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fatesundress · 1 year ago

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⭑ 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.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fluff #tom riddle smut #tom riddle angst #(the trifecta)#tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #ftltutbh

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forlix · 11 months ago

Text

‧ ❆ ˚ 𝐞𝐯𝐞𝐫𝐲𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐡𝐚𝐬 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 (besides myself)・l.f.

— you spend three years loving him, six months losing him, and four hours waiting for him to get the hell out of your house. but the human heart is more stubborn than you know.

words・5.4k

pairing・lee felix x gn!reader

genres・babysitter!au, girldad!lix, nobody look at me, toothrotting fluff, more angst than originally intended tbh, exes to lovers, hurt/comfort, happy ending yayyy, non-linear storyline

warnings・cousin has a korean name and experiences one (1) minor head bump, mc is temporarily heartbroken and experiences one (1) breakdown

playlist・house song by searows・glad by tori kelly・let's pretend by del water gap・you were good to me by jeremy zucker

a/n・hiiii my loves, i'm so unbelievably excited to bring u my first contribution to my and @astraystayyh's collaboration, "winter falls" ♡ every time i write for our ray of sunshine i'm reminded of how thankful i am to love him. this fic ruined me. hope it does the same to you (smile)

I. everything

“One day,” you muttered to the toddler sitting on your shoulders, “you’ll experience something deeply, irreversibly humbling, and I’ll be there to witness your downfall.”

Byeol responded to this with an unbothered babble. She then gathered two handfuls of your hair and yanked using far too much force to be biologically possible.

You folded like a lawn chair. “Mother—!”

Oh, that word was not suitable for button-sized ears.

“—oh, my dear mother, why? Why me?”

Technically speaking, your aunt should’ve been the target of your lamentations, but all she did was produce the child presently steering you around the kitchen like you were her own personal bumper car. Your own mother was the one who volunteered you to watch said child during the first weekend of your winter break. Only for an hour until the babysitter arrives, she’d said (raising her voice, so as to be heard over your groaning).

You adored Byeol. She made scarily accurate chipmunk sounds and possessed an immobilizing fear of grapes. She bust out a dance move before she took her first steps. The girl could have you floored with laughter without being able to say more than three words at a time. Still, this was far from how you imagined onsetting your desperately-needed few weeks off. Not to mention it was now half past three; your shift should’ve ended two minutes ago.

As if on cue, the doorbell rang. Byeol emitted an excited onomatopoeia like a golden retriever detecting the mailman. Your reaction wasn’t too far off; you swiveled your head in the sound’s direction, sang out “coming!” in a delighted vibrato, and twirled into the foyer, your hands around Byeol’s ankles anchoring her in place.

You cracked open the door and found yourself face-to-face with Byeol’s babysitter. The freckles scattered across his high cheekbones and sloping nose seemed to you like they were imprinted by the sun itself. His hair was dark, falling just shy of pitch black, and long, ending an inch or so below pierced ears. A few misbehaving strands rested over his forehead but did little to obstruct your view of his eyes: profoundly brown and pointed at either end, like poinsettia petals.

He was the most beautiful man you’d ever seen. You felt your skin warm, your heart flip. You opened your mouth.

Then Byeol hit her head against the vertical edge of the front door, loud enough for it to echo.

The panic that seized you in that moment was truly unlike anything you’d experienced before. You caught one glimpse of the stranger’s expression (as mortified as you expected), and then you were seeing your own epitaph on the inside of your eyelids, engraved with the four words “Death by Furious Aunt.”

“Was that—?” The man sputtered, and his voice was rich and full and accented and just as breathtaking as the rest of him and holy fucking shit now was not the time.

“My fucking god,” you whispered, completely forgetting to watch your mouth. In a hurry, you swung Byeol off your shoulders and dropped to a knee. You leaned in close to examine her reddening forehead and cradled the plush of her cheek; she blinked at you a few times, fascinated by the sudden sight of your face again.

“You okay, Byeollie? That hurt a lot, didn’t it? I’m so, so sorr—”

Byeol started to laugh.

Not laugh as in those little chuckles she let out randomly, like there was something inherently amusing about the kitchen cupboard, but laugh as in a boisterous, resounding guffaw, like a great-uncle at a family gathering off one too many martinis.

This rendered you speechless for the second time in under a minute. Then, you lifted your other hand to cradle her other cheek, her face now sandwiched between your palms, and squeezed.

“I broke my cousin,” you whispered, your voice was so deathly serious that the man in the doorway had to stifle a laugh of his own.

His knee brushed against your shin as he sat down to your left, folding his legs into a criss-cross. You could discern notes of lavender and orange blossoms in the delicate cologne that clung to him, perforated the air and your mind both.

“Can I?” He asked.

“Please.”

Carefully, you shifted Byeol’s small frame towards him; the manner in which he accepted her was so smooth and practiced that there was no doubt in your mind you were watching a professional at work. He settled her on his right knee, then dipped his head to look her in the eye.

“Hi, princess,” he cooed with a dulcet smile. He curved his pointer finger, dusted it beneath her chin. “Why are you laughing, silly girl?”

Oh.

You might just continue your lineage after all.

“Y/N-ie,” she answered, still tittering.

He looked to you with a slight tilt to his head, and you nodded affirmatively. He murmured a quiet ah. “What about Y/N-ie?”

Somehow you sensed that she was about to embarrass you and pinched the bridge of your nose—in preparation.

“P-pretty.” I knew it!

The man let out the laugh he’d been holding back since earlier and tapped on her button nose, lowered his voice to a whisper that he knew you could hear.

“I agree.” His eye glinted playfully, matching his tone. “And so are you.” The bashful, high-pitched giggle she responded with sounded eerily similar to your inner monologue.

The two of you spent a little longer on the floor of the foyer making sure Byeol was okay, and then the girl upped and made a mad dash for the kitchen while yelling something about a horse, and if that didn’t confirm that she was completely fine (albeit incredibly strange) you didn’t know what would. You found her rolling around the carpet in the room adjacent to the kitchen and left her to her own devices while you and her babysitter fixed up a small fruit plate for her afternoon snack. No grapes, of course.

He told you he usually went by Felix, but that his Korean name was probably easier for Byeol to pronounce, with its easier consonants and whatnot. You asked which name he preferred, and he said either or. He was a recent college graduate, a year older than you, who was determined to spend at least the next two years doing nothing but working out his future. He accepted the part-time babysitting position to pick up some light cash in the process.

“And ‘cause I’m good with kids,” he added, splitting apart a tangerine. “So I’ve been told.”

“Oh, you definitely are,” you said, plating a couple blueberries. “You melted her earlier.”

“She melted me. She’s so cute. And you’re so cute with her—I didn’t realize I was robbing someone of their job.”

You turned your head to regard the tot and let out a helpless laugh. Byeol tired of being a human lint roller a few minutes ago and had since moved on to staring aimlessly out the window.

“She doesn’t take me seriously, and I can’t stay mad at her,” you mused. “I would be a nightmare as her babysitter, trust me. She’s all yours.”

Felix held out two overturned handfuls of tangerine slices, to which you quickly moved the platter across the counter. He didn’t respond to your comments as he placed them on the outermost edge so that they looked like rays of sun emanating from a multicolored core. Adorable.

“Will you be around much, then?”

You made eye contact with him across the counter. On his perfect face was a teasing smirk and a subtle blush. Ah, you’d been mistaken, writing off his silence as concentration—he’d been contemplating how to best flirt with you.

“Y’know. In case I need any help teaching her cuss words,” he appended.

It was then your turn to flush a couple shades darker. “Please don’t tell her mom.”

“I won’t, I won’t.” He walked around the perimeter of the counter until he was directly in front of you; the lavender and orange blossoms returned. “On one condition.”

Not even one hour on the job and he was already trying to blackmail you? You respected it. “Which is?”

As he shifted some of his weight onto the counter, something too shifted in his smile, giving it a quality that was every bit as hopeful as it was gentle.

It was then, while Lee Felix was looking at you like that, all dilated pupils and long lashes, when you predicted that he would one day break your heart. You predicted you’d let him.

“Be around,” he said simply.

It wasn’t a question or a demand. In hindsight, you think it was more akin to a birthday wish, ill-fated the moment it hit the air.

II. has changed

Felix pulled Byeol’s hood up and over her ears, and you realized he was right about the winter coat getting too small for her—she looked like a bowling pin. You muffled your snort into your scarf.

“And what was the last rule again?” He asked, his breath puffing into the frigid afternoon in tiny clouds. Byeol sighed like she knew anything of the world’s woes.

“No barking at other kids,” came the sad reply, but a toothy smile spread across her face anyways when Felix nudged the underside of her chin. She loved when he did that.

“That’s my girl,” he hummed. “I believe in you.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” you said, and the wounded look Felix shot you was like you’d just confessed to hating kittens. “Come on—she doesn’t have a good track record. I’m allowed to have my doubts.”

“I dunno what that means,” Byeol announced with admirable frankness, and then turned around and scurried down the porch stairs, scattering fun-sized footprints across the snowy streets.

As you braced yourself to follow her, Felix stopped you with a slip of his hand into the pocket of your puffer. His fingers first aligned with yours inside the insulated nylon, then chased the spaces in between. He leaned in close, placed a kiss on the apple of your cheek, another on the corner of your mouth. This brought a helpless smile to your face, too. He had a way of melting you and Byeol both.

“It’ll be fine,” he soothed. “A little barking never hurt anybody, baby.”

“Lix, last time somebody called animal control.”

“Ermm—a little barking never hurt most people.”

That winter, Byeol was four, and your relationship with Felix was about to turn two.

Funnily enough, you’d never figured out when your anniversary actually was. Felix wagered it was the day you met, as he knew he loved you the instant he saw you; you insisted it was months later, since it took both of you an entire winter break of open-ended flirting and informal dating to label yourselves for real. Imagine your horror when he showed up outside your college apartment on the last day of your fall semester, arms overflowing with flowers and gift bags brimming with your favorite things, the phrase “happy anniversary” on his lips three months before you perceived it to be. You’ve celebrated both days ever since.

You loved the ocean growing up. You didn’t get to visit it often, but when you did you would run up to the water’s very edge so that your toes dipped into the cold—and just stand there, observing, absorbing, until even the seam of your lips and the ends of your eyelashes were studded with crystals of seasalt. You found endless tranquility in its rhythmic whispers and unspeakable comfort in its oscillating waves, guaranteed to return after momentary departure.

Your fascination stemmed from the folktale your mother used to read to you before bed, about a sun goddess creating the earth. In the story, every component of nature was one of the sun’s beloved children. She allegedly loved them all, but you suspected the ocean was her favorite; it was obvious, the way she twinkled off its ebbing surface, the way every minuscule spot of light looked to you like a handprint of hers, left behind by eons of endless doting.

Felix reminded you of the ocean. Every day you grew more certain that you wanted to drown in him, to let his resonant voice and kind eyes sweep and keep you inside his depths. It was never salt that he pressed into your skin but warmth, stamped and sealed with caring hands and cautious lips. His deep whispers promised eternal love and temporary ecstasy and everything in between. You knew he would come back to you even if stranded in a different realm. And there was no questioning the goddess’ favoritism, either. The freckles on his face mirrored the sun’s very spots like an homage to his creator.

You didn’t love the ocean growing up, no. You had never loved before Felix.

The park was busy when the three of you arrived. Byeol and Felix recognized a few families as your aunt’s neighbors and hurried over to say hello. Your social butterflies.

“I’ll be over there,” you called after them.

Felix stopped in his tracks, looked over his shoulder. It had started snowing lightly on your walk there, and snowflakes now sat atop his sable locks. He looked like a painting. “You okay?”

“Yes, yes.” You shooed them off. “Don’t worry about me. Go have fun.”

With that, you withdrew to the sidelines, an unoccupied swingset adjacent to a baseball diamond covered in frost.

Your baby cousin was brawny for her age, which you could’ve seen coming with how she was hauling at your hair two years ago, but even she couldn’t yet terrorize the playground without assistance. Who better to make her partner in crime than her favorite Bokkie? You couldn’t help but giggle as the two revolved around each other for the better part of an hour, Byeol’s smile colossal as she frolicked every which way, Felix’s smile worried but hopelessly endeared as he followed behind. He never let her leave his shadow. She never tried to.

It was there on those icy swings that you experienced a moment of strange clarity, like you’d broken the fourth wall of your own story. You could feel the winds of change blowing your hair across your shoulders. You were aware of time’s trickling from the gaps of your fingers like liquid mercury.

Your laughter dissipated to a bittersweet smile; your smile mellowed to dewy eyes. It seemed like just yesterday when Byeol was small enough to sit on your shoulders and Felix stepped into your kitchen for the first time. Now, she was scaling a rope ladder with the celerity of a crazed monkey while Felix hovered a wary hand by her waist. The muted sunlight caught on the silver rings he wore, particularly the thin, bright one on his middle finger. You had one just like it, adorning the same place.

The last two years were the happiest of your life. Why couldn’t you remember where they went?

Lavender and orange blossoms announced your boyfriend’s arrival—that, and the sigh of fatigue that he expelled as he dropped into the swing next to you.

“I’m not cut out for this anymore.”

Byeol’s neighbor had temporarily relieved Felix of his post by taking her and his son to test out the seesaw, and you wouldn’t be surprised if the whole town could hear her enthusiastic shrieking.

“You know how people walk their dogs?” You mused. “Some dogs walk their people. She’s one of them.”

For a moment, he could only stare in disbelief at the grin creeping across your face; then, he groaned in a way that could only mean you were right on the money. You gave his thigh a sympathetic pat.

“You’re whipped, my love. It’s okay.”

“Maybe a little,” he admitted, suddenly perking up. “Hey, no barking though.”

“Are we considering that a win nowadays?”

“Do you see animal control anywhere?”

“Good point.”

Felix monitored your expression during the quiet interval that ensued—saw through the melancholy curve of your lips, the pensive slant of your gaze. There was a red tinge to the whites of your eyes that hadn’t been there before.

You saw him reach for you in your periphery. His fingers brushed a lock of hair behind the shell of your ear, remained there for three slow heartbeats, and then lifted away.

“Angel,” he murmured. “Talk to me.”

You shook your head. “It’s silly.”

“It’s not.” Not even ten seconds after the last time, he reached for you again, now to take your hand and bring it to his lap. “You know it’s not.”

“It’s just that—”

Felix thumbed over the ridges of your knuckles, his touch so gentle that it could’ve unraveled a chrysalis; it certainly unraveled you. You took a stabilizing breath.

“I wish could recognize my own happiness in the moment,” you sighed, “not just in retrospect. That way, even when it comes to an end, I’d still be able to look back and say with confidence that I was happy once. I’d like that, I think.”

His brows knit together as he processed your words, and, the next thing you knew, he left his swing trembling in his sudden absence and his trenchcoat became a black blur in the cold air.

Felix rested his elbows atop your knees as he knelt in front of you, cradled your face in his hands. He was achingly beautiful always, but you truly felt your breath swiped from your lungs at the new proximity of his ethereal features: petal-shaped eyes, wind-bitten cheeks, coral cupid’s bow. A painting.

“That’s easy enough,” Felix hummed. “How do you feel right now?”

You had zero agency in the smile this brought to your face. You wrapped your hands around his wrists, your answer quick, thoughtless. “Happy.”

He pressed his lips to the space between your eyes. “And now?”

“Happier.”

He pressed his lips to the curve of your jaw. “What about now?”

“Even happier.”

His gaze flickered to his final destination, but you beat him to it, sealing your mouth against his with urgency. The kiss that followed was so intensely loving that your head went fuzzy. How was it that you felt his adoration for you even in his pliant lips, his velvet tongue? You ran your fingers through the part of his hair. You loved when you could feel the locks flutter back into place afterwards.

“GET A ROOM!”

You and Felix pulled away from one another, wearing matching expressions of bewilderment. Byeol was approximately five Newtons away from soaring off into the stratosphere, her legs jostling around as she clung to her seat for dear life. It seemed your neighbor had a very aggressive way of seesaw-maneuvering. It seemed your cousin had a very aggressive vocabulary.

“Where did she learn—?” The two of you began in unison, then shot your heads back towards each other.

“It had to be you.”

“Outrageous—you’re the Australian here!”

“You cuss like one too!”

“Because of you!”

“So we’re just lying now?”

“Well, yes.”

Felix cracked a smile—and then the two of you were dying of laughter, his right eye squinting closed and your forehead thudding onto his shoulder. You hardly managed to get out your next words. “We have to do something about her vernacular, don’t we?”

“Oh, badly,” he replied. “Badly.”

After you expended your giggles, you nuzzled into the crook of his neck, blissful, glowing. “Thank you, baby.”

“What for?”

“Being my happiness.”

He angled your face back to his and kissed you once more, whispering I love you like it wasn’t enough that it graced your ears; he needed it embossed upon your flesh in permanent ink.

