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#Voldemort smut
coryosbaby · 3 months
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Mascara || T. Riddle
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Fandom: ‘Harry Potter’
Pairing: Young! Tom Riddle x fem! Ravenclaw! Reader
。.。 ♡ Content warning . Public sex, praise & degradation, cum play, sub! Reader, dom! Tom
Notes: set in modern day Hogwarts. I never thought i’d want to fuck Voldemort but here we are.
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Your feet patter softly against the tile floors of Hogwarts, a book clutched tightly in your arms as you make your way towards the school’s library. It’s a rainy night, incredibly quiet and empty. The other students are at dinner, and you’ve decided to skip out to study for your OWLs. When you open the big wooden doors to the library, the smell of printed ink and old pages invites you further in.
The first thing you notice, when you close the doors behind you and take sight of the room, is that the librarian, Madam Pince, is no where to be found. She must be on her break.
The second thing you notice is the boy sitting in the darkest corner of the room.
You know of the familiar brunette— of course you do. Who wouldn’t? Tom Riddle is a popular slytherin well known for his cunningness, his intelligence, his ability to speak native tongues— and sometimes, his temper. A ravenclaw yourself, you try to steer clear of him. Slytherins usually don’t take politely to anyone outside of their house. Not to mention the fact that you scored the top of your class, with him coming in close second. You suspect that he hates you for that.
He catches your gaze, brown eyes with the resemblance of a serpent. He looks back down at his book, seeming bored.
You let out a breath of air.
You slide your book into the return bin, timidly moving to the shelf about Potions. Snape has been really hassling you lately on your grades, and you really need to turn your B+ into a perfect A. Your fingertips skim over the leathered binds, reading title after title. A voice behind you makes you jump.
“If you’re studying for Snape’s final, I’d recommend ‘Advanced Potion Making’. It will tell you all you need to know.”
His voice is an angelic lilt, though you know that is not in any way what he resembles. The fact that he’s helping you stumps you into utter confusion, and heat creeps up your neck. You nod to him as you begin searching for the book.
To no avail. Your eyes search every bind, every word, but your focus has been diluted because of Tom speaking to you. He sighs, almost annoyed.
He appears beside you, much to your surprise. You nervously bite your lip as he finds the exact book he recommended and pushes it into your hands.
“Chapter nine. I would’ve thought a girl of your ranking in our class would know this already.”
Your brows furrow, embarrassment coursing through you as he sits back down and resumes his tasks. You nervously fumble with the book.
“Thank you.” You reply, because you had been taught proper manners. He scoffs, flicking through the pages of his book. You can’t read the title, though the cover is quite off put ish and dark. Perhaps he had snuck into the restricted section.
“Don’t.”
You frown, though your mind is peaking with curiosity. He seems rude, but he was trying to help you. Maybe there’s something nice under there, after all. Your body is stiff as you sit across from him at the table, silently pleading to God that the boy across from you won’t put a nasty hex on you.
“You don’t have to be rude, you know.”
It slips out of your lips, quiet and unsure. Tom’s eyes narrow at you.
“And as well as that, you don’t have to sit across from me.”
“Perhaps I want to. Perhaps you need a friend.”
“A friend?” He chuckles dryly, his gaze travelling down to your robes. You try to ignore the heat creeping between your legs. “We aren’t going to be friends.”
His insinuation is thick, dangerous. Your heart pounds out of your chest at this unexpected turn of your study hour. You gulp, looking down at the pages.
“Very well then. But since I’ve already sat down, I might as well continue my book here.”
“Or we could continue this conversation in my dorm room.”
He says it smoothly, with no fear or utmost insecurity.
“What?” You blanch, stuttering on your syllables. Tom smirks.
“A smart girl like you, and you can’t even comprehend a single sentence,” he says, his body beginning to move out of his chair. “‘S pathetic, really…”
You breath hitches as his tall form towers over you. Your fingertips grasp the sides of your chair as he leans in close.
“Tom,” you start, warningly. He quirks a brow.
“No?” He questions, and then after a moment, staring into your doe eyes, it dawns on him. His mouth forms into a grin. “Oh, you want it here, don’t you? You want it right here.”
His lips brush just inches over your pouty lips, and you wonder how in the hell you got into this situation and why this slytherin boy is making such a sudden move on you. But knowing Tom, it’s probably out of boredom. Out of the desire for a hook up.
You don’t mind it. Not really, not anymore, because all your protests are ripped away from you when he presses his lips to yours. It’s not tender or sweet, it’s full of sharp teeth and unfiltered lust. His hands rest on your chin, gripping your head so you can’t escape his kiss— can’t escape him.
Your tongue is about to graze his lips when he pulls away. His fingers grasp your shoulder and pull you up to your feet. You stumble, your legs shaky from just a couple of kisses. You gasp when he spins you around and presses your face against one of the nearest bookshelves. His big hands wrap around your wrists and hold them behind your back.
“I don’t want to hear any complaints from you. Do you understand me?” He whispers, his hands reaching down to lift up your robes. “If I do, I’ll leave you here drenched, your clothes gone, with your holes freshly fucked and on display for the entire school to see. Do you understand me?”
You nod instantly. You know that these aren’t empty threats; when Tom says he’s going to do something, he’ll do it.
When he pulls up your robes, taking in the sight of your pretty pink thong, he lets out a sharp breath.
“Prepared, weren’t you?”
You let out a whine, knowing that no, this wasn’t intentional. Tom just caught you on a specific type of day. But looking on it now, maybe the universe was being in your favor when you decided to pick out the flimsy undergarment.
Tom slips the hem of your robes into your hands.
“Hold it.” He commands, and you’re quick to comply.
His hardness presses against you, clothed still but his robes are lifted so he can rut against you in his briefs. It isn’t long before he’s pulling them down past his thighs, his cock sprinting up into the air as he places himself against you once again. You can’t help but drip with need, canting your hips back against him. His cock presses in between the seam of your ass, and you rub against him like a bitch in heat.
And just like a bitch in heat, you purr.
“Tommy..” you let out, and his grip on your hips tighten. “Please?”
He scoffs at the nickname, though his bottom lip is caught roughly between his teeth and he’s trying to contain himself. He wraps his hand around his awaiting length, parts your thighs with the other, and slides his dick up against your throughly aroused pussy.
He’s warm, sticky. You wish you could’ve seen him before this, seen that thing that feels oh so heavy between your legs, but it’ll have to wait. Hopefully, there will be a next time.
When he slides in, it stretches you obscenely. This isn’t your first time, but there’s a burning sensation as he enters you. He’s got the perfect amount of thickness and length to pull a moan deep from your throat.
He doesn’t start slow. His hips smack against yours at a rapid pace, small grunts leaving his silky lips as he uses you like a common whore. Your hands grip your robes and the bookshelf at the same time, trying to keep steady as Tom fills you to the brim. He noses along your jaw and leaves wet, open kisses there. You mewl when he bites down harshly and sucks a mark into your skin.
“Such a tight little cunt you have,” Tom breathes, his fingertips bruising your hips. “Look at you, such a slut for my cock. Does it feel good? Tell me, tell me how it feels.”
Your thighs squeeze him, your mouth gaping open in utter ecstasy. Your words are caught in your throat, but Tom is quick to force them out of you with a spank to your ass. You moan, your forehead pressing against the bookshelf’s wooden edge.
“Yes! Yes, it feels so good…” you slur, entranced by the spice of his cologne and the feeling of his girthy length splitting you open. He grunts, bucking his hips into you with vigor.
“And I bet it’s the best you’ve had, isn’t it? All those other boys can’t do it for you. I’m the only one that fucks you this good.”
It’s true, and when his cockhead hits a spot deep inside you that has you keening, your legs quiver and your brain turns to jelly. Tom’s fingers place themselves around your neck and squeeze so hard that your vision blurs at the edges, and you’re enthralled by the fear that courses through your veins. He’s playing your life in his hands like it’s a shiny new toy.
He fucks you like a madman as you gasp and beg for air. Tears spill out of your eyes, salty and wet and Tom takes notice.
“Crying?” He sneers, pounding you so hard that you’re sure the bookshelf will leave bruises as it presses against you. “You’re pathetic. A pathetic, filthy little girl.”
“Mmmhhh..” you cry out. Your eyes roll back as you utter incoherent sounds. He growls.
“Do you want me to cum inside you?” And then, with a harsh grip on your hair, “I want to hear you say it. Beg me. Beg me to fill you, whore.”
Your eyes shut tight, and your hands clasp around his wrists as he loosens his grip on your throat.
“Please,” your voice is a gasp as you finally get oxygen unto your system. “Please, Tom, f-fill me up. Cum inside me.”
A small, throaty groan escapes his lips, and with one last desperate thrust he’s spilling balls deep inside your drooling cunt. His cum spills over the cusp of your used entrance, and when he’s done fucking it into you he pulls out with a sharp exhale.
You can feel his cum spill out of your raw fucked hole, the creamy fluid dribbling down your thigh and dripping onto the carpet below. Your clit throbs mercilessly, still devoid of any attention, but Tom is quick to put a stop to that. He drops to his knees, then, and it’s a surprising gesture that you didn’t expect. He doesn’t seem like the type to get on his knees for anyone, let alone you. But his tongue lolls out of his mouth as he spreads your knees and catches his cum into his awaiting mouth. He licks up your hole, circling your clit with practiced precision. You let out a guttural sound when you hear the obscene noises of the cum spilling out of you, along with Tom’s mouth slurping at your cunt vigorously. He works at you over and over, and you clench when you feel yourself nearing your high. It’s almost embarrassingly quick, but you’ve been denied so long that you need to do it and you need to do it now.
“I’m going to…” you gasp out, as he rubs circles into your clit. He lets out a loud grunt against you, his mouth working harder. “I’m cumming—god, I’m cumming!”
Your orgasm washes over you, hits you like a tidal wave in the middle of an incredibly large ocean. Tom works his tongue and lets you ride out your high, and he sighs and pulls away from your pussy when you come down.
He’s gathered enough arousal to fill his mouth generously, and he kisses you flat on the lips. His tongue slides against yours and you can taste your shared arousal on him. You whimper, licking desperately at his salty spend, and it’s messy and sloppy and absolutely depraved. His teeth nip at you as you swallow it all down.
You’re dizzy, on shaky legs. You turn around, finally getting to see Tom’s face coated in your slick and his cum. He grins at you, and something twists in your gut so primal you feel you might burst.
“Better get to studying, Miss Y/L/N,” he says. “It’d be a shame if this missed study session made you fail your OWLs.”
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sweetiecutie · 1 year
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Dating Tom Marvolo Riddle
Warnings: NSFW, possessiveness, toxicity
A/n: sorry for the long absence babes! I’m in my depressive episode again, but I finally managed to finish those hc’s, they’ve been in my drafts for ages🙄. Anyways, hope you’ll enjoy it💖
Even though Tom never expresses his attraction toward you verbally, you can still see just how much you mean to him through his actions. His love is all about the small gestures like fixing the askew collar of your shirt, sharing his notes if you have difficulties in some classes, making sure that you eat enough etc.
You’re the only one who can actually touch him. Of course, teachers, especially Slughorn, often give Tom encouraging pats on the back or shoulder, but only you are allowed to touch his skin. To play with neat waves of his dark hair, brush your fingertips against Tom’s cheekbones in endearment, interlock your fingers while walking down the school halls together. Only you
Tom is very possessive, not only with treasured magical objects, but also with you. He wants everyone to know that you are his, his and his only. Most of the time one of his hands rests securely around your shoulders or waist, keeping you as close as possible, glaring down at anyone who looks at you longer than a few seconds
Because of said possessiveness Tom is almost always by your side - you sit together in all your shared classes, and if it happened that he doesn’t take one of the subjects that you do, he has his devoted followers to be right beside you instead, making sure that no ‘unreliable’ people from your class are in near proximity to you. Outside of classes - you’re almost always seated on his lap. In the common room, courtyard, library - everywhere. He especially loves it when you sit on his lap during his privat meetings in the Room of Requirements - him sitting in the head of a long table with you cuddled up into his side, surrounded by his followers listening resolutely to every word he says. It gives him such a sense of power, having not only all of his minions, but also you - the only person he loves - at his complete mercy
Every one of Tom’s followers knows better than to talk to you, unless you are the one who starts conversation. And god forbid them being anything than polite and friendly to you.
Casual dominance? Yes, Tom is all about that. He likes it when you submit to his orders, no matter how small and trivial they are. “Darling, finish your tea, you need to warm up after a walk” or “Go to bed now, it’s too late” or “Put your book down, you’ve been reading for too long. Let your eyes rest”. And it angers Tom so much when you disobey, he wants what’s best for you, why can’t you see that? Most of the conflicts you guys have are actually caused by that, because you too don’t like being pushed around like a small child
Talking about conflicts - it is extremely hard for Tom to admit that he’s wrong, so if conflicts do occur between you two, Tom makes it look like you are the guilty one (even if you’re not). So yeah, he’s still a bit toxic, no matter how hard he tries to suppress it within himself
NSFW ahead!
Despite popular opinion walking around this mesmerizing platform, I don’t think that Tom sleeps around with every person he deems attractive. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’ll be his first (and only) sexual partner, even despite all the girls and boys almost throwing themselves on him in hopes of getting at least one touch
WILL👏FINGER👏YOU👏LITERALLY EVERYWHERE👏 Okay but this man has absolutely no shame when it comes to his lover (meaning you). Plus points if you’re in public place like library or classroom, and god, is he cocky. “You gotta be quiet, yeah? Don’t wanna other people to hear how much of a slut you are, do we?” all while his long slender fingers make their way up under your skirt, past the elastic of your pretty panties, and all you are left to do is to spread your legs a bit wider for Tom, and try to be as quiet as possible. And oh, don’t forget to take notes, you’re still in a middle of a class!
NOT into daddy kink. Being an orphan, even the word ‘dad’ itself feels strange, wrong even for Tom, so if you want to call him daddy - expect him to freak the fuck out. But if you’re into names he’d love it if you call him ‘sir’ or ‘master’, it gives him sense of power and authority over you
And while we’re on this topic - you’re called everything BUT your name in bed. Tom loves calling you names - whore, slut, fucktoy, darling, sweetness, princess - all that stuff. And oh, when he mixes praise with degradations, all while fucking you absolutely stupid *sighs dreamily*. “What’s that dollface? Is it too much for you? Can this slutty cunt take no more of my cock inside, hm? Stop pretending sweetheart, I know how much of a greedy whore you are, so shut the fuck up and take it”
Definitely will pin you against the wall as he towers over your smaller form, one hand resting next to your head while the other one cups your face gently, forcing you to look him straight in the eyes while whispering the filthiest things ever, making your panties soaking wet in a matter of minutes just by using his words. “You’re so needy, aren’t you? Walking around in that short skirt, swaying your hips like that. Think I didn’t notice, hm? I’d love to see those hips swaying while you ride my cock, what do you think about that?”
Even though Tom expects full obedience from you, he still likes it when you get a bit bratty. When you comply with every one of his orders, but there’s still something mischievous and coquettish about your behavior - naughty little comments slipping off your tongue here and there, and then you are batting that pretty doe eyes up at him, as if it wasn’t you saying all those things. “Moan louder” he orders in a strained voice, hips snapping into yours with loud smacking sound. “Fuck harder then” you quip back, sly smirk curling your lips at the sight of Tom’s perfect eyebrows pulling together in a frown. Your small giggle dies in your throat as man pulls out of you, just to slam his cock all the way back into your pussy, making your body jolt forward with the ferocity of the impact. Want it harder - you get it harder
Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated, they inspire me on creating even more content for you💖
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fatesundress · 10 months
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⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader
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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)
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You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.
You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.
He evidently does not.
“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.
You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”
“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”
“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”
He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.
It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.
There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.
That decides it. Flotsam still floats.
Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine. 
…It’s just that he’s insufferable.
The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.
Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones. 
“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.
You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”
“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”
In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.
I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.
You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.
It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.
Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.
You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.
When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.
You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.
Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary. 
Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.
You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.
For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly. 
You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.
It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.
Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.
You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.
Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.
“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.
Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.
“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”
“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”
“I wonder why.”
He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.
“What, Tom?”
He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”
You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile? 
It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.
“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”
“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”
“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”
All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up. 
Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.
Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about? 
You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers. 
For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.
He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)
Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.
You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession. 
They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.
You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.
“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.
He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”
“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”
“Curiosity—”
“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”
He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.
You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.
But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.
“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.
“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”
“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”
This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary. 
“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”
He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure? 
It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.
The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning. 
The worst of the world has impeccable timing.
A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.
So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.
And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.
BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER
MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES
DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN
All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.
The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.
It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.
In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with. 
You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.
Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.
But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge. 
He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.
You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books. 
You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.
“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.
Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.
He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”
“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”
You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls. 
“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”
“An altercation.”
“Very good, that is what I said.”
You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin. 
“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.
You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.
You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated. 
But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again. 
She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.
For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.
Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)
Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.
“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.
“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.
“What? Malfoy?”
You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.
But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”
Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —
“A professor?”
“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.
He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.
It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.
He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.
Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.
You consider it a warning.
Tom does not.
“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”
His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.
“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”
“So?”
It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.
“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”
He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.
“Are you stupid, Tom?”
You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.
“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”
Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.
Tom acts stupid.
Dumbledore knows.
It all happens very fast.
You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.
You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.
You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.
“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”
Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”
You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.
“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”
“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”
“I —”
“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”
You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.
“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”
“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”
“So nothing novel then.”
“D’you want me to blast you again?”
His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.
You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”
That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.
“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.
“Tom.”
“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”
“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”
Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”
“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”
And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.
It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.
The day everything changes starts the same as any. 
You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now. 
Tom has cracked the book.
It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.
“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.
He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.
“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”
“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”
You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”
“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”
“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”
“I have no need.”
You frown. “You… you already know it.”
“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —
“You’re not muggle-born.”
“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”
“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”
“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”
“Why would he lie?”
“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”
You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.
“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”
He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.
“Are you trying to murder me?”
“I might.”
“You’d be the first suspect.”
“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”
Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.
He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice. 
It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.
“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all.  You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.
There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.
“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”
You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.
“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”
The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.
“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.
He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else. 
“Should I?”
And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.��
It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.
Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”
The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.
You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.
Summer blisters when it comes.
Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them. 
And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.
A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.
Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.
But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.
It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?
You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.
“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.
“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”
And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.
He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.
Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.
You always are.
The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten. 
Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.
He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.
And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.
Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.
You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.
You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.
You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.
Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.) 
You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.
So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true. 
It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.
It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.
Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.
The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer. 
You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.
Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t. 
But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.
“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.
Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.
“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”
He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.
You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”
“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.
“You’ll get sick.”
His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”
Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.
Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.
When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid. 
What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.
You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.
Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.
You are regardless. 
It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.
A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.
Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.
It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.
You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.
And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.
“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.
He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”
“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”
“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”
“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”
“Why?” he deadpans.
You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”
“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”
Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.
To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.
“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”
You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.
You are not his keeper. You know that. 
“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.
He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.
And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.
What? Sorry. What’s going on?
He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”
You’re almost positive you did not.
Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.
You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.
Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.
Your contentment is remedied quickly.
Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.
You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.
Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.
“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.
You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”
He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.
You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”
“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”
“How’s that?”
“No one would be senseless enough to try.”
And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.
One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.
It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.
You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.
It happens again.
Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.
There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.
You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.
This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.
You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.
You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)
He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately. 
And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.
Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.
And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.
The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.
The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.
That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.
One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.
The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?
You take to the library.
Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.
The third sign is the end. 
You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.
He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight. 
And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.
So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.
Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.
He’s something else entirely.
What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.
You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.
His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes. 
You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand. 
“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.
You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.
“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.
Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”
“I’ve been good at it.”
His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.
His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.
“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.
You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.
You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.
He sees all of you.
Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.
“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.
“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."
He stares at you. There’s nothing there.
“Tell me, Tom.”
Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.
“I cannot.”
Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.
It’s late winter and it’s too cold.
“You killed her,” you say quietly.
“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”
“What are you… so it was an accident?”
“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”
“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.
He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.
“You told me to change things —”
“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”
“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”
“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”
“Do you want me to lie?”
“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”
“Her death is the first step to —”
“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”
“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.
All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.
“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."
You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.
“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."
“...What?"
“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”
You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”
“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.
“How lucky for you.”
“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”
“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”
His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.
“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."
“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain,  a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”
And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him. 
You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love. 
“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock. 
Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly. 
Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.
“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it. 
He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.
After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"
“I thought I would have time.”
“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”
He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”
Fuck him. “Fuck you.”
“Very cogent.”
“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."
He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”
You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.
“You have lost me, Tom."
He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.
You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.) 
You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish. 
There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.
You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.
Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.
That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same. 
You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.
And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.
You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.
It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.
Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.
Be well.
You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —
You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.
Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.
Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.
It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.
You find that to be true.
Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.
Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much. 
“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.
You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition. 
Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.
Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.
Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.
Due February.
It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”
Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”
Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.
You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”
Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”
And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.
Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.
You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.
You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.
In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.
Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.
You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.
But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.
You drink, and don’t look away.
By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.
There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.
You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal. 
An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.
You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it. 
You’re better than them. You can do it forever.
The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.
The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.
“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.
You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.
You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.
The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.
He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.
You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.
Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)
“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.
You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.
Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”
You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.
“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”
“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”
“I take that back.”
She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”
Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.
You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.
It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.
On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.
There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.
Indifferent it is. 
“Can I help you?”
“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.
You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.
“Am I?”
“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”
“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”
Indifference effaced. You’re angry.
He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”
Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.
It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.
“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”
Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.
He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.
He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”
You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.
“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.
Where is Mari?
“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”
You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?
“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.
You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.
“Well then —” 
Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.
His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.
“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —
“That would be wise.”
He’s still looking at your lips.
No one else is looking at you at all.
It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.
Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.
“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.
“I haven’t protested.”
But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.
“But you will.”
His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”
You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.
The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)
You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”
“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.
“You still lost me.”
“I know.”
“I hate you.”
He pauses for a moment. “I know.”
You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.
“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”
You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.
He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.
“My door is always open,” he says.
He lets you go.
You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.
Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.
If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.
It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?
You think of him often. You think of his offer.
My door is always open.
Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?
Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.
It’s a tempting door.
The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.
You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.
The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.
Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.
The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant. 
It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.
But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor. 
A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.
My door is always open.
Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.
Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.
She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.
When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.
It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.
A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.
“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.
“Renauld?”
He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.
“Well, yeah —”
You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”
“But McCormack sent him.”
“Where is it?”
“I… McCormack said that —”
“Where is it, Flack?”
“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”
That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.
The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.
But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.
“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”
You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”
“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”
You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.
It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.
“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.
Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”
“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”
“Who authorised you?” he hisses.
“I did.”
In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.
But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.
You were completely out of line and utterly right.
It isn’t something people like you are allotted.
Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.
And… he does.
With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.
It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.
There’s really no choice but to promote you.
Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.
By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.
The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.
Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.
After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.
“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”
“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”
Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.
“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.
“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”
“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”
“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”
“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.
“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”
“Alves, I’ll have you know —”
You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”
She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”
You roll your eyes, taking a drink.
That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.
But something about it itches.
You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.
You are green, through and through.
Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.
You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.
You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.
And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.
That makes it much worse when you sleep together. 
There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.
“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”
“Yes.”
“Right.”
“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”
“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”
“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”
You’re incredibly daft about it.
There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident. 
The itch exacerbates.
You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.
You wake up and he isn’t there.
It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.
The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.
And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.
You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.
You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.
All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.
R.R
It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.
You return to Hogwarts posthaste.
It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.
The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be. 
You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.
“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.
Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.
“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”
“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”
And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.
Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.
There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.
But you do, because he told you.
You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.
It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop. 
It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.
You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.
The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece. 
It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.
You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.
He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.
“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.
“I thought your door was always open.”
You see his posture change from just his silhouette.
“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that." 
He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.
“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.
You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.
You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.
“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."
“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”
“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."
His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"
“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval. 
Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.
“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”
“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will." 
You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"
“Yes."
You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.
“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”
“I earned this,” you hiss.
“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”
“Fuck you.”
He smiles. “There you are.”
“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”
The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.
“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”
“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.
You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”
“I’d need a Vow for that.”
You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”
“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”
“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”
“A Vow.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Tea, then? Biscuits?”
“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”
“Hm. Terrible shame.”
Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”
He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”
“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”
“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”
“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”
Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis. 
“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain. 
He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.
“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.” 
You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”
Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.
“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.
“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”
He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.
He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.
“I should have killed you,” he repeats.
It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.
“Yes,” you agree.
It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.
Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.
There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.
He was your first in everything but this.
You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.
You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.
“How long?” he asks thickly.
You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back. 
“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."
You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"
You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"
His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake." 
You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster. 
“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"
“N-no.”
He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."
Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating. 
But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself. 
You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.
He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.
Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.
His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh. 
You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.
He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.
“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.
You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.
“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”
And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.
You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.
