the team.

[diobrando]

this bitch is so flakey man it’s getting on my nerves

[daisyvisions]

Change Your Mind - (l.jy)

➺ Pairing: fboy best friend!Juyeon x afab!reader

➺ Summary: You befriend your college’s resident fuckboy who’s been eager to get with you since day one. But after a rollercoaster of emotions between your friendship, he wants you more than you could ever imagine.

➺ Word Count: 4k (wow who is she?!)

➺ Warnings: Smut (18+, minors DNI), friends to lovers, mentions of partying, drinking alcohol, fuckboy tendencies (flirting, hookups, ghosting), lying to reader (at first), lots of kissing and making out, dry humping, oral (f! receiving), slight handjob and masturbation, unprotected sex (but he pulls out), aftercare, pet names (sweetheart, baby), a lovesick Juyeon

➺ A/N: I’m officially back from my break! Really wanted to take some time off and focus on things irl, can’t really say if the break helped bcos I was still stressed haha but anyway!This took me a while to finish up, felt incredibly rusty writing again but glad I was still able to do it 😭 Considering this as my late birthday greeting for Juyeon. Hope you enjoy this piece! Proofread once. Let me know if I missed anything!

➺ Network & Tag: @deoboyznet, and my girlies @aimeecarreros @snowflakewhispers @winterchimez

If anyone told you that you’d end up becoming best friends with one of the most sought out guys in your campus (and not to mention resident fuck boy), you would’ve laughed at their face. All your life you’ve tried to avoid befriending guys like Juyeon. A guy like him just generally gave you the ick.

You never understood how or why people would want to be friends with someone whose only objective is to get into girl’s pants and be praised for it. Not only that, but also playing with someone’s feelings and just dropping them at an instant was wrong on so many levels.

But here you are, lending him a helping hand while you two clean out his living room after throwing yet another one of his bi-weekly parties, which was usually code for “Please let me at least make out with someone tonight.”

It’s crazy how you consider him one of your bestest friends. In another world you both knew this friendship would never work out. You were both opposite of each other in so many ways!

So how did you even end up becoming friends with Juyeon?

Transferring to a different university in the middle of the semester was one of the worst things that could've happened to you. Not only did you have to adjust to a new set of lesson plans and navigate your way around campus, but you also had to sit alone during lunch since practically everyone already knew each other from freshman year and had their own set of cliques.

During your first week, you thought you could at least find a table you could sit with just by going up to the group you vibed with the most and ask politely. But you decided to just sit by yourself instead and avoid any embarrassing introductions. You refused to be known as the weird new girl (which you already felt like one to begin with.)

You tried to fight off the tears emerging from the corners of your eyes as you sat quietly in the corner of the cafeteria, slowly poking the food on your tray as you try to drown out the noise around you.

You wish you didn’t have to transfer and leave everything and everyone you knew behind. Yes, you can still call or text your friends, but you knew it was different than actually being with them on campus.

You were convinced you’d be alone for the rest of your years in college. No friends to hang out, laugh, or cry with. No one to go through the same struggles as you. No one to tell you that everything was going to be okay. You were definitely on your own until-

“Hey.” The voice suddenly snapping you out of your self-loathing as you look up and see probably one of the most handsome men you have ever seen in your life.

The way his eyes held so much love, how his smile could light up anyone’s day, and how his aura was something you never felt with anyone before. He was practically radiating sunshine to your already gloomy day. It almost felt too good to be true… Because what the hell was he doing here in front of you?

“…Hi?” You sit up straight as you try to subtly dab off the tears in your eyes.

“I couldn't help but notice you sitting here all alone.” The man gently says.

Great, the first thing he notices about you is how much of a loser you are. But before you could even say anything back he continues on.

“Would you like to come sit with us? We have some space for you at our table.” He slowly smiles at you. You hesitated at first, confused by the whole situation but quickly made up your mind.

“Uh… yeah, sure! If it’s not any trouble.” You shyly respond.

“Of course not! Can’t let a pretty thing like you be all alone on her first week here right?” He holds out his hand to you.

“How did you-”

“I’m Juyeon.” He interrupts you again. You tell him your name, your cheeks slowly warming up as your hand intertwines with his as he looks deeply into your eyes.

“Beautiful name for a beautiful girl.” He smirks. You felt the butterflies raging within your stomach.

“So, let’s go?” He waits for your response, but you shyly nod your head instead as proper words get caught up in your throat. Grabbing his hand as you stand up and follow his lead.