Your intermingled breaths floated up into the air like flare signals over a capsizing boat. Here marks the time we were happiest.

III. (besides myself)

He’s blonde.

That’s the first thing you notice when you see your ex-boyfriend on your aunt’s porch: the slightly off-white color of his silky tresses, grown out longer than you’ve ever seen, pushed off his forehead and tucked behind his ears.

It’s not the only thing you notice, of course. His face has thinned ever so slightly, the shadows thrown over his features by the streetlights behind him particularly opaque. His outfit is glorious, expensive, with the black blazer and white dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, the pendant of a silver necklace resting between toned collarbones. His hands are almost overflowing with what must be gifts for your family. It’s impossible to discern all of them from this distance, but you know the bouquet of white poinsettias is for your mom, the batch of brownies doused in sprinkles and icing for Byeol.

But the hair is where your gaze returns, because tucked among the platinum strands are black roots: millimeters of the color you grew to adore, peeking out as if trying to catch a glimpse of you, too.

You’re so occupied with this game of “I spy” that you don’t notice the rampant footsteps coming up behind you. Your six-year-old cousin collides with the back of your leg head-on and nearly topples you like a bowling pin.

“Is it him?” She asks breathlessly.

You come this close to berating her as you steady yourself against the wall—what did I say about treating human beings like couch cushions? But you look down to see her chin resting on the side of your thigh, her eager eyes shining so brightly that she puts her own namesake to shame. Your scolding tirade dissolves on your tongue like popping candy.

You simply sigh instead. “Yes, but—”

“BOKKIE!” She shrieks, and Felix’s head snap upwards at the sound of her voice. His tender smile melts some of the frost laminating your heart.

You crack open the door, making eye contact with Felix for the first time in six months.

“Put everything down. Quickly,” you whisper, and he obeys right away, alarmed by the urgency in your voice. A wise choice.

The last present has hardly touched down upon the wooden planks when Byeol wriggles through the doorway and charges towards Felix like an angered toro. He swivels at her bright holler of his name, lowers himself to a squat just barely in time to catch her in his embrace. The delighted laugh that leaves his mouth as he staggers backwards sounds like the sun itself; you feel lost in orbit hearing it again.

“Bokkie,” Byeol murmurs, her voice muffled in the dip of his shoulder, by the tightening of her arms around his neck.

“Hi, princess.” He kisses her temple, presses his nose against her hair. “Whoa, you’ve grown strong, haven’t you?”

“She takes taekwondo classes now,” you hum from above, and the shock in his face asks the very question that your poignant smile confirms. Yes, because of you.

Felix pulls away, cocoons her cheeks with cherishing hands. “Is that true?”

She bobs her head. “I want to be like Bokkie.”

And his eyes go impossibly, terribly soft, like he’s gazing at the horizon itself. The sight twists the knife in your gut and yanks on your tangled heartstrings. It’s all because of you.

“And kick some ass!” Byeol adds, knocking you out of your sentimental spiral. You clap a defeated hand to your forehead. Felix falls over himself. So much for fixing her vernacular.

A few minutes later, Byeol is pirouetting towards the kitchen with a couple of Felix’s smaller presents in her arms, all too happy to be of help. You linger behind as Felix takes off his shoes, your cousin’s departure leaving the two of you alone in the dim foyer.

Felix straightens. The two of you come face to face. The air hangs so heavily with unspoken words that you half expect it to start dripping.

“Hi,” he says.

You nearly laugh at the cruelty of it. The man you were certain you’d grow old with greeting you like you’ve been forced to sit next to each other on the first day of school.

“Hi,” you answer. “You look—”

The two of you say this last part in unison; old habits die hard.

“—nice,” you finish.

“—beautiful,” Felix breathes, his eyes flicking off to the side abashedly.

Your throat constricts, pulse quickens. Says you. If he was a painting before, you think he’s a sculpture now, his perfection as tangible as if hand-chiseled by the greatest artists of old. As clear as the sun’s beloved sea. You can’t tell if it’s his stylist’s doing or simply a product of him growing into himself.

“Thank you,” you reply quietly. “And thank you for coming.”

“Thank you for inviting me. I didn’t think you would.”

“I didn’t do it for me.”

No part of you wants to see the subtle wince that crosses his face at your statement, so you turn your gaze to his jewelry-laden hands instead.

For a split second, you swear you see the same promise ring settled in the same place on his middle finger. You realize what you’re really looking at only after blinking the phosphenes from your eyes: the thin tanline that it left behind. The realization fixes and destroys you all at once.

Then, Byeol starts wailing about Felix’s whereabouts like an actress hired to spare you from this very interaction.

“Her Highness beckons.” The smile you manage feels like drying cement. “Shall we?”

On your way to the kitchen, you notice the cologne emanating from his person smells only of citrus—no lavender. Its absence steadies you, deludes you into believing that it’s a stranger you’ve just let inside.

That illusion lasts for exactly three hours and forty-eight minutes.

It’s clear that the breakup has your family walking on eggshells, but it’s even clearer that their adoration for Felix has never wavered. You’ve never resigned yourself to the restroom so many times in one night, only to stand with your back against the door, unmoving, unfeeling, listening to the low thrum of his voice through the mahogany. Chatting comfortably with your aunt, bursting into laughter with Byeol, reminding you of the time you considered him family too.

With every glance you toss your reflection, you discover new cracks in your composure. Has he noticed them yet?

After you come out of the restroom for the sixth time, you notice a light spilling from Byeol’s bedroom into the hallway. A low Australian accent graces your ears, followed closely by a tinkling giggle, and your body nudges you towards the sounds before your head can intervene.

You give your cousin’s door a feather-light nudge. It opens a few centimeters more and grants you vision of Byeol tucked into bed, Felix knelt at her side. Both of their faces are illuminated by the flaxen light of the nearby lamp.

Felix brushes her choppy bangs out of her eyes, a teasing smile on his lips. “Can I tell you a secret, princess?”

This wrests from her another fluttering laugh; you swear he’s the only person in the whole world who makes her shy. “Sure!”

“Promise you won’t tell anyone?”

“Promise.”

“Not even Snernard.”

“M’kay.”

“Or Bong.”

“M’kay.”

“Especially not Trash the chicken. I don’t trust him.”

“I know, I know, I won’t!” Byeol huffs, and Felix laughs at her outburst. You also snort into your sleeve, amused (and deeply perplexed) by your cousin’s plushie-naming conventions.

“Thank you,” he hums, and he lowers his voice enough that you don’t catch the next thing he says.

All you perceive is the way that Byeol reacts. She sits up straight in bed, resting her back against her pillow. Her features rearrange themselves slowly, awfully, like the spread of cherry-flavored cough syrup over one’s sore throat, into the furthest thing from her trademark too-big-for-her-face smile.

Your stomach plummets to your fucking ankle.

“Why?” Her voice sounds microscopic.

“Well, do you remember what Bokkie’s dream job is?”

Byeol considers for a moment. “Being a singer?”

“That’s right.” He runs a knuckle over the hill of her cheek, the action achingly familiar, immensely fond. “And I found a place where I can do that, but it’s very, very far away. I won’t be able to come home very often.”

The telltale signs appear as he speaks; the final word sets them into motion. A tear streaks down the side of Byeol’s face. It hardly leaves the corner of her eye before it’s being intercepted by a doting swipe of his thumb.

“No,” she replies.

“You've grown so much.” Another tear falls. He wipes away that one, too. “You’re growing so well.”

“No,” she repeats.

“You’ve stolen the light of every star in the sky already. The whole galaxy will be yours someday, sweetheart. I know it.”

“I don’t want it,” she whispers. “I want my Bokkie.”

His vision starts to blur also. “But you don’t need me anymore.”

“We do.”

You know the precise moment Felix’s heart pauses in his chest because it is when yours does too.

“We?” He repeats, and she nods.

“Your dream job is being a singer.” Now Byeol is the one to reach for Felix, her delicate hand cupping the curve of his cheek. Her fingers are too small to catch his tears, she tries anyways—

“But what is your dream?”

It becomes too much for you.

You turn around. A choked sob escapes from behind the hand you have sealed to your mouth, causing both heads inside Byeol’s room to whirl in your direction. You don’t care that you nearly break both of your ankles beelining up the stairs; you only care to get the fuck out of that hallway.

You topple into your room, close the door behind you, and crumble.

Your quivering hands find purchase around your folded legs; your eyes squeeze shut against your knees. Rivulets of tears cascade over your shuddering lips like ruptured barrels of wine, left in the cellars of your soul to age, to spoil.

You never wanted your grief to see the light of day. Pouring your regret over every sidewalk wouldn’t change the past. Splashing your heartache across every wall like the world’s most fucked-up mural wouldn’t alleviate the pain of losing him. He was the one who left, but you were the one who’d asked him to. Feeling, yearning, mourning. Those always seemed so futile.

But you’re not just crying in this moment, rocking back and forth on your bedroom floor; you’re bleeding, the wounds you never treated igniting all at once as if exposed to vinegar, leaving you writhing and gasping in their wake. How you wish they’d been able to heal sooner. Maybe then seeing Felix tonight wouldn’t have splintered your soul like dropped porcelain.

Your door clicks open. Your breath hitches in your throat with a quiet scratch. The gulp of oxygen you intake tastes of oranges.

Every night before you fall asleep, you still think of the last time you visited the sea. The cool sand chafing against your toes, the coarse winds slapping your hair against your face hard enough to sting. The weather was terrible (you neglected to check the forecast before making the drive), but when you stepped onto the embittered coastline, you took what felt like the first real breath of your young adulthood. The fog melded to your skin as if melting a blindfold away, showing you the world in its entirety.

You return to that beach when Felix pulls you into his chest, and there’s no fog this time. Just the faint smell of lavender and your ocean, guaranteed to return after momentary departure.

Feverishly, Felix presses his lips to your temple, the apple of your cheek, rests his forehead against yours. Brokenly, he utters, “it’s you.”

You can feel his shaking in every part of him: the tickling breath, the fluttering eyelashes, the unsteady hand that reaches into the pocket of his blazer. You graze your fingers over his jaw, an attempt to steady his careening heart, only to lose yours in the fray also when he produces a small red box of unmistakable dimensions.

“God, it’s you. It always has been, always will be. Anything can change except for this.” His voice disintegrates as he speaks. You disintegrate as you listen. “Everything has changed besides myself.”

Felix leans back in to pepper kisses across the expanse of your wet features, then brings himself to one fated knee. He flicks open the lid. You don’t even spare the ring a glance; you don’t doubt its perfection. All you care to look at is the love of your life, deliquesced to adoration and tearwater.

“Thank you for being around, my dream.” His soft smile tends to your scars like ambrosia. “Will you let me do the same?”

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scarletwinterxx · 1 month ago

Text

this is how you fall in love - jeon wonwoo imagine

idk what to say except wonwoo is such a precious precious precious human🥺 i hope you're happy everyday, wonu🤍

i hope you like it!

alsooo if anyone want to be mutuals on X, i'm using the same un there😊

for my other svt fics, check them here

if you want, u can buy me coffee(totally optional but any donation is very much appreciated!) thank you🥺💛

All works are copyrighted ©scarletwinterxx 2024 . Do not repost, re-write without the permission of author.

(gif not mine, credits to rightful owner)

When you say your life turned technicolor when you started dating Wonwoo, you meant it both literally and metaphorically. Before him, life for you was black and white. A 24 hour rotation of the clock.

To put it simply, you just lived life as it is.

It's still a mystery to you how you manage to land yourself a wonderful boyfriend like him, there are moments it doesn't feel real. How could it be when your man looks and acts like he stepped right out of a fairytale book specially written for you.

"Hey pretty, I got something for you"

He swears gift giving isn't his love language and he knows you don't like getting such grand gifts, but time to time he brings home little trinkets that reminds him of you or something cute that he thinks you'll like.

Just the other week he got you shoes that matches the one he has, but yours was in pink. Very cute, you told him. He remembered you telling him you needed new shoes but couldn't decide what to get, you saw the pink version of his' and thought about getting those but you never got to doing so.

So a few days after that, he surprised you. The smile you had on was worth every dollar he spent. You even went on a walk with your matching shoes on.

Today it's something else. This time it's a cute yellow hair pin, perfect match to the scrunchie he got you before.

"You know my favorite color is purple, right?"

He chuckles at your question. Of course he knows. At this point there's little he doesn't know about you, from your little quirks, to your pet peeves to all your favorite, he have those all listed in his mind like his own commandments.

It also happens to be his favorite color too, so that helps

"I know, I just pick that one so I can easily spot you" he takes the seat beside you on the couch, throwing his arm on the back of the couch making you rest your head against him.

"Huh?" you ask, looking at him

"Just when I don't wear my glasses, everything else is blurry but atleast I can see the color. That way I know it's you" he smiles, playing with the yellow scrunchie on your wrist

"So you're telling me, you keep getting me yellow stuff so you could see me?"

He nods

You look at him before a smile breaks out of your face, taking Wonwoo's cheeks between your hands to squish them. Cuteness aggression taking over.

To some, Wonwoo might seem like a cold person, very nonchalant but that's the exact opposite. If you get to know him more, he's a big softie and likes to play practical jokes every now and then. One of the many things that made you fall in love with him was how easy it was to smile when you're with him.

Falling for him didn't feel scary. From your past relationships it always felt like a part of you was lost, like you're not you're own person anymore. But with him, it's different.

Wonwoo let's you be you. You feel loved just by being you.

"What got you thinking, pretty? Lost you for a second there" he whispers

"Just.. things"

"Want to share?"

It's cute he still asks, even after dating for some time he still asks if you want to share whatever thoughts you have in your mind instead of just making you say it. From day 1 he let you set the pace, no matter how slow or how fast you want to go he'll be right beside you happily holding your hand.

He tucks your hair behind your ear, cradling your face in his hands and you think this is where you feel the safest, the most secure.

"Just you, still wondering what I did in my past life to deserve you"

He shakes his head, leaning down to give you a kiss on the forehead. "I should be the one asking you that. I'm just happy I get to love you like this"

He watches you watch him, he knows you're still having an internal debate. Thoughts bouncing around in your head, sometimes that happens and he's always there to shut any doubts.

"You love me, correct?" he asks, you quickly utter a confirmation making Wonwoo smile

"You said, anything I love you'll learn to love too. Correct?" he asks again, you nod at his question

"I love you, more than anything in this universe. I love even the tiny flaws you think you have. To me, all those things are just... you. These cheeks? I love seeing them the moment i open my eyes in morning, pressed against the pillow making you look like a sleeping angel. These hands? I love how they hold me, keep me grounded when it gets too loud. Your laugh, especially the one that don't sound like anything because you're laughing too hard and you're so happy I cant help but smile too and make me want to make you laugh like that everyday."

He holds your hand in his, eyes looking straight into yours as he says the words. Each and every one of them is the truth and nothing but the truth.

"You, all of you I love. This mind, the one that keeps you up at night, makes you worry about the future that have yet to come and everything that could go wrong, I love that too. That's you, you and your nagging, your ups and downs, your mood swings and bad days. I'd have it all" He frees your hand so he can reach up to flatten the crease between your brows. You feel his fingertip ever so gently land on your forehead.

"Just once, even for a second I wish you see yourself through my eyes and know just why I look at you the way I do. If only you can feel what I feel because there isn't any word in any language to express it. Not yet anyways" he breathes out.

Before you, Wonwoo's life was monochromatic. Like a black and white silent film. And when he met you, that's when it all changed. He started to laugh a little louder, smile a little wider. You're the color of his life, not the overwhelming kind of color but instead the exact hues he loved.

"Do you ever feel overwhelmed with how you feel about me?" you ask him. He can hear the genuine wonder in your voice, instead of sugarcoating it for you he tells the truth because he would never know how to lie to you.

"Sometimes, I overthink too" he lets out a chuckle before continuing "Like what if one day I become too much, but I can't help it. I just want to do everything for you. Sometimes, I feel down. I don't want to make you feel that too so I just..." he trails off

He didn't need to say anything else for you to understand.

"Then will you tell me if you're having bad days too? I can take it." you tell him

"Love, I-" he pauses "I'm sorry. I know I'm not the most vocal person, I just don't want to burden you with my problems" he breathes out. His hold on you tightening.

"I'm your partner, I'm your girlfriend. Am I not?"

"You are"

"Didn't you tell me once you'd marry me"

"I did, and I will" he smiles, recalling that conversation in his head.

"Then talk to me, I don't care about the baggage, I don't care if they're too heavy. I'm here. You share your joys with me, then that's double the happiness. That goes the same with your sorrows, you tell me all about it so it's half the pain"

He smiles, heart filling up with more love for you he didn't was possible.

"You can tell me, you don't have to give it all to me. I just want to know if you're okay, or angry or worried or sad. I just want to know how to be there for you like you are for me" you tell him, tracing his features with your fingertips.