He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.
You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…
A finger presses inside and you moan.
“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.
“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.
He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”
Oh, fuck.
He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”
Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.
You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes. 
Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.
You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.
He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.
But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.
Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.
“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.
“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.
“Will you give me more?”
Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.
He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.
You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.
He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —
“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.
That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.
You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”
A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?
And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.
Maybe you already do.
Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —
He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.
“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”
You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.
“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”
You whimper.
“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.
If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.
“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”
Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.
“You can — uh — you can — ”
"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”
And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.
You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.
“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.
You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”
You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.
He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you. 
He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.
You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.
But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.
Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.
“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.
You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.
He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.
You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.
“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.
You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.
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mrsriddles-blog · 4 months
Text
His Obsession | T.R
Pairing: Slytherin Fem Reader X Tom Riddle
WC: 8.4k
Warnings/Notes: Mild language, smut, stalking, breeding kink, obsessed Tom, CNC?, pregnancy, etc.
Summary: You happen to have a so-not-secretive stalker who’s taken on an obsession with you…
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You are an obsession (you are an obsession)
I cannot sleep (I cannot sleep)
I am a possession (I am your possession)
Unopened at your feet
There's no balance (there is no balance)
No equality (no equality)
Be still, I will not accept defeat (be still, I will not accept defeat)
He stood in the corner of the dorm, one that wasn't his own, but yours. He snuck in after he was sure you had fallen asleep. This was the first time he had gone as far as to sneaking in your dorm—at least while you were in it.
You had kicked most of the blankets off so that they laid at the end of your bed. There was a thin sheet that covered one of your legs, but the other laid on top of the sheet. The moonlight lit the room perfectly so that he could see you.
You wore a white tank top with black lace underwear. His eyes were still on your face, peaceful as you slept. Your eyelashes were against your cheeks, your plump lips parted as your breathed softly, unaware of the watching eyes on you.
His eyes trailed down the column of your throat, a place he has imagined his lips and hands many times. It was slender...and untouched. He wanted to touch it...mark it and make it pretty. He wanted everyone to see that you were claimed, that you were his.
His eyes fall lower, onto your chest. Your nipples had pebbled against the thin cotton and he took in a stuttered breath. Your breasts were spilling out the top as well, the tank top a few sizes too small, but clearly this was a comfort top of yours.
He noticed the tank top had ridden up, revealing the soft skin of your belly. He takes in a deep breath as he imagined it swollen with his child. He notes the soft curves that lead to the dip to your wide hips. He burns it into his memory.
You stir a bit, but you simply roll over. His eyes fall on your ass, big and round and perfectly accentuated by the black lace. His eyes roam over your thick thighs, noting the soft bare skin. You stir again, forcing yourself to keep your eyes closed as you feign sleep.
Someone was here.
You could feel it. You weren't necessarily scared, maybe slightly alarmed, but you had a feeling you knew exactly whom it was.
You were well aware of your stalker around the school. Tom Riddle thought he was subtle and secretive of the way he watched and followed you. But, you caught on. He's was quite obvious after all. But, instead of confronting him about his staring and following...you let it continue. You loved it.
You loved to egg him on. You moan softly as you slowly sit up, rubbing your eyes. Tom had grown tense where he stood, hoping to god you didn't look to much into the shadows.
"Bloody hell, it's so hot." You mutter to yourself.
It was actually quite nice in the room, but you decided you wanted to tease him. Maybe he'd come out of the shadows tonight and play.
You pull the tank top off, tossing it on the floor before lying back. You turn on your side, closing your eyes as you felt his eyes burn into you.
He stared at your breasts, the pebbled nipples that seemingly called out to him. He needed to leave before he lost control. But, he knew he needed to wait until you fell asleep.
I will have you, yes, I will have you
I will find a way, and I will have you
Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly
I will collect you and capture you
Just as he thought you had fallen asleep, you moan in annoyance again. He stands up straighter from where he had leaned against the wall. You sit up, propping yourself against the headboard.
You could feel the change in the air. You could feel his nerves. You knew exactly what he was thinking. You knew he was waiting until you fell asleep to leave, but you weren't ready for him to leave. You wanted him to play with you.
You trail a hand down the valley of your breasts, across your stomach before slowly sliding your hand down your panties. You moan softly, rubbing the sensitive ball of nerves.
He had grown even harder as he watched you play with yourself and he clenched his jaw, clenching his fists in his pockets as he fought the urge to go to you—to claim you.
You take your panties off, now frustrated they were in the way. You toss them on the floor, in the direction of where he stood. He looks down to where they have landed, right in front of him. He leans down slowly as he keeps his eyes on you as he grabs them. He stands, feeling the wetness on them.
Your breaths became faster as you got closer to reaching your high. You curl your fingers, hitting a spot you were unaware of—one that sent your eyes rolling back as you moaned out loud as you came.
You fell back against your bed, unconscious from the pleasure. You had always been quite sensitive to pleasure, only touching yourself twice before tonight. You were a virgin and didn't even know what pleasure could really be.
Tom was awed with how you came apart. Now, he wished he was above you so that he could be fucking you, making you feel pleasure, but so he could see you unravel.
You were beautiful.
He steps closer to the bed, knowing how risky it was, yet he felt like he couldn't leave without doing this. He cups your cheek, gently tracing your bottom lip. You moan softly, your lips parting. He gently sticks his thumb in your mouth, your lips wrapping around it as you sucked on it slowly before your mouth barely opened.
He pulled his thumb back, a trail of salvia left in its wake. He groans softly as he sucks the thumb you just had. He traces a hand down the column of your neck, down the valley of your breasts, over your belly before reaching where your hand laid limp between your legs. Two of your fingers glistened with your release and he gently grabbed your wrist, taking your two fingers in his mouth.
His eyes flutter closed, tasting your sweet release blossom over his taste buds. A taste he knew he was forever going to be addicted to. He lets your fingers free from his mouth, before disappearing to your attached bathroom. He grabs a rag, wetting it before going to carefully and gently clean you up.
He went back to the bathroom, putting it in the bin. He got to the doorway as he hears your soft moan. He sees you slowly sitting up. You found yourself wanting to touch yourself again, now wanting his touch.
He watches your fingers delve back between your wet folds. He bites his lip, watching you from a different angle, one where he saw your glistening folds from the pale moonlight.
"Oh god." You moan, your eyes squeezing shut.
He smirks, loving how sensitive you were. He couldn't wait until he got to experience your sensitivity with you. He could already imagine you getting all sensitive and worked up over it.
"T-Tom." You moan, not meaning to, but now you imagined it was him touching you.
His lips part in surprise as he watches you. It wasn't long before you were falling apart, realizing you moaned his name. You weren't embarrassed long as you passed out once again. He grabbed the rag, cleaning you once more and sucking on your fingers to experience your heavenly taste.
You are an obsession, you're my obsession
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
You are an obsession, you're my obsession
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
You awake to your alarm this time, naked and a bit sore down there from your activities late last night. You smile slightly, knowing he cleaned you up both times. You stand and get dressed in your white button up blouse, grimacing slightly.
Your family wasn't poor, but they also weren't rich. You were lucky to get your books for the year. Buying new clothes was a speciality in your household. So, the blouse was a bit small and couldn't be buttoned all the way. This one was the blouse you tried your best not to wear because it was buttoned right at your breasts. So, anyone could see your breasts that were beautifully accentuated by your lace bra. Thankfully, they couldn't see the bra.
Your blouse hasn't gotten that small just yet. You pull on your "school girl" skirt, another thing you didn't like to wear often as you rather wear you black ones that fit just right. Your "school girl" skirt was short and you were lucky if you didn't flash anyone if you bent over too much.
It was a green plaid style though, suiting your house colors which you liked. You pull on your white knee socks and your black Mary-Janes. You brushed your hair before you decided to pick up your clothes from last night that you had thrown when you got a little bold.
You found the tank-top, but not the panties. You knew you threw them right in his direction and you realized that he must've taken them. You smile slightly before grabbing your messenger bag. You walk out of your dorm, heading into the Common Room.
Tom sat with his friends where they normally sat. You fought not to make eye contact with him or to stare at him. You could feel his eyes on you though.
His eyes were on the blouse that he knew was a few sizes to small. He clenched his jaw, not happy that other boys would see his girl like this all day. Not to mention the skirt you wore.
"Good morning, Mary-Ellen. Are you ready to head to breakfast?" You ask, a polite smile on your face.
Your friends were already at breakfast, but Mary-Ellen was a first-year that you had taken under your wing. She was more advanced than most in her year, and she was a year younger than everyone, but everyone bullied her. Until you stepped in and now you protected her.
"I'm not really hungry today." She mumbles sadly, laying her head down on her arms that were folded on the table.
You frown, taking a seat across from her. You quietly cursed her brother, Avery—one of Tom's friends—who acted as if he had no association with her.
"What's going on, Mary-Ellen?" You question.
"I don't wanna talk about it." She grumbles.
"Mary-Ellen, we agreed that 'wanna' isn't a very polite word. We also agreed that we don't keep secrets from each other. Now, tell me what is bothering you. I'm sure we can fix it." You say, smiling softly at her.
"Avery, are you ever going to treat that little sister of yours, right? She truly thinks you hate her." Lestrange mumbles, watching the interaction between you and Mary-Ellen.
"No one would judge either. Your smart. No wonder she's smart." Abraxas says.
Avery looks at Tom who was already looking at him. He raises his eyebrows before rolling his eyes.
"Avery, she's your sister. Treat her like one rather than icing her out because you're embarrassed she has more brains than you." Tom says.
"There's this boy who keeps picking on me." Mary-Ellen murmurs.
"A boy? Who is this boy?" You ask.
"Someone." She mumbles.
"Mary-Ellen." You warn sharply.
"It's Samuel." She mumbles.
"And what is Samuel doing?" You question.
"It started with him throwing pebbles at me, then taking my school stuff and holding it away from me...but now he keeps trying to lift my skirt up randomly. He also keeps telling everyone we are dating and we had snogged in a broom closet." She exclaims upset, tears welling in her eyes.
Avery's jaw clenched, his eyes going to the doorway where Samuel so happened to enter. You happened to notice as well, Tom putting a hand out to stop Avery.
"Samuel! Come here, please." You call.
"Yes, Miss. Y/l/n?" He questions.
"I want to know why you are picking on, Mary-Ellen." You say expectantly.
"What are you talking about?" He lies.
"Samuel, please do not lie to my face. I don't like it and it's disrespectful. Be honest, so that we can properly figure this out. I've heard you've thrown pebbles at her, taken her school books to tease her, and then you're trying to lift her skirt. Not to mention you are spreading false rumors around the school. Do you know how rude that is? How do you think all of this has made Mary-Ellen feel? Do you know how much trouble you'll get in if this reaches a Professor or the Headmaster? This isn't okay behavior." You scold.
"I just wanted her attention." He mumbles.
"Samuel, whether you wanted her attention or not, that wasn't an appropriate way of gaining it. You've really upset Mary-Ellen. I hope you haven't done this to other girls either. It isn't polite. It is rude and disrespectful. If you wanted her attention, alls you had to do was approach her and talk to her. You didn't have to tease her, lie about her and harass her. I think you owe someone an apology." You say.
"Mary-Ellen, I'm sorry. I didn't know it was hurting your feelings. I promise I'll stop. I'll tell everyone it was just a rumor. I just really wanted your attention...I think your really pretty and I got really nervous about talking to you." He admits, his cheeks flushing red.
"It's okay, Samuel. Just don't do it again or I might have to hex you." She teases.
You smile, watching the two who ultimately end up going to breakfast together. You look at the time and know you won't have time for breakfast. You stand swiftly, smoothing your skirt out before leaving the Common Room.
Tom dismissed himself from his friends, following you from a distance. He was confused, noticing you were taking a different route. You stop in the middle of a corridor, feeling him following you—watching you.
"I can feel you following me and watching me." You say softly.
He stays in the shadows, watching you with curiosity. You smile, looking down at the ground.
"Maybe next time you'll play too? I could feel you watching me last night when I played with myself...and this morning my favorite pair of panties were gone." You say softly.
He swallows hard, a tent appearing his pants. You offered an invite for him to play with you. Not to mention, you were well aware of his eyes on you last night and you simply played with yourself before his eyes.
You carry on walking, aware he was following you still. You reach your class, slipping inside and hoped he'd make it to his class on time.
He did, per usual. He was waiting for Potions, where he hurriedly rushed to before leaving a note on your desk. He walked out and found Abraxas. He walked in with Abraxas to see you at your desk reading the note.
My Obsession,
Are you daring the devil to play? Naughty girl. You knew I was watching all along. If I had known, I would of feasted upon your heavenly taste between your legs. I might have snuck a taste from your fingers, a new addiction of mine. You can have your black panties back once I've claimed you as mine.
You smile slightly, noting how he knew he was obsessed with you and not to mention he tasted you. Your cheeks flushed red at the thought of his mouth around your fingers. You tuck the letter away before the Professor began to assign groups. He apparently decided to switch it up and do boy-girl and to try and have people work with people they normally don't.
You were partnered with a Gryffindor boy, your work station in front of Tom's and his partner who was a Slytherin girl you've seen sometimes.
"So, Y/n...are you single?" Leon asks.
"Yes...but I'm not actively looking for a relationship. Sorry." You say distractedly.
Tom sat behind you, glaring at Leon. He knew he hadn't claimed you just yet, but he was sure it was quite obvious he liked you. He was satisfied with your answer though which made him feel a tad bit better, but he was still pretty pissed off.
"Can I ask why you aren't looking for a relationship?" He asks.
"I'm not so sure it necessarily pertains to you. Sorry, but I just don't understand why your pushing the matter more than it needs." You say softly, not wanting to come off as rude.
"I'm interested in you. Your a nice girl who's smart and who's apparently not looking for a relationship." He says.
"I've got my eyes set on someone already." You say.
"In that case, I'm sorry. I should have known. It's quite obvious." He says.
"What? What's quite obvious?" You ask, turning your full attention to him.
His eyes fall on your chest, before you cleared your throat and he looked up.
"It's just...Riddle is always around you no matter where at." He says.
"Oh, he and I aren't together." You say, smiling like a lovesick fool as you turn back towards the cauldron.
"I never said you both were together. I just meant it's quite obvious you both like each other." He says.
You stay quiet, surprised he'd say that. You finish up the potion, waiting until Professor Slughorn could come over.
"Brilliant! As always!" He praises, putting a hand on your back as he looks at the potion.
"Thank you, Professor." You murmur, your cheeks flushing red.
"Of course. You go on and take a seat. Leon, you clean all of this up." He says before walking away.
Class was over not before long and you stand, grabbing your bag before you quickly hurry away. You could hear Tom trying to get through the crowd of people, sensing his growing annoyance as he tried to catch up with you.
You smile slightly, ducking down another hallway, before taking a different way to the Great Hall. You find your normal seat, getting sucked into a conversation either Katherine and Mirabelle.
"He's staring again." Katherine whispers with a smirk.
"When isn't he?" You chide, smiling back at her.
"I bet if you got up right now, he'd follow you." Mirabelle said.
"He probably would. I have finished my dinner, so maybe I'll test the theory. Once I get to the door I'll turn back and wave to you two. How's that?" You suggest.
"Go." Katherine urges excitedly.
You stand, smoothing out your skirt before making any other move. You shuffle down the bench so you wouldn't have to climb over it and risk flashing someone. You start to walk to the doors, pausing before turning back to wave to the girls who wave and send you kisses. Tom had stopped all movements and stood there waiting for you to walk out of the Great Hall.
You walk out, ducking into a dark corner. You see him step out, looking up and down the hallway. He curses before walking right past you. You wait until he's gone before going left where you take the long way to the Slytherin Common Room.
You walk in, just as he walked in from the direction of the girls dormitory's. You give him a polite smile, walking past him towards your dorm. The door was partially opened which it wasn't like that earlier today when you left.
I feed you, I drink you by day and night
I need you, I need you by sun and candlelight
You protest, you want to be
Safe, oh, there's no alternative (there's no alternative)
He stood in the corner of your dorm again and he watched as you slept soundly. Tonight, it was rather hot in the dorm, so you were in a tank top that had ridden up just below your breasts and another pair of lace panties, this time dark green.
The blankets had been kicked to the floor long ago and he was running his eyes along you almost continuously, trying to burn your soft curves into his memory. You moan as your eyes flutter open.
You could feel him again.
You slide the tank top off, throwing it in the direction you knew he would be. You shimmy your panties down your legs, tossing those in his direction as well.
They hit him in the chest, and he caught it effortlessly. You smile inwardly as you didn't hear them hit the floor. You gasp as a bundle of silk is thrown onto your bed. You grab the little note and open it.
My Obsession,
Put this around your eyes as a blindfold, then I'll come play with you.
You set the note on your end table, excitement coursing through you as you lightly trace the silk. You were dripping between you legs at this point, but nonetheless, you put the blindfold on.
Tom steps out of the shadows, walking around the room slowly. You let a shaky breath out, your ears straining to hear his soft footsteps. He stops at the end of your bed before he slowly climbs up. You let another shaky breath out as you feel him getting closer and closer to you until your breaths were mixing together.
His hand caresses your cheek, before kissing you softly. You hum softly, kissing him back. You gasp as your hands are pinned above your head against the headboard. He ties them there before his lips were back on yours.
His hand slides from your cheek to your jaw to your throat. He gives it a little squeeze, feeling your body jump from surprise. You relax and he smirks.
He lets his other hand roam, grabbing a handful of your breast, a moan eliciting from you. He pulls his lips from you before his hands trace over the rest of your curves. He moves your thighs further apart before kneeling between your parted thighs. He breathes in deeply, his eyes fluttering closed as your sweet smell of arousal.
"Please." You plead, opening your thighs wider.
He smirks, before his head was burying itself between your thighs, feasting upon your mound. You moan, your legs moving over his shoulders. You tug at your wrists, hoping to free them. You could feel the knot building in your stomach already.
His tongue was sinful and worked meticulously. He dove his long, slender fingers into your dripping cunt repeatedly, the squelching sounds along with your moans and pleads for more filling the room. You tighten around his fingers and he thrusts his fingers a few more times, lifting his head to watch you fall apart. He curls his fingers, watching your mouth fall open, a loud moan coming free as you arch your back, pushing yourself into his hand.
He thrusts his fingers slowly through your orgasm and you fall limp. He smiles, knowing how sensitive you truly are now. He leans down, licking you clean before he sits up and unties the binds on your hands and your eyes.
He moves to the corner of your dorm where he stands as he waits for you to awake. He had a plan, but that went to hell the moment his fingers were buried into your dripping cunt.
Your face appears again, I see the future there
But I see danger, stranger beware
Of circumstances in your naked dreams
Your affection is not what it seems
You were awake, but you hadn't opened your eyes yet. You could feel your hands were free and the blindfold was off, but you found yourself excited yet fearful of opening your eyes. You knew he was there still, but something about his energy right now made you feel off.
"Open your eyes, naughty girl. I know you're awake." He whispers.
You slowly open your eyes, looking at the ceiling before slowly pushing yourself up. You look around, and he steps out which catches your attention.
Tom Riddle, being illuminated by the pale moonlight watched you with a charming smile. You knew it was Tom, but seeing him now kickstarted your nerves.
"Tom." You breathe softly.
"Y/n." He murmurs, stepping forward.
You squeeze your thighs together, feeling your cunt throb as you watch the way he carries himself.
"You've been stalking me." You say softly.
"You've loved it." He points out.
"But I shouldn't have." You admit.
"No, you shouldn't have, but you're a naughty girl. You too have dark desires and wants, don't you?" He asks.
"Y-Yes." You whisper.
"Tell me, what do you want right now?" He asks.
"I...I don't know." You lie, turning your gaze to the end of your bed.
"Don't lie to me or I'll have to punish you. Be honest." He spats.
A part of your brain was screaming at you to run, that this man was dangerous, but another part of you loved the danger. You wanted to be in the presence of this man every waking hour of yours if you could. Your eyes flicker back up to his narrowed ones.
"I want you to claim me." You say softly.
His lips part, surprise etched upon his features only momentarily. His lips were moving to a small smile before he slowly begins to strip off his clothes. You watched intensely, realizing your imaginative brain hardly did any justice for this man.
You are an obsession, you're my obsession
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
You are an obsession, your my obsession
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
You lay back, a soft breath leaving you as he crawls over you, his eyes slowly taking you in. Your (hair color) was sprawled around majestically, framing your face. Your (eye color) stared up at him, innocence and desire swirling in their depths. Your plump lips were parted, waiting for his next move.
"You are so beautiful." He murmurs, tracing your jawline with his index finger.
"Thank you." You whisper, your nerves bubbling in the pit of your stomach.
"You are mine, Y/n. I don't think you truly realize the severity of that, but you are mine. It's in your best interest to steer clear of any males or I may have to kill them for fraternizing with what's mine. Especially, after tonight." He says, serious and calm.
Your heart raced, your mind and body trying to tell you how dangerous this man is, but you shoved that all away. You focused on him and your excitement, the adrenaline pumping through you and your desire for him.
"What if I just stick by your side after tonight? Or would you think I'm clingy?" You question.
"Never. I want you by my side for the rest of eternity. In the waking hours, I want you with me, but even in the hours of the night I want you by my side." He says.
"Then I'll be by your side." You breathe.
"My obsession." He whispers, sinking his hard cock into you slowly.
Your lips part, as if to say something or maybe to express your pleasure you felt right now, but no sound came out. Your eyes look up into his to see he too felt this amazing feeling you felt. It was heaven. He rocks his hips back and forth, sinking into your tight cunt. You loop your arms around his neck, pulling him closer to you.
My fantasy has turned to madness (has turned to madness)
And all my goodness (and all my goodness)
Has turned to badness (has turned to badness)
My need to possess you had consumed my soul
My life is trembling, I have no control
"Tom." You moan, as he sinks the rest of his cock into you.
"Shhh, I know. I know, darling." He murmurs.
"F-Full." You stutter out.
"Shhh, I know. You're doing so well for me right now, darling." He whispers.
"V-Virgin." You whisper.
"I know, I know...I'll be gentle until you tell me you want more." He murmurs.
He thrusts were slow, although a part of him—a messed up, sick part of him—wanted to be fast and rough with you. He wanted your nails digging into his skin, your tears falling down your cheeks, and your cries and blubbering, music to his ears.
However, he knew it'd be painful and no pleasure for you. He wanted you to experience pain, yes, but he wanted it to be pleasurable for you.
He watches your face that was still adjusting to his size. He knew you were a virgin simply from the way you acted. So innocent. Yet, he also has been obsessed with you for years. So, he knew it may take you a bit to adjust to his size. Not only is this your first time, but he is well aware that he is bigger than the average size.
He ducks his head to your neck, leaving little kisses. He left a quick little bite to see your reaction, only to hear your soft moan as you pushed his head closer to your neck.
He left more bites, his tongue soothing over the sting before he left a soft kiss there. He sucked on a spot on the nape of your neck, his teeth nipping at it as he let it go. He left more marks, loving your soft neck covered with his claim.
"Tom, I need more." You breathe.
He leans back, watching your face before pulling his hips back and slamming forward. Your back arches off the bed, a cry of pleasure leaving your lips as your eyes roll back. He places a hand on the headboard in front of him, the other resting beside your head as he thrusted fast and hard into you.
The sound of his skin slapping against yours echoed off the walls, the bed scraping against the floor, your cries and mewls for more were all music to his ears. You tighten around him and he knew you were close.
"T-Tom, if I pass out...keep going. I can still feel it and it's even more heightened." You say, somehow managing to babble it out.
"Of course, darling. It's because you aren't necessarily passed out. You're not necessarily awake, but you're also not asleep. Your body is just overwhelmed from the pleasure." He murmurs.
Your open your mouth to respond as the coil in your stomach comes undone. You cry out, you back arching off the bed against as your nails drag down his back, your eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. He clenched his jaw as you squeeze around him, but he keeps thrusting into you.
You were limp, but his lips part from surprise as little soft moans left your lips. He could feel his own high catching up with him, but he prayed you were awake to see him come undone.
You were slowly coming to, a lot faster than normal, and your eyes flutter open. You could feel your body feeling the pleasure ten times more than it had before you orgasmed. You had no words. You could only moan and cry out for more as you held him closer.
Your eyes were watching how he moved above you. His body was coated in a sheen of sweat just as yours. Everytime he slammed back inside you, the muscles in his arms, abs and chest would clench. His hair was damp, dangling in his dark blue eyes that were watching you. He looked like he could care less from a glance at his face, but in his eyes you could truly see how much this meant to him.
He groans, his face scrunching up as he comes with his last thrust inside of you. Your lips part, no sound passing them as you felt the most amazing feeling ever. He slowly thrusts to ride out his high before pulling out of you. He lays beside you, wrapping an arm around your waist as he kisses your forehead.
