#tom (oc)

[pigeonwhumps]

What did they fight the hardest not to lose? Were they in any way successful?

For Aaliyah?

- sara / @justplainwhump

Her memory! Mostly the memory of her mother, but her memory in general.

See, the reason WRU took her as a pet was because she got Tom out of there when he tried to escape and made it to her office instead, and this was before his memory was fully wiped (yeah... the handlers on duty with him utterly failed there). And they can't have her out there knowing kids are made into pets. But this means Aaliyah knows it's possible to escape before losing her memory. So she fights for as long as possible. And when it becomes clear she can't get the drip out, she hangs onto her memory for as long as possible.

Also, she made her mother a promise that she wouldn't be taken as a pet.

You already know how well that went (hint: not well at all) (she doesn't really remember anything).

[fromduck]

Me with you guys simping over hot men

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S KINKTOBER

october 8th. tom — somno / free use kink.

KINKTOBER MASTERLIST. | 2024.

summary: tom riddle is a god at many things. you’ve never felt more alive than when you’ve reduced him to something lesser.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNI, free use, sleeping kink, a lot of reverence for more biblical tom riddle that i genuinely need to choke me unconscious, PIV, fingering, multiorgasm, overstim, slight bondage, dubcon but not really i mean this fic speaks for itself. tom is kinda soft here???? what happened to me??

Tom Riddle, you'd determined, was obsessive before he was anything else. You saw it long before you knew him—intimately, at least—his compulsions, the meticulous way in which he carved out his time, handpicking what fit his ambitions best before pouring himself into them until he was empty.

Tom never moved with half-measures, a man that brilliant does nothing halfhearted.

You didn't expect to become his fixation—didn't know what it meant to be seen by someone who never stopped searching—never stopped dissecting—until the moment when his eyes lingered just a second too long and his hands followed suit—the moment he taught you the meaning in the only way he knew how.

Benevolently.

Tom Riddles need is tempered but there's always something burning underneath, something that flickers to life when his breath catches against your neck—when his fingers trace delicate lines along your skin—something that feels a lot like a thank you. The magical world gave him power—dominion—but in you, he found control. The kind you give freely, without even knowing it, the kind that he takes with the same reverence in his hands he applies to everything he touches.

There’s always been a mutal give and take between you—one formed without words and you solemnize this unspoken vow because he leaves you no other choice.

And it's not by force, not by demand, but by the sheer intensity of his regard, that sacred hunger in the way he looks at you, like you were made for this. For him. To be unmade, piece by piece, worshipped in the ruins of what you once were and stitched back together by his grace alone. When he kneels at your feet after a day that's worn him thin, his eyes sharp with exhaustion— when he spreads you open as though you're a book of scripture, when his hands steady you and his mouth finds its way between your thighs—there's nothing left for you to do but hold onto him. Your fingers in his hair, letting him take—letting him consume you in ways only he can.

He is both salvation and sin. Saviour and ruin. You're not sure how it's possible but he ensures you believe it.

And it started with secret moments—stolen glances, brushes of fingers, impromptu study sessions. But it grew into something more, and then something more still, until one day he's slipping into your flat as though it's his own, finding you before you even realize he's there.

You'll be cooking dinner and without a word, he'll flick off the stove with a twitch of his fingers—a breath of magic—his appetite insatiable but not for any caloric substance. You pretend, for his sake, to be surprised by his power, the way he moves without moving, but he knows better now—knows that nothing he does surprises you anymore, not after the way he loosens the strings of your corset with just a blink, how his teeth scrape your ear in a smile as he works a spell between your thighs. Not after he waits until you're thoroughly ruined by his magic—malleable just the way he likes you before he's merciful, allowing you the honour of his touch—allowing himself the honour of breaking you further.

There's no shock left in it because you've already accepted that whatever you think he's capable of—there's more.

There will always be more with Tom—a knowledge that is a sweet, endless ache. He is reasoning made lucid. You could never define all that he is capable of.

And foolishly you thought after all these years you'd have come to understand him, but Tom Riddle is not easily deciphered—he's a mystery even to himself, a disposition of contradictions. He doesn't need to be understood; he only needs to feel as if he is, to which you do your best. But when you're finally asleep after a long day and feel the bed dipping behind you in the quiet hours—a large, rough hand grazing timidly up your thigh, comprehension of Tom Riddle becomes even more of a distant accomplishment.

There is no logic in him when it comes to you, just instinct. No explanations, just need.

Tom has always had his compulsions, but you are his favourite fixation, and so you give. There's hunger, and there's devotion. There's desire, and then there's worship. You let him choose which ones he wants from you.

On this night you stir, half-conscious yet not quite aware of what's happening as his fingers move slowly, finding the heat between your legs and spreading you gently. There's never any urgency in his movements, though the fervour is palpable—a kind of feverish desperation thrumming beneath the surface, a pulse you can feel in his flesh, in the way his breath catches as if this is the only way he knows how to breathe.

Perhaps the only certainty about Tom is that you know he wouldn't be here if it weren't a necessity.