He hugs you even tighter, afraid of letting any space get between the two of you. "You being here is more than enough for me. Knowing I'm coming home to you is enough for me. You are more than enough for me, my love"

You didn't expect your afternoon to turn into love confessions but you wouldn't trade it for anything in the world.

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exhaslo · 10 months ago

Note

Need moreee hybrid bunny！reader x CEOMiguel hehehehehhehehe🐇love your story too muchhhhh❤️❤️

Haha, thank you, thank you!! Part 2s are always fun to write! I'll continue this were the original left off then, hehe

Also, sorry this was so late. I finally started my January requests!

Part 1

Warning: MINORS DNI, Smut, p in v, breeding kink, rough sex, creampie, public sex

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------

There was always that feeling of uncertainty. Under normal circumstances you would be overwhelmed with joy with becoming Miguel's wife, but you weren't normal. You weren't even fully human anymore. So, sometimes...you felt those cruel whispers get inside your head.

Miguel always showered you with love, reminding you of his feelings. You felt the same, but there was still that little voice in the back of your head. Telling you that none of this would have ever happened if you didn't go into heat in front of him.

It's been months since that day, but you still recall it as if it were yesterday. Miguel took you on some dates before proposing to you, had you move in to his luxurious penthouse, and he had all of the wedding details planned out.

You were his personal assistant at Alchemax, helping him with trying to cure the hybrids and saving them. Miguel was a walking green flag, but you still felt like you weren't good enough for him. The stares that you got from the other women.

Other people.

They all saw you as just another gold digger, one who could use their body to their advantage. It hurt, especially since you loved Miguel so much and visa versa.

"(Y/N), are you ready?" Miguel hummed in your ear as his hands snaked around your waist, "We don't want to be late, amor (love)." He planted soft kisses against your neck.

"Miguel, are you sure you want me to go? Won't your business partners find it...find you strange to have me as a wife?"

"Amor, if they have something to say about my beautiful wife, then they shouldn't be in business with me." Miguel said with a soft grunt, pulling you in for a kiss, "Shall I remind you of how perfect you are?"

"Mhm, but we're going to be late." You whimpered, holding onto his jacket. Miguel pressed you against the wall,

"So? I'm spending time with my wife," Miguel hummed as his hands started to raise your dress, "Besides, everyone loves news about an heir,"

You felt a shiver run up your spine towards Miguel's words. Unsure of what came over you, you nearly pounced on Miguel. Your kisses were deep as you moved to his hands against your core. The thought of him fucking a baby into you sent you into a frenzy.

"Easy, baby, I'll make sure to take my time." Miguel said with a soft chuckle as he removed your panties, "Gotta pound that baby in nice and slow,"

"Miggy," You moaned softly, grinding against his hand, "Gimme a baby, please? Please?"

"(Y/N), are you in heat?" Miguel questioned, his tone full of concerned as he started to pump his fingers inside your pussy.

"Ah~ N-no, but I want...mhm~ your baby in me!~" You cried out. Miguel smiled as he kissed you deeply,

"Then I shouldn't keep my wife waiting."

You mewled into the kiss, wrapping your arms around Miguel's neck. Your velvet walls clenched and tighten around Miguel's fingers as he curled against your sweet spot. With a slight tug against his hair, you cam against his hand.

Miguel praised you before sliding his cock inside. Your legs wrapped against his waist as Miguel held you up. His lower hand just brushing against your fuzzy hair, sending shocks of pleasure throughout your body.

You moaned and rested your head against the wall as Miguel gave you slow and deep thrusts. His cock making itself at home inside of you as he hit all the right spots. You whimpered and gasped as Miguel kept playing with your tail, making you more sensitive than you already were.

"Gonna be so full for the gala, amor. How naught of my wife," Miguel chuckled as he started to fasten his pace, "But my precious little bunny wants a baby, how can I refuse?"

"MhM~ B-Baby! Inside!" You cried out, feeling your high approaching again. Miguel chuckled as he kissed your neck,

"Yes, baby, I'll give you one," Miguel inhaled your perfume as he grunted and moaned into your neck, "I'll tend to all your needs, (Y/N)"

"Miguel!"

You cried out as you cam hard against Miguel's dick. With another grunt, Miguel bottomed out and coated your walls white. He arms wrapped around you as the two of you took a moment to catch your breathe.

"Alright, let's get going," Miguel hummed.

---------

Your cheeks were flustered as you stood by Miguel's side during the gala. He was proudly introducing you as his wife to everyone who approached him. While it did make your heart flutter, you could see the disgusted looks they gave you.

You were a hybrid, so they just assumed shit. Feeling Miguel's hand brush against you tail, you shivered in delight. Your pussy clenched for a moment, still feeling his cum from earlier inside you. The thoughts of a baby reoccurring.

"Miguel, I could use some fresh air," You whispered. Miguel smiled towards you, his hand never leaving your back,

"Of course."

-------

Miguel had you bent over on the outside private patio, slapping himself ruthlessly into your wet cunt. Your moans were loud and sloppy as you tried to quiet down. Anyone could walk out at any moment and see Miguel fucking you like a mad man.

You gripped onto the railing, gasping and moaning as Miguel started to pinch your clit. You tighten against his shaft, cumming once more against him. Miguel could only chuckle at the white ring forming on his dick.

"(Y/N), your pussy is so tight. Perfect for my dick. Perfect to mold our baby." Miguel groaned, filling you up with another load of his cum, "It's going to be a busy night, hm?"

"Y-Yesh," You whimpered, your body shaking, "W-We'll keep trying for a b-baby~"

--------

"I'd like to present this award to-"

You weren't paying attention to the speaker since Miguel's fingers were pumping into you, pushing his cum back inside your cunt. You trembled, trying to listen, but felt more worried about someone spotting the two of you.

This whole night was just both you and Miguel finding ways to fuck each other without anyone noticing. This was far better than you being in heat. This was you trying to get a baby. This was Miguel trying to fill you to the brim to have his child.

"Alchemax! Miguel O'Hara, please accept this award." The speaker cheered as the crowd clapped.

Miguel let out a soft grunt as he removed his fingers and wiped them against his napkin. He leaned down to peck your lips, smirking towards your flustered expression. You pouted towards the warmth leaving, but smiled as Miguel received an award.

"I'd like to thank my lovely wife. I couldn't have gotten this far without her," Miguel made eye contact with you, "Hopefully, we'll be able to share some good news soon."

Feeling your heart race at his words, you smiled while everyone glared at you. Miguel sure knew how to dot on you. As he returned with his award, Miguel claimed that you needed some food and took you to one of the closets.

"(Y/N), aren't you proud of me?" Miguel chuckled as his cock bullied your cunt.

"Yes~ Yes!" You cried, cumming once more, "L-Lemme reward you with a baby!"

"I think its the other way around, amor." Miguel chuckled before swallowing your moans with a kiss, "Shh, don't want anyone to hear my precious wife's sexy moans."

"Mhm~!" You held onto Miguel as he kept pounding your abused cunt.

Your eyes rolled back slightly as Miguel grunted and filled you once more. His hips still attached to yours as he played with your tail. His breathing heavy against your neck as he slowly started to thrust back inside you,

"We have a long night ahead of us, (Y/N). I won't stop until I put a baby in you." He whispered in your ear. You whimpered in response, fluttering against his cock,

"N-Neither will I."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hope you enjoyed!!

#miguel o'hara #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel spiderverse #miguel o’hara x reader #spiderman 2099 #miguel o'hara smut #miguel spiderman #atsv miguel #across the spiderverse #miguel x y/n #miguel x you #miguel x reader

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pyramid-of-starrs · 9 months ago

Text

After care with Ateez ˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

Different styles of aftercare that I think the members would do.

This was just something cute I wrote since it's the day after valentines and Ateez is currently on vaction :P

Genre: Fluff, Suggestive

Warning: Mentions of sex and oral sex

Minors DNI

Hongjoong:

His roommates, Jongho and Wooyoung decided to go back home for their holiday so You and Hongjoong enjoyed some much-needed alone time. Cuddling on the couch and watching movies that eventually turned to making out then him pinning your legs to the arm of the couch, completely disregarding Wooyoungs nagging about no sex in the common areas. After a long overdue session Hongjoong is the water and a towel kind of guy. He gets up still wearing his sweatshirt and tucking his softened length back into his boxers then grabs you some water from the back of the fridge like you like. Then head to the bathroom to run hot water on a towel to give you (hot water so it’ll be warm when he gives it too you). Once he hands you the water you spread your legs and he immediately starts to clean the mess he made. After cleaning you up he wants to get back to the movie so you agree even though not even 5 minutes later he is fast asleep laying on your lap. That means no movie for you until he wakes back up and repeats the cycle, he's lucky he's cute

Seonghwa:

Seonghwa was in desperate need of some time away for the rest of his group. He loved his members, but he needed time, since his vacation period was here you invited him over to your place so he can get away for a few days. He, of course, thanks you the best way he knows how, with that marvelous long tongue he was gifted with. Slurping all your juices until you literally cover the entire bottom half of his face in your slick. Then you decided you needed more and went 2 rounds. You both were sticky from the love making and you were ready to go to bed but Seonghwa just can’t do messes, he'll go insane. He immediately headed to the bathroom to run a bath for you two, no shower because he knew your legs would be tired. Despite your groaning to be left alone he would pick you up and carry you over to the bathtub, easing you into the soothing warm water. Even though you were tired you had to admit this felt good. He helps bathe you, then shower you off, he wouldn’t try to fuck you again unless you wanted, just cover you in kisses and tell you you did so good for him.

Yunho:

You both were cuddling on his bed watching TikTok’s together, he leans over to show you one then a text from Yeosang popped up. Him saying that he was leaving to visit his friend and would be back in a few days so don’t wait up. Yunho gave you a very specific look and you knew what that meant, kissing leading to him drilling you from the back with his larger than average dick. He knows he’s a big guy with a big package so most the time he knew you wouldn’t be capable of moving much afterward. So his aftercare came in the form of him massaging your sore thighs and limbs. He likes to see you smiling afterward so he would make little jokes and tease you about the faces you would make during sex.

"Your face is so cute when you ask me why I'm fucking you like that." You both laugh as you playfully hit him. You just lie there making jokes and enjoying the massage from your human golden retriever.

Yeosang:

He decieded to take you on vacation with him since you both needed a some time with each other alone. Warm weather, nice beaches, good food and no fans or press bothering you on a small secluded island, it was amazing, you had to thank him. As soon as you made it back to the rented cabin you drug him back to huge master bedroom to show him just how grateful you are. In the end though he ended up flipping you like a pancake and reminding you just how strong he is. When you were done you were completely drained, covered in sweat and defeated. He came back from the kitchen with a bottle of water and you immediately reached for it but he told you to hold on. You watched him in confusion as he pulled a drink powder from his bag and put some in the bottle. He shook it up and you watched the water turn blue then he handed it to you to drink.

"That will replinish your electrolytes." He said with such a cute smile, then walked back to his bag to get a bottle of vitamins and you started to drink your water. "Here stick your tongue out." You obeyed and he placed two pills on your tongue. "That's B12, you got a charley horse when I bent your leg to far back so that will help, I'll buy you more when we get home, I told you to start taking your vitamins!" He said while starting to stretch your legs out to relieve the tension. He would talk to you about stretching and eating more fruit and blah blah but you wouldn't have it any other way.

San:

San's parents loooove you so they tell him to not even bother coming home during the break if you aren't with him, so you agree to come with. You loved the girl time you got with San's mom, his older sister and his younger sister, Byeol the cat, anyways. You and him arrived a day early and San's parents aren't back from their day trip till tomorrow, so he decided to take you to all his favorite spots around town then he took you out to dinner. Once you're back at his parents you do your normal nightly routine, then head to bed in his childhood bedroom. You tease him after you find an old swimsuit magazine in his room and he turns red and tries to wrestle it from you, leading to him pinning you down. He pecks you on your lips once he's got you down and it went downhill from there. Sure there is a small ting of guilt for doing this at his parents' house in the back of your mind, but you couldn't really focus with San pounding into you. After a nice and long session, you like to just lay back and relax meanwhile San wants to live in your skin. He would cuddle into your chest and wrap his arms around your waist, you scratch his scalp like he's a cat while he draws circles on your thighs. San's aftercare is alot of affection and love bombing.

"I love you."

Kiss on your stomach.

"You're so beautiful."

Kiss on your neck.

"You're the only one for me."

Kiss on your lips.

Mingi:

Now that Mingi finally had some alone time in his apartment with Seonghwa and San gone he decided to stay home and finally get some work done. You didn't want to get in the way but after a few days you surprised him with some lunch. After you ate, you were going to leave but he insisted that you stay and listen to the song he's been working on, you mentioned not wanting to be a bother and he let you know you're more like a muse. You headed to his room where his equipment is set up and sat on his bed to watch him continue to work. For some reason watching Mingi work on his music was so sexy, seeing the effort and passion he put in made you feel hot. Before you could think more about it, he invited you into his lap to listen with him, not even 5 minutes into sitting and listening the sexual tension became so thick you both couldn't resist anymore. Mingi dropped you on the bed to show you he was feeling the same way you were. You wanted to really show him how much you appreciated his hard work flipping on top of him and letting him feel every inch of you. After taking up a good chunk of his time you decided to try to get dressed to let him get back to work, but Mingi likes to spend quality time as after care.

"Woah where are you going?" He asked.

"Oh, I'm going home so that you can get back to work."

"What? No come back here so we can finally get caught up on jjk."

"I told you to finish without me."

"Why would I do that? Just come cuddle me so we can watch."

Wooyoung:

You and Woo went on a nice trip in the mountains, beautiful views and blue waters. He brought his camera to record for his fans and take pictures, the camera stayed in his hand the whole trip. Even when it probably shouldn't have. He was recording every inch of you when you two got back to the bedroom, making sure to get the nice angles of your body while ravishing you in different positions. When you were finally done you took the camera from him, you had to admit curiosity took over and you decided to watch the whole thing in awe. Is that really how you sound? When did you get that flexible? Thank God you shaved. While you were distracted watching the tape you two just made Wooyoung walked back in the room with juice pouches and a plate with two hot grilled cheeses, cut diagonally of course.

"Stop being a perv and eat." he hands you one of the juice pouches as he gets back under the covers with you and places the plate on the bed. You gladly enjoy the dinner and a movie and Wooyoung just loves watching you eat and enjoy something he made, both the video and the food, grilled cheese or not food is good aftercare.

Jongho:

Jongho invited you to a ski resort with his other friends, even though you didn't know a thing about skiing or snowboarding. You liked seeing him happy and active after his injury. After a long day of falling on your ass you decided that was enough torture and headed back to the suite first, letting Jongho spend more time with his friends. You took a hot bath and laid in bed to enjoy the soft sheets, falling into sleep without noticing. A few hours later you could feel the bed dip and Jongho's warm embrace, you asked him if he enjoyed his time in the snow and he said yes and thanked you for coming, giving you a nice kiss. It had been quite some time since you and Jongho went all the way, always scared of hurting him but you couldn't let the good mood go to waste and made the first move to climb on top of him. You two take a shower when your done and Jongho doesn't like to show it, but he too is very affectionate after. He holds your hang in the shower and puts you in a full-on bear hug when you're back in the bed cuddling. It's not just during night either, when it's morning and time to meet with your friends for breakfast he won't let you go.

"We have to get ready Jongho or we will be late."

"We'll get room service." He groans.

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stellarbit · 4 months ago

Text

The Batch Comfort You

Word Count: 2.1k Pairing: One excerpt for each of the boys Warnings: Nada Anon requested the Batch reacting to you saying, "I'm so stupid! Seriously, how can you stand to be around someone like this?" So here we go

You'd made another mistake, adding to the already colossal pile of ones you'd made recently. And worse, your whole team lay witness to the most recent. Upon landing for refuel, everyone besides you took the opportunity to stretch their legs. Everyone else except for one.

"You shouldn't let it get to you." They said, seeing that you were clearly still upset. "Just let it go."

In a burst of misdirected frustration you snapped at them, "I'm so stupid. Seriously, how can you stand to be around someone like this?!" You stormed off towards the ship's exit.

Tech

Tech watched you slump against the Marauder’s step. Your elbows were resting on your knees while your head hung between your shoulders. A quick shake ran through you, a suppressed heave marked only by the fast motion.

Gripping his datapad tighter, Tech considered what to do. This was an irregular response from you and not one he necessarily knew how to navigate. But he was certain of one thing.

Tucking his datapad away, Tech descended the stairs and took up a seat next to you.

You were quick to duck your head into your hands, but not quick enough for Tech to miss the wet streaks staining your face. Turning his eyes forward, Tech afforded you what little privacy the situation allowed.

The technician rubbed his hands over his thighs, preparing himself one last time before saying, “It is not unusual for one to become frustrated with one’s flaws and mistakes.”

One might describe that sound you made as a choked laugh, others may have called it a sob. Which it was, Tech could not say for sure.