He pets your damp hair, thinking about all the things he's wanted with you. Now, he can have them. He glanced at your belly and smiles slightly, imagining it swollen with his heirs.
I will have you, yes, I will have you
I will find a way, and I will have you
Like a butterfly, a wild butterfly
I will collect you and capture you
You had fallen asleep, your hand rested above Tom's heart, your head tucked in the crook of his neck and your legs entangled with his. This...was exactly as he had imagined it.
He found himself dozing off, feeling tired for the first time in a very long time. Tonight would be the best night of sleep he has ever had and he knows it's because he has you. You were the first one awake, but you weren't in any rush to wake Tom up or to move for that matter.
It was Saturday, meaning you both could sleep in late. Even if you both missed breakfast, they'd have lunch or snacks in the Great Hall for anyone.
"You're staring." Tom mumbles, his eyes still closed.
"You're handsome, how could I not?" You ask, a soft smile on your lips.
His lips twitch before they were tilting up. He opens his eyes, looking over you lazily from where you were now sitting up next to him.
"You look stunning in the mornings too." He breathes, almost like he was in shock.
"Oh stop it." You mumble, your cheeks flushed red.
"I mean it, you are beautiful." He murmurs.
"I...I...I'm not quite sure what to say." You admit quietly, looking down at the bed in shyness.
"You don't have to say anything. Come here." He says, opening his arms.
You climb onto his lap that was covered by the thin sheets, letting his arms settle around you. He kisses you softly, cupping your cheek. His tongue glides across your bottom one, silently pleading for your lips to open. To his luck, they did. His tongue slides into your mouth, his movements becoming more urgent as he tugs you closer to him, his teeth clattering with yours.
His hands slide from your hips to your ass, pulling you closer to him. You moan softly, your hands getting lost in his hair.
He pulls away, looking you over slowly, his eyes falling on your stomach. Oh, how he wanted to see you swollen with his child. He moves the sheets, revealing his hard cock. Your pupils dilate, his words washing away as you begin to sink down into his hard cock. You moan, rolling your eyes up to his, the both of you getting lost in the pleasure.
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"You both have been around each other most of the time and she still doesn't know of your plans?" Abraxas asks.
Tom sighs, running a hand over his face. He knows Abraxas may have a point as you and him have been together for four months now, but he wasn't convinced whether you'd freak out or not.
Not to mention, the sneaking around over the summer so you both could hang out was ridiculous. Apparently, your parents dislike Tom immensely for no reason. At least to your opinion. Tom is sure they know he's a half-blood which would mean they have similar views to him which means you could have similar views as well.
Abraxas rambled on and Tom stared at the window, his thoughts back on you. You had returned to your home for the weekend as your parents had requested, so he found himself missing you immensely. Two days apart was the longest you both have been apart...since being together.
It was your guys' year seven and were two months into the year now. The cold, chilly weather was approaching at full force and that only meant the holiday season was as well.
"T-Tom, can I speak with you?" You ask quietly.
His head snaps to the left, seeing that you stood in the doorway of the Common Room. His eyes run over you, looking for a sign that you were hurt as he could tell you were upset.
"You're back early. Is everything okay?" He asks, standing and striding towards you.
You take his hand with one of your shaky ones, silently leading him to your dorm. You close the door, leaning your head against it as you think of the best way to approach this. Tom noticed you had more bags in your room and he turns to you confused just as you had turned and leaned your back against the door.
"Darling?" He asks.
"Tom...my parents said I either needed to break up with you if I were to continue living with them. Or...if I were to stay with you...then I would be cut off and kicked out of the house." You say quietly.
"Are you trying to break up with me?" He asks calmly.
"No! Tom, can't you see! I chose you! Because I love you! Yet, I won't have anywhere to go after school. And I need a place to go, Tom. I can't be homeless." You exclaim.
"Darling, we will find a place. You won't be homeless. I would never let that happen. We will figure it out." He says.
"Tom, we need to figure this out fast. I'm pregnant. Roughly a month. We can't raise our child on the streets of London. We need a home." You stress, tears welling in your eyes.
His lips part with surprise as he looks at your stomach. He knew something had been different about you lately. You've had a glow to you that he can't get over.
You are an obsession, you're my obsession
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
You are an obsession, you're my obsession
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
Tom eyed you from where he sat at a table in the library. You had gotten up to find another book, but his eyes were on your swollen stomach. He was more than obsessed with you pregnant. He told you and himself that you were going to be pregnant again and again.
You felt as you were ugly pregnant, but with the way Tom was constantly eyeing you and ravishing you any moment of the day, you knew you must've looked pretty in his eyes. When you first started to show, he was dragging you to your dorm, empty closets or empty classrooms to ravish you at least five or six times a day.
It's definitely been a challenge for you to keep up with Tom, but you adored him. Now, you were roughly seven months and only had roughly two weeks until graduation. Tom had been a bit more spacey recently, trying to make sure everything is sorted out once you both graduate. But, that didn't mean he didn't have time to sneak off with you and to ravish you while telling you how beautiful you were.
He cut it down to maybe once or twice a day—if you were up to it of course—as he didn't want to hurt you or the baby.
You could feel his eyes on you, but you continued to read the book you had found. You rest a hand on your belly, grimacing as you feel pain. You have an appointment today, the first since you went before you left your parents as you've been to embarrassed.
The stares and whispering had grown too much for you to bear, so you hid away most of the time if you could. However, you were sure Tom said something and made threats as most of that has come to an end. He was the one who actually fought with you about having an appointment.
"Everything okay, darling?" Tom asks, standing behind you as he rests his hands on your hips.
"I-I don't know if this is normal...I've never felt this before." You whisper, a hand on your belly.
"Everything okay?" The librarian asks, coming over to you two.
"I think something's wrong. This doesn't feel right." You say panicked.
She steps forward, ignoring Tom's narrowed eyes as she places her hand on your belly. Her face softens as she looks at you, a soft smile on your face.
"Oh dear, this isn't bad. This is good, really good. This is your baby kicking. I'm surprised it hasn't started earlier. Tom, you should have a feel." She says, taking her hand away.
Tom's eyebrows furrow before he places his hand on your bump. He jumps slightly before placing his hand back on your belly.
"Does it hurt?" He asks.
"Not really. It hurt a bit at first, but now the baby is kicking in a different area. It doesn't hurt as bad here." You say quietly.
"I'll leave you two to it. If you ever have any questions, don't fret to ask dear. I've got three of my own." She says, smiling softly before leaving you both.
"He's quite strong." Tom murmurs.
"He could be a she." You chide, rolling your eyes up to his.
"It's a boy. I can feel it." He says.
"Okay then." You mumble, rolling your eyes as you look back down at your book.
"You've gotten quite the attitude the past few days and I'm not so sure I'm having it." He says calmly.
"And what would you do about it?" You asks.
"Spank you. Push you to the edge over and over again. Make you want my cock, but I won't give it to you. I'd make you so sorry that you'll be begging at your knees for my forgiveness. So, tell me...are we going to straighten up our little attitude problem, or am I going to have to punish you?" He murmurs into your ear.
You were tense, your panties wet with arousal. You wanted to say something snarky, but with how horny you've been yourself because of the pregnancy hormones...you weren't so sure you were going to risk that.
Not to mention, Tom was true to his word—always. If he wanted to prove a point to you, he'd prove his point and he'd prove it pretty goddamn well. You could be on your knees and it wouldn't be enough. He's sadistic and he likes you like that. Maybe if you threw tears in the mix, he might cave—might as the keyword—but even that wasn't a solid might.
"I'll start behaving." You mumble.
"Good girl." He whispers, leaving a soft kiss on your neck before walking back to the table.
He watches as you move a hand to your belly again, looking down at it with a soft smile. You whisper something to your belly, something he wishes he heard, but instead he watches you with awe.
He knew you'd be an amazing mother. You've tried all you could to learn about your pregnancy, but you've come to learn that all pregnancies aren't the same. Each experience is unique and special. You've found you have to learn what works for you and you've got to find what is the right fit just for you. Tom has admired your growth and strength during your pregnancy.
He knows you don't feel beautiful pregnant, but he thinks otherwise. Everytime he looks at you, he sees a goddess whom he worships. He's already decided he wants to see you pregnant several more times after this.
You wobble over to the table again, his smile widening as you struggle. He stands, helping you sit before pushing your chair in. He's learned to love how dependent you've became. He loves to help you. He likes feeling needed by you. Even if it's simple tasks just because it's hard for you to walk sometimes.
"Tom." You murmur.
"Yes, darling?" He asks, looking you over slowly.
"I think I'm going to miss it...you know...being pregnant and all. I've really grown to like the baby bump. It's an intimate feeling knowing that there's a baby growing in here and I'm helping it grow by eating and whatnot. I think I'm going to be really sad to see the bump go." You admit.
"Darling, don't be sad. I plan to get you pregnant several more times. I love how beautiful you look pregnant. I thought you were the most beautiful woman I laid eyes on before, but when I saw you pregnant...it was like I was staring at a goddess." He says.
"What if you don't like me after I'm pregnant though? My body is going to change, a lot." You sigh, looking down.
"Y/n...darling, look at me. You are going to be beautiful, so beautiful. I wish you could see what I was seeing everyday. Sure, your body may be different. But, you spent months growing a life in there. How magical is that? I think it's quite extraordinary what you're doing. I know most women can do this, but you're mine and I think everything you do is extraordinary. But, I'll always think you're beautiful and I hope one day I can make you see how beautiful you are." He says.
"Tom, I wish you knew how much I love you." You say, your eyes stinging with tears of love.
You knew he wasn't the most emotional person. He's told you before, he never expected that he'd gain feelings for someone. He truly thought he was incapable of feeling—until you. At first, he simply thought it was an infatuation that turned to an obsession that later turned into his burning love for you. He doesn't say it often, but when he does tell you that he loves you, you take it and hold onto that moment.
"You tell me every day, darling. So, I think I have an idea." He murmurs, offering you a sly smile before looking back down at his book.
You are an obsession, you're my obsession
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
You are an obsession, you're my obsession
Who do you want me to be to make you sleep with me?
You are an obsession
"Tom...aren't they perfect?" You murmur, looking down at the twin boys you had hours earlier.
Tom was staring at you, the way you looked at your sons with so much love and care already. His eyes fall to your lips which were stretched into a soft smile as you looked down at your boys. He watches you gently stroke one's cheek before looking back at your face.
"Yes. Perfect." He murmurs.
"Tom! I'm talking about our sons, not me." You scold, your cheeks flushing red with embarrassment.
"I know! They are perfect and so are you. Mattheo definitely favors your more. I'm kind of jealous he's going to be so fetching as he grows older." He says.
"Oh shush, you. Tom favors you and I think both of our boys will be quite fetching once they grow older. It's definitely in their eyes." You say.
"God, I want you pregnant again." Tom murmurs.
"Tom! Let's wait until we at least get these two out of diapers! We are going to have our hands full." You exclaim, laughing slightly.
Tom takes Mattheo so you can feed the fussy Tom who hadn't wanted to take a bottle earlier.
"Please get out of diapers soon so that I can put another sibling in your mommy." Tom whisper.
"Tom Marvolo Riddle! He is a baby! Shush! You can't talk to him like that." You scold.
"Like he'll remember that. If he does, we have bigger problems on our hands." He says.
"Tom, shush. I love you, but shush." You say, laughing softly.
He smiles slightly, enjoying that sound from you. He watches as you look back down at Tom with a soft smile. Mattheo starts to squirm and he looks down at the boy. He smiles slightly, lifting a hand to swipe some of the hair out of his eyes.
Mattheo lifts a hand, his tiny hand wrapping around Toms pinky. Mattheo's brown eyes look up into Tom's blue ones. A big gummy smile appears on his face before he sneezes. Tom huffs out a quiet laugh, looking back down at the boy who snuggled closer to him. He leans down slightly, leaving a soft kiss on his head.
"I love you, Mattheo." He murmurs.
He looks up to see you staring at him with a big smile. You could tell he was embarrassed by showing his love for his son publicly, but you stick your hand out to him. He takes it, sitting on the edge of your bed.
"I love you." You murmur.
"I love you." He says, looking down at you with intense eyes.
He looks over at the fussy baby in your arms. He leans down, place a soft kiss on Tom's head as the baby lifted a hand and rested it on Tom's cheek, looking into his blue intense eyes with his identical ones.
"I love you, Tom." He murmurs.
He sits back, watching as he snuggled closer to you, seeming content now. He looks back at you, leaning down and leaving a soft kiss on your lips.
"I love you more than words, darling. I can't even begin to express how much I love you, nor how much I care. I know I struggle to show you those acts on a day to day basis, but I want you to know you truly mean the world to me." He murmurs.
"I know, love. I think I say it enough for the both of us. I appreciate all that you've done for us. I love you so much and I can't wait for our eternity together." You say softly
You are an obsession, you're my obsession
1K notes · View notes
your-nanas-house · 3 months
Note
Voldemort x malfoy reader where he’s in desperate need for an heir so he ‘does’ the reader over the large dining table with a lot of ‘yes my lord’
Love it, sorry if it took me so long 😭
Yes, my Lord
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◇ Pairing: Lord Voldemort X Malfoy!Reader
◇ Warnings: age gap (both off age but it's a clear big age gap), smut, HEAVY DUB-CON, public sex, p in v, wet spell (dunno if it exists but I use it every time 😬), breeding kink, creampie... just Tom Riddle, the death eaters watch them
◇ Summary: The dark Lord was ready to have heirs.
◇ Note: Sorry for the mistakes and the English. The writing is pretty shitty, 'M so sorry and it's kind of dark.
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Her eyes snapped up as soon as the dark lord pronounced her name in a strange tone, she wasn't exactly following the whole monologue that the now former Tom Riddle was gifting his followers. So she was oblivious at the topic connected to her name.
As she carefully scanned the room, her father, Lucius Malfoy, spoke with a worried expression on his face “B-But… my lord, she—” he tried, shutting his mouth as soon as the red eyes of the dark wizard glared slowly at him.
“I made my choice, Lucius… do you have anything to add?” He asked in a calm voice as he leaned closer, receiving just a head shake… the blonde man too scared to defend his own daughter in front of the older wizard.
When Voldemort called her name again, moving his slender fingers to indicate her to move closer.. she got up, her body shaking softly and sweating due to the fear and panic she was feeling at the worried expressions of her family.
She inhaled loudly as soon as the cold fingers of her lord brushed the side of her neck, traveling slowly down to her hips… making a grin appear on his face as her skin reacted with goosebump.
“Y/n, Y/n, Y/n… my poor little dove,” Tom cooed, moving his free hand in her hair before taking a firm grip and bending her down on the wooden table, a loud thud echoing in the room.
Every gaze was now staring at them, some were concerned, others worried and complacent… as Y/n's eyes started filling with tears, shutting tightly as the cold slender fingers lifted the skirt of her dress so that they could rest on her covered ass cheeks.
“My little dove, you know why I'm doing this, right?” Her lord cooed again, starting to knead her flesh harshly “I need a young cunt with a body that could carry strong heirs in it, hm” he continued while covering her now naked lower half with his cape, which swallowed the sinful act perfectly.
The death eaters had just a perfect view of the young witch’s face which showed clear fear and worry.
They could see Tom’s hand moving under the cape, silence except for noises of metal caused by his belt hitting the floor… sounds that made them stare more intently.
Some started to look away while others kept focusing on them, admiring how the older man leaned down to whisper in her ear something that remained between them before her front body hit the table harshly.
A loud whimper escaped her mouth as soon as she collided with the wooden surface, her hands grabbed into whatever she could reach as an uncomfortable whimper broke the silence.
A soft light of a spell appeared from under the fabric and little time after that her whole body jolted forward, her head hitting the table as well.
Given by the dark lord’s expression of pleasure and hers of pain the dark wizards knew that was happening.
His movements were clear and the noises loud, his thick long cock kept forcing her walls open, as he pulled almost completely out so that his tip was the only thing inside of her.
Soft whimpers kept leaving her pretty mouth, tears kept running down her face wetting her young skin as she took everything her idol was giving her.
“Take it” Voldemort hissed, holding her flat against the table while snapping his hips forward, his cock hitting her cervix in a painful but pleasurable way as hisses kept leaving his mouth.
The Parseltongue sent shivers down her spine, those hiss and smooth noises kept swirling in her head, making her wetter than usual and almost too submissive.
It was her first time, Tom knew it, and he was enjoying it way more than he should… his breath getting heavier and heavier as he moved faster and harder not really carrying to make her cum or her pleasure.
“Going to take my heir!” he hissed, his tongue daring out to lick the skin of her ear shell sinfully
“I’m gonna fill… you.. up” he added, speaking after each thrust, as he smirked evilly when her body started to shake due to the intense feelings.
Her mind was telling her how wrong the whole situation was while her body kept reacting positively— her voice even cracked softly due to his fast thrusts… making it get higher while she continued to repeat the same answer as a mantra.
The young woman's eyes rolled back as her lord cupped her breasts through the fabric of her dress, squeezing and kneading them roughly to continue the now pleasant assault.. now a bit sloppier since he was reaching his own peak.
Y/n was on the same path, and after a particularly hard thrust, her body spasmed and her jaw dropped open…. her walls clenched around his hard and veiny cock, allowing Tom to finally release inside of her. Thrusting his hips to get it deeper inside of her before slowly pulling out.
A soft sigh of satisfaction escaped his mouth, his slender hands moved under the cloak as well, assuring that his seed wouldn’t leave her body.
Both were still breathing heavily as the young witch took a couple of deep breaths, falling slowly down, her bare knees hitting the cold floor of her family Mansion.
“Lovely… You have such a wonderful and useful daughter, Lucius” The dark lord murmured in a mocking tone, petting softly her hair while staring deeply in her father’s eyes, who was still at the table
“Make sure she will be there next week, for the next… encounter” he ordered, taking a grip on her hair to move her head easily, so that her eyes could meet his piercing red ones “I will see you later, dove”.
His voice was smooth and tempting, a contrast to the rough actions that just happened… his caress feeling almost soft and loving even if his stare was just communicating pure possessiveness and domination.
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Taglist:
@gabile18 , @mrsfullbuster500 , @rex-ray , @elizamalfoyy, @eovjjj , @monkeyking-and-liuer-mate , @jeremiah-va1eska , @gothamchic16, @rabbiteggz , @dieg0brandos-wife , @rottenecstasy , @lazyexcuse , @teh-vampire-bunny , @lobotomy-lover , @slasher-smasher , @sleepycreativewriter
432 notes · View notes
pasukiyo · 4 months
Note
Voldemort x malfoy reader where he’s in desperate need for an heir so he ‘does’ the reader over the large dining table with a lot of ‘yes my lord’
BLOODY WATERS
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tom riddle/lord voldemort x f!malfoy!reader word count; 2,585 warnings; impregnation, blindfold, restraints, smut smut smut summary; lord voldemort was in need of an heir, so how could she refuse to do the honors for her most generous lord?
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 One touch. 
 One touch was all it took for her to break. 
 She saw nothing except darkness, but Lord Voldemort moved behind it, relishing in the fact she was blinded. She shivered when the tips of his fingers grazed over the curve of her shoulder, trailing off when they reached the crook of her neck. With the simplest of touches she was a mess, with the simplest of touches she was trembling, with the simplest of touches she was aching. 
 She couldn’t see the way the corner of Lord Voldemort’s pink lips twitched, the way his gaze mapped out each goosebump that stood erect on her skin. She couldn’t see the way his eyes, dark with a splash of maroon, devoured her, but she could feel them, feel his vision’s hunger as she sat there shivering on the top of the dining table, blinded, and completely nude. 
 “Quite the pretty little pet you are, Miss Malfoy,” his voice murmured lowly, a husk to it that had her pressing her lips and her thighs together. Lord Voldemort’s gaze fleeted down to her legs as they squeezed themselves together, relieving some of the pressure she felt between them. He clicked his tongue at this, blinking back up to where her eyes would be, had they not been veiled away by a piece of black cloth. “Trying to relieve yourself already?” He drew nearer, leaning over her, his breath like smoke rolling over her ear. “Naughty little thing. Open your legs, lest you wish to be punished.”
 His words held power, raised fear within her as well. 
 “Y…yes, my Lord,” she squeaked, lips agape as she panted, spreading her legs once more despite her aching clit sobbing, begging for friction once again. She squirmed against the restraints locked on her wrists, her arms steadily growing more uncomfortable being tied behind her back. But she was determined to be good for him— she refused to let him down. “It won’t happen again, my Lord.”
 Lord Voldemort’s smirk grew wider at her obedience, tilting his head to catch a better look of her quivering chin, at the wrinkle in her brow peeking at him from just over the top of the blindfold. “Good,” he said simply as he pulled away from her, dark tendrils of hair falling over his face, casting a shadow across his skin. He reached out towards her again, this time his fingertips trailing up and down the valley between her breasts, feeling the quakes her heartbeat left behind. 
 She breathed and her chest heaved into his touch, her bottom lip quivering, a plea to just beg him to do something heavy on the tip of her tongue. She bit it back, desperate to please, desperate to obey. So instead, she said nothing, only let herself balance on the brink of bliss.
 Lord Voldemort’s fingers traced a circle around the nipple of her left breast, a gasp stumbling past her lips, her skin warm in his touch’s wake. “We haven’t much time before your brother and the others will be arriving,” he said in a low murmur and her cheeks burned with the reminder. Here she was— tied up and blindfolded, completely bare before her Lord and her brother was somewhere in their family’s manor— not to mention she was sitting completely naked on the table they’d eat their supper on. 
 A flash of shame warmed her cheeks but it was quickly replaced by a different kind of warmth when Lord Voldemort placed a hand on the side of her neck with his hand not on her chest. The pad of his thumb soothed over the base of her throat, lightly pressing down but never applying too much pressure. The lump in her throat bobbed against his finger when she gulped. 
 “So you are going to be obedient while I fuck my heir into you, is that understood?”
 If she wasn’t already soaked, she was dripping now. Her bottom lip quivered once more and a soft whimper escaped, nodding her head in reply, unconfident she’d be able to speak without sounding pathetic. Lord Voldemort wasn’t satisfied with this as an answer however, because of course he wasn’t. 
 “I’m not certain you understand,” he said, his hand creeping up her neck to claw at her chin, his grip tight and firm. “I want to hear you say it. I want to hear you plead for me to give you a child, I want to hear you beg for me to fuck you.”
 Another whimper stumbled past her lips and Lord Voldemort warm grip tightened on her chin, squishing her cheeks. “Please! Please, my Lord, I would be so honored to be the mother of your children. I’d do anything to please you, my Lord, I’d do anything to have you inside of me!” She wailed, her dignity lost and thrown away. She was aware of how pathetic, how foolish she sounded, but she couldn’t bring herself to care. Not when her Lord wanted to give her the honor of being the carrier of his heir, not when her clit ached so much she could just shatter. 
 She of course couldn’t see the way Lord Voldemort’s lips twisted into a smile, but she could only imagine what he looked like as laughter thundered throughout his chest, permeating the dining room. He removed his hand from her face and for a moment, all was silent and all was still. She was panting, breathless as she tried to listen, wondering if he was even still in the room. 
 “My… my Lord?” She dared to call out, growing more frustrated with the restraints on her wrists and the cloth over her eyes. If only she could just see—
 —oh.
 All at once, she was full to the brim and her mouth fell open, a scream ripped straight from her throat, tears salty and stinging her eyes. With a mere snap of his hips, her Lord bottomed out inside of her, the head of his cock reaching a sensitive place so deep within, she was seeing stars. Her toes curled in on themselves and she pulled at her restraints, squeezing her eyelids so tight despite being blind already. 
 Lord Voldemort hissed beside her ear, his breath warm as it loomed over her cheeks, his lips a ghost over hers. If she dared lean in just an centimeter closer, they’d be touching. “My pet is so warm, so tight,” he growled, pressing the bridge of his nose to the crook of her neck and inhaling, taking a deep breath before exhaling back in her face. “So breedable.”
 He snapped his hips against her again, his cock ramming back into that sensitive spot inside of her and she yelped, balling her fists behind her back. Her back was arching and her chest was pressed against his now, one of his palms pressed to the small of her back and the other pressed to the space between her shoulder blades, pulling her in even closer. Still, their lips didn’t meet, despite being so close in distance. He only grazed his mouth against hers, dropping his head to let his breath fan over the delicate skin just below her jaw, sending shivers slithering down her spine. 
 “And to think my heir will have your pure-blood and mine…” he hummed against her jaw, his teeth teasing at her skin there. “…the power will be limitless.”
 He bucked his hips into hers again and tears began to wet her blindfold, a broken sob tumbling past her lips but her Lord, her most generous Lord, collected them with his own, sealing her cry with a kiss. Her tongue stood no chance against his, nor did she even try to challenge him, already willing to give up her entire mind, body, and soul to him. She was practically limp in his arms as he thrusted again and once more, twisting a knot at the pit of her stomach that was already threatening to break. 