You try not to make a fool out of yourself as you feel Juyeon’s hand rest on your lower back as you guides you through the sea of people. As you two are walking towards his table he leans close to your ear and whispers,

“We’re gonna be best friends, I promise.”

And ever since that day Juyeon really did keep his promise. He helped you catch up with some of the lesson plans you had, guided you around school, and always made sure to leave a space for you beside him during lunch.

You tried to wrap your brain around the idea of how someone like Juyeon just randomly entered your life and swept you off your feet. At first you felt like you were on cloud nine getting the most attention and almost boyfriend-like treatment from him. But as the weeks went by you soon discover that his reputation actually preceded him more than you thought.

You see, it was no secret that Juyeon was somewhat of a playboy. Well, somewhat was an understatement. During the first few weeks since you became friends he would walk you to class almost every time. In those moments you couldn’t understand why people would give you such weird looks or whisper to each other whenever you two would pass by.

Maybe it was because you stuck out like a sore thumb as the new girl? You decided not to mind it for a while, pushing down the thought that you were just overthinking all of this… that is until you accidentally learned about his reputation and the real reason why he approached you that day.

It was an accident. You were never meant to find out anything about Juyeon. But during a party that he brought you to, a certain loosed-lip drunk friend (Eric) decided to spill everything to you, down to every letter and detail imaginable.

To be honest, it didn’t bother you when you found out that Juyeon was indeed a fuck boy. You saw the signs as the weeks passed by.

The way he would flirt with someone while waiting for you to finish class, how the notifications on his phone would show a name of a different girl every week, and even the subtle touches he would leave on you which were definitely not considered friendly but not perverted either. What bothered you the most was finding out the reason why he even wanted to be friends with you.

“He’s been really working up to have his way with you, you know? And I mean who could blame him? Have you seen yourself? You’re so fucking hot-” Eric rambles on to you as he tries to lean his body against the wall to keep himself upright, slowly inching his way closer to you. You felt your blood boil in that moment, completely ignoring Eric’s advances.

How could Juyeon do this to you? Even after everything you shared with him about your life, your struggles, your secrets too? And to think you were starting to feel like he could be a really great friend to you. But this? Hell no. You were not about to let some handsome sleazy guy use you like that. Not in this or any lifetime.

You nearly crush the plastic red cup in your hand before storming out of the house, intentionally pushing past Juyeon’s shoulder in the way as he tries to approach you with the most concerned look you had ever seen on his face.

He ran after you that night. He even dropped on his knees begging for forgiveness in front of a crowd of drunk college people too. Over the top sure, but somehow you knew his apology wasn’t just a one and done thing.

And after the humiliating lecture you gave him as well as the list of promises he had said he will be doing in order to make up for his mistakes, you decided to give him another chance.

In return of accepting his apology, you offered to help him get out of his fuck boy tendencies and be his “guardian angel”. Juyeon was reluctant of the idea at first because it would mean he couldn’t be free to do as he pleased but he eventually gave in. He had to because well… He did owe you a lot for lying to you in the first place.

Somewhere in your mind you knew this could turn out to be a bad idea. Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me, or however the saying goes. But Juyeon was different.

You knew somewhere in that deep conceited mind of his there was a version of him that was actually a good guy. A guy that can actually learn how to not fool around and maybe one day, find someone worth changing for.

You can tell it was a struggle for him at the beginning. But eventually he started to lessen the flirting, the hookups, the ghosting, and more.

Gone were the days where Juyeon had a line of women wrapped around his fingers (because they were too many of them to count). Dating was still a thing for him, but he had said and even showed you that he would take them seriously and not just move onto the next one as easily as he did before.

Eventually you realized over time that Juyeon turning over a new leaf was also becoming a struggle for you especially at parties when he would come up to you nearly drunk out of his mind, his subconscious would revert back to his old habits and he would act them all out on you.

His hands subtly snaking around your hips, your waist, how he would brush the hair off your neck and leave a warm kiss on shoulder. The way he would smile at you like a lovesick fool, never leaving your side as he attempts to drop his corny pickup lines.

Or the way he would jokingly confess how badly he wanted to kiss you. You knew he wasn’t in the right state of mind, that he was just being his old self. But it really did confuse you because sometimes it felt all too real.

Now you understood why someone could fall so easily for Juyeon. It was second nature to him.

You tried so hard not to give into his appetite especially in those moments. But it was becoming difficult each time since you the crush you had on him from the first day you met was screaming to be set free, desperate to overtake your heart and soul and just allow him to do as he pleased, no matter the consequences.