“Flaws and mistakes.” You parroted in a cracked voice. “Two things I’m full of.”

Tech glanced at you from the corner of his eye. “Yes. As all humans are.” Your answer, another strangled sound, gave Tech pause. Running his hands over his thighs in another soothing motion, he clutched his knees. His attempts at helping were clearly doing the opposite.

Maybe if he tried another approach… “By chance, do you know the definition of ‘stupid?’” Tech asked.

On an exasperated sigh, you lifted your head to finally turn your tear stained, blotchy face to Tech. “Lacking knowledge and making mistakes.”

Tech made a thoughtful hum and pivoted slightly to face you. “You are partially correct. However the complete definition would be ‘having a lack of intelligence or common sense.’”

You blinked before giving an empty shrug and scoffing. “How is that any different?”

Tech bit the inside of his cheek, this topic was quickly putting him out of his depth. But he wanted to help - to see you happy and sure of yourself again.

Clearing his throat, Tech looked away momentarily as he asked. “Do you find me intelligent?”

“Of course.” You replied without pause.

Turning to face you again, Tech hummed, “Well, I am currently struggling to comfort you at this moment.” He rolled one shoulder in a half shrug. “Some might surmise that is a result of lacking common sense and, by definition, that would make me stupid.”

“Tech you are not stupid.” Your tone was defensive, almost offended that Tech would insinuate such a thing.

“Neither are you.” He retaliated.

You blinked once, then twice, and a wobbly smile cracked to the surface. “Thank you, Tech.”

Tech smiled, patting your shoulder before using you as support to stand up. “It is something I am happy to remind you of in the future, should you need it.”

Wrecker

Wrecker trailed after you, taking steps two at a time to cut your path short. You stood on the last step, eyes cast downwards and shoulders shaking. Wrecker’s heart ached as he realized you were trying so hard not to cry.

“Hey, hey.” He said as took your hand in his. As he feared, even your hand was shaking. Wrecker knelt to the ground, gently guiding you down with him. “What’s all this all of the sudden?”

You blinked, attempting to keep back the tears, but it didn’t stop the sob to come. “I’m sorry.” Your voice warbled. Shaking your head, you kept your gaze lowered. “I can’t even keep it together.”

The large man extended a hand to tilt your chin up with a knuckle, but you still refused to meet his gaze. Wrecker took his knuckle and brushed away a few tears only for more to take their place.

“You’re not stupid.” Wrecker said firmly.

Unconvinced, you whispered back, “You’re my friend- you have to say that.”

“Oh, no I don’t.” Wrecker twisted on his heals, pivoting to get in your sights and finally pull your watery attention to him. When you met his gaze a wide grin spread across Wrecker’s face complimented by a wink. “I’m saying it because I know it.” Bouncing on the balls of his feet, Wrecker got to his feet and extended a hand, palm up, to you

“Besides,” Wrecker started saying in a light tone, wiggling his fingers in invitation to you. Rolling your eyes, you conceded and placed your hand in his. Wrecker immediately lifted you to your feet. “I like you ‘cause of the way you make me feel.” He stood on his toes to playfully whisper, “And for how pretty you are.”

You scoffed hard, giving him a light push back. The blush his compliment gave you only made your face all the redder. “Well that doesn’t make me feel better. You’re half-blind, Wrecker.”

Wrecker chuckled triumphantly. “Ha! There it is.”

“What?”

Using both hands, Wrecker held the side of your face, still damp from crying, and touched the corners of your mouth. “Your smile.”

Again, his comment made your stomach flutter. You hadn’t even realized you were smiling.

Echo

Echo caught you by your elbow, pulling you back to meet his eye.“Oh no you don’t.” He said in an almost scolding tone.

“Let go.” You grunted as you tried to pull away, but Echo held fast. Your eyes darted between his hold on you and his eyes.

Turning you to face him fully, Echo pressed on, “You can’t give up every time it gets tough.”

You recoiled. “I’m not giving up.” You were quickly going from upset to offended and Echo could see it. The situation didn’t call for the militant approach.

Echo sighed, releasing you as he did. “A bad situation got the better of you and you call yourself stupid?” The cyborg gave a disapproving shake of his head. “That’s giving up on yourself.” His call out instantly deflated what little energy you had left. Watching your shoulders drop, Echo thought to himself, Softer, soldier.

Coming to your side, Echo placed a hand on the small of your back, mumbling softly. “C’mon.” Guiding you into a chair near the nav screens, he took a seat across from you.

“Listen,” Echo’s voice was softer than usual. He leaned in to touch your knee, continuing, “Not everything is going to go well, that’s just a fact of life. But all you can do is learn and move on. So, stop beating yourself up so much.”

Somehow he was riling you up further. It was as if you were offended he would even try to challenge you on this. You leaned in sharply, hissing, “I do move on. Then I mess up and I move on and mess up again. And on and on I go with a trail of fuck ups behind me.”

“There are wins in there too.” Echo challenged, firming his grip on your knee. His hazel eyes darted between yours, his features softening as he chuckled, “Your enemies better be glad for all this self doubt of yours.” He patted your knee and leaned back in his chair.

“Why?” You asked hesitantly.

“Because if you believed in yourself half as much as I believe in you, there’s nothing you couldn’t do.”

Warmth bloomed in your chest. Your eyes fell to where his hand had been, considering what he just said. Your stomach flipped over when you met his eyes again. “You really mean that?”

“I really mean that.” He’d barely gotten the words out when your arms made it around his neck. Echo sat still, hands flared at his sides, as you nestled into you.

“I can do that.” You said into his shoulder.

Echo softly smiled, allowing his hands to rest on your back. “Do what?”

He felt you smile into his neck as you said, “Believe in me like you do.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” Echo hummed, leaning his head against yours.

Crosshair

“Oh, get over it.” Crosshair’s snarky tone stopped you mid step. Turning back, you watched him prop out a foot and put a toothpick between his lips. “Something went wrong. It happens. Moping about solves nothing..”

Your lower lip wobbled as you took him in. Tossing a hand in his direction you said, “You are good at everything you do. You’ve no idea what it’s like to be like me.”

A snarl curled Crosshair’s lip. The reaction wasn’t meant for you, but for whoever made you believe you were less. He rolled the toothpick in his mouth to one side before removing it completely.

Stepping forward, Crosshair pointed the toothpick at you and drawled, “Stop the dramatics, you’re fine the way you are.”

The realization that Crosshair was complimenting you pricked you with shame. You must look pretty pathetic for Crosshair to be pitying you. Your lips pressed into a tight line in an attempt to hold your composure. “You don’t mean that.”

Crosshair’s eyes momentarily widened. He was used to you fighting and your strong spirit. Hearing you sound so defeated - so worn down - pulled at something in him. He closed the gap between you and muttered. “I don’t lie.”

His sudden proximity caught you off guard and brought with it the smell of mint and gun oil. You couldn’t control the reflexive inhale you took. If nothing else, he did a fine job of distracting you. You were so distracted you flinched when he rested a hand on your head.

Gently, he stroked his hand over your hair. “Everyone has their moments.” A soft smirk perked his lips as he added, “Even me.”

“You’re being awfully nice.” You said softly, sounding more breathless than you had intended

Crosshair’s smirk grew. Snorting, he flicked you in the forehead. “Don’t make a big deal out of it.”

Wincing as you rubbed your forehead you asked, “Then you mean it?”

Groaning, Crosshair rolled his eyes and pulled you by the chin. “I won’t say it again.” He said gruffly. In a lighter tone he continued, “You are not stupid. You’re fine the way you are.”

The sniper paused, watching as your words sunk in. He was starting to enjoy seeing these new expressions. He just needed one more push. “Got it, sweetheart?”

His words sent a chill up your spine. A satisfied smirk settled on him as heat singed your cheeks and ears. “Much better.”

Hunter

Hunter let you go, but kept an eye on you as you made for the outskirts of camp. He knew what it was like to be mad with yourself and he knew sometimes a little space helps. Eventually you did make your way back inside.

You checked for Hunter, hoping to sneak over to the fresher without his notice. Until you were toweling off your face, you thought you’d succeeded. Until you lowered your towel, found Hunter standing a few paces away and nearly jumped out of your skin.

He raised his hands, one holding a warm cup of caf and the other holding a ration bar. “Easy there.” He chuckled warmly.

A flush crept up your neck as your earlier shame reared its head again. Twisting the towel between your hands, you nervously laughed out an apology. Nodding to the items he held, you asked, “Afternoon snack?”

Hunter didn’t answer, but smiled at you and nodded towards the bunks as he stepped back towards them. For a moment you forgot your embarrassment and followed Hunter to the bottom bunk. He put the food in your hand and gestured for you to sit. Once down, Hunter sat right up against you and put the warm cup in your free hand.

You stared at your now full hands for a few blinks before looking back at Hunter with more confusion. With a soft laugh he wrapped an arm around you. “Feeling better?”

You silently nodded in response for fear of your voice cracking.

Hunter seemed pleased, having contemplated during your absence how best to comfort you. Not one for many words, he resorted to simple gestures. “Decaf,” he mentioned, tapping the rim of your mug. “A warm drink and a bite to eat always seem to help.” He began gently rubbing your arm in a comforting rhythm.

“Hey.” Hunter’s voice dropped to a softer tone, “You’re not stupid. You do your best everyday. You might not see it, but we all do.” He gave your arm a light squeeze and added, “So, have a little more faith in yourself.”

Your eyes fell to the caf and ration bar again, your grip on the cup tightening. “And what if I keep failing?”

Hunter shook his head, “That kind of thinking doesn’t do anyone any good.” He leaned forward to catch your eyes. “All we can do is keep going and try to be better.”

Clearing the lump forming in your throat and took a sip of the warm drink. Hunter was right, the caf did help.

@baddest-batchers

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chrzzboo · 10 months ago

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Lewis fic. Its his birthday y/n and him have an age gap. Not a crazy one but she teases him about his age.

My old man

Summary: It's Lewis's birthday, and you never fail to make him feel old on his special day.

Reader x Lewis Hamilton

Mention of age gap (10 years)

Note: First of all, I want to thank all of you for showing your love for my first-ever story on here. It means a lot!!! Also, I'm trying my best to write new stories based on your requests, but I'm currently in my exam period, so things might go slower. Anyways, I hope you enjoy this short fic!

It's currently 4 o'clock in the morning and Lewis is sound asleep next to me in bed. Why am I up so early already? Well it's my favourite human's birthday today and I want to make this day special for him. Knowing that Lewis always wakes up at around 6 o'clock for his early morning workouts made me get up early to decorate the house and get his favourites for his birthday.

I bought all the decorations last night and did a pretty good job at hiding it from Lewis. Starting by blowing up all the balloons and hanging them around the place followed by the rest of the decoration. If there is one thing that Lewis doesn't like, it's seeing his age on display. So that's exaclty what I did. I bought the numbers 39 in a big form and hung them on the most noticable place in the house to tease him even more.

After I was done with decorating the place I went out and went to the store to buy the last few things that were needed, thank God 24/7 hour stores are a thing otherwise I would've been fucked. While strolling along the aisles I can't help but find the perfect gift for Lewis. It was a dog shirt with the words 'Grandpa's favourite boy' displayed on it, promising myself to get Roscoe to wear it later. After getting the last things I went back home knowing that it was almost time for Lewis to wake up.

Putting everything on the counter i start to prepare his birthday breakfast with all his favourites in it. I still had plenty of time since I already wrapped his gifts yesterday, so in the meantime while I was making his breakfast I quickly took the dog shirt out for Roscoe to wear. He looked so adorable but I couldn't help but laugh at the shirt. I don't think Lewis would even be surprised since I've been teasing him about his age non stop.

While putting the last things on the table I felt two strong hands wrap around my waist. "Babe you went all out this year" Lewis exclaimed. "Well it's my favourite old man's birthday I had to make it special." I added. Lewis groans "Love are you seriously still making fun of me?" I gasped but it was quickly followed by my laugh. "I would never!" "I just wanted to celebrate you getting closer to the forties" Lewis groans again. "Babe seriously stop that I'm still in my thirties and that's what matters and also you're just 10 years younger then me your time will come as well" "Jeez Lewis you're making it sound as if I'm about to die or something but for now I'm happily enjoying my twenties" I say pecking his lips and leading him to the breakfast table.

"Babe there was no need to put those numbers up there" Lewis exclaimes. "Well you're an old man now I had to remind you before you forget" I say with a laugh. Lewis groans even more. "You're never letting it go are you?" "Ofcourse not old man!". "But babe on a serious note you didn't have to do all this" He said coming over to me and kissing me passionately. "But i wanted to since you deserve the world Lew" I tell him with a peck to his lips. "Thanks beautifull I love you!" He adds "And I love you too My old man. Soon the kiss turned into a makeout session when Lewis breaks the kiss and adds "Well after all this I would love for this birthday gift to be taken to the bedroom" Smirking I jump on to him with both my legs secured around his waist. But before we could go any further Roscoe pops up and starts barking for our attention. Lewis puts me down and both of our attention is on Roscoe. "Hey old guy, did you want to wish your dad a happy birthday as well?" Lewis says while scratching behind Roscoe's ears. But then Lewis freezes noticing the shirt I put on Roscoe earlier. He turns to me, but I was already out of sight, running for my life. "Y/N ARE YOU SERIOUS RIGHT NOW?"

The end.

#lewis hamilton x reader #lewis hamilton imagines #f1 x reader #f1 imagine #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #lewis hamilton x you #lewis hamilton fanfic #lewis hamilton imagine

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skywalker1dream · 6 months ago

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Title: Thrilling ride

note: sorry i was gonna post it sooner and it should have been longer too, but i had the most stressful day today....hope you like it, hope you are having good day or night, drink water and eat healthy..byee

Summary: It's the height of Max Verstappen's "Mad Max" era, where he is known for his fierce driving and even fiercer temperament. You, a popular figure in the F1 paddock, find yourself caught in the middle of Max's jealousy as he watches you chat with other drivers. Tension runs high, leading to a heated confrontation and an intense make-out session that neither of you will forget.

Warnings: Jealousy, heated arguments, thats all?

--------------

You moved through the paddock, exchanging friendly banter with the drivers. Your laughter mingled with the hum of activity as you chatted with Charles Leclerc, your old friend from childhood.

"Good luck today, Charles," you said with a bright smile.

"Thanks, belle. I'll need it with Max on the prowl," Charles replied, glancing over your shoulder.

You turned to see Max Verstappen, his intense gaze locked on you. His jaw was set, and a storm brewed in his piercing blue eyes. Known as "Mad Max" for his aggressive driving style and fiery temperament, he was a force to be reckoned with on and off the track.

You excused yourself from Charles and walked over to Max, who looked like he was barely containing his jealousy.

"Hey," you greeted, trying to keep things light.

"Hey," he replied curtly, his eyes narrowing as he glanced over at Charles. "Having fun with Leclerc?"

You sighed, knowing where this was heading. "Max....he's just a friend. We've known each other since we were kids."

Max's eyes flashed with something darker. "Doesn't look like just friends to me."

You rolled your eyes, frustration bubbling up. "You're overreacting. It's just a conversation."

He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. "You know how I feel about you talking to other drivers like that, konijntje."

"Like what, Max? Like a normal human being?"

"Like flirting," he snapped, his voice low and dangerous.

Your heart raced, both from anger and the undeniable attraction between you two. "You're being ridiculous."

"Ridiculous, am I?" He took another step, his body almost touching yours. "Maybe I need to remind you who you belong to."

Before you could respond, his lips crashed onto yours with a fervor that took your breath away. The world around you blurred as you melted into the kiss, all the anger and tension dissolving into raw passion.

You wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, as his hands gripped your waist possessively. The kiss deepened, tongues battling for dominance, a mix of heat and need fueling the moment.

When you finally broke apart, both of you were breathing heavily. Max's eyes were still dark with jealousy, but now they held a glint of satisfaction.

"You drive me crazy, schatje," he murmured against your lips.

"You make me crazy too, Max," you admitted, resting your forehead against his.

He smirked, his possessiveness tempered by a rare softness. "Just remember, you're mine."

You nodded, a small smile playing on your lips. "I'm yours, Max. Always."

As the call for the drivers to their cars echoed through the paddock, Max gave you one last, searing kiss before reluctantly pulling away. You watched him go, your heart pounding, knowing that the fire between you two was far from extinguished.

In the high-stakes world of Formula 1, love was as exhilarating and dangerous as the race itself. And with Max Verstappen, every moment was a thrilling ride.

#f1 imagine #f1 x reader #f1 fanfic #f1 fic #fanfic #max verstappen x you #max verstappen x reader #mad max #max verstappen #f1

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koolades-world · 2 years ago

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The moment the om cast realized they fell in love with you (part one)

Lucifer

He had a very important report due to Diavolo the next day. Thankfully, it was a weekend, so he could stay up as late as he wanted. He was beyond stressed. Old coffee cups littered his desk. He had already completed several parts of this report, but he had saved the worst part for last. The house was silent for a while. Asmo and Mammon were likely still out, and since they were the main sources of problems, he had silence for a while. But that was too much to ask, of course.