 “Hush now, little bird,” he whispered against her lips when he pulled away from their kiss, thrusting again until he set an even and steady pace, his forehead flush against hers. “Soon you’ll be mine and all will be well,” he murmured, their noses brushing together before he slammed his hips inside of her, ripping a meek from her throat. “But just as I said, we haven’t much time. I expect Abraxas and the others will be arriving soon.”
 He was pounding her now and she was dangerously close to coming now, pulling and tugging against her restraints. “My… my Lord!” She cried, wishing she could see him, wishing she could touch him. Lord Voldemort must’ve noticed the way she was rebelling against her restrained and must’ve pitied her, for he was reaching behind her back— his pace never once slowing and the force of his thrusts never once weakening— to undo the knot he’d tied to keep her wrists together. 
 Relieved the moment her wrists were free, one of her hands practically flew to his shoulder, the other reaching to the back of his head to grip at the rich, dark tresses there. Her tears were wet against her cheeks as they managed to slip underneath the blindfold and when she pressed her face into the breadth of his shoulder, they soaked his skin. 
 “My Lord, I’m… I feel so… I feel so close,” she mewled into his flesh as she fluttered around his cock, squeezing him even tighter which only encouraged him to piston his hips harder into her, clawing at the skin on her back, certain they’d leave marks. “You aren’t to come until I tell you to,” he hissed beside her ear, one of his hands venturing up her back until they threaded in the hair behind her head, balling his fist and tugging at the roots. “Tell me you understand.”
 “Yes my Lord!” She gasped, her swollen and aching clit throbbing and her cunt fluttering around him once again. Lord Voldemort slammed against her impossibly harder, his pace so fast she was sure she was slipping between the realms of consciousness and unconsciousness. The room was thick with sex and sweat, the sound of skin slapping against skin permeated and bounced off every wall. 
 Somewhere beneath all the sex, she could make out the very muffled voices of her brother and someone else somewhere in the manor. Only then did it occur to her that her brother had been here the entire time, that it was entirely plausible he could hear them. 
 Before she could even begin to finish her thought, the blindfold was ripped from her face and she blinked through the blurry haze of her vision until the image of her Lord appeared. Even under the dim light of the dining room, she could make out his pale skin, the maroon that circled the black of his pupils, the black tendrils of hair that fell before his eyes. Gods, she could stare at Lord Voldemort all day. 
 And to think she was his. 
 She blinked up at him through tears as he pounded into her over and over again, pushing her closer to the edge, so close to bliss she could practically already taste it. Lord Voldemort stared right back at her, his lids hooded over his eyes, his lips pressed together as he held her close with one hand between her shoulder blades, the other on her cheek, his thumb soothing over her skin and collecting tears. 
 The voices outside the dining room doors were louder and closer now, and she could identify the voices belonging to her brother, Abraxas, and Tiernan Lestrange. She pinched her eyebrows together as she peered over her shoulder towards the door, snapping her head back forward to meet Lord Voldemort’s gaze. 
 “My Lord…” she began, to which he enveloped her lips in a kiss, his teeth sinking down into the plush of her bottom lip. She whimpered as he tugged her lip, leaning away until it slipped from between his teeth, snapping his hips once, twice, thrice. 
 Then, “come for me. Come all over me while I pump you full of my heir.”
 She threw her head back and squeezed her eyelids as she clenched around her Lord’s cock, his palm catching the back of her head and forcing her forehead onto his as he spilled inside of her with a stutter of his hips. His eyelids were closed and his brow was knit as if in concentration as he bucked his hips into hers with particularly rough thrusts, ensuring she was taking every ounce of seed he was giving her, ensuring she was tainted inside and full of his children. 
 She was seeing dots of color in her vision the longer he stayed inside of her, unwilling to move, unwilling to let a single drop of his cum go to waste. She was fluttering around him, her forehead falling down to his shoulder as she panted, inhaling and exhaling to will her heartbeat to slow to a steady pace. 
 Abraxas and Tiernan were even closer now and only then did Lord Voldemort slowly— almost reluctantly— pull away, eyes glued to her cunt as her entrance fluttered and cried with the absence of him, watching the waterfall of their mixed juices slide down her slit. “My… my Lord, it seems as… as though they are on their way—!”
 A silent gasp forced her mouth agape when, with his middle and forefinger, he gathered the nectar spilling from her pussy and dragged it up her slit, forcing it all back inside of her. Her back arched and a moan ripped through her, echoing throughout the dining room and she swore the voices outside the door fell silent. 
 “Can’t let a single drop go to waste now, can we?” Lord Voldemort hummed as he pulled away, reaching forward to press his fingers against her lips. Almost immediately, she welcomed his digits inside her mouth, swirling her tongue over his fingers and swallowing the remnant of their sin. She panted when he pulled his hand away, pulling his trousers back up his legs, buttoning his shirt. 
 She blinked, turning her head side to side, unable to remember where her dress had been discarded through the murky haze of her mind. Fortunately, her most generous Lord had already fetched the black material from the floor, fixing it over her head and soothing the wrinkles with the palms of his hands. 
 For a moment, her heart fluttered as he outstretched his hand for her to take and she did, allowing him to aid her in hopping down from the top of the table. The grip he had on her hand tightened when she wobbled, unable to feel her legs for a moment. Lord Voldemort drew her in closer until their chests were flush against one another, one hand still enveloping hers and the other cupping her cheek, letting his thumb soothe her skin. 
 For a moment, she blinked up at him and allowed herself to be lost in the bloody waters of his irises, wondering if he was hers just as much as she was his. She wondered if this was love, being claimed in such a scandalous yet euphoric way. 
 Lord Voldemort leaned down until their lips brushed against one another and she fisted either side of his shirt, her eyelids fluttering closed as she anticipated his kiss. 
 Then, “you’re mine now. And while my heir grows inside of you, it’d do you well to remember that.”
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a/n; finally wrote a tom riddle fic after so long! and it's a request! to the requester, i hope this was what you wanted! and i hope you all enjoy! also a reminder to fill out my taglist form if you'd like to be added to any of my taglists!
TAGLIST
@your-nanas-house
@sallowsarchives
@lyis
@michelle-26
@iamthejam
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lustytears · 4 months
Text
Be Quiet
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no plot. just fucking tom marvolo riddle like there’s no tomorrow
afab!reader x tom riddle
2.2k words
warnings: SMUT. tongue play, blood kink, biting, spit kink, female receiving, p in v, wrap it b4 u tap it, public sex (in a school), hair pulling, unspecified house reader, shit i can’t think of bc i didn’t rlly proof read it, but it’s for you guys.
haven’t wrote anything in a hot minute so forgive me. first time seriously posting on tumblr. this was actually supposed to be a draco malfoy smut but i just switched it around mid-way when i was thinking of my best friend, who’s completely obsessed with this diary horcrux of voldemort just like me.
i will try and post a master list or something, give me time please.
You sat in your desk, pissed at how you were in this situation in the first place. It all happened because of Tom Riddle, who started arguing with you in the middle of potions—which you inevitably swore at him. Both of you were sent to detention to not only calm the both of yourselves, but for the disrespect and dishonor brought to Hogwarts. You were a good student, if anything a well-respected one at the most. It made you feel embarrassed knowing that you were “disorderly” but you couldn’t help but bite your tongue and put your foot down when it came to Tom Riddle. His smart remarks, his quiet demeanor, his attitude; all of it made me you want to pull at him, perhaps make him realize that he’s nothing to you.
He sat at his desk, both of your desks close between the both of you. “Would you stop?” He bore his eyes into you like daggers. His voice full of personal annoyance.
You placed your pen down, huffing. “How about you shut the fuck up, Riddle? It’s the only damn thing you’re good for anyways,” you crossed your legs, irritation came with your tone. You felt mad—perhaps upset at the fact that you were in this situation with him in the first place. He’s so fucking-
“I promise you,” he said with assurance. “I’m gonna make you regret everything you think. Every nasty glance, every remark.” Tom said, and the feeling of anger filled your head.
“Like I give a shit?” You held yourself back from laughing. “You’re actually so intolerable to be around that it makes me mad,” you hissed. “Fucking dog.” You fixed your black stalkings, the feeling of them rolling up at your thighs bothered you.
Who the fuck was she? With THAT tone? I don’t think so.
“You’re nothing to anyone, Y/N. You’re annoying, deranged, pissy, and disrespectful,” he leaned closer into your side, rubbing it into your face.
“And you’re obsessed,” you shot back at him. Your chest was stiff, but you inhaled. Your fists balled up, your face red.
“Half-bloods like you make me sick. You can’t ever give up, can you?” He smirked. “You love the attention. Fuck, it wouldn’t surprise me if you loved this. It’s your only way to get off, frantically throwing pointless insults at me?” He got up, walked to your desk. “I know you’re aroused. Aroused by the attention of a man noticing you for merely one second.”
“Oh, you fucking stupid b-“ He noticed you playing with your skirt. He pointed to it.
“That’s what I’m talking about,” his eyebrows raised with confidence. “You adore this moment.”
You launched forward, getting up from your seat where you previously sat. The desk was discarded and moved as you pushed it away when you got up. You backed him up into the nearest wall, your hands gripped his throat. Chokes and whines of disbelief came out of his mouth as you strained your hands on him. His eyes were half-closed, expecting some sort of offensive reaction to come from you.
“I fucking hate you. I hate your stupid, little arrogant, no good influence— I want to kill you, Riddle-“
He gasped, not expecting this sort of reaction to come from you. The last thing he’d expect is for you to actually come after him. “Y/N…”
Your hands were still, but the grasp was firm. His warm neck and erratically beating pulse made your hands shiver. You longed for this moment for years, but you let go. Apologies followed after your hands dropped to your sides. His brown eyes dropped to the floor, his mouth silent as the glooming atmosphere filled the both of you up.
“I-I’m sorry, Tom… I didn’t mean that,” your hands came to both sides of his cheeks. One hand drooped to his neck, caressing the spot where you held onto him for too long. His hand came up to his cheek, holding onto your wrist for a moment.
“What for?” The words shocked you. You didn’t expect Tom Riddle to be so… forgiving? He pulled you closer to him, lingering into your eyes for one moment too long. He dangerously held your hips, and by dangerously, his grasp was way too tight for you. As a result, the muscles in his hands flexed. You took notice of this, tilting your head back up to him, but this time, his lips were what you were looking at.
“You know, I’m sorry. I’m sorry,” you paused for a moment. “I’m sorry I took it too far. I-I should’ve realized you were uncomfortable.” His eyes stuck to you, watching your every slight breath as you hyperventilated, your chest quickly raising up and down. “I’m realizing how terribly I’ve treated y-“
His lips met yours. Starved. He switched spots with you, quickly turning you around too fast for you to notice. He backed you up into the wall, pushing you up against him and you only. Your eyes shot open for a second, bewildered and feeling like you were on a high you’ve never expected. His delicate touch made your eyes close with satisfaction. You knew this is what you wanted. After all, he could’ve chosen anyone—you were special.
Every movement, you felt your tongue desperately fighting with his. He picked you up, instinctively wrapping your legs around his waist. He sat you down on the desk, his lips moving down to your neck. Your shaky breaths made him chuckle. “How needy?” He asked, rhetorically.
He leaned to your stomach, this time, moving closer down to your pelvic area. You pulled at him., tugging his hair. “What if somebody comes in?” “Nobody’s coming in,” he whispered a quick locking spell, and you heard the doorknob jiggle and lock.
“Be quiet for me, and maybe, just maybe, I won’t despise you so much.” You nodded, allowing him to move closer and closer to your skirt. He pulled up your skirt, noting the dark-colored underwear that was now prized in front of him. He ripped your stalkings with his hands, tearing the nylon off as it hung around your thighs. He pulled your underwear aside, his index finger moving it to the opposite side of your leg. You breathed heavily, waiting for him to touch you. He stared at you, like you were a possession he gladly owned. His calloused fingers took a swipe of your pussy, carefully analyzing how your arousal felt on his fingers and stuck to them when he parted his index and middle finger.
“I’d bet galleons this is how you constantly felt around me, isn’t it?” You stared blankly, feeling like you were lost in your own thoughts. He touched your clit, quickly making your thighs shiver and jerk. You looked down at him, where his eyes met yours. You felt special. He made quick moves with your clit, rubbing it with his thumb as he saw how your eyes squeezed shut. He played with you, teasing as his other fingers played with your entrance, dipping in and out. He plunged both fingers in, desperately finding your g-spot as he pulled them back and forth between your entrance.
“Y-yeah, this—this is how I’ve thought of you. Fuck!” You exclaimed. He smirked, going at you with a much faster pace. His fingers made quick work of you, showing how talented he was considering he was making you feel this good only with his fingers.
“I.. I think-“ You moaned, loudly. He stopped, pulling his fingers out of you and his thumb stopped rubbing your clit. You pouted, begging for attention.
“If you’re not going be quiet, I’d advise you to pull your panties right back and your skirt down, and to shut the fuck up,” he said, emotionless. You were confused.
“Okay, I’m sorry, Tom… Please, fuck me. Okay? I promise- I promise I’ll be very good for you. Only you,” you pleaded, begging for him to continue.
He entered his fingers right back in. He fucked you at a much faster pace, squelchy noises emitted from the friction he was making as he continued fucking you at a speed that wasn’t known well to you. It was like he knew your body. You covered your mouth, holding it tightly as your legs wrapped against him. He pulled his fingers out, leaning in as his tongue substituted his fingers. He rubbed your clit in circles with his tongue, lapping up all of your juices. His hands grasped your thighs tightly as your legs wrapped around his head. Your back arched, rubbing against him for release.
Without a warning, he asked, “Cum for me, darling.” His tongue moved at a faster pace, licking your entrance as it quickly entered in you, eating your pussy out.
“Oh my God…” You exhaled, releasing all over his face. It didn’t take him long to use his tongue to lick all of your pleasure up. You moaned as he overstimulated you, licking you clean. “So fucking perfect,” he praised you. His jaw flexed, his eyes filled with pleasure.
He got up, off of his knees. “What are you doing?” You asked him, watching him unbuckle his pants uniform, unzipping his pants. He took his boxer waistline, taking both of his pants and his boxers right off. His cock sprung to his chest. His tip leaked with pre-cum. You eyed his cock, imagining how his girth would feel violating your walls.
“What’s that? You want me to violate your walls with my cock?” He exclaimed, chucking as your eyes widened with both fear and euphoria.
“Spit in my hand. Now.” You obeyed, a wad of spit pooled the middle of his palm. He moved his hand to his cock, lubing his cock with your saliva. He smirked, watching your legs widen and your pussy glisten with the mix of his tongue residue and your arousal. He continued jerking his cock, placing a hand on your thigh, the other hand guiding his cock to your entrance. He rubbed the tip of his cock up and down, noting how your legs tensed.
“Don’t be tense.… Let me pleasure you.”His hand touched your face carefully, moving down to your shirt. He fidgeted your buttons, unbuttoning your blouse and throwing it aside as he exposed your bra. Visioning how your tits would look, he quickly unbuttoned your bra, then moving your skirt and pulling it off. You helped him out, hopping off the table and doing the same by taking off his shirt, unbuttoning his uniform. You touched his tone body, admiring his chest.
Quickly, he turned you around, bending you over the desk. He leaned against you, lining his cock up to your entrance. He stuck his cock into you, causing your mouth to part an ‘o’. His movements became quick and aggressive, moving into you at a fast pace. You tried suppressing your moans, but he pulled your hair, yanking it back. It allowed him to continuously fuck your g-spot perfectly, making your grip on the desk turn your knuckles white. He pounded into you at an unforgivable pace, the sounds of skin contact made it unbearable—impossible, you noted. There was no way anybody couldn’t hear this.
“Fuck, you’re so.. so good,” you moaned, his hand tight, yanking your hair. Tears stained your cheeks from the combination pleasure of his cock ruining your walls and his hand pulling your hair towards him.
He violently snapped his hips into you. He took the opportunity to kiss your bare and exposed neck, biting down on your shoulder as he claimed you.
“Nobody’s going to fuck you the same. Nobody’s gonna love you the same. I’m going to be the one you think of when you dare touch yourself on those dark, dim nights alone. You’ll remember this moment like it’s the last thing you’ll ever think of. I am your permanent memoria.” He saw the dark mark on your neck, and he bit it again, piercing his teeth through your skin. You cried out, tears streaming down your face. Blood pooled, causing him to smile. He licked your shoulder like your blood was candy to him.
His hip movements became more unfocused, coming close to a sign that he was near to cumming right inside of you. He gripped your hips tightly, his fingers digging into you.
“I’m going to fucking- Cum-“ And like that, he released right inside of you. The hot liquid filled your inside as he pushed his cock to your cervix, painting your deepest points white with his cum.
You fell limp. He took notice of it, and took his now once erect cock out of you. He helped you get dressed, before noticing your stalkings were completely torn. He grabbed his wand, casting a spell that would fix your broken nylon stalkings. You thanked him with tired eyes, completely exhausted from pain and pleasure. He got dressed, fixing his belt as he kept an eye on you. He carefully unlocked the door, speeding over towards you to grab you, carrying your frail body into his arms. He kissed your forehead, walking through the empty halls to his Slytherin house, coldly staring at any suspecting and confused individuals who stared at the both of you with daggers, then to his room. He opened the door, placing you on the bed. He unraveled the cover, pulling it over you completely to keep you warm. Your eyes shut, head turned to the opposite side of him.
“Sleep well, beauty.”
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mxqdii · 7 months
Note
Hi! Can you write something about how Mattheo or Theo would react to someone yelling and being really mean to y/n? It can be fluff or smut I will leave it to you❤️
what i was made for - m.s
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pairings: mattheo riddle x reader
summary: mattheo comforting reader as she breaks down
warning(s): violence, comfort, mentions of killing curse, cursing, very sad ending (prepare yourself)
a/n: so originally, i was doing the request. but i ended up getting carried away with ideas.. and so if anybody wants me to make this a series i can !!
not proofread
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it's been a really bad week.
everyone found out about my dad being a death eater, causing me to loose friends and people just viewing me differently
i get dirty look walking to class, whispering all around me, people gossiping and spreading lies.
it's hell
thankfully, i still have my friendgroup in slytherin, because at least they'll hear me out.
i also have my boyfriend mattheo
he's been nothing but sweet while everything has been chaos
he's helped me a lot, more then he'll ever know,
although, recently i've been more distant.
thing's have been getting harder, and i can't help but feel weak.
i don't want mattheo fighting all my battles for me, and also, it's just overall embarrassing
as i walk to potions, a group of girls stop in front of me.
i sigh, recognizing them instantly
they've been tormenting me this whole week
"what now" i say with a groan
"well, we just wanted to say we're sorry about what we said" one of the girls says and i keep my annoyed expression
"no you're not" i laugh
they all scoff and walk away, except one.
"go on now" i say, voice slightly raised.
"no, because you see.. they don't like you because of your dad, me on the other hand? i just don't like you." she says
i can't help but admit, her words caught me by surprise a bit.
"okay... why?" i say and she grins
"you don't remember me do you?"
i examine her face, trying to find the familiarity.
and then it hits me
"jasmine.." i mumble and she nods
jasmine was a girl in my class third year, she ended up leaving the school because of her ex.
"the look on your face? priceless. honestly, it was one of my reasons to come back" she says and i scoff
i see her tie her hair up
"you- you wanna fight me?!" i shout and she grins
"cmon, one way to settle this, you win? i'm gone, for good this time" she says nodding
next thing i know, jasmine is on the floor with a black eye and a broken nose.
i run back to the common room, getting stopped before i get there.
cormac.
"what happened? you finally get what you deserved?" he says, all his friends laughing
"fuck off" i say, trying to walk away
he grabs my wrist and i try to break out of his grasp but fail.
"let go of me!!" i shout, still trying to break free.
he abruptly lets go, making me fall.
him and his friends laugh and i stand up, tears filling my eyes.
i push him up against a wall, pointing my wand to his throat.
"you fucking mess with me again i'll avada kedavra your ass you understand?" i yell and he doesn't say anything, eyes widening
"do you understand??" i yell louder this time and he nods in fear
i loosen my grip, my wand now not being so pushed up against him, looking around i see all his friends looking at me terrified, looking the other direction i see mattheo.
i put my wand away, walking to my dorm, looking down the whole time.
closing my door, i break down completely.
i threatened someone with the killing curse
it hits me then suddenly,
i'm becoming just like my father.
i hear a knock on my door, not bothering to answer.
the door opens anyway, making me wipe my tears and any possible blood on my face
i'm met with mattheos soft gaze, the concern and worry in his eyes.
"get out!" i yell
"no" he says, walking closer to me
"mattheo.. GET OUT!!!" i shout
he's now inches away.
"get out, get out, get out." i say repeatedly, hitting his chest.
"let it out, it's okay" he mumbles softly
i eventually give up, just falling to my knees sobbing
he pulls me into a hug, stroking my hair.
after what feels like forever, but what was probably only a minute, i wipe my tears and sigh.
"sorry, i'm okay" i say sniffling
"stop telling me you're okay, you're not." he says and i look down in defeat.
"cmon" he says, grabbing my hand and dragging me to the bathroom
he grabs q-tips and hydrogen peroxide, cleaning the cuts on my face
the stinging doesn't phase me at this point, being too numb to really care.
"i'm becoming my father" i mumble and he stops his actions
"what? no you're not" he says and i scoff
"i threatened cormac with the killing curse mattheo, thats not something someone says in a civil conversation. i'd be surprised if i dont get expelled" i express
"i'll talk to mcgonagall about it okay?" he mumbles and i nod
after cleaning my wounds, we head into bed.
he wraps his arms around me, feeling overwhelmed by his warmth, i fall asleep.
i wake up in the middle of the night, gathering a sweater and my shoes.
i tiptoe out of my dorm to the astronomy tower.
i think about everything thats happened this past week
people finding out about my father, people hating me, threatning cormac.
it's that moment that a flip inside of me flips
a moment of clarity, realization.
i hear footsteps behind me, turning around and seeing the exact person i called for
"i'm ready" i say to him, walking closer.
in the end, all of this, it's all apart of the journey. because i am my father, and i couldn't come to terms with it before, but i am now, i can't deny destiny.
"you will be great, just as your father is." he says and i nod
"thank you, my lord" i say, looking at my wrist seeing the deatheater mark.
looking down at it, i smile, i feel complete.
i liked the power i had over cormac, the rush, the adrenaline. i liked fighting jasmine, that feeling of control.
about jasmine by the way, forgot to mention.. she was my ex. and she left because of me, she found out about my father and i told her to leave, and if she ever came back i'd have him kill her.
that was the start, where everything started going wrong.
i hear footsteps coming up the stairs, seeing mattheo.
"baby why'd you-" he starts speaking, but i notice his gaze shifting to my wrist
his eyes widen and fill with tears
"no... you didn't" he says in disbelief
"th-thats not fair.. i did what i was supposed to do..!" he shouts
i look at him in confusion
"i tried so hard, so hard. to make sure you never got the mark, i did everything, begged him not to" he explains
"mattheo, i did this, it was me."
the look on his face changes, changes to digust and shame.
"you wanted this?!?!" he shouts, tears falling down his face
"who.. who are you?" he cries, looking me up in down with that disgusted expression.
"mattheo.. think of how great we could be, we could be a team. do this together-" i start
"together? together?!?!" he yells
"you want me to- how long? how long have you been planning this?" he asks
"you don't want me to answer that mattheo." i say in honesty
"i hurt people mattheo, it's all i'm good at. i'm sorry you were the one to love me, when i told you not to, you should have listened" i added
"you were right, you are your father." he says in horror and i smile
"takes one to know one" i say, adding on a final goodbye,
"goodbye mattheo"
a/n: could make this into a potential series if anyone would want that, lmk!!
TAGLIST:
@strniolo @stargirlv0id @annaisabookworm
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lenoraslament · 9 days
Text
Tom Riddle x Y/N
Hot Mess Part 2
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Humor/smut/angst 2.2k words
Tom leaves you at the party, but he isn’t going to leave you wanting more for long. Still mad about you beating him at a duel, the prince of darkness just can’t leave you alone.
Warnings: smut, spanking, teasing, degradation.
Read Part 1 here.
You watched Tom disappear around the corner, and for a moment a rogue thought appeared in your head
Stop Him
Time slipped away as quickly as he had. You were dancing alone for so long.
The bass pounding only disoriented you more. Too many drinks, too much to smoke.
But you didn’t. You leaned your head back as you swayed to the ever present beat of the music. You felt a hand snake around your waist from behind and pull you in. Enzo? Theo? No, if was unfamiliar with a pair of lips that started kissing your neck.
You took a sharp breath in and realized familiar cologne was pouring over you. Teeth softly met your shoulder blade and began to nip at the spot that made your eyes roll back. Your lips part into a gasp as the hand traces along the line of your hips, dipping down to stroke your thighs.