The many “what-if’s” that crossed your mind when you were alone in your room at night had plagued you constantly. Your walls were starting to crack and it was making you lose your self control around him.

“Maybe one little kiss wouldn’t hu-” No. You shouldn’t. The whole point of staying friends with Juyeon was to guide him to being a better person. It wasn’t about you or how you felt at all!

But… how bad could it be to become selfish just one moment in your life?

“Wow, I’m so tired.” Juyeon plops down on the sofa as you finish up collecting all the empty bottles and cups around the room. After the last bottle was thrown inside the trash bag you washed your hands and plopped right next to him.

You instantly close your eyes and let out a huge sigh of relief, showing the same exhaustion as he felt. As you stay silent and enjoy this quiet moment, Juyeon can’t help but just stare at you. He watches how your chest slowly moves up and down and tries to commit to memory the little details of your face.

You look so beautiful right now, he thinks to himself. As you always have since the first time he saw you. But he pushes down the feeling deep within his gut, having given up pursuing you a while back. But it doesn't hurt to look every once in a while right?

As soon as you open your eyes again, you catch him staring at you with a look in his eyes you can’t quite read. You chuckle at how silly he’s being and turn your body slightly to face him.

“What?” You ask.

“I-It’s nothing.” He shakes his head.

“C’mon, what is it? You can tell me.” You semi pout, and how can Juyeon say no to you?

“I was thinking-”

“Oh no he’s thinking.” You fake gasp and giggle as he playfully nudges your shoulder in return.

“It’s just- I still can’t believe how we ended up as friends despite everything, you know?” He smiles gently.

“Me too.” You respond, “To be honest, if I had known about your reputation before we met I would’ve rejected you that day.”

“Yeah?” Juyeon’s eyes grow wider as he scoots closer to you. He places his hand on your knee, making you become nervous all of a sudden. “And why is that?”

“W-well…” you feel a lump forming in your throat, the way his cologne invades your thoughts and has your head slowly spinning. Is it getting hot in here or is that just you?

“Because, guys like you just aren’t my type that’s all. And well-”

“Can I tell you a secret?” Juyeon interrupts you as he looks into your eyes. You nod in response.

“I haven't been with anyone else ever since that night you confronted me about my behavior.” He pauses for a moment. Dead silence filled the air as he waited for your response while you tried to grasp what he was trying to say.

“Huh? What about that girl you were with last week? Or the one you were texting?” You softly ask.

“I... I lied about them.” Juyeon looks away from you, afraid to look at your reaction. He looks up at the ceiling, pushing down any regret he’s feeling at the moment admitting the truth to you.

“But, why?” Your voice laced with concern.

“It felt wrong to be with those girls. To even think about kissing or touching them the way I would've back then, because…” He looks back at you, his hand on your knee now traveling up to your lap.

“…All I ever thought about in those moments was you.”

You felt your heart running a mile a minute. Eyes widening at his sudden confession.

“God you’re so beautiful it kills me inside.” he raises his hand and cups your jaw, thumb slowly stroking your cheek as his gaze turns into something more than just lust.

You subtly catch him quickly looking at your lips, your eyes nearly fluttering shut as he leans in closer. And with your lips just millimeters apart, he suddenly stops.

“But who am I kidding? I know you don’t see me that way-” Juyeon retracts his head, his face expressing a certain kind of sadness you can’t seem to properly label. You can feel your heart pounding in your ears as you watch him slowly slip away from you.

“Juyeon I-”

“It’s alright, I’m probably drunk. Just- forget what I said.” He shakes his head, but before he can attempt to get up from the couch, you grab his wrist. “No.” You sternly say.

Juyeon slowly sits back down on the couch and scoots really close to you, thighs pressing against one another. His eyes don’t leave yours, waiting for what you have to say or do.

“S-show me. Show me you mean it. Every word you just said.”

“You don’t know how long I’ve been waiting for you to tell me that.” Juyeon lunges forward and wastes no time as he leans in to kiss you. His pillowy lips feeling like heaven as he guides your lips with his, both melting into one another like it was always meant to be.

As your arms start to wrap around his neck Juyeon pulls you in closer, his body slowly falls backwards onto the couch. His hands desperately grabbing your hips to make you straddle his lap.

Juyeon whimpers into your mouth as soon as his straining bulge rubs against your core. His member throbs harder as you begin to roll your hips subconsciously.

He’s fucked way too many times to count but for some reason, grinding yourself onto his crotch makes him feel like an untouched virgin all over again.