His brothers were causing a ruckus as usual. This time, it seemed as if Beel had eaten one of Levi's limited snacks and several of Asmo's face products because they smelled good. Mammon was also being accused of stealing Belphie's favorite cow pillow. Lucifer knew it was only a matter of time before Satan got involved and the house set on fire again. He hoped Mc wasn't involved, but with his luck, they were right in the middle. His mind drifted to them despite the chaos outside. Earlier that day, they were talking about an art project they had recently started. It was a paint by numbers that they planned to hang in their room once they were finished. They had sweetly remarked the deep red roses reminded them of him, and it was all he could think about hours later.

He sighed. He knew the fight was going to escalate but he didn't want to spend a moment away from the report. The yelling grew louder as they came down the hall. As he stood up, the hall went silent. He paused, suspicious. He stood there for a moment before cautiously opening the door. There was nobody in sight. He shut the door again but before he could get more than a few steps away, there was a soft knock on the door. With another sigh, he turned back around to open the door.

On the other side of the door was Mc. Belphie was draped over them from their right side, one arm wrapped around him. Mc was basically dragging him along since he was too big for them to carry and he was half asleep. He was not paying attention to anything but Mc. If Belphie was any smaller, he would be curled up in their arms, like a baby, or a cat. This stirred something within Lucifer, but he ignored it. In their other hand was a fresh cup of coffee. He wasn't sure how they knocked.

"This is for you." They held out the cup with a gentle smile. "I figured you would want another one. I made it myself."

"Thank you." He took it and sipped it. It was just how he liked it.

"I sorted out your brothers. I promised to take them out tomorrow for ice cream if they were quiet and kept to themself for the rest of the evening. I'm going to look for replacements for with Levi and Asmo lost, and I'm pretty sure Belphie's pillow got lost in his bed so we're about to go look." Lucifer was speechless. A strange feeling grew in his chest that he couldn't quite place. He choked out another quiet thank you. Belphie was quietly whining about his pillow. Mc shushed him and promised him they were going to find it

"I'll leave you alone now. If you need anything from me, let me know. Good night." Just like that, they were gone, dragging his youngest brother behind them. He shut the door in a stupor. After sitting back at his desk, he realized what this feeling was. Earlier, he was jealous of his brother, but seeing Mc act to tenderly to both Belphie and himself made him feel fuzzy inside. He had fallen, and hard at that. To think, the powerful Lucifer was in love with something as simple as a human. What was he going to do?

Mammon

Mammon was at his sixth photoshoot this month. Since it was on the other side of town, his brothers were interested in coming at first since they didn't go that way often. However, by the third time he was called out there, nobody wanted to tag along anymore. He had specially invited Mc, figuring they would want to come with him. They did, but they were all after school, which is when they had club meetings. They had recently become the president of RAD's garden club, so as much as they wanted to go, they couldn't skip these meetings. He was hurt by that, but he knew they couldn't help it.

The fourth and fifth photoshoots were fun while they were happening, but he felt oddly lonely after all the excitement had died down. He had gone to a bar both times afterwards, and that was the plan this time too. There was a store he had passed on the way there and had seen outfits that reminded him of Mc that he wanted to buy for them. He thought they would appreciate it and might be more inclined to come along next time. It was greedy of him, but that's what he did best.

The shoot had just ended and he was finally free to do whatever he wanted. While he liked the shoot outfit, he wanted to put his regular outfit back on. He put on his usual, cocky exterior and waved, smiled, and winked at people he passed by. When he reached his dressing room, he slammed the door shut behind him and look a deep breath, finally able to relax. He sat there for a moment, hands on the back of the door, eyes shut. He wanted to leave as soon as possible, so he turned around, but wasn't ready to be greeted by the sight of someone familiar.

"Mc? What the hell are ya doin' here? Don't cha have club?" There they were, the person he was thinking about, sitting in his dressing chair. They were wearing his jacket, no less. He was overloaded with several emotions that he couldn't describe. He was frozen in place.

"The rest of the club realized I was missing out on your photoshoots, so they agreed to meet tomorrow instead. You look nice." Their smile was dazzling.

"I- uh- of course The Great Mammon looks nice! Be amazed human!" He was unsure on how to react. He was not expecting to see them of all people and wasn't mentally prepared at all.

"How did the shoot go?" They stood up and grabbed his arm to pull him over to the chair they were just sitting in. They sat him down and began removing his makeup for him. He was still reeling, but he finally caught up.

"Wait, wait. How did ya get here? You didn't come all this way on yer own, did ya? Are ya okay?" He caught Mc's hands in his own to pause them and scanned their face. They looked alright externally. They smiled at him.

"I'm alright, I promise. Mephisto drove me down since he had business in this area." The thought of them being alone together angered him a little, but he was more glad they got there safely. He knew damn well Mephisto had no business in the fashion district.

“Ya shouldn't be standing. You sit here." He tried to clumsily got to his feet, still holding Mc's hands.

"No, you've been up all day. You worked hard. Let's get you ready to go home." They sat him back down and sat on his lap to continue removing their makeup. He short-circuited, and couldn't form a proper sentence. Mc giggled, making him go red. His ears were the color of Diavolo's hair. Once he stopped trying to speak, it became much more enjoyable. The rest went by in a blur. They buzzed about the highlights of their day, but Mammon simply wanted to admire their face. They ushered him to his closet to get changed, which he did. He didn't pester them about his jacket.

The moment he left the changing room was the moment he realized everything he was feeling was his love for Mc. Seeing them holding his car keys, wearing his jacket and hairclips from the shoot made him realize he was down bad, and there was no getting back up.

Levi

Levi had gotten his hands on a game he knew Mc was looking forward to playing. Lately, they had been caught up with schoolwork. He was able to complete almost all of it digitally, but Mc didn’t have that option, so they had to complete in person assignments, which translated to them getting back so tired they just wanted to sleep. He couldn’t blame them, but it made him feel lonely. Sometimes, he would play a game on his D.D.D, sitting in their bed while they napped, if one his brothers wasn’t already there. Satan would do the same thing, but with a book instead so they would silently agree to keep out the others. It made him green with envy to have to share these fleeting moments with anyone, but it was all he could get.

They were on break for two weeks now. Mc got all their work done early on and promised Levi they would spend as many nights with him as possible. He has gotten his hands on a game he knew they were really looking forward to as a surprise. He just needed to wait for them to show up to his room. Time ticked by. The seconds felt like agonizing hours as his kind ran wild with possibilities of what might have happened to them. What if Asmo dragged them out to a party? What if Lucifer loaded them with more work? Or, worst of all, what if they got dragged into a nap with Belphie?

These thoughts were interrupted by the sound of footsteps in the hall. He let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He recognized the gait and heaviness as Mc. Before they could knock, or say anything, he opened the door.

“Levi! I got snacks. Sorry I’m a little late. I had to throw some crumbs to Beel so he wouldn’t eat what was for us.” They smiled at him. He could already hear his heartbeat. He didn’t understand it. “Close the door behind me and lock it so he doesn’t come back for the rest.” This statement made his palms clammy, but he did as they asked

“So, what’s the surprise? You should know I’ve been dying to know all evening.” They sat down on a beanbag chair, crossed legged. Today they looked extra nice in his opinion.

“I got “Help, I’ve Been Reincarnated as a Demon…! the game 2!” He presented it to them proudly.

“You shouldn’t have! You know I was saving up to buy that! You’re so sweet.” They threw their arms up in the air and clapped.

“You’re not going to believe this, but it came in a super bundle and came with the first game, the first game remastered, both DLCS, and a plushie mc’s pet cat!” He lifted the basket off his desk and passed it to them.

The look on their face was priceless. This was the first time he had ever felt happy simply because someone around him was elated, no less because of a gift. Everyone else told him he was an awful gift giver, but the look on Mc’s face told him otherwise. They stood up and threw their arms around him. Usually. He would freeze up in a bad way, but this felt oddly joyful. He couldn’t bring himself to hug back, but he savored the moment.

If that didn’t do it, them curling into his side during a particularly long loading screen did. The toy cat was sitting in their lap and their ankles were crossed with his. Now that they were asleep, he was alone with this thoughts again. He’d never felt this way about anyone before. What now?

part two tomorrow with the remaining four brothers since this took much longer than I thought it would. also want to do a side characters version which also might be broken up into parts lol

#obey me #obey me!#obey me belphie #obey me satan #obey me asmo #obey me beel #obey me levi #obey me mammon #obey me x reader #obey me x mc #obey me lucifer #obey me x you

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hisui-dreamer · 2 years ago

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hi!! this is my first time ever asking. may I request sleeping with their s/o (/nsx) hcs for Riddle, Idia and Azul? how cuddly they are, if they snore, that thing!! sorry if this is strange, it really is a first for me!! -🐙

the warmth of your arms

Characters: Riddle, Idia, Azul

Synopsis: How are they like when they sleep?

Tags: fluff, cuddling, sleeping habits, bot proofread

Word count: 656

Notes: Thank you for your ask! Don't worry, it's not strange at all, I was squealing in delight imagining the scenarios haha.

Masterlist

Riddle has a very structured and disciplined sleeping routine

insists on going to bed and waking up at a specific hour to get the recommended amount of sleep

has a set of pre-sleep rituals, like reading a book or doing some stretches to help him relax

strict rules about sleeping hygiene!!

no eating or drinking too close to bedtime

makes sure that the room is quiet and dark to promote good sleep

i also feel like he was trained to be so perfect as a child, his mom wouldn't have let him snore or have any bad habits, so definitely is a quiet sleeper

but he’s still very affectionate

loves wrapping his arms around them and pulling you close

spooning or simply holding hands

whispers gentle words of affection

likes placing soft kisses on your forehead, cheek, or lips

makes sure you’re comfortable and have everything you need for a good night's sleep

all in all, very soft and cuddly, but also does not want to disturb you

Riddle let out a contented sigh as he snuggles closer to you. "I can't remember the last time I felt this relaxed," he murmurs.

sleep? pshhh who needs sleep? sleep is for the weak

Idia stays up late into the night and likes sleeping during the day to avoid any social interaction

also snores a bit because he’s heavily sleep deprived

have you seen his eyebags???

but things are different with you

once he’s grown comfortable with your touch, you sleeping with him fixes his sleep schedule

he used to be haunted by his nightmares reminding him of his past mistakes

but with you no longer has trouble falling asleep or staying asleep throughout the night, he sleeps more soundly with you

he goes to bed earlier, loves snuggling up next to you and feeling your body next to him, resting his head on your shoulder, or intertwining limbs

spooningg, nuzzles his face in your neck/head

idly traces patterns on your back, and gently touching your face to reassure himself that you’re really there

he actively listens to you whenever you talk, hearing your voice is calming for him

also will appreciate and respect any of your personal boundaries in bed, incredibly mindful of your comfort levels

in conclusion, soft touch-starved boi who loves physical intimacy

Idia wraps his arms around you tightly and whispers, "I'm glad I have you in my life," he smiles, the soft tickle of his breath on your forehead. "You're my Player 2, you know."

as a mermaid, Azul does not require as much sleep as a human does

instead he sees sleeping as a great opportunity to spend quality time with you

before you, his sleep schedule is incredibly

always stays up late working on deals, studying magic, or pursuing his own interests, leading to inconsistent sleep patterns and occasional all-nighters

sleep was a means to recharge to maintain his physical and mental well-being

he used to snore but when he lost weight, he stopped, so now he associates snoring with his old self and is embarrassed by the thought of it

when he’s with you he makes sure he is present and attentive in his relationship

aligns his sleep schedule with yours

enjoys cuddling with you and typically falls asleep holding you close, his arms wrapped protectively around you, vaguely reminiscent of his octopus limbs

sometimes he talks in his sleep, murmuring words of love and adoration

your man is rich, and he gets super soft bedding, plush pillows, and other extravagant sleep accessories to indulge your comfort

soft heart to heart pillow talks or gentle physical touches

he appreciates you a lot, and it shows in his comfort

Azul's gaze softened as he looked into your eyes, his hand entwined with yours. "Oh, my dear angelfish, what did I ever do to deserve you? Thank you for always being there for me," he whispers, before leaning in to kiss you.

Masterlist

if you liked this post, don't forget to reblog!

#twstnexus #twisted wonderland #twisted wonderland x reader #twst x reader #disney twisted wonderland #twst imagines #twst wonderland #riddle rosehearts #riddle rosehearts x reader #riddle x reader #azul ashengrotto #azul ashengrotto x reader #azul x reader #idia shroud #idia shroud x reader #idia x reader

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littlefireball · 2 months ago

Text

ʏꜱ|ᴘʟᴇᴀꜱᴇ ᴋɴᴏᴛ ᴍᴇ ᴀɢᴀɪɴ (ᴀ/ᴍ)

ᴅᴏʙᴇʀᴍᴀɴ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ꜱᴏʟᴅɪᴇʀ ʏᴇᴏꜱᴀɴɢ x ᴘᴜᴘᴘʏ ʜʏʙʀɪᴅ ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

ᴘᴀʀᴛ 2 ᴏꜰ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴄᴏɴᴛʀᴏʟ ᴍʏꜱᴇʟꜰ (ᴘᴀʀᴛ 1 ɪꜱ ʜᴇʀᴇ)

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢ: ꜱᴍᴜᴛ|ᴀɴɢꜱᴛ|ᴜɴᴘʀᴏᴛᴇᴄᴛᴇᴅ ꜱᴇx|ᴠᴀɴɪʟʟᴀ ꜱᴇx|ᴍᴇɴᴛɪᴏɴᴇᴅ ᴏꜰ ᴋ*ʟʟɪɴɢ ᴘᴇᴏᴘʟᴇ, ꜱʜᴏᴏᴛɪɴɢ||ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ ɪꜱ ᴅʏɪɴɢ|ᴍᴀᴋᴇ ᴏᴜᴛ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ:3ᴋ

"Recently, law enforcement dismantled a human trafficking operation." Yeosang meticulously read the manuscript in his grasp, articulating the horrific details of this inhumane crime.

As you reclined on the bed, your heart raced with fear and anxiety, listening intently to Yeosang's words. You were among the fortunate few, rescued by Yeosang after enduring a harrowing week of captivity.

Despite the brevity of the week, the ordeal was excruciating, surpassing even the agony of death itself. They administer potent drugs designed to induce estrus, ensuring a seamless path to conception. As for those harrowing procedures... you forgot, but the fear is still torturing you.

'Knock─' A gentle rap on the door drew you from your reverie. "Come in," you beckoned, as Yeosang stepped inside, a radiant smile gracing his features. "Hello, Y/N. How are you feeling?" "I'm okay, thanks." Throughout your time in the hospital, he will grace you with his presence nearly every day, save for those occasions when work calls him away.

Although your relationship is more like that between a caregiver and a patient. He constantly reminds you to take care of your health, especially now that you're expecting. Regardless of everything, he is the father of your child, the one who knotted you on that day.

He set a beautifully crafted lunch box upon your table, releasing an enticing aroma that tantalized your senses. "Awww~It's tteokbokki!!" You knew what that was by only smelling it. After all, you were a puppy. "Your sense of smell is as good as ever." "Of course~" Your fluffy ears and tail popped up while he was unpacking the bag. "Don't eat too fast. It's hot." "Orch!" No surprise, you were scalded slightly as you directly put it in your mouth.

"Are your ears used as decorations?" You gave him a death look as he played your ears. "I'll bite you." "No, you can't. You're too slow." Well, he was right. As a puppy, you ran much slower than others of your kind. "And I'm a Doberman." "Okay,okay." You nodded helplessly.

That is your only conversation after he enters the room. A heavy silence envelops you both, as if an invisible barrier has been erected. You yearn to spark a conversation, to bridge the distance, but his replies are always frosty, suggesting a reluctance to engage. He fulfills his obligations—picking up the things you need, accompanying you on walks—but the chasm between you remains unfilled, a constant reminder of the disconnect.

"I have to work tonight. I gotta go now." He collects his belongings, and you give a slight nod. "Make sure you don't overeat and get some good rest." His daily mantra echoes in your ears, and you nod once more. "See you later." You wave as he walks away. A sigh escapes your lips; you long for deeper conversations, not just the usual reminders and goodbye. "Baby, do you think he dislikes me?" You gently stroke your small, rounded belly, lost in contemplation.

Yeosang feels the same way, craving deeper conversations. Yet, there's a tinge of guilt in his longing. He should be your protector, not the source of your distress. His introverted nature makes social interactions challenging for him, and he takes his time to open up. Unfortunately, he never anticipated that this would only widen the gap of misunderstanding between you two.

After a restless night of tossing and turning, you decide to take a stroll. Nestled on the mountainside, the hospital stands in a tranquil, sparsely populated area, making it an ideal spot for healing. At the base of the mountain lies a beach, where the gentle sea breeze caresses your face as you wander along the winding trails.