“The whole wizarding race depends on us ,”you hear his voice teasing you.
“Hello Satan,” you slur out in response,”what happened to the girl you were with? Did she take one look at your little basilisk and die of disappointment?”
You’re about to laugh at your own joke but his hand comes down smacking you firmly on your left asscheek. You let out a strangled moan.
“You are so tawdry Y/N, you know that?” He growled in your ear.
“Maybe you should be reading up on Legilimens instead of studying the thesaurus” you tease but his hand comes down on you hard again making a gaspy scream escape your smart mouth.
“Do you ever shut up, you whore?” He asked, one hand has a vice grip on your hip bone the other one drawn back ready to meet your quip. His hips are pushing into your back
You lean your head back so it rests on his chest, looking up at him daringly.
“Not unless you make me”’you say giggling. This time he doesn’t spank you, he only tightens the hold on your hips.
“Come with me. Now.”he said whirling you away before you argue.
He whisked you down the hall, his hand intertwined in yours. You stumble after him taking in his dark hair, his broad shoulders, the musculature of his arms. Every substance you stockpiled in your system seems to fuel the burning heat of arousal coursing through you,
He unlocks the door to his private headboy dorm, before you can register the change in atmosphere he’s pushing you against the closed door.
One hand in his waist and the has a tight grip on your jaw. His eyes burn fire into yours, heavy with need. Tom’s lips part and inch closer to yours.
Your eyes flutter closed and you breath in the anticipation.
“How did you do it?” His low grumbly voice surprises you.
Your eyes snap open,” what?” You look at him honestly confused,”do… do what?”
“Beat me at the duel?” He growls.
Your mouth drops open into a scoff and you shove his chest away as roughly as you can,
“Seriously!?” You yell,”you’re asking me about the fucking duel!?”
Tom narrows his eyes as he uses his hands to push your hips back into the door. He crushed his lips into your neck, nuzzling and biting as he groped you
“How!?” He lets out a frustrated groan into your neck
“Oh and you’re going to fuck the answer out of me!?” You cry out and shove him again,”just get off of me Riddle for the love of Merlin!”.
He pulls away and picks his hands up, not because he wants to stop but because you’re screaming too loudly. He doesn’t want anyone to hear.
“Get out” he snaps and you gladly open the door behind you and stomp down the hall.
Someone has laid an anchor on your head and a snake in your belly. Those are the thoughts that come to you as you sit up the next day at nearly 1pm.
“Accio water” you mumble and the glass of water on your desk flies towards you. You barely catch it, it lands mostly on your face and lap as you groan. The couple of sips you manage to get feel like rain hitting hot asphalt.
You stumble into the bathroom, garnering a couple of stares from girls who looked fresh and pretty. Pretty girls, who and been up drinking coffee and gallivanting this beautiful Sunday morning. These girls giggle in the library, and share chocolate frogs. These girls never throw up in the shower.
Thank Merlin for magic. You think as you make it disappear with a spell. You’re determined to stand under that shower until the hot water boils off all your sins. Or at least all your thoughts about that dark haired psychopath, who keeps slipping in between the pounding in your head.
You scrub your skin until it shines. You brush your teeth with a vengeance. You put on lotion and perfume, even blow dry your hair. You wear lipgloss and mascara. You’re only 65% sure you’re not dying.
For hours you wander, into the Great Hall, into the Slytherin common room. Mumbling to your friends to shut up. Hiding behind your sunglasses again. But you can’t hide from Tom who lurked in the shadows like a lion hunting his prey.
Tom had been watching you since he saw you stumble into the Great Hall. Your little sundress and sandals, your perfect hair and those giant fucking sunglasses. His eyes wander over your body, your legs, your hips your breasts. He almost had you last night. After you left he was furious, not only because he didn’t get the answers he wanted. He didn’t get you either.
You fluttered around the castle as if the constant movement could hide the pain you were in. He fingered the potion in his pocket, he had brewed early this morning. A hangover potion, trying to decide when to make his move.
Finally you landed in the Slytherin common room, stretching into the couch like a cat. The hem of dress flirting with the top of your thighs. The sight pained him so badly he bit his own lip.
Your head was tipped to the side as you laid on the luxe green couch. He couldn’t tell if you were asleep .Those giant sunglasses he wished he could confringo were covering your eyes too well. He put his tongue in his cheek trying to decide if he should take the chance and Legilimens you or if he should give you the hangover potion.
Of course, he didn’t know that you had been watching him contemplate the two options as he stood over you. You tip your sunglasses down and glare at him.
“Did you ever consider that I beat you at the duel because I’m simply that good.” You say not hiding your annoyance.
Tom nearly jumped when you spoke, his look of surprise quickly turned into a grimace.
“Impossible. You’re a vapid whore” he spat angrily.
You pushed yourself up on your forearms, finally fed up with him.
“And you are a pretentious little know it all, who is not nearly as smart as he thinks he is!”’you rant chest practically heaving in anger,”you’re arrogant, only leaning on your fathers name and status, the dark lord should be ashamed to see you resting on your laurels. I could occlude you in my fucking sleep!” You snap, cheeks flushed in pure rage.
Tom looks peaked by your words. His mouth drops open and closes. He is…impressed. By your anger and confidence. You insulted him the same way you duel, with fire and passion. He says nothing, he only shoved your legs over so he can sit down next to you. You sit up. He takes the small vial of hangover potion out of his pocket and hands it to you.
You give him a side eye, and open to smelling it. You recognize its scent immediately and take it. You play with the empty vial in your hands.
“I still hate you,”you grumble at him.
He looks at you sidelong and pushed a loose strand of hair behind your ear,”I hate you too. Slut.”
“Sociopathic fuck”
“Superficial bitch”
“Brown nosing-“
You get cut off as he grabs your face, he tips your head back softly. Your lips brush against eachother making you gasp as you part them further. Your tongues touch with voltage, they dance against eachother and your eyes nearly roll back. Your arms are around his shoulders as his hands tangle into your hair.
Silence follows you both down the hall. Into his room. Before the door is closed his lips are on your neck, sucking and biting as you make quick work of the buttons on his shirt.
His hands nearly claw up your thighs to take two handfuls of your ass as his lips roughly crash onto yours again. Your teeth scrape together, tongues fighting for dominance. He pulls back panting, taking the straps of your dress and pulling them down your shoulder as you tug his hair needily.
Zip. The sound of his slacks falling in time with your dress. Nearly tripping over his pants, he shoves on the bed. Nothing about your movements are sensual. They are furious with hunger. He bites your neck as you claw his back, your flurry of breaths and whines are silenced as he pulls back.
You lay beneath him as the starkness of both of your expose bodies hits you. He lays kneeled between your legs, one hand gripping your waist. Both of your eyes survey eachother, mouths open in lust.
Finally they draw together, a gaze that only deepens the fire that is threatening to set the bed ablaze. He pushes into you making you gasp and arch your back. His thumb traces over your lip as he moves slowly, teasingly. His eyes never leaving yours.
Drawing breaths and gasps from your mouth as you feel yourself being stretched and released. His hand drops down slowly to wrap around your throat. His deep controlled pace never faltering, you expected fast and hard. Somehow the smooth, painfully slow and measured pace is maddening to you.
Your eyes roll back as you moan loudly, the heat coiling inside you threatening to snap as he draws out your orgasm. His hand squeezes as you scrunch your face, teetering onto the edge of your climax.
Right as the heady feeling rips through your body, he picks up his pace. It earns a breathy scream from your lips, he fucks you right through your peak. Hard. Making you writhe your hips and grasp at the hand still around your throat. White hot pleasure blinding out all of your other senses.
He smirks at you only making your hatred and desire intensify.
“You even fuck like a deranged-“ you start but he cuts you off by flipping you around. His hand clamping against your mouth as he takes you from behind.
“Shut up for the love of-“ he mumbles between thrusts and moans. He bites your shoulder softly as his free hand reaches between your legs to stroke your swollen clit.
You begin to come undone, making his excitement grow. Your legs give out from the intensity, as your stomach hits the bed he continues to fuck you into the mattress, the hand that held your mouth now softly tugging at your hair. He leans closer and you feel his breath tickling your shoulder blade, his moan near your ear nearly has you close again. Is this why all those girls are so obsessed with him? You wonder
“Get off” you mumble suddenly surprising him. He slowly pulls his hips away and you turn to look at him.
“Lay back” you tell him, he only raises his eyebrow in amusement.
“No” he says plainly as he moves to kiss you again.
You draw your lips away and smile, “Lay back or I leave”. He glares at you before letting himself lay back on the bed. You crawl over and straddle him, sinking your hips down onto him slowly as payback. He immediately grips your hips to move you but you surprise him by slapping him across the face softly.
“Patience” you whisper. He can’t help but smirk and loosen his grip. Your hips roll like waves in the ocean, his eyes shut and his head falls back as you ride him with the same intensity as he tortured you with.
“Fuck…” he mutters as you squeeze your kegel muscles and begin to snap your hips forward faster. His fingers dig into your waist as you both pant and moan.
“You really are a good little slut” he mutters and you draw your hand back again to strike but he catches your wrist and pulls you towards him.
You fall forward on his chest and he holds you there; bringing up his hips to take control and fuck you at a faster pace. Another sweet burn makes you whine into his chest as his arms interlock around the small of your back. His movements are getting sloppy and slower and he mumbles your name breathlessly.
“Oh fuck Y/N…oh “
Hearing your name escape his lips, is enough to throw you over the edge as you both buck and gasp into your shared climax.
A chorus of breaths overtake both of you, as you collapse onto him covered in sweat. You feel his arms ease up on you, his hand strokes your back softly. His lips nestling against your forehead.
“I want a rematch” he says as he pants,”to the duel. I need a rematch”.
You roll your eyes as you breathe into his chest.
“You’re impossible.”
Taglist: @abbiesxox
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Text
Tom Riddle x reader - The bet.
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Modernish? Au? one of those -son of Voldemort Tom's that has Mattheo as a brother n stuffs like that-none of thats important to the fic i just wanted to put that up so them having phones makes sense, also they have charmed phones so they work within hogwarts. :p
starts off with texts messages --(two dashes) with italics for (y/n) and -(one dash) and bold for Tom.
=
It was a stupid bet, one that Tom was already regretting even thought it hadn't started yet. it all started with his girlfriend (y/n) being cheeky while she was supposed to be in class and asking for a bloody abs picture from him while he was trying to study.
--hey tommy~?
Tom didn't know why he didn't put on the 'do not disturb' feature on when he was studying, because (y/n) always bugged him when he studied. he picked up his phone that had vibrated when he got a text and saw what his girlfriend texted him, he quickly sent a reply back and then set his phone back down.
-What is it this time (y/n)? -Did you get detention, again? -I'm not getting you out of it this time.
(y/n) replied quickly, which told Tom she wasnt paying attention at all while she was supposed to be in charms class.
--nooo that was one time tommy --okay maybe two times --okay three....five times --whatevs thats not what im texting u for --do you think you could to me a favors? ill return it?
Now Tom was, slightly(emphasis on slightly) intrigued, sighing as he picked his phone back up after reading the texts as they came in and messing (y/n) back.
-What is it (y/n)?
(y/n) replied almost instantly, which made Tom annoyed because merlin's beard she was in class!!
--ab pic? plssss???
-...Are you actually serious?? Did you just text me to ask me for an ab picture?
--yes. pls? ill send something back? pls? pls pls pls? all the other girls get ab pics from their boys? and you've got a baaaady bb~
-No.
--plsss?
-(y/n) I'm busy.
--does that mean 'im busy so ill send one later' orrrrr
-(y/n).
--Tommy.
Tom sighed, setting his phone down, willing himself back to studying, but curiosity had him picking his phone back up and typing a response.
-Why do you even want an ab pic?
--cuz
-That's not an answer (y/n).
--plllllllls tommy? ill send you something back i stg
Tom's interest was once again piqued, his brow raising. she would...send something back?
-And I'm supposed to take your word for that?
-bet
Tom scrambled to catch his phone when another message was sent from his girlfriend, except it wasn't a text, it was a photo. Of her in nothing but his jumper, sitting in front of mirror, the jumper pulled up above her chest to show off her body that got him feeling feral, her face just barely obscured in the photo-but he could see her tantalizing smirk that always had him going nuts.
He quickly got a handle on his phone and texted (y/n) back with a clench in his jaw.
-CHRIST (y/n)!!! -You're in class!!!
--and you, aren't~! --enjoy bb~ now about that ab pic?
He was blushing for sure, his face hot and red and he felt his trousers get tight. He shuffled in his seat, running his hand through his hair. He thought about it for a hot moment before he groaned and stood up, going into his bathroom and turning the light on.
He texted (y/n) one last time before pulling his button-up off and snapping a picture of his upper body. He wasn't really built like Draco or his brother Mattheo was, he wasn't a quidditch player, but he did have defined muscles and (y/n) liked them, so that was fine.
-ffs fine. -photo sent.
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-Happy?
--👀👀🥵😍💞🥰👌👌👌👌👌👌
Tom let out a soft snort, leaning against the wall of his bathroom, holding his shirt in his hand as he looked down at (y/n)'s message. Yep, she was happy. he looked back at the photo she had sent him and swallowed, the flush in his face returning as a spark went down his spine, looking at the way her chest was pushed out, her breasts soft and round and such a perfect size for him. her thighs looked bloody gorgeous as well, he wanted to sink his teeth into them again, seeing in the picture some of his previous marks on her skin.
"Fuck," Tom muttered, his head hitting the wall as he closed his eyes and tipped his head back, his hand falling to smack against his thigh. This girl was going to be the death of him.
he got another message and if he wasn't already flustered, he sure was now because he pulled his phone up so quick. yeah-(y/n) was going to be the death of him.
--thnk u bb~ i can just imagine ur face rn, all red n flustered~ --🥰😂
Tom huffed, rolling his eyes, throwing his shirt onto the sink counter and messaging his girlfriend back(honestly how he had even gotten one was a mystery to not just him, but to all his little 'friend' group.)
-You're a menace. -Your imagination does too many favors for you.
i mean, she was right-his face was all flushed and he definitely was flustered, plus he had a bloody hard on thanks to that hoodie picture; but did she need to know that? Nope.
--oh LOADS --like imagining what you would sound like whimpering for me --thats always a good daydream for me 😈🥵🤪
Tom flushed again, puffing his cheeks too. Whimper? Him? Never.
-I Don't whimper. Not for anyone. -Not even you.
Tom huffed through his nose, his cheeks flushing still as his own imagination began to wander off. but he was brought back to reality when he got another message from (y/n).
--wanna bet? 😈
Oh Fuck.
"Fuck," Tom muttered under his breath, ignoring the way his fingers twitched for a moment as he thought of a response. She was riling up intentionally, he knew that, she wanted to see what he would do-how he would respond to her challenge.
-Menace.
--scared Riddle?
-Don't do the fucking 'scared potter' thing on me.
--its working isnt it? i know how you tick bb~ ur just scared i'll make u whimper and i'll make you lose control~
-Shut the fuck up.
--oh swearing now are we? you are flustered
He was, his face was red now and his leg was bouncing, somehow even harder imagining (y/n) doing her absolute best to make him whimper.
--so --wanna bet?
Tom took a long deep breath, running his hand through his hand and then down his face. would he regret this? probably.
Fuck it.
-fine. you're on. what do you wanna bet?
he could feel the feral grin through the phone screen.
--i get five minutes to try and make you whimper, i can do whatever i need to do, if you dont whimper-moaning and other shit you usually do is fine im not cruel bb-in those five minutes you cannnnnn, idk, do whatever you want to me?
Now that was enticing.
-What do you get if you do make me whimper? Which wont happen of course.
--you gotta be REALLY vocal next time we do it. i wanna hear allll the sounds you can make, whimpers, moans, grunts, ANYTHING.
Tom flushed, really? All she wanted was for him to be a bit more...vocal during sex? weirdo.
-Weirdo.
--im UR weirdo.
Damn straight. Tom thought about it for a long moment and then groaned. Ffffine. fucking fine.
-Fine. Bet.
--BET!
Tom let out a long sigh, checking the time. it was still another half hour before (y/n) was done with classes for the day, but he suspected she was going to be heading straight to him as soon as she was done-when she was all excited like this-she wouldn't let go of her 'mission' until she got it done.
And this time-her mission was making him whimper. Well, he would make sure she wouldn't hear a single peep out of him this time.
He put his shirt back on and tucked it back into his pants, sighing when he saw he still had a hard on and simply ignored it, going back to his desk and going back to studying-he needed to get this done before (y/n) relentlessly distracted him later.
His timer went off exactly 30 minutes later and he sighed, pushing away from his desk, setting down his quill. Right on the dot-he got a text from (y/n) and he glanced at it with flushed ears.
--omw.
Yep. He knew it. He began mentally preparing himself for whatever sensual onslaught (y/n) had planned for him, crossing his leg over the other as stared at his almost finished essay, before he could think too much on it-the door to his room opened and in stepped in his girlfriend, looking positively giddy.
Oh boy, he was in trouble.
He stared at her as she locked the door behind her and walked right over to him, huffing a bit when she swung her leg over his lap and sat right down, her arms resting over his shoulder as she leaned in close, grinning like a cat that caught her prey.
"Ready to whimper for me baby?" (y/n) cooed and Tom rolled his eyes, uncrossing his arms and resting his hand's on her thighs.
"You wont hear a thing," Tom muttered, keeping his voice monotone and his eyes cold, but (y/n) could see the warmth they had for her, and only her. (y/n) grinned and got right to work, cradling his jaw in both hands and pressing her lips to hiss in a passionate and hungry kiss, quickly heating things up as her tongue licked his bottom lip and then pushed into his mouth.
Tom's breath caught in his chest for a split second, his eyes snapping closed as his grip on her thighs tightened, holding back a groan that wanted to escape as (y/n) practically devoured his lips. 'fuck' he thought, this was going to be harder than he thought.
(y/n) kept kissing him in a way that made him breathless and her hips began to grind down against him-making him gasp a bit as he felt her brush against his bulge that had quickly grown the moment (y/n) had stepped into the room. "(y/n)," Tom hissed quietly, his lips, swollen and shiny with spit, parted as (y/n) pulled away and went down to his jaw, nipping and kissing his skin.
She kept moving her hips down into his and he felt his resolve slowly start to crumble as her lips explored his neck, the sensation of her nibbling, biting down, and sucking all over his neck drove him nearly mad. He couldn't help but groan as he tilted his head back, exposing his neck for her.
(y/n) grinned against his neck, licking up the side and trying to find his sweet spot, anything to make him break. "Gonna whimper for me yet?" she asked sweetly, whispering into his ear and kissing the spot behind it.
"Not a chance." Tom said, every word a struggle to get out, his eyes still closed as (y/n) chuckled and went back to his neck, grazing her teeth and tongue against every spot she could-searching for that one spot that would make him break.
"Guess I'll hav'ta try harder then," she whispered, latching onto the slope of his neck where it met his shoulder as one of her hands went between them and Tom let out a choked groan, his face rising with heat as he heard and felt her undoing his belt and pulling his shirt out of his trousers.
"Don't you dare," Tom warned, but if only so he didn't lose this bet. He knew if (y/n) started touching him, his resistance would quickly fall. She was too good at this. (y/n) smirked against his neck and shimmied his trousers and boxers down-Tom's breath caught and his back arched a bit as (y/n)'s soft fingers wrapped around his aching cock, pre-cum leaking from the tip.
His hips jolted up and then back as her hand began to move, up and down the shaft of his cock, the feeling of her hand driving him mad as the sound of it made it harder to focus on not making those sounds (y/n) so desperately wanted to hear.
"(y/n)," he hissed out, his jaw dropping open as he panted, his breath shuddering with each stroke of his cock and graze of her teeth on his neck. He jolted again when she found the sweet spot on his neck and heat grew in his core as her teeth and tongue lavished that spot with attention while her hand stroked him with increasing intensity, making it harder and harder for him to keep his resolve.
(y/n) shuffled just a bit closer on his lap, his cock pressed against her clothed belly and adding more friction as she moved her hips with her hand, his pre-cum smearing against her skin and clothes.
Fuck.
Tom felt his control falter further as he felt (y/n)'s mouth and her hand work together over his neck and cock. His resolve was broken and he was lost in sensation. A single sound came forth before he could stop it, a hoarse whimper leaving his lips.
(y/n) grinned against his skin, kissing his sweet spot before she pulled back just a bit-her hand continuing to go as she rut her stomach against his cock-feeling him dripping helplessly against her hand and clothes, soaking her shirt in his fluids.
"aww baby, you whimpered," (y/n) cooed-and just then-the five minute timer (y/n) had sneakily set up went off-he had just missed the mark-if he had just lasted another few seconds, he would've won. but he had lost-(y/n) made him whimper.
"Sh-shut-" he let out another hoarse whimper, his breath catching as (y/n) pressed his cock against her belly. "Wh-whatever just-fuck-don't-mmfh- don't tell-tell, shit, tell anyone." Tom commanded, his vision blurry when he looked at (y/n), who was grinning like a bloody basilisk.
"Oh don't worry darling, this is for me and me alone." (y/n)purred, kissing him deeply again, her chest pressed against his as her hand practically fucked his cock, giving him just the right grip as more embarrassing sounds pushed forth from his throat, whimpering into (y/n)'s mouth as she kissed him.
He felt the heat in his core start to spread, his breath and heart going rapid as his head started to fog over with unrelenting pleasure. "shit-(y/n)-FUCK-don't stop-don't stop-don't stop-" Tom babbled as his eyes snapped shut, his head going back as well as (y/n) made out with his jaw and neck, leaving more and more marks on his pale skin as her hand kept going, and going, and going, faster and faster, squeezing a bit whenever she got to the tip-pushing more pre-cum from him until-
Tom's muscles tensed, He gripped the plush of (y/n)'s thighs, his teeth clenching as he felt a tingling throughout his body. His eyes remained shut, although he could still see the world around him somehow.
Then, an intense feeling of warmth started at his core and spread out throughout his entire body. His muscles trembled and shook as he felt pleasure like he hadn't felt before.
A deep moan escaped his lips.
Cum soaked (y/n)'s hand and shirt, some arching over and landing on Tom's belly and thighs while (y/n) began to slowly calm down, her eyes locked onto Tom's bright red face as he let out those little sounds she had been so patiently waiting to hear from him.
"Ahhn, hahh-fuckin hell-" Tom groaned, shuddering as his orgasm washed over him. He whimpered a bit when (y/n)'s hand slightly pushed him into 'too much' territory and he shakily grabbed her wrist that was slick with his cum. "Fuck." he sighed, his body slumping in his desk chair as (y/n) sat triumphantly on his lap, giggling away while he caught his breath.
When his vision finally cleared and he caught his breath, he saw his all too proud of herself girlfriend grinning at him, cum soaking her shirt and her hand covered in it as well, his softened cock just inches away from her hand.
"I hate you," Tom grumbled, his eyes fluttering closed when (y/n) laughed and pecked his lips.
"No you don't~ also i knew you'd sound adorable whimpering, wanna do it for me again?"
...
"Yeah,"
-end-
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dashibroth · 8 months
Note
Hello, I have an another idea 😜
What about Tom Riddle with virgin reader? 🤭
TOM RIDDLE WITH A VIRGIN READER | HEADCANON
A/C: I decided to add a little smut fic below! So minors please DNI!
TW / WARNING: NSFW under the cut minors please DNI, Cussing, Biting and Hickies
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when tom knew you were a virgin
he was more than happy
he was fucking delighted
he couldn't stop touching you in any way
you were so flustered and shy
hes more possessive than ever
he even started thinking about starting a family with you
“t-tom, i don't think..” you looked down at your beloved lover below you, his piercing brown eyes stared right back at you.
“you don't need to be shy my love, its just me and you.” he whispered, his fingers tracing the soft skin of your delicate hips.
tom hooked his fingers on your panty's strap and pulled down slowly to your legs, his eyes never leaving your face, scanning for any signs discomfort, after your panty was fully taken off, he sat up and opened your legs, showing your full glory to him, “adorable” he commented, he licked his fingers and inserted one inside of you.
you moaned as you felt him inside, your hands quickly looking for something to holdonto as you looked away from tom's face from spite, ‘it feels so good fuck’ you said to yourself, your heartbeat beating furiously as tom started to quicken the pace.
“feels good doesnt it?” he teased, earning a glare from you, ”s-shut up, tommy..” you spat back, earning a hard thrust from his finger earning him a loud moan, you quickly covered your face with a pillow from embarrassment.
tom chuckled and pulled away, licking his fingers, then you heard him fumble with his clothes but you didn't dare to show your face to him, embarrassed enough.