He swears he can burst inside his boxers any second now if you keep doing this to him, especially with the soft little moans coming out of your mouth that sound so sweet.

Juyeon pulls away from your lips and starts to kiss your neck, mapping out his kisses until he finds the spot that makes you melt into a puddle. He knows he’s found that spot as your moans become louder and drag on longer.

He starts to wrap his arms around your torso and without warning, he flips you both over, making you squeal as he giggles at your reaction. His eager hands waste no time to unbutton your jeans as he continues to leave marks on your neck. You slightly push him away as you feel him slowly sneaking one hand into your pants.

“Wait-” You grab his wrist before he goes any further.

“Do you want to stop?” He waits for your answer.

“No it’s not that.” Your eyes close for a moment as you catch your breath.

“It’s- well- It’s been a while I've done this. I- I might not be good for you.” Juyeon senses the worry in your eyes. He leans down to kiss the space between your eyebrows, his free hand caressing your cheek.

“Oh sweetheart… you’ll always be too good for me.” He smiles down at you. “You sure you still want this?” You nod your head instantly.

“Use your words baby, need to hear you say it. Tell me what you want.” His hand travels to your neck and gives it a soft squeeze. The act alone is enough to get you dizzy again.

“Want you- want you to touch me, please.” You look up at him so innocently.

Juyeon leans in to kiss you passionately once more, his tongue immediately intertwining with yours. He helps you out of your pants in the process not wanting to pull his lips away from yours until he tugs the hem of your shift and lifts it off, leaving you wearing nothing but your underwear on.

His kisses start to travel oh so slowly from your lips all the way to your inner thighs. Juyeon can feel himself pre cumming at the deep inhale of your panty covered core. The wet patch luring him in to kiss it and practically mouth your covered folds.

You let out yet another ethereal moan as your fingers weave through his hair. His hands slowly pull the garter of your underwear down, throwing the damp material behind him as he continues on with his ministrations.

Juyeon wastes no time and grabs the back of your thighs and placing them over his shoulder, making sure that his face is locked onto your throbbing core. He kisses your folds before suddenly darting his warm wet tongue between them, reveling in the taste of you before flicking your sensitive bud. He looks up to watch your reactions, which motivate him to keep on going.

“P-please…” You whine as he hums and sucks on your clit. Juyeon doesn’t even need you to tell him what you want, by the sound of your moans and the way your thighs slowly squeeze his head he knows you’re getting closer to the edge.

He nearly lets go himself when you reach your high without warning, the sudden burst of your essence onto his lips as you moan out his name was something he never thought would feel so divine.

He pulls himself up and goes back to kissing you, tasting yourself on his tongue has your core throbbing for him once again. Your hands hastily helping him unbutton his own pants along with his boxers as he pulls them down and kicks them to the side.

Your mouth waters at the sight of his impressive length, your hand instantly wrapping around his member as you stroke him slowly. “Oh s-shit.” He growls into your ear.

“Want you inside me Juyeon, want you to fuck me.” You whisper in his ear. He grabs your wrist to stop, holding his own member as he aligns it with your entrance.

“Don’t want to fuck you-” He mumbles. You pull away from him, confused by his words. His other hand grabs the back of your neck as he pulls your face closer to his.

“-Want to make love to you.” He whispers into your mouth. And before you know it he’s pushing his entire cock inside you, bottoming out instantly. You both moan into each other’s mouths at the stretch. Juyeon moves his hips slowly as he starts to fuck you deeply, making sure you feel all of him going in and out of your pussy.

Juyeon wishes this moment could last forever, but the way your walls grip onto his member like a vice brings him closer to the edge faster than he had hoped. Especially with how you’re moaning into his mouth and wrapping your arms around his neck so tight? He was a goner.

He’s never fucked anyone like this before, and now he can’t imagine doing this with anyone else except you.

With every deep thrust, you feel yourself on the verge of cumming for the second time. Each stroke hitting that sweet spot in you has you reaching for the stars.

“Fuck Juyeon, you’re gonna make me cum again.” You whine as the wet sounds you're both making has you feeling dizzy.

“C’mon sweetheart, cum on my cock. God you can keep cumming on my cock as much as you want I don’t care.” His thrusts start to pick up the pace. “I’m yours forever.”

Those three words were enough to snap the coil within, breathing heavily as your walls flutter around his length. You’re so caught up in your own head you don’t realize Juyeon uttering a string of whimpers until you feel him quickly pull out his cock and blow his load all over your stomach.