Strolling along the deserted path that leads to the beach, the sound of your shoes tapping against the pavement echoes in the stillness. A chill hangs in the air, and the streetlights above cast an eerie flicker. You pull your arms tightly around yourself, regretting not having grabbed a jacket before stepping out.

"Why is it so chilly? Yeosang is definitely going to scold me" Perhaps it's best to retreat to your room for a soothing warm bath. Just as you decide to turn back, a noise catches your attention. It's a soft, distant sound that sends a shiver down your spine, halting you in your tracks.

"Is anyone there?" you shouted into the silence. But there is no reply.

Your heart races as you scan the surroundings. The emptiness is palpable, yet an unsettling tension prickles at the nape of your neck. A cold shiver coursed through your body. Then, the sound returned, more pronounced this time—a deep, menacing growl.

You have to run but your legs give up because of fear.

"Oh let's see who I have found here." A seriously injured werewolf comes out from the shadow, approaching step by step, baring its teeth and growling dangerously.

"Remember who I am?" He asks with a low growl, making you shocked. "Forget? It doesn't matter. You're supposed to be my mate, dear." You finally remember, the day when Yeosang saved you, this werewolf was going to breed you but stopped by Yeosang.

"Don't you die? I remember…" You stammer, taking a step back. "But luckily, someone saved me. It doesn't matter who did it but you're the matter, y/n."

"No, get away from me." "Can you run from me?" As you turn away to run, he grabs your waist to pull you into his embrace and covers your mouth with his hand, making you unable to escape. "That cop chose a good hospital and I can catch you easily."

"He knots you?" The scent belonging to Yeosang fills his nose as he buries his face on your neck, making him let out a chuckle. "Then there is no difference between him and me. But you're mine. I should be the one who knot you." You shake your head intensely as a non-verbal begging, tears welling up in your eyes.

"What if he finds his mate lost his knot and his lovely baby?" He whispers against your ears, his claw trailing down to your tummy. Your cries are muffled, replaced by meaningless syllables.

"It must be fun to see him cry, isn't it?"

—----

"Is it a gift for Y/N?" Wooyoung asks, gazing at the beautiful silk box on Yeosang's hand. "Yah, she said she loved flowers." That is a rose gold ring with a stunning camellia. You want it for so long when you see it on the internet and Yeosang remembers all the words you said.

"You want to marry her?" Wooyoung's unexpected inquiry takes Yeosang by surprise, causing a flush to creep across his cheeks. "No, no. We..." He finds himself at a loss for words. Yes, he should take responsibility, providing all the best to you for make-up. He can't help but question if that's truly what you desire. The last thing he wants is to impose his will on you.

The pager's abrupt announcement shattered the air in the car, interrupting their conversation with a jarring urgency. "Colleagues nearby, please head to KQ hospital." Yeosang's heart plummeted, dread pooling in his stomach. "Y/N? Please be okay," he whispered, urgency propelling the driver toward the hospital.

A chilling sense of foreboding settled in his chest. Upon their arrival, the news of your disappearance hit him like a freight train. He can no longer restrain himself; he follows the faint trace of your scent, racing down the path where you had vanished. His sanity teeters on the edge; unlike the last time when substances had clouded his mind, this is driven by raw, unyielding emotion. The thought of you suffering again drives him to the brink. No, he swears to himself, he would never let that happen.

Sweat dripped down his forehead, mingling with the tears he couldn't hold back. His heart pounded in his chest, matching the pace of his feet as he frantically searched for any sign of you.

The forest was eerily quiet, save for the distant chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves beneath his feet. Yeosang's mind raced with worst-case scenarios, each one more terrifying than the last. He called out your name, his voice echoing through the trees, but there was no answer, only the eerie silence that seemed to mock his desperation.

The path grew narrower and steeper, forcing Yeosang to slow his pace. He strained his eyes, scanning the underbrush for any sign of movement, but the forest remained still and silent. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of something through the trees—your clothes.

"Y/N!" he shouted, his heart leaping with hope. He pushed through the last few yards of brush and emerged into a small clearing. And there you were, lying on the ground, unconscious and pale.

Yeosang's heart skipped a beat as he rushed to your side. He knelt down, gently brushing the hair from your face. Your skin was cool to the touch, and your breathing was shallow and ragged. He feels a surge of panic as he realizes how close you are to slipping away.

"Please, stay with me," he whispers, taking your hand in his. "I'm here now. I'll take care of you."

"There you are, damn werewolf." Without a moment's hesitation, Yeosang yanks a gun from his pocket and fires into the shadows, the echo of the shot piercing the night and drawing a terrified scream from the man lurking there. "Did you really think I wouldn't track you down?" He unleashes a barrage of bullets, each one finding its mark, leaving the would-be attacker powerless against his fury.

"I should have made sure you were dead before! How dare you lay a finger on her again!" Yeosang strides toward the creature, his aim steady as he targets its forehead, pulling the trigger until his weapon is empty. Breathing heavily, he casts a lethal glare at the fallen beast before turning his attention back to you.

"The knot is…?!" His heart pounds like a freight train as he senses the void within you, rage threatening to consume him. But his focus sharpens on one goal: getting you out of this forest and to safety. He scoops you up into his arms, determined to rush you back to the hospital.

Yeosang cradles you close, whispering words of comfort and reassurance. All the memories you spend together flash throughout his mind, he can't imagine if he lost you again. "Please stay with me, Y/N." He feels your hand tighten around his, and a small smile tugs at the corners of your lips. It is a fleeting moment, but it is enough to give him hope.

When you arrive at the hospital, the doctors rushes you away for treatment. Yeosang waited anxiously in the waiting room, pacing back and forth and praying for your recovery. Hours pass, and finally, a doctor emerges to give him an update.

"I'm sorry to tell you that she had a miscarriage," the doctor said, making Yeosang almost collapse . "She suffered some major injuries and dehydration, but with proper care, she'll make a full recovery." Yeosang nods as the doctor leaves, he enters your room and sees you are lying on the bed weakly.

"I'm so sorry, Y/N." He grips your hand, resting his forehead against it, tears spilling down his face. "I'm really thankful you're here." You murmur softly, but Yeosang shakes his head in denial.

"No, I shouldn't leave you like this. I need to be right here with you."

"But you have work to do. You didn't mean to leave."

"No, that's not an excuse." Yeosang meets your gaze with regret and sadness. " I feel terrible for not keeping my promise. If you need to scream at me or even hit me, go ahead. But please know that I truly feel sorry for you." His sobs come out in broken breaths, revealing a depth of emotion you never expected. It's astonishing how well he had hidden his true feelings.

"I don't know you can say that much." You make a joke, letting out a chuckle but accidentally cause yourself hiss at the pain.

"Are you okay? Do I need to call the doctor?" Yeosang asks as he stands up straight to check if you get hurt. "It's okay. Just relax." "How can I relax? You are mis…" He stops, clutching his fist.

"I know…" You trail off, a sadness creeping in. "And also the knot…" A hush envelops you both once more. The bond that once tied you together has unraveled, granting you both the freedom to part ways. Yet, Yeosang clings to your hand, fully aware of the reality, having grown accustomed to your presence and the comfort it brings. But of course, he would let you go if you wanted to.

"Y/N?" You gaze at him as he retrieves a small box from his pocket and gently places it in your palm. As you lift the lid, a stunning ring sparkles back at you. "Isn't this what I want for so long…?!" He nods, a shy smile spreading across his face, and replies, "I knew you'd love it, so I got it for you." "Is this your way of confession?" Your question takes him by surprise, and a deep blush creeps across his cheeks.

"No?Then I give it back to you."

"No, no, no. How can I take the present back?"

"I didn't say I received it."

"So…" He nervously rubs against his nape, stammering. "Do you like me?" Oh gosh, his brain can't function well, causing him to say something weird.

"Huh?" You smirk helplessly.

"Ah, I mean…ahh.."

"Yes, I like you." "Huh?" Yeosang doesn't expect you to confess to him directly. "Don't you ask me?" He bites his bottom lip, unable to hold his smile.

"Or you don't like me?"

"I didn't say that. I of course like you."

"Then can I ask you a question?" He nods, holding you tightly. "Can you knot me again?" He gazes at you for a while then cups your face, plating a kiss on your lips. "After you make a full recovery."

—----

"Is it okay for you?" He eased into you slowly, making sure you're not feeling any pain. "I'm okay." As you encircle his shoulder with your arms, you draw him in for a passionate kiss. Today marks a month since your release from the hospital, and now you've settled in with Yeosang, who had persistently invited you to stay with him until you finally said yes. You never anticipated his overwhelming protectiveness and possessiveness, but honestly, it doesn't bother you at all.

He showers you with all his love, being so clingy that he can't even leave you alone for too long. After all, he won't let the mistake repeat again.

Burying his face in the crook of your neck, he peppers your neck with kisses, his tongue tracing over your skin, occasionally nipping gently. He intertwines with your fingers as he slides into the deepest, slightly hitting your g spot, making you let out a small moan.

"You smile so good, honey." You love how he praises you, it makes you feel joy. "More, sangie." "Take me so well. You're so good for me." His cock rubs against your wall deliciously, filling you so full. You can't help but hold your breath when he thrusts so deep but not painful at all.

"Please harder, Sangie." He withdraws his hips until only the tip is inside your cunt, then thrusts back with a great force, creating a loud skin slapping sound each time his ball hits your ass. Throwing your head at the back, you pant and bent your legs more to allow him to shove into you easier. "You're so tight, god." Keep tightening your velvet wall around his cock, he can't help but let out a deep growl. It is too amazing that he may just cums if you keep doing this.

"I may not last long, dear." His thrusting becomes faster and steady, rubbing against your clit with his pelvis. Your whole body trembles with each of his thrust, your mouth falling into an 'O' form, letting out a long-throaty moan. He flips you over after withdrawing from you for a second, pushing back to your soaked cunt that mixed with his pre cum and your juices.

"Hmm…" "Hold on, love." His hand sneaks down to your chest, squeezing them while pumping into you with such a force. "Gosh, Sangie." "Feel good?" "Ah, yes." Your face lands on the pillow and suppresses your moaning, the way he batters your sweet spot causes your limbs to go weak as you can feel your intimate space wide open and he shoves into it. "Yeosang ah!" "You can take it, just hold on." It's so painful and you're not realize it before because of drugs.

At first, the pain feels almost unbearable, but gradually it transforms into a wave of pleasure that washes over you. Both of you let out deep moans, your scents intertwining in the air. Time loses all meaning as the energy between you surges, an unending cycle of movement; sometimes he holds you close, sometimes he turns you around, and at other moments, you find yourself on top, riding the rhythm together.

"I'm cumming!" Yeosang holds you tight as his chest presses against yours, pushing upward to make you arch your back. With a few powerful thrust, he cums and bites your neck, finishing the marking and knotting you. Catching your breath, you both lost in the pleasure and let out a chuckle, his cock twitches inside you causing you to squirm because of overstimulation.

"Are you okay?" You nod, resting your head on his shoulder as he kisses your cheek. "I love you, Sangie." This is your first time to say you love him, making him feel touched. He plants a kiss on your lips for a while, making a bob sound when he parts from it. "I love you too, y/n."

#ateez #ateez fanfic #ateez fic #ateez x female reader #ateez oneshot #ateez smut #ateez x reader #ateez x y/n #ateez imagines #ateez yeosang #yeosang smut #yeosang

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treacheryinblue · 5 months ago

Text

Chapter 3/4

Noah Sebastian x F!Reader Series

Word Count: 8.9k

Masterlist

× Summary: Noah is Death, the ruler of the after life (or whatever you want to call it), though he is cursed to watch you come and go from his never ending existence time and time again.

× Warnings!: Eh-level smut (P in V obviously), language, little bit of violence, tiny fluff if you squint, very slight dom!noah, smut with plot aka this became more in depth than I meant for it to aka a one shot that's now a series. Non-proofread smut. Let me know if I missed anything!

× Author's Notes: ( 1 ) It's a bit of a long one, folks! Consider it a thank you for being so patient while I've worked through my writer's block. ( 2 ) Don't look too deep into the lore I've created because there's probably a lot that doesn't make sense. But if you are curious, then feel free to ask me any questions! ( 3 ) I'm but a writer that thrives off positive feedback (or even constructive criticism), so don't be shy when it comes to interacting with the post, or even me.

Happy reading! xoxo

“That soul is not meant for this land, my lord.”

Silence was given as a response.

“She is not destined to be here, and you know what will hap-”

“Yes, I am well aware of the consequences to my actions.” Noah heavily exhaled, though he appeared uninterested in the conversation.

Sitting atop his throne, black and sleek, one hand gripped the arm rest while the other was bent and lifted to his face. He examined his nails, further showing his boredom.

“Please forgive me if I'm speaking out of turn, my lord, but…the Light Ones are not happy. It has been nine times now and each plays out just like the last.”

A growl was emitted from him, dark eyes flickering to the creature who stood below. “I do not need you reciting my failures to me, demon.”

Noah couldn't bear to think of how you had been ripped from him countless times now. Pried from his hands. Stolen away. You had spent centuries together, longer than any human could dream of living - if one could call you alive - but he knew an infinite amount of centuries more would never be enough. He needed forever.

“If the Light Ones think I'm going to give up just because they look down upon my doings, then they are sorely mistaken. Maybe they aren't as all knowing as they like to remind us of every chance they receive.” He spat with disdain.

The demon clamped their mouth shut in fear that they may further anger the embodiment of darkness sitting before them. This is how they remained for a long moment, neither speaking, but the demon holding many questions on their pointed tongue.

“‘My lord…” they cautiously began after a moment. “Might I ask…what is it about this girl that you're so drawn to? You encounter humans everyday, thousands of them, but none have made you so…”

“Weak?” Noah finished the demon’s sentence for them, his eyebrows quirked.

The demon immediately fell to their knees, their jagged forehead pressing to the marble floor as if to already begin begging for forgiveness.

“No! I would never say as such, my lord!”

Noah shook his head as his focus returned to his nails, just as the ruby encrusted dagger appeared within his grasp out of thin air.

“There's no need to grovel,” he exclaimed while turning the dagger, inspecting every inch of the blade. “I have become weak when it comes to her…but I don't have an answer for you as to why.”

It was still a mystery even to him.

“Does Death itself not deserve the chance to love and to be loved in return, though?”

× × ×

“Legend says it's cursed.”

You snorted a laugh as you looked up at the friendly face across the counter, though his expression was as serious as ever, causing your smile to falter slightly.

“Cursed?” Might as well indulge him a bit if he was going to get all mega serious on you now.

Nicholas was your go-to guy when it came to purchasing oddities and strange artifacts. He was good at tracking down the specific items you'd ask for but he also had a knack for snagging things he thought you'd find interesting.

Your eyes dropped to the dagger as you leaned into the glass countertop. There was a twitch in your fingers to reach out and touch the item, to feel the cool metal against your fingertips, though you knew better. Nick was typically pretty light hearted and you two could share a laugh, but you knew when to stay within your lane when it came to his business. Don't touch it until he offers it to you.

“From what I could find online, it's ancient, so old that no one can really say for sure how long it's been around. And you know how it goes with old things - always a curse or some shit attached to them.”

Nodding in agreement to his words, your eyes paused upon the faintly noticeable sigil that remained etched into the dagger’s blade. The sigil is why you wanted the item, what you had asked Nick to search for in particular.

“It's probably bullshit,” he continued, “but it was something about going to the flames if you're on the end of the blade.”

“The website was in some foreign language and the guy I bought it from barely spoke English so I can't give you an accurate translation yet. Who even knows if it's legit.”

The bell above the door dinging briefly overtook Nicholas' attention. He held a finger up to you to silently tell you to ‘hold on’, then he stepped around the counter to greet his new patrons.

“It's legit,” you softly spoke to yourself as you gazed upon the dagger again. There was something drawing you to it; a warmth, a knowing. Your eyes focused in on the cloudy rubies - you knew they'd shine again with a thorough cleaning - and they pulled you closer and closer, your sights now level with the item. Had there been a flicker within the largest stone? Couldn't be. Your eyes were clearly playing tricks on you now.

As Nick returned, you straightened your posture and smiled. “I'll take it.”

“What?” Nicholas opened his mouth to speak but then only breathed out, his head tilting slightly to the side.

“You know I have to charge you as if it's real, right? I mean, I haven't been able to fully inspect it myself or do anymore research, so I feel kinda like an asshole doing th-”

“Nick, it's fine.” You laughed while retrieving your wallet from your bag, fingers digging into the slot that held your credit card. “It's a chance I'm willing to take.”

“Alright…it's your money.”

A few minutes later and your new purchase was packaged and ready to go. Nick approached you with an outstretched hand that held the blood red box the dagger was stashed away in, uncertainty in his eyes. You knew he hated not knowing all the ins and outs of his inventory, especially when it came to something with such a hefty price tag.