”shy now are we, hm?” tom sighed, pulling you to him close, as you were busy trying to think something else, ignoring the cold breeze you feel in your cunt, you felt something hard, warm and yet soft touch your cunt, ”w-wait!” before you could protest, tom already pushed in to the brim, “tom! it hurts! o-ow!” you yelled out, your hands finding his shoulder.
tom shushed you as he held your hips and pushed you down to the mattress, fuck you were so glad you were in tom's dorm.
tom continued to fuck you aggressively, his pants and grunts heard from how hard he was thrusting.
after in awhile, tom came inside of you, shushing all of you confrontations as he plopped to your side, pulling you to him.
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@virupedia | do not copy my work, remake, repost in different platforms or translate
all characters belong to their respective owners & creators except for the reader/oc
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warnersister · 8 months
Text
Tom Riddle x Reader
Tom Riddle x Pregnant! Reader
Warnings + Summary: Tom being a nicer version of Tom, old fashioned views, non-con pregnancy, teen pregnancy, arranged marriages, dom / sub dynamic, controlling / possessive Tom, toxic Tom
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Fucked. That’s the only word you could use to describe the situation you were in - you were totally and utterly fucked. Whatever were you going to do? You paced back and forth in your dormitory as the thoughts and questions weaved and wrapped around the many veins of your brain which were now becoming apparent to you that they were useless in their entirety. How could you be so stupid? So reckless? You bit your nails anxiously - walking in your room for a good twenty minutes still unable to come to an educated conclusion.
You were pregnant and you had no fucking clue about what to do about it.
You’re a seventh year, potentially your most significant point of wizarding school. But you’re seventeen, a year off of being an adult. And unmarried adult - what would your parents think? A child outside of wedlock would be blasphemous! They’d disown you! And Tom - oh Merlin, what about Tom?
You and Tom had a rocky relationship as it is. He’s too domineering and charming and you’re too conforming and feisty to say no go him. It was like cat and mouse if the mouse laid down in the cats dinner plate and handed it cutlery. Tom rules your life by his own means and you felt it was okay to let him, after all what harm could come by it?
This. This harm. Tom had told you of his plans to rule the wizarding world and you had just nodded along, not thinking anything of it. But a child? He’d kill if! He’d kill you. You were going to die. Oh dear god you’ll be dead my morning if you told him.
“Hey- hey! Are you alright?” Your dorm mate asked. You hadn’t even heard her enter your shared room, but as soon as you heard her soothing and concerned tone you broke down into her arms crying. “I’m pregnant, Darla.” You told her between sobs and she reassured you as he caressed your back gently. “Is it Riddles?” She asks when your tears dry and you nod into her shoulder. “He’s no father. He’s hardly a partner. I allow him to control me but there is no way I’d allow him anywhere near a baby, regardless of whether or not it was his.” You say, angrily. “And I’m guessing he is unaware?” She asked and you nod. “Only just found out.” She understood but explained to you how you’d have to tell him. It was ethically and morally correct to inform the father of a child of his position and future.
You’d avoided Tom and his ominous stares for a few days now. But you could feel his eyes baring into your skull, reading your mind. You knew he was eyeing you and your untouched plate of food at breakfast and unusual concoctions that were boarder line criminal at dinner. You knew you were unable to avoid him forever, after all he had made it clear that he was in charge.
“Just what do you think you’re doing?” A voice asked, pushing you against the cold stone wall of an empty corridor. You looked into those death grey eyes and said nothing, attempting to wriggle out of his hold. “Stay still. Don’t you dare try to run away from me.” He threatened. “Fuck off, Tom.” You say, fighting back and you could’ve sworn he’d given you a shocked smirk. “Excuse me? Who do you think you’re talking to? Need I remind you that I own you, princess.” He hissed into your ear as he leans down to your height.
Tears begin to form in your eyes and he surveys your face without any changing emotion. “Talk to me. Now.” You inhaled deeply before glancing between the floor and his eyes. “I’m pregnant.” You say, voice barely above a whisper and it feels as if the world stops - you are shaking, body shutting down as it prepares for all the ungodly torturous and murderous spells you had seen him unleash on his other victims, it was only a matter of time until you became one, also.
Yet he smiled. Thomas Marvolo Riddle smiled. Something you had never seen before. Everything was going according to plan, he thought. He’d spent many sunrises and sunsets trying to convince you to be by his side while he brought his fascist views into this land and ruled all by any means necessary. Your reluctance was infuriating, to say the least and he had found the only plausible solution was to impregnate you with his offspring. Afterall, a poor defenceless girl like yourself needed protecting. Now with a foetus in your womb? He’d put you in lockdown, a dungeon, a high tower with no doors. He would make you his queen whether you would give him your hand or he’d have to cut it off and take it by force.
“Tom, why are you smiling?” You ask yet his expression didn’t drop. “Don’t you see? Silly girl. This baby is what we needed. Just you, I and our child. We shall bring uprising to the world with you by my side and a child on your hip. We shall be indestructible.” You thought for a minute before the cogs ticked into place. “You did this on purpose.” You spoke breathlessly, lurching away from him in disgust.
“Now, now. That is no way to speak to your future husband. You will learn your place the easy way or the hard way.” He’d even spoken to your parents of whom had a strong pureblood line since Merlin’s time and they were more than happy to offer your hand. “Come along now, you must plan the wedding and pick out baby items - I shall plan our takeover.” And with a flick of his wand, you were out cold on the floor, easy to pick up your sleeping figure and take you back go his chambers, where you would stay.
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sweetiecutie · 1 year
Text
Pairing: husband! Tom Riddle x fem! wife! Reader
Warnings: NSFW, kinda public sex but there’s no one around, fluff!!, kinda domestic and soft, inaccurate bc there’s no way sexy two pieces existed back in the 1950’s💀, once again my horrible knowledge of basic grammar
A/n: really felt like writing lil something for hubby Tom🥰 Sorry for disappearing for such a long period, I have lots of cool ideas and drafts but my adhd never allows me to finish any on them;( Anyways, wish you a very pleasant reading and hope you enjoy💖
It was a sultry sunny day, the kind you experience in the middle of September, when calendar summer is already gone but the sun still gladdened people with last warm days.
It took you only a few days of bothering and fake accusation of not loving you to convince your husband Tom to finally take a day off from his job at ‘Borgin and Burkes’ and go have some fun together on a beach. He was grumpy and pouty for the first half an hour, but then seemed to accept his fate, indulging your little whims and wishes.
You didn’t manage to talk him into taking a swim together, no matter how hard you tried, but Tom did, eventually, took his shoes off and rolled up the cuffs of his trousers, standing ankles-deep into warm sea water, watching you dive and dork around in salty waves.
You were currently laying on your side on a soft picknick blanket facing Tom, left arm bent in elbow, head propped up on your hand, your eyes lazily wandering all over your husband’s side profile. He was laying on his back right next to you, arms thrown behind his head, nape resting on his palms.
Tom had changed. The juvenile plushness was long gone from his cheeks, instead leaving place for his sharp jawline and protuberant cheekbones. His hair was a slightest bit longer than it used to be during your school years, framing his pale face in dark silky waves. You noticed how he was nibbling on the inside of his bottom lip ever so slightly - a telltale sign that Tom was thinking intensely about something faraway. You fought the urge to trace the outline of his nose with gentle fingertips, knowing perfectly well how grouchy and whiny he’ll get at this action.
Your eyes wandered lower, taking in his outfit - even despite the scorching sun and high air temperature Tom refused to ditch his usual suit trousers and, this time, baby-blue shirt - instead opting to undo quite a few buttons, allowing a generous view on his pale chest.
A sudden idea visited your mind so you sat up from your semi-lying position, throwing one leg over Tom’s hips, settling yourself atop his pelvis comfortably. Your nimble fingers ran up his chest, caressing exposed areas of his skin with tender touches, all the way to his face, cradling it softly in your hands; you leaned down to scatter small kisses all over his cheeks, nose and lips.
- Y/n, what are you doing? - Tom chided you softly, the corners of his lips tugging up in slightest of smiles, even though it was pretty obvious that he was unpleased with you interrupting his thoughts.
- Trying to seduce you, - you replied stoically, not a hint of embarrassment nor unease could be heard in your purring voice.
- Right here? - Tom asked, you could hear his voice rising just a slightest bit, giving out his astonishment.
- Yeah, why not? - you said offhandedly, your lips stretching in a cheeky smile, gazing down at your husband mischievously.
- What if someone sees us? - Tom rose yet another question, cocking one of his perfect eyebrows at you.
You made a show of looking around the deserted beach, not spotting a single soul being around; not only this place was secluded by dangerously high cliffs, making it extremely hard for reaching, but also the fact that it was Wednesday - a middle of a working week - reduced chances of anyone being around to zero.
You brought your sight back to Tom, shrugging your shoulders theatrically:
- I can’t see nor hear anyone, Tommy. - one of your hands reached behind your back, gripping on the straps of your two-piece swimming suit, tugging on it slowly, un-doing the tight knot. You didn’t bother to untie the second knot on your neck, instead deciding to pull the bra off over your head, throwing it teasingly on top of your husband’s chest. - I think you’re just being a buzzkill that you are, Riddle.
You made an accent on the last word, watching Tom’s eyes wander to your now exposed tits, noticing your hardened from still unpleasantly damp fabric of your bra nipples. You cupped your breasts, pinching your nubs with thumbs and index fingers, all while slightly rocking your hips against Tom’s clothed groin, sighing erotically at the slight friction it created against your clit.
You repeated your movements a few more times, circling and swaying your hips so sensually, putting more pressure into your thrusts, increasing a pleasant feeling against both your sexes. You peeked down at Tom through your eyelashes, noting the way his chiseled jaw clenched, his dark eyes never leaving your perfect body.
You smiled widely at his hungry stare, leaning down to place a soft kiss on his chopped from salty sea wind lips - he kissed you back almost immediately. Tom’s hands came from under his nape, picking your bra from his chest and tossing it aside before coming to rest on your waist, thumbs pressing gentle circles into your heated skin.
His slim fingers wandered all over your body, eventually reaching your plushy thighs - rough fingertips glided up and down your skin, rising herds of goosebumps in their wake, stopping on your ass, giving it a reassuring squeeze.
You could feel Tom’s dick hardening at your simple manipulations, his bulge growing noticeably bigger in his pants, rubbing against your soft ass with every smallest move you made. You didn’t bother taking Tom’s trousers off, just undoing his zipper and pulling his semi-hard dick out of his underwear. You wrapped your fingers around his shaft, pumping it slowly a few times, your eyes never breaking an eye contact.
You straightened up, standing on your knees; you struggled quite a bit while taking off your bottoms, since this position wasn’t the most comfortable. You heard Tom muttering quiet ‘oh god’ under his breath in feigned annoyance, obviously teasing you, for which you lightly smacked him on the chest.
Once done and completely naked you slightly scooted forward so that your awaiting pussy was hovering right above Tom’s heavy cock. You gave him a few more jerks before leading it to your slicked folds, sliding them along his throbbing shaft, properly slicking him up with your juices. After a few more moments you aligned his swollen tip with your pulsing entrance, lowering your hips slowly, gently sinking onto his length. A satisfied sigh left both of you once Tom was fully buried inside of your quivering warmth, your ass pressed tightly against his thighs.
His broad hands came to rest on the swell of your hips, molding and playing with soft flesh in between his long fingers. You let out a small whimper as you could feel Tom’s cock stuffing you full, his tip was pressed against your cervix so deliciously, all along with a pleasant stretch on your plushy walls.
You rose your hips carefully, still adjusting to your current position, sliding off half of his length, and sank back down onto his cock, providing such desired friction. You watched his adam’s apple bob as Tom swallowed heavily, and you repeated your actions a few more times, until you found a comfortable rhythm, impaling yourself over and over again on his steady cock.
Your hands came to rest on Tom’s chest, supporting yourself against his body, back arching at the pleasant feeling of his dick grazing all the right spots inside of your throbbing pussy. Soft moans spilled out of your lips as one of Tom’s hands went down to play with your clit, skillfully circling and massaging swollen nub with the tips of his fingers. Your head lolled back, a loud cry of your husband’s name rolled off your tongue as you quickened the pace of your thrusts, rocking against him so passionately.
Tom rested one hand on your nape, putting a bit of pressure into his touch, indicating for you to lean down. You did so, lowering your torso until your chest was pressed flush against his; your lips found his in a matter of moments, connecting in a fervid kiss, his tongue slithering into your mouth, making you gasp in surprise.
Your loud moan was swallowed by Tom’s greedy mouth as he unexpectedly thrusted his hips up into your perfect squelching pussy from underneath; his free hand was gripping onto your waist tightly, fixating you into this position. You broke your kiss, burying your flushed face into the crook of his neck as his hips picked up a quick pace, fucking your pussy raw with his throbbing cock.
- Yeah? You like that, you little minx? - Tom rasped into your ear, his lips brushed against your ear shell, making you tremble slightly. You nodded your head ‘yes’ fervently, leaving open-mouthed kisses all over the side of his neck.
- I love it so much, Tommy. Please, don’t stop, please, please, - you babbled out incoherently, your mind hazed and barely working from intense pleasure rolling through your body in waves.
Tom slid his hand from your nape and along your spine, all the way down to your jiggly ass, especially relishing to grab and mold your pliable flesh with his fingers. The hard, smooth strokes of his cock inside your slicked pussy caused ecstasy to well up inside you, your body prickling, almost painfully, in foretaste of a nearing orgasm.
Your hands grabbed on Tom’s biceps, you could feel his muscles flexing underneath your touch. You bit down onto his shoulder, eliciting a quiet hiss from the man underneath you, knowing how much he disliked when you left hickeys in such obvious places. His hand left your waist to slide in between your pressed bodies, fingers finding your clit, rubbing tight circles onto it, bringing you closer and closer to your orgasm.
- Tom, ‘m gonna cum, ‘m gonna cum, please don’t stop, - you mumbled into his skin, hot and bothered, and you felt him nod at your words, his hips picking up faster pace, snapping loudly against your pliant body.
White stars hit your vision, as you felt your orgasm rippling through your trembling form, setting every nerve in your body on fire in intense pleasure. You didn’t register all the moans and pleadings slipping past your lips as you babbled in your euphoria, your quivering pussy along with dirty words only brought Tom closer to his own release.
Tom followed you soon enough, cumming with a groan and a low moan of your name, dumping his thick load deep inside of you. You laid rigid atop him, both of you trying to catch your breaths, listening to the soft whisper of wind and sea. Surprisingly, Tom was the one who broke the comfortable silence:
- A few more moments and I’d go deaf on one ear, - Tom commented and you didn’t understand what he was talking about. It took you a few moments to realize that all this time you were moaning and screaming uncontrollably mere centimeters away from his ear, surely causing a lot of discomfort, especially knowing how sensitive man was to any sort of noises.
You chuckle airily, muttering quiet ‘sorry, darling’ under your breath, your hand going up to comb your fingers through his silky, now knotted, hair, massaging his scalp lovingly.
Dragging Tom all the way here was definitely a good decision.
Likes, reblogs and comments are highly appreciated! Feedback is basically the only thing that keeps writers creating new content
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fatesundress · 11 months
Text
⭑ observations ii. tom riddle x reader
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part i here.
summary. two weeks after your last encounter with tom shatters all of your previous observations, tensions are high, and eventually, something's gotta give. (it's tom. he’s giving head)
tags. smut (so. so much. minors BE GONE TO WHENCE YOU CAME!), fem anatomy + reader is referred to as a woman by someone, fingering, cunnilingus, piv, again implied tall!tom or short!reader (take it however you prefer), jealous tom does not understand friendship but then again neither does reader apparently, a little wine is had, the room of requirement is used shamelessly as a plot device, did i mention smut, i’ve lost my mind etc etc.
note. this is a part two, so go ahead and read the first part and come back if you'd like :) obligatory preface: it's safe to assume any smut i write within hogwarts is a university au — these people are all 18+ tyvm. also woahh was not expecting the love on my last post so thank you! i'm still trying to figure this whole acc out so support, questions, (requests? never done those before) anything is appreciated ♡
word count. 6.3k
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The next two weeks are agony. You don’t, in fact, stop meeting with Godefrey to study, because you do, in fact, still need a good mark in Ancient Runes and for all his faults he can reach the tallest shelves and he’s a faster writer than you. Also, Tom Riddle is fantastic with his hands but this does not make him God.
You find pureblood politics a bit archaic. You find muggle courting a bit stifling. This leaves very little space for what took place between you and Tom in the middle of a corridor two weeks ago (you can’t stop wincing at how insane that sounds) and very little patience for his utterly original and not-at-all entitled request that you halt your studies with Godefrey. Godefrey doesn’t stick his hands up your skirts while the two of you are studying, doesn’t silence your gasps with a shush and a finger to your mouth, doesn’t — wouldn’t (you’re so imaginative when you want to be) — tell you to keep reading as his thumb draws circles between your legs, tell you to repeat the words that get caught in your throat, tell you how much he likes it when your eyes go dumb and glassy and all you can say is his name. So, really, Tom should have nothing to worry about.
“I swear,” Selwyn says, picking at a plate you don’t think she’s actually eaten anything off with how distracted she is, “he’s looked over here at least three times.”
You don’t dare glance at who you know she’s talking about. “You’re obsessed.”
Pot. Kettle. Whatever.
“Are you sure you didn’t do something to upset him in Potions? Didn’t botch something that might mar his perfect record?”
You flick her forehead and she scowls. “I’m not an idiot, Selwyn. I handle myself just as well in Potions as he does — he wouldn’t —” Wouldn’t have complimented your rapport if that weren’t true, wouldn’t have said you communicate efficiently, make a good pair, probably wouldn’t have — fingered you in the hallway? — yes, that too. Slipped your mind. So easy to forget.
You take a long exhale, and smile impassively at her. “I didn’t botch anything, trust me.”
She finally takes a bite of food. “Maybe I did something…”
And then she’s lost in thought again, eating now, at least, and you shake your head softly as you watch what are likely a million different theories flitting through her head.
“Morning,” Tom says to you when you enter Potions after breakfast, a delicate smile tugging at his lips.
You have, of course, trained for this. 
It’s your fifth — sixth? — time sharing a table with him since that night and it is somehow easier by nature and harder by anticipation (of what, you have no idea) every time. The first was terrible. Unsalvageable and without a silver lining. It had taken almost an hour that morning to charm the violent hues of red and purple spanning the column of your throat, and ultimately, the marks were so persistent you’d forgone the glamours and decided to just wear a turtleneck. You’d been fortunate it was completely inconspicuous to wear such a thing in December, but that was about all there’d been to be grateful for. You hadn’t been able to look at Tom all class and his hand had brushed yours once to take a phial from you and you’d flinched so sharply it would have shattered on the floor if he hadn’t caught it. And he’d smiled, like he’s smiling now, a soft, “Careful,” that honestly, for a short moment, made you want him dead.
Now you could speak just fine, look him in the eyes in practised intervals, and almost, impressively, make articulate conversation with him again. Make stupid comments about Slughorn and Lestrange and bear the weight of his grin knowing it was there for you.
His, he’d called you. A very funny thing.
“Morning,” you answer on a smiling sigh, sleepy but jovial all the same. 
You deserve applause for this.
“Tired?”
“Mhm — Essays for Ancient Runes are due Friday and it’s been keeping us up all night.”
His eyes flash with something you’ve yet to ascertain. Your research has been put temporarily on hold, scattered and splintered by the revelation that your first observation was, admittedly, a little bit off, and you have no means of figuring out a look like that when you can’t even begin to figure out anything else.
“Has it?” he asks, a tinge less friendly.
“Well,” you say, grinding the lacewing flies, “that’s commonplace, isn’t it? You take all sorts of advanced classes, I’m sure you understand the work it takes.”
“...Hm.”
That’s it. That’s all you get from him.
And if Selwyn’s concern over you botching your work in Potions wasn’t already, obviously dispelled, the glee on Slughorn’s face as he assesses your and Tom’s cauldron should do it.
“Brilliant! Just brilliant!” He claps a hand over Tom’s back, regarding you both with pride so thick it clouds his eyes, like he's drifted into a revery of the future (you and Tom, you expect, are his most prized graduates, making history under his name, proving his immense wisdom) before he appears to return to Earth. “Ten points between the two of you, hm? Very, very good — though, of course, no surprises there!”
He chuckles to himself as he evaluates the other students, and you catch a horrified wheeze of Godefrey’s name (bless his heart) as one of the cauldrons in the back begins to sputter and froth.
You look to Tom with some droll little comment at making it to the end of term with top marks, but his gaze is burning into Godefrey’s table in such a way you wouldn’t be surprised if it was what was causing his cauldron to boil.
Well. Perhaps not, then.
You and Godefrey hand in your essay that Friday with more relief than apprehension — you both decide it’s quite good — and you laugh loudly and breathlessly as he picks you up and thanks you a thousand times, spinning you until you’re dizzy. You refrain from making any promises to attend his Quidditch games, but he vows to let you have the snitch he catches.
And Slughorn, you come to find, was not exaggerating his elation at your skill. After trotting after you on your walk back from Ancient Runes to invite you to the last Slug Club dinner of the year, your spirits are high with the blissful satisfaction of a job well done and a night to celebrate it with.
You can breathe, finally, when it’s the last week of school before Christmas break and Selwyn’s zipping the back of a last-minute dress you purchased in Hogsmeade.
“Gorgeous,” Selwyn says with a grin. “Wish this school would have a bloody ball so I could really dress you up.”
“Buy a doll, Selwyn; you can dress them however you like.”
“You are such a —”
You burst into laugher, swatting her wand away as she pokes your side with it. 
“Just — go then, before I hex you.”
“All right, all right!” you concede, arms raised in surrender. “Don’t ruin all your hard work now.”
“Oh,” she calls on your way out the door. You turn and there’s a mischievous look in her eyes as she tucks her wand back in her pocket. “And do tell me before I leave tomorrow if Riddle stares at you all night.”
You groan as if it’s a truly abominable thing to imagine. Riddle, staring with those dark eyes of his? You, the centre of his attention? Ghastly. You daresay you’d never recover from the horror of it.
“Don’t leave before I tell you how remarkably uneventful a night it was,” you say with a sidelong glare, and leave before she can edge in the final word.
You have no idea what a Slug Club supper typically consists of, but you imagine for Christmas he’s gone a little further with his festivities. His office is glittering in hues of green and red and fleecy, snow-dappled gold. The lights overheard (some similar charm to the one in the Great Hall but a tad less complex, you think) drip and then vanish into the air like squeezed berries, and the berries — served with pastries and ice cream — taste like they must be enchanted with something.
Selwyn was right that the standard dress isn’t quite formal enough for a ball, but it’s… formal. The boys are in clean-cut dress robes and the girls are in fine gowns of different lengths. By the overwhelming number of them you recall being archetypes of Slytherin pureblood fanaticism, it makes sense how expensive they all look. You yourself brush up nicely, if not a bit more frugally, but you haven’t been to an event like this at the school yet, and that’s exciting on its own.
It’s another degree of training (is there going to be a marathon? Are you at war?), a step up from your preparations before Potions every other day, to be ready when Tom Riddle enters the room a respectable five minutes late with a gleam about him more captivating than any of the lights.
“Ah, Tom!” Slughorn exclaims, and ushers him into a seat you remark before Tom is even in it is discomfitingly near to yours. “We’re all here at last… Supper, then? Hope you aren’t too full already, I’ve got the House Elves running laps!”
You’re spared Tom’s closeness by a Ravenclaw couple sat in the chairs between you, their hands clasped under the table while they sip wine from their goblets, and you only realise the length of your observation when Tom glances at you from the spot over, and you startle yourself into reaching for your own goblet and pretending to enjoy Slughorn’s bitter wine.
You eat. You listen to cluttered, unending tales of Slughorn’s time at school and how he earned his post. You drink, and then you regret not drinking before eating because there’s only a very light, very nice buzz that warms you when you finish your cup, and the Ravenclaw couple is — oh, wait, it isn’t just them — they’re standing up to dance as a gramophone sparks to life and a low, dulcet instrumental begins to play. There are now two notably empty seats separating you from Tom.
What had you said this night would be? Blissful satisfaction? 
You couldn’t blame Selwyn for suggesting you’d blundered Potions — you didn’t feel exceptionally smart right now.
“I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” Tom says, pulling the chair beside you.
Where is the bottle of wine? No. Nevermind. You behave regrettably enough sober.
You manage a simple, “And yet.”
“...And yet.” His lips quirk before he takes a drink from his goblet. 
You lament for a second that you’ve only actually kissed those lips once. They spent a great deal longer on your neck.
“Will you be here over break?” he asks, and it isn’t an unreasonable thing to ask, you suppose.
“I think so. Why?”
“I’d like to know whether to expect you or not.”
Expect you… No, yes — revert to observation two: unusual is not an apt enough word for him.
It takes you a moment to conjure a response befitting polite dinner conversation. That is, after all, still what this is.
“I suppose you can. I’ll be busy, of course.”