The both of you take a moment to calm down from your highs before Juyeon gets up to each for the box of tissue on the coffee table. You watch him gently clean you up before he pulls his boxers back on to find your discarded underwear and also helps you put it back on.

He hovers above you before leaning down to leave small kisses around your face and on your lips. You caress his cheek slowly as he leans into your touch.

“Did you mean it? Everything you said?” You softly ask him.

“Down to every letter.” He responds. “But… I think you broke me.”

“Broke you? How?” You playfully scrunch your eyebrows at him.

“Don’t want to see myself with anyone else now.”

“Oh really?” You raise an eyebrow. “And how should I fix it then?” He smirks and kisses you again,

“Let me take you out on a date and we’ll call it even.”

[ph-cutie]

sorry do you ever think about in disco elysium where you meet the ravers. and spend like 2 hours going back and forth with them about how they want to rock the coasttt with their EDM discotheque inside the creepy old church. until you get the brains to realize theyre definitely smoking meth like crazy in that tent and you ask them and they're like yeag sorry. we're gonna cook so much meth in that club actually. and youre like please can you guys not cook meth in that club and theyre like ahh :( Okay sure we'll cook the power of friendship instead. and you move them in and talk to the girl and shes goes thank you officer i was behind this you know the meth thing organized it with the union and all. my family was involved in bad things im glad im not doing this anymore. and youre like wait you talked to the union ? and shes like yeag fat fucks in charge gave me the thumbs up. your brain gets so riled up over the fantasy of doing your job for once so you jog through the shitty village mud for 5 minutes until you get to evrart and hes goes whAAT😭harry im old i dont know what clubs are😭😭.Oh come on its fine her dad like killed people. and thats the end of it. so you just go back to the club to talk to your new lgbts about the hole in the world that will kill us all soon Uh wait what

[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 tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any. 

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless. 

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that. 

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end. 

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is. 

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —” 

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

[cheriladycl01]

Funny Gaming moments with Lando and Max (F) x QuadrantStreamer! Reader

Plot: Just funny moments where Reader is a member of Quadrant and is a big UK streamer that does everything on Twitch and YouTube.

A/N: this is only small and just for fun, better Lando stuff is coming out.

Moment 1:

"Do you earn more than Lando Norris, chat you guys are wild ... but honestly with my individual sponsors, YouTube and streaming and any of my weird side activities I think it'd be up for debate" you giggle not actually knowing how much difference there was in what you or Lando earned.

"Not girlie casually admitting that with her side hustle she earns as much as an F1 driver, yeah guys, you gotta think I stream and upload full time. So i get paid for each YouTube video I do, I'm a twitch affiliate and you guys are so so generous. I game competitively and earn from that. I have sponsors, so ... lets just say i had no trouble buying Lando's Christmas presents" you grin, knowing the man had widely expensive taste.

"Who am i spending Christmas with, well Lando's family has asked if I'd like to join them, but I'll be spending the holidays mostly with Max and Pietra. Oh my gosh guys, did you see Instagram? I met Martin Garrix! How cool is that!" you laugh.

Moment 2:

"So I'm here today with Lando, and I'm teaching him Valorant, he knows that I'm in good but I don't think he knows I'm Immortal" you say until you unmute yourself in discord.

"Hey Lando baby" you joke but all you get from the otherside is silence which makes your chat go absolutely crazy.

You hear a few coughs that sound like choking, so you check his stream making sure not to tab out on stream, seeing him sat there in shock in his chair blushing.

"Lando?" you ask, and you watch as he rearranges himself in his chair pulling the mic closer to him.

"Hi, hello yes. Sorry you just threw me off guard" he laughs, wiping across his face with his fingers.

"What are we?" he asks, and you burst out laughing at the question which makes him laugh too. Chat on both ends starts going crazy, with the spam of Lando Norizz <<< Y/N the Rizzler and you were both dying.

Moment 3:

"Argghh fuck" you scream leaning back and fulling falling back off your chair. You were currently playing the horror game ' In Silence with Max, Lando and Ria.

"No way did Y/N just fall?" Max asks laughing at the girl whose stream he pulled up seeing her laying on the floor gripping her shoulder while her chair was now also laying in the floor.

"SHE DID" Lando laughs and you groan out in embarrassment.

Moment 4:

"What was that chat? My door reopened and closed shut while I was gone?" you ask looking back at your door. You knew you were home alone, the only people having a key to your apartment being Max and Pietra and Lando. But they were all travelling right now and were on the plane.