“Are you coming tonight?” He asked as you accepted the box which was now being held close to your chest.

“It's the first show with our new singer but he's been fucking great in rehearsals. Really has an ear for the band.”

You nodded, again flashing a friendly smile. “I wouldn't miss it for the world.”

After a bit more chit chat and hammering down the finer details on how the night would go, you said your goodbyes to Nicholas with the obvious promise of seeing him in a few short hours.

Making your way out of the shop, phone in hand and AirPods nestled in your ears, you only looked up when you were about to cross the street. On the opposite side stood a man, his dark eyes set entirely on you. He was wearing all black with deep brown hair that brushed his cheeks, hands clasped behind his back. Something about him made your stomach do a flip and you felt a pull despite having no idea who this man was.

Slowly, your feet began to carry you along the crosswalk. He remained in place, though a faint smirk dared to appear over his lips. Your cheeks flushed crimson and you had the urge to glance away like some timid little school girl, but there was something preventing you from looking anywhere but at him.

“Come.”

A voice drifted into your mind and then back out as if being carried by the wind. You knew that should've frightened you but you felt nothing. Nothing aside from the biting need to be near this unknown man.

Then, he was suddenly gone and you were left empty.

The blaring beep of a horn shook you, your body flinching in surprise from the sudden harsh noise. You looked over to the car that was inches from colliding with you, a hand waving all about behind the windshield and motioning for you to get the fuck out of the way.

× × ×

Arms above your head, you loudly hollered along with the rest of the crowd as the song came to an end. Red lights flashed all around you, the stage illuminating and going fully dark in quick succession. Your hands collided in a fury of claps before lowering to cup around your mouth.

“Wooooo!” You had never been much of a ‘woo girl’ but alcohol made it loads more enjoyable to do.

You could feel the vibrations from both the noise you projected and the bass of the band in the hollow of your stomach, reverberating throughout your entire being. There was something sensual about it - being able to not only hear the music but also feel it.

Nicholas’ band had been pretty decent before so coming to see them and support their gigs was never an issue. But now? They were fucking amazing. The new singer definitely added to whatever they had been lacking previously, even if there wasn't anything specific you could put your finger on.

Did it help that the new singer happened to catch your eye a few times? Maybe.

“Hey!” Nicholas yelled out for you after their set. He had found you at the bar towards the back of the club - just where you always were.

“Hey yourself!” You called back as a fresh drink was set in front of you by the bartender.

Nick rolled his eyes at you but still chuckled. Sweat beaded on his forehead, pupils blown from the adrenaline rush he had experienced while on stage. You always thought Nick was pretty cute and you both had a lot in common - he had even asked you out once - but things were better kept as friends between the two of you. As well as the occasional artifacts dealer, of course.

“Didn't get a chance to see you before we went on, so let me introduce you to the newest member.”

“Noah!” The guy spoke up for himself, his voice loud enough for him to be heard over the commotion of the crowd and also the next band setting up.

You paused as your gaze met his, eyes squinting ever so slightly while taking in his face from this new close proximity. He looked just like the ethereal man you had seen outside of Nick’s shop earlier, but also…not. That guy had been finely dressed with much shorter hair and a presence about him that demanded attention, this guy in front of you was the epitome of a 'guy in a band'. Long hair, jeans blown out at the knee, worn Vans that told you he dressed for comfort. Their smiles were the same, though.

Instead of giving your name, you opted for a question. “Do you have a brother?”

Noah extended to you a look of confusion though you swore you saw a mischievous gleam in his dark eyes.

“Uh, no? Not that I know of.” Despite your weird question, he laughed and stepped a bit closer to you, his elbow leaning into the side of the bar top.

Nicholas had fallen into conversation with another band mate, leaving just you and Noah to entertain each other.

You spared him the explanation of why you had asked such a question. The last thing you needed was to seem creepy or more odd than you already did on a day to day basis. Thankfully it didn't seem as if that was going to deter him from cozying up to you at the end of the bar.

Drink after drink was had with a couple of shots downed in between. You had found out that Noah had recently moved to Los Angeles, worked at a graphic design company, owned a cat, and shared a building with a rather odd Asian woman that liked to bring him homemade meals multiple times a week.

You also discovered that you liked the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled too wide and how he was always touching his face as if it was a comforting habit of some sort.

“Nick said you like to collect…unusual things?”

You cleared your throat and abruptly averted your gaze before he could realize you had been staring.

“I guess that's one way to put it,” you admitted with a sheepish smile. Not even the alcohol could mask the embarrassment.

“My dad was an antiques dealer, scam artist, whatever you want to call it.” You paused to take a swallow from your glass but to also let your honesty sink in.

“So, I kinda just grew up with old objects that told a story. Buying them for myself - as someone who will care for them and their story - sounds better to me than allowing them to be on display in a stuffy museum somewhere.”

“That's why you bought the dagger?”

Huh…had you mentioned the dagger to him? Maybe not. Maybe so. Maybe Nick told him about it. Either way, you took in a deep breath, your head swimming from the alcohol.

“Not exactly…”

Noah looked at you curiously, silently asking for you to continue. To tell him. But how were you to explain that you awoke one day with this nagging obsession for the sigil stamped on the blade? That you desired to find every single item you possibly could that bore the same marking? It was impossible to divulge because you had no idea why you had become so hell bent on acquiring these things. You didn't even know what the damned sigil meant.

“Did you want to see it?”

And like he had been waiting for you to ask, Noah flashed a devilish grin.

“I'd love to.”

× × ×

Pleasure erupted throughout your entire body as Noah kneeled between your spread legs. His hands held tight to your hips, pulling you down to grind against him with every forward thrusting motion. He groaned above you, teeth gritted and jaw clenched, revealing to you all the work he was putting in.

And boy did you feel it.

You had already cum twice - once from his mouth and again from him bending you over the arm of the couch when neither of you could make it to your bedroom fast enough.

Most of the time even you had to pray the wind was blowing in the right direction so you could cum in a timely manner, yet Noah had managed to get you there in near record time.

“Fucking hell! Right there!” You cried out as his cock pierced just the right spot within your drenched and aching cunt. Heavy pants escaped from you, each breath becoming louder and more pronounced the harder he drove his hips.

Noah’s tattooed fingers dug deep enough into your hips that you knew you'd have bruises the next morning. They'd match the bruise you'd have on your ass from when he had you bent over and administered quite a harsh spank.

He released your hips so he could trail his hands down along your tense thighs, kneading and massaging into the flesh. One hand continued its downwards trek to your clit as the other drifted up, pausing at your neck. Slender fingers secured around your throat and applied enough pressure to cause your heart to race and your breath to hitch, though not enough to cause any worry.

Why would you ever be worried about hooking up with a stranger and allowing him into the privacy of your home?

Noah's thumb swirled around your clit, each pass over the nerves causing your thighs to twitch and your hips to buck. He was then leaning over you so he could capture your lips in a hungry kiss, so much so that you swore you heard him growl against your lips. Not that you were fazed by this.

“Uh uh,” he scolded after parting from your lips to gaze down at you. “Eyes open.”

To show how serious he was in this demand, his hand further tightened around your throat, short nails digging into the sensitive skin. You gasped for air but it was all too much; the overpowering ecstasy that coursed through your every being as you felt his cock throb inside of you, the rigid veins that stimulated the tight walls of your pussy, his thumb on your clit, his onyx eyes never drifting from yours.

How were you to survive this night?

Your body tensed and your lower back arched as you felt the first ripplings of your orgasm. Your third orgasm. Then - everything released. You writhed beneath him, eyes finally closing which was no choice of your own, all while his name and a mixture of other profanities echoed through the room.

In the midst of your climax, your vision was hazy from the intensity, as well as the lack of oxygen greeting your brain. With every blink Noah’s face shifted; it went from the band frontman you had met that night to the dark stranger across the street earlier in the day, then back again, only to repeat the cycle. There was no way that's what was really happening, so you chalked it up to your overactive imagination and mostly drunken state.

The mess you made meant nothing to you, nor did the added mess of his cum when he managed to meet his ending in tandem. Noah’s hips lost momentum gradually before stilling completely, though your cunt continued to collapse and clench around him until your body finally settled.

It wasn’t much later that Noah laid sprawled across your bed, his face pressed to the pillow, breathing steady after drifting off to sleep. Unfortunately, you didn't have the same luxury. There was a darkness creeping into your mind, repeated phrases demanding things of you, things of which you had never considered before.

“Do it,” the voice whispered in your ear.

At first you assumed it was Noah by the brush of his hair on your face and the familiar grasp of his fingers around your waist. But when you glanced back, he hadn't moved a muscle.

“It would be so easy…”

“You want to. I know you want to. I can smell it on you.”

When your eyes opened, the blood red box from Nick’s shop sat at your side. It was unwrapped, the dagger staring up at you from its temporary home. Taunting. Begging. Screaming to be touched.

You listened.

Fingertips traced the metal of the handle, down to the tip of the dagger that remained sheathed.

“Pick it up.”

The order from the disembodied voice was obeyed, the dagger soon resting in your grasp. Still, no one was in the room with you other than Noah’s sleeping form, so how did you feel a breath on your neck?

Rubies embedded in the dagger shone before your eyes now that it was held up for you to admire. So beautiful. Just what you had been searching for all this time.

“Do it.”

You knew what the voice was asking of you. You knew it would end in your demise. Yet, you felt no fear. If anything, you were…excited. Possibly even anxious for what was to come.

“Do it!” The voice loudly rang out, deep and commanding in your mind.

Both hands now gripped the handle of the dagger after you pulled it from its sheath. Arms stretched out before you, the blade was perfectly angled just where you somehow knew it needed to end up.

Right in your heart.

“Do it! Now!”

With quick motion that held all of your strength, you impaled the dagger into your own chest. You could hear it break through the bone that protected your heart - your body no match to the power that lied within the weapon.

“...going to the flames if you're on the end of the blade.” Nick's voice now penetrated your mind, a memory from hours ago. His words being that of the loosely translated curse that the dagger held.

As soon as the blade punctured your chest, you felt a sense of clarity. You knew what the curse now was: die by way of the blade, go straight to Hell.

Eyes wide, you looked down to the dagger protruding from you. Blood spilled from the wound, coating your naked body, staining your sheets. You tried to call out for Noah despite knowing he wouldn't be able to do anything to help you.

Gathering what remained of your strength, which was next to none, you again glanced back to where you expected to see him sleeping. Instead, he was standing at the side of the bed, hands clasped behind his back, wearing the same smirk you had seen from the other Noah outside of Nicholas’ shop.

In a blink you were then being cradled in his tattooed arms. His fingertips brushed your hair back from your face in the most loving of gestures, lips moving though you couldn't make out a thing he was saying. You couldn't hear anything. Couldn't feel anything. All you could do was allow yourself to be encased by the cold hands of death as it dragged you deeper and deeper down to the dismal abyss.

“I'll see you on the other side, my love.”

× × ×

The forever night of the land taunted you as you gazed out the large window. Stars freckled the sky, twinkling and swirling cosmos in some spots, remaining still in most just as the night sky did back home.

Home.

Everyday that passed you forgot more and more what it looked like.

You had remembered your death, all of your deaths, within minutes this time. Noah was beyond pleased, confessing that he always wondered if dying by your own hand was the trick though he had been nervous to see. Nervous to know what it would do to you.

Well, now he knew.

You were livid. Never had you felt so betrayed, and you made sure he was well aware of your anger towards him. Something told you that he felt it in your lack of appearances since you had yet to face him fully since arriving.

“The Dark Lord has requested your presence today.”

A demon who had been appointed to your side ran a brush through your hair, gently ridding the strands of any tangles that had formed while you slept. You had told them day one that you could do it yourself but they insisted. Tending to you was now their duties and they had to do as commanded.

“You can tell the Dark Lord to kiss my ass,” you mocked.

The demon held back what you thought was the semblance of a chuckle, their unusually long fingers continuing to ready your hair for the day.

“Forgive me for being so blunt, but I think it would be best if you spoke with him. Perhaps let your grievances out however you see fit?”

Had you not done that the moment your memories returned? You very much recall throwing a heavy tea pot at his head, although he had dodged it with ease. Were your shouts of frustration not enough? Your tears?

It wasn't that you were upset to be back with him. You were more so mad about how he had gotten you here this time. There had to be some other way that left out the whole dying part.

“What's your name?”

The demon paused briefly at your question. You could tell they had never been asked before, though you weren't sure if it was because everyone else here knew how things went or if no one simply cared.

“I don't remember.”

This confused you. Shifting a bit in your seat, you turned your upper body to look at the creature. They were definitely a sight to behold; scaly skin that glistened as if perpetually wet, yellow eyes with only the smallest white pupil appearing like a cat’s, a row of chipped horns going down the center of their head.

You had stopped being scared of the demons here long ago.

“Lowly demons, such as myself, lose their names upon becoming what we are. We are simply demon. The others, the ones you've probably heard of in some capacity within your mortal stories, are given new names when they become His strongest warriors.”

Out of all of your ventures here, you had never been told about the inner workings of the land. You found it to be interesting.

“Oh…” You felt silly for even asking, now also concerned that you had probably brought up a sore subject for the demon. No name? No identity? You couldn't imagine.

Once the demon had somehow managed to weave deep red garnets and black diamonds into your hair, you were sent off to where Noah would be waiting. You tried to fight it, arms crossed over your chest as you sat pouting on the edge of the bed, but eventually the demon helped you realize that Noah would see you whether you wanted it or not. It was wise for you to go to him.

And so you did. Like some sort of invisible string leading you to him, you managed to find him standing on the large balcony that jutted out from the castle, overlooking his land in silence. His posture straightened upon sensing your arrival, gaze now set only on you.

“You look…” Onyx eyes raked up and down your body, no shame detected within them as he took in the black gown you had been instructed to put on. You didn’t want to admit to him the way his heavy stare made you feel. There was already a tingling in your lower stomach that radiated down between your thighs - no. You wouldn't fall for it that easily this time.

“Don't,” you merely requested, a hand being held up to signal for him to stop any further words. Steps were then taken around him so you could approach the railing of the balcony, the carved stone cool beneath your touch as you tightly grasped it.

“You're still angry…”

You said nothing. Silence overtaking you.

“I…” he began, his voice falling while trying to gather his thoughts. Never had he been so concerned about anyone else before. Never had he been forced to wonder what the right thing would be to earn your forgiveness.

“I'm sorry that things had to happen this way.”

Well, that weak excuse for an apology definitely made you want to yell at him to shove it up his ass.

Your jaw clenched, knuckles turning white from the death grip you held on the stone railing. It would surely crack and splinter if any more of your strength was to be endured.

“I liked your hair better longer,” you finally spoke, though you didn't look his way. Instead, your gaze remained focused out into the night, slowly cataloging and memorizing every dip and valley.

“That you was nicer.”

Noah slowly shook his head as he reached out to lightly touch your hair, heated fingertips brushing the strands from your bare shoulder to reveal the curve of your neck.

“Funny, because that was me, just in a slightly altered form to keep up appearances.”

As if he could read your thoughts, he continued.

“I was never human, you know this. So, there are no other versions of me like there have been of you. There's only one. That's how it'll forever be.”

Anger flared within you. “You're telling me…that you've been able to come to Earth this entire time? That I haven't needed to brutally die again and again to be with you? You are an insufferable mons-”

A strong hand grasped your arm, turning your body and pulling you in closer. You could tell that Noah wanted to speak to you as if you were one of his demons, someone for him to control, but he managed to contain his rage.

“Do you know the danger I put my entire realm in just to walk amongst the living with you for an extended period of time? To go for my own selfish reasons and not because of my duties? To help guide you back to me? You're blind to the repercussions this land faced. Souls piled up, punishments halted, everything at a standstill. Do you think that has ever happened before?”

Silence as your eyes searched his.

“We may have spent one night together on Earth, but the sheer amount of deaths within that singular night that went unprocessed…”

Noah shuddered at the thought, his grip on you then loosening before releasing completely.

“Think of me what you will, but what I did was for us. Everything I've done, and will do again and again, for us.”

You wanted to understand. You wanted to touch his face and tell him everything was okay. You wanted to press yourself into him and let his warmth overtake you.

You wanted so many things, but none of it was what you did.

Instead of giving into these wants and needs, you gave him one last look and then turned on your heel to saunter back into the farthest reaches of the castle.

× × ×

The only thing you truly despised about this place was the lack of time. While you had an abundance of it, more than you could ever ask for, you still had no idea how much had passed. Days? Months? Hell, maybe a century? Time didn't work the same way here as it did on Earth, which you already knew, but it surely did drag when you were choosing to spend it alone.

You had attempted to keep track of it at the beginning but eventually gave up when nothing fit the way it should have in your human mind. Noah even offered to set a sleep schedule, though that disappeared rather fast when his duties became too much to juggle along with it.