Well, you didn’t say you conjured something good. It’s a big fat lie. Placating, vague, empty. And you suspect Tom knows that.
“Pity.”
Yes, he knows. He’s all quiet amusement again.
You stare off, satisfied to be left alone —
"And what is it that'll be taking so much of your time?"
“Well, I'm —” And now you have to build the lie — “I’ve told Godefrey I’ll attend to his Quidditch practise. Since the pitch isn’t in use.”
God, it’s so stupid it’s almost impressive — you don’t even know if Godefrey will be here over break, and you could have chosen any number of excuses that would pique Tom’s interest less than it’s apparently consistently piqued by the mention of your study partner. 
There’s that strange, indecipherable look again. Riddle is a perfect surname for him, you decide then, and you almost laugh at yourself for it, but that would probably not go over well should he ask what’s so funny.
“Have you, now? That’s very kind of you.”
“It’s hardly charity.”
“Hm, it’s kind of you to think so.”
You huff, tipping your goblet back to swallow the last meagre dregs of your wine.
“You look lovely.”
It’s just a little bit — just a tiny, straggling little bit of elderflower that captures your throat — and you cough into your goblet. “Thank — thank you.”
And, well, he looks lovely too. Obviously. Sickeningly so. You know little about his personal life but you’re positive he’s at least a half-blood, if not muggle-born, and it makes you wonder the influence of his renownedly plain black suit in a crowd of neat, long robes.
He manages with little effort to look better than all of them at their best.
His eyes drift over you appreciatively, quick enough not to be rude but — enough. (Enough that you daresay you might never recover from the horror of it.) You adjust under his gaze even when it’s situated on your face, far too heavy a thing for you to carry. “Does Godefrey call you lovely?”
What?
You blink at him, your mouth is probably open and you probably look stupid but he’s so… irritating. Yes, of course Godefrey calls you lovely. Godefrey tells you you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met (after his mother), and he drowns you with sherbet lemons at no cost, and he writes at the speed of light to match the quickness with which you recite your textbook, and none of it means anything. Tom is just —
“Unbelievable…”
He quirks a brow. “What was that?”
“I said you’re unbelievable, Riddle. Is it impossible for you to comprehend that I might have friends? That Godefrey is my friend?”
“Well, memory serves me right that you seemed a bit confused on the conventions of friendship last you mentioned it. Do forgive my uncertainty.”
He — that was —
“Well, that’s because we are not friends.”
“No.” He leans in. “We are not.”
You push your chair from the table with all the grace you can manage for such an abrupt thing: a tight, impersonal smile on your face as you walk away and approach Slughorn, only realising when you get there that your empty goblet is clutched in your hand like you’re trying to strangle it.
Whatever he sees on your face, he isn’t drunk enough not to frown at. “Ah, our newest gem — hardly seen you all night! Not leaving already, are we?”
You glance at the clock. It isn’t as though you’re being impolite by abandoning his party in the middle of the event. It’s quite late, the servers are stuck to the walls with little to do, and most of the room has divided into waltzing pairs.
“I’m taking my friend to the train station tomorrow, sir. Unfortunately I need to be up quite early.”
Yes, yes, it’s all so tragic. You’re depressed to go.
“Such a shame,” Slughorn frets, wobbling a tad and balancing himself on the wall. “You’ll be all right getting back? Not at all dizzy, are you?” His laugh is cleaved by a loud hiccough, and then he laughs even more. “My, well, I myself will need to be carried!”
“...I’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.”
“Oh, no trouble at all — there’s — hm… ah, Tom!”
No, no — is it bad you almost reach over and slap your palm over your professor’s mouth? Is it at all impressive that you don’t? You should look on the bright side in moments like these. You should admire your restraint.
But of course, Slughorn’s eyes don’t fall upon Tom for nothing. He's halfway across the room already, and Slughorn must have spotted him approaching to achieve this brilliant solution. “Tom can escort you back, no?”
Tom (unforgivably) is beside you now, a very mean, very pretty smile on his face.
“Not too much to ask, I should think? You know the castle best. Head Boy — sometimes I still can’t believe it!”
You look up at Tom and your jaw is clenched where you’ve since put down your goblet. There is too much tension in you to know what to do with, and he looks positively thrilled.
“It’s hardly charity, sir.” He holds out his arm.
You wonder what spell would catch him most off-guard if you were to blast him in the face right now.
Slughorn claps his hands together. “Ha! Yes, well… perfect, then! Off now, the two of you, off now. Do have a good — ” He hiccoughs again — “rest!”
You don’t even bother the diplomacy of smiling at Slughorn as your arm loops through Tom’s and you’re exiting the party. 
Neither of you say a word on the journey, and that’s very well.
If you could just get back to bed without speaking to him you may still consider it a good night. You may be able to push his strangeness and his entitlement and the annoying way his hair falls to another day, when he pesters you about Godefrey’s nonexistent Quidditch practise, which — come to think of it — you do think he told you he'd be headed home for the holidays. You really fumbled that one.
And then Tom’s thumb is brushing the bare skin of your arm and your walk stutters a bit. But he doesn’t mention it, and so neither do you.
And then he’s drawing down your elbow to your forearm so softly it almost feels like he isn’t touching you at all. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you.
And then your arm, without really meaning for it to, is slipping from his and his hand is holding yours instead, feather-light as his fingers clasp yours and your breath is not the same as it was when you left.
He doesn’t mention it. He just keeps going.
His fingers work back up your arm and you shiver as they drag across your shoulder, gaze searing your neck as the soft digits find their way to your jaw, and you get the sense he’s remembering just how much he liked the taste of it, and you’re… you’re allowing it all again. You’re leaning in, you’re seeking him out, you want him flush against you and even that might not be satisfactory.
You are, in the end, a half-decent observer and a terrible liar.
You’re grabbing his hand with a small amount of direction and a great deal of meaning. You suppose it's because, historically, you’ve proven to have trouble with words in moments like these, and you don’t really know where you’re taking him but god, you know where you want him. Somewhere soft, this time, thick enough that you can fist your hands around it and melt. Somewhere he can hover over you, maybe hold you down a little, just until — maybe, miraculously — you might make him break a little too. Clamber over his lap. Make him yours.
“Tom,” you mouth, some question in the way your eyebrows knit.
The moment you say his name — the instant — he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours. And, ah, right, that’s what his lips feel like. You’d almost forgotten. 
This kiss is not chaste, hardly tender. It resists in that it asks you to push, to plead, to take this for yourself to prove how badly you want it, and he smiles into it when you do. And then, sated by your efforts, he lets you have him. You’re gripping the collar of his suit in your hands as his wander appreciatively over the back of your dress, pulling you into him as the kiss deepens. He’s savouring you like you’re something religious that’s been offered to him, and there’s the taste of wine on his tongue and you’re still here, aware enough that the symbolism isn’t lost on you.
“I've been thinking," he says between kisses, “about the way you felt when I touched you. I've been thinking about how long it might take before you need it again." 
You gasp at the sensation, and god, god, you've been wondering too, haven't you?
You’re pulling him impossibly closer and something hard is pressing into your hip and you clutch tighter onto his shirt as you moan into his mouth. You need it off, you think, and — has your dress been clinging to you like this all night? You need that off too. You need skin on skin. You careen him backwards without aim, your mind a muddled mess of all the many things your body is screaming it needs, like this is fucking imperative; to give it up would be catastrophic.
You suppose, based on what you’ve read, that that’s how the Room of Requirement works, but it’s still funny to think it would apply to this.
It hurts to remove yourself from him to watch in dumb awe as the door forms in the stone (to see the dark, languid shape of his eyes bearing down on you, the wet, stained pink of his lips), and Tom seems to recover from the revelation much faster than you.
His mouth is on yours once more, a hungry kiss; his free hand at your waist, guiding you through the door and shutting it carelessly behind him. 
He’s like fire against you, radiating as he presses down on you, his hand tangled in your hair and his hips flush against yours. You shiver as his mouth starts to move down (a cheap trick — he hasn’t forgotten how much you liked it the last time) from your jaw to your throat, as his lips trail down your chest and you're shivering into the warmth of him.
You’ve heard it said before, in some romantic sense, that it’s sometimes hard to tell where you end and someone else begins. 
This is not like that.
You've never been more aware of anything than the point where you and him meet.
You’re tugging at him blindly again, trusting in the nature of the Room like this isn't the first time you've been in it, and then you're stumbling down onto a bed you're quite sure wasn't there a moment ago (people say magic is a neutral force but evidently this is not the fucking case), fingers carding through Tom's hair as his body pins you into the mattress.
His mouth is molten hot as you squirm and pant beneath him, your breath coming faster than it ever has. Everything feels sharper and deeper and more intense under his touch, every sensation heightened until it's almost impossible to tell pleasure from pain, his tongue from his teeth.
How did it take you this long to do this again? To need him like this?
And his — you should really have the mind to see the mistake in all of this but perhaps that's for later — his fingers are pulling your sleeves down, propping your back to arch as he reaches under you to unzip your dress, apparently too impatient to sit you up and take it off properly so he just bunches it around your waist instead. There’s a moment where he stops to look at you, your chest exposed to him in the dim sconce-light, and then his mouth returns to circle your breast and you're biting down on a pillow to hold back the whimpering gasp that seeks to escape you. He hums around your flesh, and then he’s at your sternum, kissing a stripe to your belly button before pushing past the dress he's left ringed around your abdomen.
You shimmy under the weight of him to prop your head up — to see past the mass of silk that obscures his face from you as moves lower and lower, hands spanning your hips to keep you still.
His face hovers above your thighs, and he doesn’t move.
“Did you enjoy my fingers?" he asks. 
At that you freeze, thighs pressing together to bury the hand that's rising between them. 
Tom smiles. “Hm, you did." 
And then he spreads your legs apart, one hand pushing your underwear aside and regarding you with delicate, shameless appetite — something that might even be adoration: like this is all he ever wanted you to want.
“Do you think you'd enjoy my mouth, too?"
Words are gone. There's nothing left in you.
His head moves happily between your knees, holding them apart, pressing kisses to the base of your thighs. Your hands flail from the sheets, desperate to grip something else and you hold back a sound that feels like irritation and need at the same time. You need him closer, higher than this. He knows. You can feel his smile biting into your skin.
And then you manage a nod though you're not even sure he's looking at your face anymore (and what a picture to imagine he is) and you worry momentarily it won’t be enough for him — that he’ll ask you to be nice and say it out loud for him — but he hums with something merciful, and — his chin dips. You catch the smallest glimpse of his tongue before it’s on you, wet and slow and unrelenting and you say his name, but it’s a mewl; you choke on it. It sounds like a cry.
Pitiful, needy, undone. Just how he wants you.
You think all efforts to remain even remotely composed are thrown to the wind as soon as his tongue is lapping at you, fast and then slow, everything you want and not even remotely close. He sinks all his weight down as if he can predict the moment you'll writhe before you do — and you do. And with his grip he tells you to endure it. You only need him to say it with his hands and his mouth but he breathes back, licking his lips and he actually says it. “Be good.”
That makes your breath hitch and your cheeks swell impossibly hotter, and reality is a small glint in your peripheral where everything else is burning red. “Y-you’re—”
His mouth returns to you, tongue catching your clit in a drawn-out, agonising motion, and you gasp and lurch forward to inch through the sensation, craving more, more, more. Reason is lost on you, a throbbing familiarity forcing you to grind your teeth down on the pillow to stop yourself from telling him to — you don’t even know. Finish you. Abandon all reluctance. Just let you come as hard as you know he wants you to.
But he pauses, observant as he starts to work his fingers against you. Watching how your slick coats them like it’s the most enthralling sight he’s ever witnessed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he starts to push one inside of you, hearing your breath catch above him and the moan that comes tumbling out of your throat, pillow be damned.
You do your best to breathe through it, and you know he knows how to make you unfold like this, so the meticulous lightness of his ministrations tells you he’s trying to keep it from you now. You’re almost embarrassed about the fact that you’re dripping onto his hand regardless; his lips puffy, his gaze unnervingly, dizzyingly carving you in two.
“Just,” you rasp, clutching desperately at his wrist. “Tom, please.” 
Your begging must be music to his ears. (It’s a rare, unplanned fifth observation: that you think he’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name like that.)
He adds a finger. It’s encircling you, first, and no amount of restraint can stop the harsh gasp that leaves you, but then it’s his tongue and two fingers and he’s pushing into you how you wanted, and he makes a pleased sound against you, gripping you tighter with his free hand, still not allowing you movement and fuck, are you trying. What you're feeling now — the need, the want, everything —  is more than rational thought. Your mind goes blank, and all that matters is this, him, right here and now; nothing else exists, not even for a second. You moan, a low, throaty noise that's a little too loud, a little too intense; you can't recall if anything has ever come from you quite like it and Tom devours you at the sound.
More, you agree; it's almost an obsession in you now; more, more, please, anything and everything.
It’s the precision of his touch — not some bored, hurried transgression — that brings your hands helplessly to his hair.
“Tom,” you whine, holding him tight, and the purr of his mouth finding you again is something destructive.
As soon as you feel another swell of something deep down, your mouth is dropping open.
His tongue is sliding through you, fingers curling, and then your clit is in his mouth, and he’s watching you between your thighs as your eyes clench shut, and you’re coming.
Your voice breaks somewhere in the catastrophe of it. Your body spasms, electric down to every atom, and he pins you down through it. He doesn’t grant you the reprieve of escaping the frenzied, glorious torture of it. His mouth still lingers. His tongue moves thankful and unrelenting. 
He takes all of you, and you think this is destruction — creation — both. How terrifyingly similar they suddenly feel.
His lips are swollen and slick when he finally detaches them from you and you want to kiss him, but he’s leaning back to admire his work. You swallow, unable to blame him for it because you look down at yourself and — this is something else. You’re dripping down his chin. You're shaking. Your legs are still clenching around his torso. They’re holding him so tight you can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt.
But he just rolls off of you. Adjusts his trousers and your abdomen flutters and you think, don’t.
You don’t even realise you’re reaching for him until your hand is around his wrist and you’re still fucking sighing through the come-down, panting into the hot air.
He presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers damp on your chin as he holds you. You make a note that that’s the second time he’s done that. That you thought it was strangely intimate the first time and nothing’s changed other than how much more you like it.
And it doesn’t really feel like you can help it but crawl with gooey, trembling legs onto his lap. Doesn’t feel like you can help it when you lean in and capture his lips with yours, moan unabashedly into his mouth at the stiffness that presses against your core when you do, steal his tongue and the taste of you on it.
When he pulls away he’s looking at you like he doesn’t think you can actually do this. Like you’d just crumble the moment you tried.
A low, determined protest rises in your throat and you’re kissing him again. You’re unbuttoning his dress shirt, you’re trembling to reach for his trousers. 
When you can finally shrug his shirt off, press yourself against him, feel that skin on skin you wanted so badly, you find it somehow even more suffocating than its absence. You’re left wanting a more you aren’t able to even conceptualise, but you’re grinding involuntarily against him and his teeth are scraping your neck and he's hissing at the sensation, and — yes, there’s more.
Your breath is staggered when your hips stutter into a roll and you — fuck. You’re tugging desperately to remove his belt and he smiles against your throat as he takes your hands and guides them to him. You can feel his bulge against your thigh and you’re spreading your legs to usher him where you want, clawing at his chest without even meaning to.
Tom’s taking off his belt, and he’s pulling down his trousers just enough to bare himself to you, and maybe he’s right that you can’t manage it yourself but he stops his assistance like the intrigue of finding out is too good to resist. There's something both intimate and imperious, in a way, about the way he's looking at you now; it's a kind of focus and intensity and withheld hunger just for you; and you're more than happy to give yourself over to it, to let his hands and his eyes and his mouth claim you for his own. To claim him for yours, at last.
You do. You struggle for it. He’s very patient. 
But then it’s there — more — as you finally sink down on him and bite his shoulder and he shudders a low, pained exhale, his hands clutching your waist.
There’s a silent, suspended moment where neither of you move. The room feels entirely still. 
Your lips quiver over his pulse, and your stomach flips at the intensity of it, the undeniable rate of his desire beneath you. You smile against him now, like he always does to you, conscious enough to mumble into his neck, “Mine.”
Tom stutters inside you, fingers gripping you impossible tighter as you dare to think he even gasps. You dare to think he likes it.
And then one of his hands grabs your jaw and his kiss is searing. He thrusts upward and you cry into his mouth, searching to match his pace in a way that you appreciate, for once, he seems unlearned in. 
It’s all a bit messy, a bit new, palms in fists, in skin, in hair, digging for every part they haven’t already taken from. The sound in the back of Tom’s throat is divine, the feeling of him inside you as he slips his hand back between your legs — like he needs everything, like he knows you do too — it’s ineffable. It coils somewhere deep, touches something you didn’t know existed. Your hips are rotating, thighs still soft and slack from coming apart on his tongue, but you’re determined. It feels like finding even ground. It feels like something you deserve: to make him feel how you did.
Your head rolls back, eyes pinching shut in bliss, but Tom is there at your jaw again, forcing your blurry gaze back to him.
His hips are inching even further, the intensity of his pace as he adjusts to you making you dizzy. You think, realistically, there’s sound coming out of you, but you aren’t entirely sure when it’s so close to him, when your mouth is between his fingers and your ears are ringing and he’s looking at you like you’re made for him. 
“Mine.” And it isn’t a dismissal of your own claim but a confirmation that one will not be without the other. His voice is raw and breathy and something about the way he says it makes you contract inadvertently around him, hands swatting his chest like they don’t know what else to do. There’s just too much.
You recognize you’re trying to say something. Some plea, a moan, his name (is there anything else left?), but you’re just babbling into his mouth and he holds you there. He doesn’t kiss you. It’s your failing words against his lips. He swallows whatever syllables try to shape them.
It’s there again when you need it most; the heavy, swirling feeling inside you as he snaps his hips, his fingers returning to your waist with punishing firmness. His breathing accelerates, low in his throat, and you push harder against him. Your vision is gone again, head held in his hands to keep from rolling back so that, you suspect, he can watch defeat split you down the middle again — not over your shoulder, not with his head between your legs — with his eyes on yours, with every broken moan you let out so close to his face he can feel the breath of each one.
You’re grappling desperately at skin that doesn’t feel like enough, even though he’s rocking inside you, and you see the insanity of it, you see that it isn’t logical. Too much and not enough at once — you’re smart enough to know that doesn’t work, but it just is.
“Please,” you manage in a voice you don’t recognize. “Please, Tom, pleasepleaseplease —”
Had you said before it was foolish to call him forgiving? You take it back. He’s very eager to oblige you.
He finds some place inside of you and you don’t know quite what it is that he changes but it's new, uncharted, and you break there. You dissolve. You’re liquid in his hands as you sob, stuttering around him, trembling like you didn’t know was possible, and you swear — you swear you’re going to take him there with you. It isn’t that you could stop yourself if you tried but your body is gripping around him, fingers carving halved spheres into his skin, and you’re pushing down on him through the ecstasy — you’re forcing your eyes open so he can see you break, watch them flutter back all soft and pretty.
And you're sated by your ruin when it ruins him too.
The sound he makes is ragged. Undone. He can only bury it halfway with a kiss you think is actually more of a bite, twitching inside you as he fucks you through it.
You’re both lost in each other for a moment that feels detached from time, feeling his hips stutter to a halt, feeling your body soften. And he’s pulling out of you like it hurts, mouth falling open as he does. You wince at the loss, the sweet soreness between your legs, and you’re held only by the weight of him. You think — and you actually sway like the mere idea is too strong — that if it weren’t for his hands, you’d fall flat off the bed.
But he sort of lifts you off him, lays you down and watches you for a long time as if to decide something important before he's laying down beside you. You watch him too. His fingers brush your hair out of your face, and when there’s not a single curl left clinging to the sweat on your skin, he continues anyway. You let him trace your lips, your jaw, your nose, and somehow, a bit terrifyingly, your final observation: nothing about it feels unusual at all.
You did say he was yours.
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highreevess · 2 years
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Omg I loved what u wrote about rafe but I'm currently in love with tom riddle again. Can you write a smut (or fluff whatever u like) about a popular!Hufflepuff reader (or whatever house u like) with tom trying to seduce her?
Of course! I'm going to write smut because, with Tom Riddle, fluff is pretty much nonexistent, but I will make the smut a bit softer than I usually would. Though Tom Riddle would never be sweet during honest sex, he would be if he was trying to seduce someone.
My Tutor
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Warnings: Underage sex (Tom and reader are seventeen), seduction, manipulation, sub!reader unprotected sex.
Summary: Reader is at risk of failing her potions class, and she has to ace her next test in order to pass the class. She thinks that getting a perfect score on her next test is impossible, but when a certain dark-haired Slytherin offers his aid, she finds hope.  What she doesn't know is that Tom Riddle is not helping her because he wants her to pass the class. He is helping her because he has been looking for an opportunity to seduce her for months.  And when he finds it, he takes it.
Word count: 3,871
Sighing, I set down my graded essay and cross my arms over my chest.
"What's wrong, Y/N?" my classmate, Abraxas, asks.
"I failed," I sigh. I was studying for this potions essay for two weeks. I spent every night and day researching everything there is to know about potions, and yet I still failed.
"It's just one essay. You'll make it up," Abraxas says, dismissing my feelings about failing the paper as something unimportant.
"It's not just one essay," I tell him. "I'm barely passing potions. If I don't ace my next test, I'm going to fail the class." Though my grades are literally perfect in every other class, in this one, they are downright awful.
"I could always tutor you," a sudden voice says. Turning my head to the left, I see Tom Riddle standing above me, his hands clasped behind his back. Eyebrows furrowing, I ask, "Why would you offer?" Though I am quite liked throughout the school by most of the students and staff, there are still some people that do not like me. Tom Riddle is one of those people.
"You said you were at high risk of failing. If I tutor you, you will pass," he answers simply, as if I am stupid for asking my question.
For a moment, I think about denying his offer because I know how calculating and manipulative Tom Riddle can be when it suits him, but if I don't take him up on his offer, I am going to fail. Tom Riddle is top of the class, meaning there is no one better. If I want to pass, I need him.
"When can you tutor me?" I ask.
"Tonight," he answers, and my eyes widen. "Are you sure?" I ask. I hadn't expected him to offer to tutor me so soon.
"The test is in one week. If you wish to pass, we should start as soon as possible," he tells me.
I glance back at Abraxas, who just shrugs his shoulders and silently encourages me to take Tom Riddle up on his offer.
Swallowing, I look back at Tom Riddle. "Okay. Where?"
"The room of requirement after hours. Eleven to be precise," he answers before turning around and walking away. He heads toward the back of the library before disappearing behind a tall bookshelf.
I turn back to Abraxas and admit, "I don't know how I feel about being alone with him after hours."
"He's not going to hurt you," Abraxas assures, but even he knows that isn't something he can promise. Though I have never personally seen Tom Riddle cause harm to someone, I hear the rumors murmured throughout the school. I hear the rumors of him terrifying first-years and casting the imperius curse on sixth-years. I hear the rumors of him casting the cruciatus curse on those who have failed the tasks he has given them.
He has never been caught, but he has turned seventeen. That means the trace is no longer on him. The only way to prove that he used one of the unforgivable curses is to have a witness, and there are never witnesses.
"If his intentions were honest, he wouldn't want to meet alone after hours," I mumble, looking down at my potions essay.
"He can't kill you in the school, Y/N. You're worrying for nothing," Abraxas says, dismissing my thoughts.
"Am I?" I retort, meeting the fair-haired wizard's gaze.
He ignores my concerns yet again because he knows they are valid. Instead of arguing with me, he just says, "Do you have a choice?"
At his words, my gaze travels down to my potions essay, which is marked in dozens of places in bright red ink.
Swallowing, I answer, "No."
*****************************************************
Making my way down the large hallways of the school, I quickly head toward the room of requirement. It is just before eleven at night, but professors and other staff are often awake at this time. It's risky for me to leave my common room after hours.
But as Abraxas reminded me earlier today in the library, I do not have a choice.
When I come across a small corridor with a spiral staircase made of stone, I take it, heading upward until I get to the seventh floor of the large castle.
Once I step off of the staircase, I make my way to the corridor on the floor on the left. Once there, I make my way forward until I come across a wall made of stone with nothing on it.
I stand in front of the wall for a few moments, and eventually, a wooden door appears in front of me. I swallow and intake a deep breath before walking forward and opening the door.
I make my way into the room of requirement and see Tom Riddle standing just a few feet away from me, his hands clasped promptly behind his back. To the right of him is a rectangular table with two chairs on opposite sides. To the left of him is a large fireplace made of gray stone. Within the stone fireplace are a few green logs, crackling because of the green fire burning them.
"You came," he announces, his eyes narrowed as if he did not expect me to.
"I didn't really have a choice," I admit.
"We all have a choice."