"Chat, stop messing with me" you scold jokingly, you start to load up the game your changing too. However a knock at your bedroom door has you stilling.

"What" you mouth looking at the camera. You go to the door, chat spamming saying how by opening the door that how all the dumb movie characters die. You here another knock making you flinch, you rip open the door, screaming when you see the scary mask, jumping and tacking the person now.

"Ow Y/N fuck" you hear and you rip the mask of, knowing that voice but not wanting to assume.

"Lando?" you ask looking at him.

"I thought it would be funny" he jokes laughing.

Moment 4:

"So Lando, Max and I thought it would be funny to play Valorant but for every kill we get we do a shot" you exclaim.

"Y/N gonna need new kidneys by the end of this? Hmmm very true, maybe we change it to every time we die we do a shot?" you ask seeing what chat's opinion would be on that.

"Then Lando and Max will be needing new kidneys? Well, I'm playing on my alt account and I'm just chilling so we'll be in gold/silver lobbies. Last time we played on my normal account, it was a struggle.

"Lets ask what they prefer! Guys? You want to do shots every time we get a kill or when we die?" you ask after unmuting yourself.

"We playing with MILF account of FnaticY/N?" Lando asks.

"MILF of course. And no comps, I'm not being called a booster" you grin and Max groans, Max was gold 2 and was asking for you to coach him, you had watched him in unrated's but refused to do comps together.

"Wait, when did you change your name...didnt it used to be Ilovetits6?" Max laughs.

"Yes, but chat started to call me mother? So i just rolled with it" you grin looking at chat and winking.

Moment 5:

"Are you and Lando Norris dating?" you ask, and then you open your phone and call Lando himself.

"Hey baby!" you smile and show the chat what Lando is saved as and the picture while he's on speakerphone.

"Hey love. I'm a little late coming back. I got stuck here with Zac and Oscar, but Max and P wanted to know if you would like to go out for dinner with them tonight" he asks and you laugh.

"Wait, Y/N are you live"

"Maybe, look you said you were ready to go public. So this is payback for what you did to Max on stream!" you laugh, knowing he wont be mad at you, as you'd talked recently about going public.

"Exposed? Yes yes i did" you grin.

Moment 6:

"Y/N your boyfriend is horny come sort him out" AngryGinge says adding you to the call forcefully mid stream.

"Mmmm that sounds like a job for you" you says seriously and you pull up his and Lando's stream to watch what was going on. Some people had come into your stream to say to get Lando to end the stream before PR has his head.

"He's been moaning on stream Y/N get your man and take him home"

"Yeah sorry let me just hop on the jet to Monaco..." you joke, knowing you definitely don't have a private jet.

"Wait, just how rich are you? Your boyfriends out here buying watches for 400k, you have a private jet. This just ain't right!" he exclaims making you laugh.

"I don't have a private jet. But... I've been in one of Max Verstappen's" you boast, you'd been introduced to him through Lando as Kelly wanted to meet you and set you up with her modelling agency.

"Huh? WHAT?" he screams and you just laugh before leaving the call. You shoot Lando a teasing message watching his eyes change as he reads it, and he lets out a groan that soon turns into a joke as Angry Ginge yelled at him to calm down again.

Moment 7:

"Salem stop" you tell your cat, which had jumped up and starting to paw in your lap where the blanket lay across before flopping down wanting fuss.

She started to meow at you not getting the wanted attention, but you were in the middle of an important rank up game, that would put you as radiant in Valorant.

As the game went on, you apologized to your teammates when you died after nearly clutching a round when Salem distracted you by pawing at your hand on your mouse.

"Salem please bub. 3 more rounds and you can have all the cuddles in the world" you whisper to the cat before she settles down, you proceed to Ace the next round and your team and you win the next two. The end of the game, with the MVP you get promoted to Radiant #497.

You celebrated by grabbing Salem your black Bombay cat and hugging her tightly, she leans into you wrapping her paws around happy for the affection she's finally getting.

"Treat?" you ask receiving a meow.

Chat:

y/nloverrr02- not y/n celebrating like she just got a podium

landonorizz- what's harder, f1 win, or reaching the top 500 valorant players

wedonttalkabouther- please, mother is mothering!

deadlocknerf- not her top fragging as an omen and their jett with a negative kda.

lockandassit- well done on the promo!

LandoNorris- Babe! Well done! I watched your win! I'm so proud

"Thank you, everybody. I think I'll leave it there for the day and I'll come back and we can try and get into the 450's!" you exclaim before cutting stream.

Taglist:

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