A heavy sigh expelled from you as you flipped over onto your back. Your eyes stared through the darkness of your bedroom and up to the high ceiling where the same stars as the night sky beyond the open window danced along. A neat little trick Noah did when he knew you were restless. He may have been an asshole but he knew how to make you melt when showing his softer side. A side no one had ever seen before you.

With another huff, you caved.

Moments later you were standing in front of his bedroom door after having gently knocked. The door opened almost immediately, revealing his relaxed form sitting upon a grandeur bed with papers strewn about. It was always funny to see him do actual work especially when you had never witnessed anyone outside of the demons wandering the halls.

Sometimes you'd hear other voices when he was locked away in his study, but nothing beyond that.

“Stars didn't work?”

You twisted your lips, head shaking in a single motion.

“They're nice - beautiful - but it's not the same as…” you trailed off for a moment while trying to decide how much of your pride you were willing to spill down the drain. Not the same as when we're laying together.

Noah noticed, he knew what you were going to say. He allowed you to keep the stubborn pride for now. In a snap the papers cleared away from a spot on the bed for you, an invitation to join him.

Sitting against him, your knees bent to the side and your head resting on his shoulder, he continued to work. He would occasionally look over at you, brush your hair back, lightly touch your lips or cheek, then focus again.

How you had managed to wrap Death around your finger, you would never know.

“Can I ask a question?”

Noah nodded, the paper in his hand being placed down so he could fully focus on you now. Another thing you loved about him: he never made you feel as if your presence was a bother. No matter what he was in the middle of.

“Is this how you've always looked? Or do you only appear like this to me?”

A crooked smile appeared on his features, his eyes crinkling in the corners just as you remembered from your brief time on Earth with him.

“Why do you ask?”

Avoidance - as usual.

“I don't know…I mean, when it comes to humans, you are either shown as a skeleton in robes or this otherworldly beautiful man without flaws.” You shrugged.

You didn't add on that you were also curious as to what was real.

Noah didn't taunt you for your poor wording choice. He knew he was beautiful and he knew that you also knew this, but he understood what you meant.

“Technically,” he began while rubbing his chin as if trying to find the right way to describe it to you, “I'm without a body because what I am transcends physical being.”

Okay, that you could understand, at least for the most part. Was it still an odd thought? Yes, of course. All of this was odd.

“But I've chosen to take on a flesh and blood form, even before you came along the first time. It helps to do so in my line of work…so the souls can relate, maybe feel a bit of comfort for a brief moment.”

As he spoke you traced random designs and patterns into the top of his thigh, your fingertip slowly dragging along the soft material of his pants. You inwardly smirked to yourself when you noticed him shiver as your fingers traveled higher along his inner thigh.

“I may have adjusted a few things specifically for you, though.”

“That's why you have all the tattoos?” Your hand left his thigh so you could lightly touch the front of his neck, eyes focused on the inked designs that were quite an interesting choice for him. The religious visuals weren't lost on you - you knew why he had chosen those in particular. A cruel mocking to those above. A middle finger to the “Light Ones” who were always trying to act all better-than-thou.

You didn't tell him that this was quite a human response just to spare you the glare he would surely respond with.

“And the lisp?” You further teased, a smile finally gracing your lips again.

“Again - makes me relatable.”

You hummed in thought, watching him as he watched you. Noah had yet to return to his work meaning he knew there was more you wanted to say. And while this was true, you were more so transfixed by how close you two were. You could feel his breath on your face and see the patterns of different brown shades within his irises, both combined drawing you closer and closer until finally your lips collided with his.

Were you still mad at him? Yes, very much so, but that didn't change the feelings you had for him. The tether between you was far too strong, probably impossible to snap.

Noah didn't waste any time as your kiss deepened and intensified. He leaned back into the pillows of his bed, drawing you with him until your body almost completely covered his. You touched along his face and down his chest, eager fingers tugging and pushing at the shirt he wore. You needed him now.

There were moments when you both liked to take your time, each unwrapping the other like a precious gift, fully savoring the anticipation. Then there were times when it was impatient and needy, as if you couldn't get him inside of you fast enough. Simply a blur of hands until you were both naked without the pesky barriers of clothes getting in the way of your desires.

One guess as to which side you were both currently feeling.

As your clothes were stripped away, flimsy lace being tossed aside, you further crawled on top of him. Knees pressed down onto either side of his hips, your nails scratching along his inked chest before firmly grasping his broad shoulders. The kiss you shared had yet to cease, both of you kissing the other with a desperate need; sweeping tongues and clashing of teeth.

Noah released your hips to cup your breasts within his large hands, thumbs skimming and circling your sensitive nipples to pull a faint whimper from you. Chills formed over your heated skin, your teeth roughly sinking into his lower lip that caused him to hiss and pinch your nipples in return.

“Behave,” he lowly threatened while you could only pout in response.

Both hands then fell from your chest; one dropped to begin pushing his last article of clothing down as the other gripped tight into your hair. Noah roughly yanked your head to the side to further expose your neck, his lips immediately kissing a hot trail to your jaw. He knew exactly what teasing your neck did to you, arousal pooling between your thighs as you needily whimpered for him.

“And you thought you'd be able to stay away.”

You wanted to knee him right in the side for the petty comment, but he was already adjusting your position and tugging you higher up on his hips so you could hover above his hard cock.

Noah smirked against your skin, his tongue flicking at the sensitive spot right below your ear. The moment his teeth nipped at the same spot he pushed your hips down so the wide swollen head of his cock could force through your tight entrance. You gasped and he groaned in unison, his own muscles straining from the vice grip your cunt already had on him.

“I can stay away,” you countered. “I just didn't want to.”

The devilish gleam returned to his eyes while gazing up at you, knowing that deep down you also knew you couldn't stay away. It didn't matter what your stubborn protest said.

Releasing your hair, both of Noah’s hands held tight to your hips. You were still trying to adjust to his size, slowly easing yourself down another inch, but he was clearly much more impatient than you were. This was proven when he forced your hips all the way down until they sat flush against his, the entirety of his cock tunneling through your pussy. Of course how wet you were helped, but nothing could ease the tight stretch.

Your head tossed back as you released a loud moan, all other thoughts leaving your mind except for those of him. Sharp nails dug so deep into his chest that you swore you would draw blood - not that Noah would care.

“Good girl,” the Dark Lord rasped.

His impatience didn't end there. Although he wanted to be kind and let you find your bearings, there was truly no need when he was well aware that you liked things just as he did: rough, animalistic, whatever you wanted to call it.

Keeping you steady atop him, his hips thrusted up from the bed in rapid succession, angling just right to make sure your body quivered and your cries of pleasure never ceased. Noah loved watching you come undone for him, loved seeing your stubbornness overtaken by your pure need for the sensations that only he could give you. Everything about it, from the sounds you made to the way your face contorted in pleasure, was addicting.

You could barely contain yourself as he continued to drive his throbbing cock straight up into you. Your pussy fluttered, more and more of your arousal slipping free until it ran down his length and helped aid in his endeavors to completely ruin you. Noah knew that you were already close, he could tell by the way your moans became more frequent and heightened in pitch.

“That's it,” he grunted as his hands tightened around your waist and he forced you down to roughly meet the upward thrusts of his hips. “Let go.”

As if on command, your body seized and your back arched. An orgasm ripped through you, claiming full control as you trembled and your hips jerked, the pleasure so intense that you couldn't even make a sound.

Noah had no intentions of stopping, though. He settled down against the bed, still buried as deep as possible within the warmth of your climaxing cunt. His grip fell from your waist to your hips, now guiding you in a back and forth grind to keep you overstimulated and whimpering for him.

“You're so fucking beautiful when you cum for me.”

In a swift motion he had you on your back, the papers from his work crunching beneath you, some digging into your skin but it was of no concern to you right then. You were basking in the high of your orgasm, well aware that there was more to come. Noah never stopped at just one. He had to bring you as close to breaking as he possibly could before he was satisfied. Sometimes that could be done in as little as two rounds and sometimes you were at it for hours until you had lost count of your orgasms and forming any sort of coherent thought was impossible.

Not daring to pull out from your warmth, Noah brought one of your legs over so your lower half twisted for him, leaving you open and vulnerable but still capable of seeing each other. You quivered as you felt the thick rigid veins that lined his cock throb when they shifted within you, every inch of you sensitive from the orgasm you were still coming down from.

Noah had a hold of your ass in one hand and your thigh in the other to make sure you remained right where he wanted you as he slowly pulled out until just the head of his cock remained. Then, he used every bit of strength he had to thrust right back into you, the pace being set slow but impossibly hard. Your jaw clenched and your toes curled, your body barely able to handle what Noah presented to you.

You shook your head, squeaks and whimpers of words unsaid escaping from your throat. He knew what he was doing to you, though. He knew exactly what angles to fuck you from that would leave you dumb - for lack of a better term.

“Is it too much for you, my love?” He taunted, a mock sympathetic tone to his voice.

To show that he didn't care, he only picked up his speed, the driving force behind his hips remaining relentless. The harsh slap as your bodies collided sounded through the room, followed by a piercing smack when his strong hand came down upon your ass cheek, mixing with your symphony of moans. Your walls ached and burned but you didn't dare request he stop, not even for a moment, though you didn't truly want him to. You loved when he would get like this, a sort of sadistic gleam flaring in his dark eyes despite trying to pleasure you to the best of his abilities.

“Touch yourself.”

The demand made you whine under your breath. Noah knew what he was doing. You managed to slip your hand down between your clamped thighs, a fingertip brushing the swollen nerves ever so softly, but it was enough to make your body twitch and your cunt clamp tighter around his cock. His brows pulled together, the hold he had on you tightening.

It was too much. Your body was so sensitive, and touching your clit was that mixture of pleasure and pain that made your abdomen muscles tense and your hips writhe.

“I didn't say to stop,” Noah hissed through gritted teeth. How he had known you paused your fingers over your clit, you weren't sure, but you quickly obeyed his demand again.

“N-Noah…” you whimpered, tears brimming your eyes and threatening to spill over. You looked up at him through your watery vision, though you were still able to make out the smirk he wore upon his flushed cheeks. Not even the damp strands of dark hair could cover that look in his eyes as he gazed down at you, enamored with all that you were.

“Uh uh,” he shook his head. “If you stop, then so do I.”

Fuck. That was the last thing you wanted. It may have been too much and overwhelming but you were desperate to cum again. Not only that, but you needed to feel him filling you as well. You needed his cum seeping out of you, warming you from the inside out. Breathing a life into you that was ironic for Death.

His grip remained tight on your thigh though his other hand slithered up to knead at your breast, his fingers digging into your flesh, pinching and tugging your nipple. You were getting close again, so so close. As your own fingers continued to rub your clit, each stroke sending electric shocks through you, you released moan after moan, crying out his name in pleasure.

“Next time we should place a bet on how long you can go without my dick,” he spoke through his own groans, the strain evident in his voice.

Noah released your breast and instead secured his long tattooed fingers around your throat. His grip was tight, a silent reminder that he could easily crush your airways if he ever had the desire to do so. Which he didn't - he would never lay a hand on you in ways you didn't beg for - but the danger of it, the possibility, radiated down to your core and helped build your oncoming climax.

“I know you're constantly needy for it. I can smell your arousal when I'm near, so sweet and intoxicating…”

His voice was raw and deep, each word sending you closer to the edge. Every touch to your body felt like a flame licking your skin, tears still welling in your eyes, your cunt desperate for both your release and his.

“Please…” you begged in a breathless whisper as your fingers circled your clit in a messy rhythm, unable to get pace with his brutal pounding.

Noah’s lips twitched within his lingering smirk when your pleas met his ears, the sound causing his cock to twitch and his hips to snap in a quick succession into you.

A single nod was given, allowing you the gift of an orgasm, and also letting you know that even he couldn't find his words anymore. He was far too focused on the tight grip of your pussy that was swallowing him deeper, almost like he could hear it begging for his cum. If that didn't feed his already oversized ego, then nothing would.

The pressure built until you couldn't stand it anymore. Your fingers and toes tingled, a white hot heat exploding throughout the entirety of your body as you were overcome with your orgasm. Sharp nails raked down his forearm, skin breaking in their path and sullying the tattoos, though you knew it would heal rapidly. Your cunt erupted in a rush that soaked the sheets and also managed to push Noah right over the edge with you. Typically he had better control, but sometimes it was even too much for him.

“Fuck…you're so good at taking it, you always are.”

A final thrust had him emptying inside of you, feeding you that particular warmth you had been desperate for. You hummed in delight, your eyes heavy lidded but focused solely up on him so you could witness his undoing. Noah’s eyes closed and brows furrowed, his jaw falling slack as your name was groaned from him once, twice, three times. You could feel his muscular thighs trembling and you just knew he was trying his best not to collapse on you from the power of his orgasm and also the workout he had just put himself through.

Neither of you had fully calmed before he was leaning down and forcing his lips to yours. He held firm to your chin for the duration of the hungry kiss, though it didn't last nearly as long as you would have preferred.

Breaking from the kiss, Noah sat back up so he could slowly withdraw from your depths. He groaned at the sight of your mixed finishes dripping free, only to gently slide two fingers into your pussy with the gathered cum so you didn't lose a drop. You whimpered at the feeling, legs now spread in front of him and knees shaking.

“Noah,” you murmured in a faint whine. “I can't.”

Your protest didn't stop his fingers from slowly working their way in and out of your sore pussy, the strokes gentle but still overwhelming.

“I know, my love, I just wanted to see those tears again.”

And tears you had - a couple of stray drops falling down your cheeks, mixing with the sweat that you both exuded.

Only when he was satisfied did he remove his fingers, just to bring them to your awaiting lips. As if on instinct you pulled them into your mouth, cheeks hollowing and tongue swirling around his inked digits to clean his cum and yourself from them.

“Good girl.”

Thankfully, Noah let you rest. He easily could've gone again and again but he knew you were merely a mortal (undead or not) and he didn't want the fine line between pleasure and strictly pain to be crossed. Experiencing both was one thing, something you both enjoyed and gave consent to, but forcing you to entertain only the latter for his own selfish needs was not desirable to him.

You drifted in and out of restful sleep as you curled into Noah’s side. Your head rested upon his chest, legs tangled, his strong arm encompassing you and keeping you close. The featherlight touch of his fingertips trailing up and down your arm brought goosebumps forward, though the loving affection had you luling to sleep again. That is, until he spoke what had been plaguing his mind.

“They're going to come for you,” he murmured, a sadness in his voice. “The Light Ones.”

A slight sound escaped you, your head slowly shaking. Your own arm circled around his bare torso, now hugging yourself even closer to his form. Even though he was Death, something everyone feared, he had always brought a sense of peace over you.

“Why do you let them?”

In the past Noah had protested when they'd come for you; he would yell and threaten and make them force you away from him if they were going to take you. Never did he truly fight, though.

A deep inhale caused your head to drift up, and then slowly back down when he exhaled. You knew he was trying to find how to word his response in a way you would understand, or at least so he wouldn’t inadvertently offend you.

“Because at least then I know I'll see you again. If I fight, go to war for you, the Light Ones could end your bloodline completely.”

“As in…”

“You would cease to exist. No other versions. No rebirths. I'd only have my memories of you to keep me going for the rest of eternity.”

All of that for one lousy human? That was the main thing that had always confused you. You didn't understand why you being with Noah was so frowned upon. Why they wanted to make him suffer. Why they were determined to keep you apart. What sort of threat did his happiness pose?

“It's not 'normal’ for us to love because it's not what we were created for, especially not me. The Light Ones claim to have love for all, whereas I'm supposed to be the other side of the coin - the hate.” Noah took in another deep breath as if explaining it all to you physically pained him. Having to admit what his purpose was…it brought him hurt, and in turn, that hurt you.

“So for me to love, and to place all that love in one person, it makes me…” he paused and his arm around you tightened.

“It makes us dangerous.”

This is when you tilted your head up to look at him. Your eyes met and you offered a gentle smile, one to show him that you understood, but that didn't mean you had to accept it. You wouldn't. Not anymore.

“I'm tired of only being able to see you in death,” you softly spoke. Your fingertips grazed slowly along the underside of his jaw and then down the curve of his neck, your gaze following the trail. When you got to the snake you paused, your nail lightly tracing the outline. “I want to fight.”

Noah shook his head and soon his hand clasped around your own, your fingers intertwining together. “I won't risk losing you forever. I can't.”

“And I will,” you challenged, your voice stern. “What you do here in your realm should be none of their concern. You're the fucking King, remember? Or have you already forgotten yelling that at me millenia ago?”

The faintest of smirks tugged at the corners of his lips - of course he remembered. Noah remembered every minute, every second, that he has ever spent with you. Nothing could take those memories from him.

“We'll discuss this further in the morning, after you've slept and had some breakfast.”

With that, Noah blew the candle out on the conversation. The dark now surrounded you both, only the twinkling of the stars he had summoned able to be seen on the ceiling above.

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