His words cause my mouth to gape slightly because I don't know what to say to that.
Clearing my throat, I ask, "Shall we start?"
He nods and glances at the table he stands next to.
Taking the hint, I walk over to the table and pull out the chair on my side before taking a seat in it. He, however, does not do the same. Instead, he continues standing next to me, not even a foot away. "I have reviewed your most recent essay. You struggle most with the fundamental elements of each ingredient within a potion. You struggle with explaining how these ingredients make a certain potion when mixed together."
He takes a step closer to me, and I find myself swallowing at the action. He stands only two inches away from me—close enough for me to smell his cologne, close enough for me to feel his shadows.
"We shall work on that first," he says, and I give a curt nod.
His hand reaches out, and he grabs a piece of parchment with neat notes written on it in the finest of cursive—no doubt written by Tom himself. He wouldn't settle for notes written by anyone other than himself.
"I'm going to ask a series of questions. You are going to answer them," he says, leaving little room for argument.
"What is Aconite used for?" he asks.
"It's used in the Wolfsbane Potion and Wideye Potion," I answer.
"That's not what I asked."
"Yes, it was," I argue.
"I asked what it is used for, not what it is used in," he tells me, and I roll my eyes.
"What's the difference?"
"This is what I mean," he tells me, "you're misunderstanding the questions asked on tests and misunderstanding the prompts on essays. You know the material. You are just misunderstanding what is asked of you."
"Then, how do I fix that?" I ask.
"First, I want you to try to answer these questions," he says, grabbing a piece of parchment from the stack of papers on the table I'm sitting at. He brings it in front of me and says, "Read the questions and answer them. Really read them. Now that you know what your problem is, you may be able to fix it without my help. Give it a try."
Though I don't think I will be able to do what he thinks I can, I nod my head and turn my attention to the paper in front of me. On it is a series of hand-written questions written in the darkest of ink.
I look for a quill on the table, but when I don't find one, I turn to Tom. I see him holding a quill and an inkpot. He hands the quill to me and sets the golden pot of ink down on the table, a few inches away from my paper.
I mumble words of thanks before dipping the quill he gave me into the ink pot and casting my gaze on the paper in front of me once more.
I begin to read over the questions and prompts on the paper, double and triple-checking the questions before bringing the end of the quill to the paper and writing down an answer. I then check the questions again and my answers again before moving on to the next one.
Tom, though silent and uninterrupting, stands right next to me, distracting me even though he does not mean to. He watches me as I answer the questions he has written down, his blue eyes narrowed in observance.
After about ten minutes of answering the questions on Tom Riddle's "quiz," I feel Tom Riddle shift. He moves so that he stands behind me instead of next to me before leaning over.
Turning his head so that his mouth is close to my ear, he whispers, "Reread number seven." The coolness of his breath against my skin causes goosebumps to break out all over my body, but I try my best to ignore them. I give him a curt nod before redirecting my gaze to the seventh question on the parchment. I reread it and see that I misread the question when I answered it a minute ago.
I dip my quill back into the inkpot before crossing out my written answer and writing a new one. Once I do, I set my quill down and wait for Tom Riddle to either tell me to try again or tell me that I got it right.
"Very good," he whispers into my ear, his deep voice causing my body to wrack with a small shiver.
He seems to notice this because he tilts his head and says, "Am I making you nervous?"
I swallow and shake my head, scared that my voice will betray me if I choose to give him a verbal answer.
I see Tom Riddle's eyes narrow out of the corner of my eye.
Tom Riddle moves his hand toward the table and gently grabs my hand, his index and middle fingers gently pressing into the underside of my wrist. "Then why is your heart racing?" he asks, and my eyes widen when I realize he has hold of my wrist to check my pulse.
He leans closer, and his eyes drop down to my chest, which is only covered by a thin, yellow top. "Why are you breathing so heavily?"
Swallowing, I try my best to scoot away from him, but with one of his hands gripping the back of my chair, it's impossible.
"There's no need to move away, Y/N," he says, letting go of my wrist. His now unoccupied hand goes to my hair. He tucks a lock of it behind my ear, and a small breath escapes my lips.
Leaning in, he whispers lowly into my ear, "There's no need to ignore what you want."
My body wracks with yet another shiver, and I mentally curse myself for it.
"Tom, we should be studying—"
"Is that really how you want to spend your time with me?" he asks, cutting me off. "Do you really want to spend your time with me learning potion formulas instead of allowing me to give you the pleasure you seek?"
A small gasp escapes my lips at his words, and the corner of his lips kicks up. Holding my gaze, he moves his hand. He moves it downward until it hovers just above my breasts. He lets it hover there for a moment before grabbing the top button of my yellow top and undoing it.
When I make no move to stop him or push him away, he undoes the second button, then the third, and the fourth.
Only when he gets to the last button of my top do I realize what he is doing. I quickly shove myself away from him and stand up from my chair. "We can't," I tell him, intaking deep breaths because I wasn't breathing at all a moment ago.
"Why not?" he asks, tilting his head.
Swallowing, I shake my head again and avoid answering his question. My cheeks are inflamed with heat, and I'm afraid that if I answer him, I will either give him an answer that he knows is a lie or an answer that is the truth, which is the very last thing I want.
Tom Riddle takes a step forward. "Are you afraid I'm going to hurt you?" Though I would love to say yes, I can't because I know that it would be a lie.
And he would know it too.
So, I shake my head.
"Then what are you afraid of?" he asks, taking another step forward. He stands only half a foot away from me now, and it makes me take a step backward.
"I'm not afraid," I assure. "I'm simply not interested."
His head tilts, and he takes another step forward. And then another. He keeps moving closer to me until he backs me up against the stone wall behind me. Once he has, he brings his hand up to my face and thumbs my bottom lip. "Give me a real answer, and I'll leave you alone."
After a few moments of silence, his gaze drops from my eyes to my lips. He begins to stroke my bottom lip with his thumb, his eyes fixed on the movement.
Suddenly, he parts my mouth and sticks his thumb inside. My lips close around his finger on instinct, and he notices this with a smirk. "You can lie to yourself all you want," he tells me, tucking another lock of hair behind my ear with his free hand, "but you can't lie to me."
He removes his thumb from my mouth before surging forward, pressing his lips to mine. My eyes widen at the action, but all it takes is the sweep of his tongue against my lips for me to lean into the kiss. My eyes flutter closed, and I return the kiss.
Tom's large hands go to my top, and he undoes the very last button before pulling the top off of me, leaving me in only a black corset. Breaking the kiss, he grabs my shoulders and turns me around. He gently pushes my front against the cold wall in front of me before grabbing the laces of my corset. He quickly unties the corset while leaving kisses on my shoulders and neck.
Once he peels the corset from my body, he turns me around so that I am facing him.
My torso and breasts are hit by the coldness of the air, and a small gasp escapes my lips. I quickly cover my breasts with my hands, but he pulls my hands away and says, "Don't you dare."
"Tom—"
My words are cut off when he grabs my arm and spins both of us around. He then grabs my waist in his large hands and lifts me up. He sets me down on a cold, hard surface, and I don't realize that I am on top of a table until I look down and see the wood.
When I look back at Tom Riddle, I do not find him standing in front of me anymore.
I find him on his knees.
"Has someone given you an orgasm before?" he asks, and my mouth parts in a gasp.
"I'll take that as a no," he says, grabbing my thighs with his cold hands. He gently spreads them before saying, "Lift your hips for me, little witch."
I obey on instinct, and he grabs the end of my Hufflepuff uniform skirt before pulling it down until it reaches my ankles. He then pulls it off and tosses it somewhere in the room.
Though the frigid air around me makes me try to close my thighs, Tom Riddle makes it impossible. He keeps my thighs open with his powerful hands.
"Have you ever been with someone before?" he asks, and I swallow before nodding in answer. "One," I whisper.
"And he didn't make you cum?" he asks, and I swallow before shaking my head.
"Pity," he says, teasing my clothed pussy with his index finger. "A beautiful witch such as yourself shouldn't be left unsatisfied." My cheeks heat at his words, and he notices this with a widening of his smirk.
"Tell me, have you ever touched yourself?" he asks, and I nod.
"And did you cum?" he asks. I hesitate for a moment before shaking my head.
Narrowing his eyes, he asks, "Have you ever had an orgasm?"
My cheeks heat yet again, but this time it isn't because of lust; it's because of embarrassment.
"There's nothing to be ashamed about, Y/N," he tells me, moving my panties to the side so that my pussy is exposed to him. He trails his index finger up my slit until it brushes over my clit, and my hips involuntarily buck against him.
Leaning in, he blows on my exposed clit, and a breath of air passes my lips. "Tom," I beg, but I don't know what for.
"Do you want me to touch you?" he asks, and I nod. Though I know that I shouldn't be doing this with him, the need to have him touch me overpowers all the warning bells going off in my mind.
"I need words, Y/N."
"Touch me please," I beg, and he obliges immediately. He presses his index finger against my clit and begins rubbing tight circles into it. "You have all of these stressful things weighing on you and no way to relax," he says, teasing my entrance with his middle finger. "Such a pity," he tells me, sliding his middle finger inside of me.
"Tom," I breathe, bucking my hips against him. "More." I don't want to rush him or boss him around, but I need more. I need him to make me cum.
"Such a greedy little thing," he chides, removing his finger from me. My eyes widen at the loss, and I open my mouth to tell him to touch me again, but he shushes me by speaking first. "I'll give you what you want, Y/N. Don't worry."
I watch him as he undoes his belt and tosses it to the floor beneath him. The metal of his buckle hits the stone floor with a loud noise that causes me to flinch slightly.
He seems to notice my flinch because he says, "Don't be afraid. I won't hurt you." Leaning forward, he presses another kiss on my lips, which I return in less than a millisecond.
My hands go to his slacks, which I quickly unzip. He steps out of them before pushing me down onto the table so that I am lying on it. "Hold on to me," he tells me, and my eyebrows furrow in confusion. Seeing my confusion, he says, "Trust me. You'll want to hold on."
Though I do not understand why he is telling me to hold on to him, I obey and grab onto his large arms.
That's when I feel it.
Something hard touches my core, and I look up at Tom's face when I realize that it is his cock. "Tom—"
"Trust me, little witch," he breathes, pushing the head of his cock into me. I gasp when I feel how thick it is, and my nails involuntarily dig into the flesh of his large arms.
"Shh," he says, bringing his hand up to my face. He strokes my cheek with his thumb as he gently continues to push inside of me. "It will feel good in a moment. Just hold on."
Though the sheer size of him pains me, his words cause me to nod my head and close my eyes tightly as I wait for the pain to subside.
Slowly and gently, he works his way inside of me, stroking my cheek and whispering words of encouragement as he does. Once he finally bottoms out, he whispers, "Are you okay?"
Though I am still in some pain, I nod my head, and he begins to slowly move.
I keep my hands on his biceps so I can hold onto him, and he seems to notice because he moves one of his arms so he can reach between my legs. He moves his fingers until he finds my clit, and once he does, he begins to rub tight circles into it.
The feeling of him rubbing tight circles into my clit causes me to relax around him, and I find myself allowing my eyes to flutter closed, in pleasure this time; not pain.
Wiggling my hips, I try to get him to rub my clit faster, but he doesn't. He rubs slow, tight circles into me, and it makes me whine in frustration.
I see him tilt his head, a wicked smirk forming on his pale face. "Tell me what you want," he says, continuing to circle my clit and fuck me at an agonizingly slow pace.
"Faster," I breathe, hoping he will understand what I mean.
He does.
He circles my clit faster and begins to gently pick up the pace of his thrusts.
Though I have touched myself before and have been touched by others, it has never felt like this. His touches are so skilled, and it makes me whine in pleasure.
I feel something coiling low in my stomach, and my eyes widen. "Tom," I say, my voice shaky. "Tom, I feel something weird—"
"Shh," he says. "Don't fight it. Just let go."
"Tom—"
"Trust me," he says as he continues rubbing my clit and thrusting into me.
The feeling in my lower stomach intensifies as he continues fucking me, and eventually, I am hit with an overwhelming feeling of pleasure. My eyes flutter closed, and my mouth parts in a quiet moan as pleasure takes me. "Oh, God," I whimper.
Tom Riddle's thrusts begin to quicken, and my eyes open when I feel it. I look up at Tom Riddle and see him with his bottom lip caught between his teeth.
He begins to fuck me at a hard, fast pace, and though I am very sensitive because of the orgasm I just had, I don't object to his roughness. Instead, I watch as a rapture of pleasure overtakes his features.
I feel him pull out of me, and a second later, I feel something squirt onto my stomach.
When his eyes open, he looks down at me. "You're never going to be satisfied by someone else again."
He gets off of me before helping me off of the table. He then grabs my skirt and allows me to step into it. He pulls it up before grabbing the rest of my clothes and helping me dress. Once I'm fully dressed, he puts his clothes on as well.
"You need more tutoring. Meet me here again tomorrow night."
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jmliebert · 1 month
Text
creature of the night
Summary: You're just a toy in Tom's world, yet love has found its way into your heart
Warnings: Explicit content (18+), manipulative Tom
Word Count: 2,500
Author's Note: The irony is, I detest guys like this in the real world, but there's a strange satisfaction in writing stories about Tom’s character. There’s a hate-love relationship between us, well… enjoy the ride
also! you can read this on ao3 if you prefer it that way ♡
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(gif originally posted by voldemrt)
meet me tonight
The note said, with its neatly arranged letters. It held a promise that made your heart feel heavy and light at the same time as you were both excited and scared of what was to come. With Tom you could never be certain. Sometimes he made you feel like you belong, he made you feel seen. Other times he made you feel lonely, despite holding you in his arms. 
As if he wasn't there, not truly present, and it hurt, but you didn’t tell a word. 
You stared at the note blankly for a moment, finding it delicately placed on top of your pillow. The ritual was familiar – Tom's passion for leaving these little messages. They surfaced under the weight of your books, nestled in the pocket of your mantle, or discreetly positioned on your favourite desk in the library. His proficiency in crafting subtle messages left you perpetually anticipating the next one, creating a secret language between you two. Each note, a whispered promise, held significance beyond its written words.You carefully stored each note in a small wooden box, coming back to them when you feel particularly romantic or in the quiet moments, after yet another day where Tom treated you as if you didn't exist. The paradox of his presence and absence, the silent yearning  and the allure of his elusive messages painted a complex portrait of your twisted relationship.
The daylight stretches endlessly, but the promise of our night brings a spark to the hours
In the quiet secrecy of the night, you found solace in the secret meetings with Tom. His warm embrace, soft smiles, and gentle touches became familiar, creating an intimate haven that seemed to belong to just the two of you. In those stolen moments, you felt as if you had unraveled the layers of his complex persona, knowing him in a way that no one else did.
Yet, the illusion shattered in the harsh light of day. As the sun illuminated the hallways of Hogwarts, revealing its secrets and concealing its mysteries, Tom transformed. The tender moments you shared in the hidden corners of the castle were replaced by a cold indifference. It was as if the encounters of the night had never happened, as if he were a stranger passing you by in the endless corridors.
In the common room, amidst the chatter of fellow students, he glanced through you as though you wasn’t there. His eyes, once filled with warmth, now held an unpleasant distance, leaving you to question whether the tender exchanges between you had been nothing more than fragments of a dream.
It was a paradoxical, the dichotomy between the intimacy of the night and the detachment of the day. Tom's dual nature left you grappling with the unsettling reality that the person who whispered sweet promises under the moonlight seemed oblivious to your existence in the harsh light of day. The dissonance between these two versions of him became a puzzle, and you found yourself entangled in the endless shifts of his demeanour.
The secrecy of your relationship took a toll, and the contrast between the Tom who held you in the darkness and the one who ignored you in the light became a source of inner mayhem. The warmth of his touch lingered in your memory, but the chill of his indifference left you yearning for consistency. You couldn't help but wonder which version of Tom was the real one, and whether the night held the truth or the day.
The Hogwarts walls stood as silent sentinels, enveloped in an air of mystery, as if holding the secrets of centuries within their stone embrace. The night, full of shadows and cold whispers. The path, winding and labyrinthine, demanded caution, the necessity to watch your back a constant reminder of the precarious nature of your secret escapades.
Yet, every step, every twist and turn, seemed a worthwhile investment, for at the end of this nocturnal journey awaited Tom. He sat there, perched on the couch in the Room of Requirements, immersed in the ethereal glow of dim light. His brows were furrowed as he was bending over the book. It was late, but Tom, a creature of the night, was indifferent to the demands of sleep, his insatiable curiosity fuelling his restless mind.
In the play of shadows, his jawline emerged as if sculpted from marble, each contour a testament to the divine craftsmanship of otherworldly hands. Cheekbones, sharp and pronounced, echoed the elegance of classical statuary. His hair, a cascade of raven black, seemed to absorb the darkness of the night. Divine. Surely, he didn’t belong to this world.
As you approached, the air crackled with an otherworldly energy. The Room of Requirement seemed to come alive in his presence. In this nocturnal realm, Tom beckoned like a magnetic force, drawing you into a world where magic intertwined with mystery, and the boundaries between reality and enchantment blurred.
When he noticed you, time seemed to pause. His gaze made your insides clenched, a strange monster clawing at your stomach, reaping you apart. 
“You came,” he said, the corners of his lips curling into smile.
“Yes, yes… of course I came.”
“Good,” he murmured, standing up and reaching for you. His lips met the soft skin of your wrist, sending shivers down your spine. The warmth of his touch left you breathless. Lifting you effortlessly, he held you close, your legs entwining above his hips. Your heads were now on the same level, and he kissed you passionately, each touch leaving a lingering sensation. His lips trailed along your neck, his hair and tongue teasing your delicate skin. Tom guided you to a secluded corner, settling on the leather couch with you still in his arms. The shadows flickered and danced on the walls, a silent play of darkness and light in the dimly lit room. You nestled your face in the crook of his neck, embracing him tightly. It felt like where you were meant to be. It felt right. 
“I thought of you all this time, couldn’t wait for you to come, you know that, darling?” Tom inquired, his voice smooth, yet calculated. His eyes bore into yours once again, attempting to unravel the thoughts hidden behind your gaze. Not much could escape him; he could see right through you. You looked away, a bashful smile playing on your lips.
“I couldn't wait either,” you admitted, your voice carrying a mix of anticipation and excitement. He chuckled softly, the sound sending shivers down your spine.
“You’re too sweet. What am I going to do with you?” he asked, his hands gently resting on your thighs, a subtle pressure against your skin.
“And what do you want to do with me?” Your mind was starting to get hazy. All you could think about was the anticipation building with his eager hands.
“Everything, I want everything,” he whispered in your ear, his voice low and seductive, carrying a hint of desire and... possession. The room seemed to shrink, and your head started to fill with dreams. He wanted you.
The warmth of the fire, the gentle caress of Tom's fingers on your skin, and the intoxicating scent of the room created a heady atmosphere. You were captivated, caught in the web of his allure. As Tom's hands continued their exploration, a tingling warmth spread through your body. The flickering flames cast playful shadows, dancing across the walls. The rhythmic crackling of the fire was the only melody in this secret meetings in the middle of the deepest of night.
His fingers, cool yet masterful, traced patterns on your skin, leaving a trail of anticipation in their wake. The touch, possessive and tender, spoke a language only the two of you understood. Time lost its meaning. You closed your eyes, losing yourself in the symphony of sensations.
Tom's lips brushed against your ear, sending shivers down your spine. "You're mine," he whispered, his voice like a seductive melody, weaving a spell around you. The possessiveness in his tone ignited a flame within, a dangerous thrill that both scared and excited you. As he held you close, you felt a magnetic pull, binding you to him in a dance of forbidden longing. As stolen moments unfolded, a haunting question lingered: Why couldn't he be wholly yours? The wish to unravel his secrets, to see him in the unfiltered light swept through your every emotion.
As his lips fervently sought yours, a surge of unrestrained need flowed between you, each kiss a profound declaration of a passion that defied reason. Tom, with an intensity that bordered on desperation, cradled your face in his hands. The kiss that ensued was all-consuming. His eyes were hungry, a desire for more.
In that suspended moment, the world outside ceased to exist. You found yourself entangled in the harmony of interwoven tongues and intertwined breaths, a magnetic force pulling you deeper into the forbidden. The air around you crackled with the electricity of shared longing, and every kiss became a vow, a binding promise of the undiscovered intensity yet to unfold.
As the urgency of the moment heightened, so did your willingness to surrender to him.
Tom’s hands traveled to your shirt. His movements were deliberate as he was yielding each button to his touch as if surrendering to his command. You felt the fabric parts, revealing the vulnerability beneath. Tom’s expression remaining composed. As the last button succumbed to his fingers, a rush of cold air met your exposed skin. His hands traced a path along the newly revealed expanse, leaving a trail of heat in their wake. The room seemed to pulse with a quiet intensity.
“You’re exquisite,” he whispered, his voice low and laden. Time seemed to stretch, and you found yourself suspended in a space where only two of you existed. 
When Tom started sucking on your nipple, a soft whimper came out of your lips. He smiled softly at your response and showed no intention of stopping. His actions continued with
unyielding determination, his tongue hot and wet on your willing breasts. His hands all over your exposed body, tracing patterns on your soft skin, making you lose your mind, making you forget yourself and forget all these bright days spent without him. With skilled fingers Tom unbuttoned your skirt, taking it off in one swift movement, leaving you almost naked, while he remained fully clothed, a stoic figure in his unchanging black attire, a stark contrast to the vulnerability he teased from you with every touch. You wanted to touch him too, make him feel as good as you felt yet your yearning to caress Tom was met with a playful denial, as he savoured the moments of teasing, drawing out the anticipation. 
His fingers exploring the thin material of your underwear, the gentle touches felt as light as a feather, igniting a trail of sensations. Relentlessly, he continued as his hands grew bolder and bolder. Silver rings on his fingers warm on your skin. Oh, how you wanted him inside you already. To feel him in the most intimate way possible. “Please, Tom,” you moaned, and started to grind on the bulge in his pants, desperate for more, fire running through your veins. At this point it was a pure torture, not to have Tom inside you.
With surprising ease, Tom flipped you onto your back, unbuttoned his unpleasantly tight pants and guided the head of his penis into your hot entrance. As you merged into one, a profound sense of belonging washed over you, a feeling you had yearned for so long. A solitary tear trailed down your cheek, carrying the weight of unspoken emotions. He penetrated you with raw force, driving you to the edge of ecstasy with every continuous stroke. It was raw, characterised by the relentless pursuit of desire, teeth digging into tender flesh, and unyielding grips that promised bruises by dawn. Despite the roughness, every moment was a symphony of pleasure you couldn't get enough of. When you both came, your back arched, the sound of a soft moan escaped your lips, but it dissolved into the heated intensity as Tom claimed your mouth once more
The room was saturated with the lingering echoes of passion as you lay on his chest, feeling the rise and fall of his laboured breaths. His skin glistened with a sheen of sweat, an aftermath of the intense encounter. Tom's hand traced soothing patterns on your back with rhythmic strokes, creating a sense of comfort.
"I love you," you whispered, the words escaping your lips like a confession, an unfiltered truth that hung in the air. The vulnerability of the moment lay bare in the quiet aftermath.
A beat passed before Tom’s lips curved into a mocking smile as he listened to your heartfelt declaration. With a calculated nonchalance, he leaned down and pressed a cold, indifferent kiss to your lips. It was a kiss that tasted of detachment, a bitter irony wrapped in the guise of a tender moment. Breaking away, he looked into your eyes, the amusement evident in his gaze. "Silly little girl," he said with a dismissive chuckle. Tom's words, delivered with a cold detachment, lingered in the air, settling like a heavy curtain that draped the room in a somber reality. The silence that followed carried the weight of your shattered expectations, and in that moment, the intimacy you had shared seemed like a fleeting illusion. You felt stupid. The vulnerability you had exposed, the love you had confessed—all reduced to insignificance by the stark revelation of his indifference.
In the aftermath of Tom's callous dismissal, a bitter truth settled upon you like an indelible stain. The daylight hours were not meant for you. The warmth shared in the night, the whispered confessions, and stolen kisses were facets of a reality carefully curated by him—a reality where you were permitted only under the cloak of darkness.
In the wake of this revelation, the weight of your unrequited emotions became palpable, each heartbeat a reminder of the divide between the two worlds you inhabited with Tom. The nights were yours, a realm where he seemed to embrace you, but the days belonged to a version of him that eluded your understanding. Regrettably, you accepted the truth that, in Tom's realm, you were fated to be merely a passing shadow; you were his, but he wasn't yours, and he never would be. He belonged to no one else but himself. 
In the symphony of darkness, your presence is my favourite note. Until the night claims us again, know that you exist, a cherished memory in the sanctuary of my thoughts. Yours in the shadows,
T.M.R.
︵‿︵‿୨♡୧‿︵‿︵
you can find more of my works about tom ♡here♡
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