And he does this often, though sometimes it's more—the plush of his lips, the slick slide of his tongue—but this time, he chooses to wake you to the steady push of his fingers inside you, two of them stretching you, deliberate in their rhythm, curling deep, coaxing you open. It's his mercy, his crafted version of tenderness—you know he could easily just cast a lubing charm and press right in—but he doesn’t. He paces, he savours.

It’s a patience he continually allows himself which you know he doesn't have to give.

And some nights, when you wake to his touch—he whispers for you to sleep, to let him have you quietly, other times he'll make it clear that's the last thing he wants.

Tonight—

You shift against him, instinct guiding your body, but he hushes you, gentle, soft—a tut of warning, a shushing breath against your ear. You don't know how long he's been inside you, how long his need has burned quietly beside you, but by the time you realize, it's the wet sounds, obscene, that draw you from the haze of sleep, drowning out the sharpness of his breath. You're half-gone, face pressed into the pillow, drooling— and your lips part on a moan that never fully forms.

When your hand reaches instinctively for his wrist, his growl curls low in your ear—

"Sleep," if the command was a weapon it'd be a feather—he casts a binding spell on your wrists, drawing them above your head. "I've got you."

You swallow another moan, throat dry, choking on air as you fight to rip free from whatever remnants of slumber you're clinging to. His fingers are slow, pumping in and out of you, dragging you deeper into his need—and you're shaking in a way that is as involuntary as it is habitual. You know from experience just how much he loves this— the way he reduces you to fragments, the way he breaks you apart until there's nothing left but the shattered pieces of your pleasure—the mess he can make of you in minutes, even absentmindedly.

He slips an arm under your head, pulling you closer, impossibly close. The room is dark, and though you can't see him, you imagine his face—the hunger in his eyes as his skin sticks to yours, the hard evidence of his need against your ass.

"T-Tom—" your voice stumbles, a choked whisper of his name. His hand curls over your mouth, silencing you.

"Quiet," he mutters. "It's just a dream."

His breath ghosts over your neck, and your back arches in response. Wherever he was earlier, he came back starving, and this is part of it—sometimes he wants you silent, sometimes he wants you loud. Tonight, he wants you like this.

"Stay still," he murmurs again, and you shudder, your climax pulled from the edges of sleep by the slow drag of his fingers inside you. "Just a dream..."

A dream, he says—somewhere inside you, buried under a fog of grog you know it isn't, and he knows you know, he's not trying to trick you but it's all part of the game—coaxing—the way he devours you a little more each time, not just physically but mentally too.

With your lips muffled by his hand and his fingers buried deep, you do what you always do—you let him.

"T-Tom—" you whimper through the cracks in his digits. Your body is soft, boneless, melting into his touch, aching for more. "Please—"

As much as he wants you quiet he wants his name broken in your mouth all the same. He rewards you with a bitten-off moan, a crack in his control, a slight hitch in his breath—you clench around his fingers and his palm tightens over your mouth just a little too hard before he realizes and eases up.

You did say Tom's need was tempered—but sometimes, there are exceptions.

"I said quiet." His hips rut against your ass, fingers slow dragging at your walls, scissoring in your slick. "Let me give you this."

You push back into him, desperate, needy. "But—"

"Take it." His fingers on your mouth slide past your lips and over your tongue, reaching toward the back of your throat. Tears spring to your eyes as you gag, the sound smothered by the moan you make as a spell, swirling and tightening, pulses against your clit. "With the way I'm going to fuck you, you need this...you'll thank me later for it..."

Tom doesn't waste words. His tone may be soft but it's also sharp, which tells you everything you need to know—that he's had a wretched day and you're the only thing that can make it better. That he's going to fuck out his frustrations on you.

You moan around his fingers at the thought.

"You'll want to be nice and stretched for me, won't you?" A statement, not a question. "You don't want it to hurt. You know I don't want to hurt you."

Though he'll deny it, he's not as emotionless or as lacking in empathy as he'd like to believe. It's one of the many things you've come to know about him—or should you say, one of the many things you've struggled to understand about him—but the way he says it, like he's reminding himself not to be cruel—it's all very Tom Riddle.

"I don't want to hurt you.." he repeats in a murmur, as if he's trying to convince himself. You can't speak, though you're not sure you could find the words even if you could; the only indication you give him that you understand—that you hear him—is the quiet whimper that slips past his fingers. "Just need you."

The spell on your clit is as overwhelming as the drag of his fingers against your walls and it's only moments until you're cumming hard around him and he's groaning hard in return—you know his eyes are closed and you know he's inhaling every single sound you make as though he could house them in his lungs. The darkness clings to you like a second skin but Tom clings to you worse—not relenting even as you're twitching and whimpering with aftershocks.

"There we go." You're squirming and Tom fucking loves it. "Good girl."

Overstimulation is charging in—you have no where to run from it. You bite down on his digits in your mouth and he punishes you by intensifying the spell on your clit. "T-Tom—Tom—"

All he offers is a shush. His fingers curl deep.

"I need...I need you...need this.." he's mumbling, mantra-like, almost like a prayer and perhaps that's the closest he's come to one. You can count on one hand the amount of times you've heard him say it but you know there's no one else he'd be saying it to—no one else he'd want to. "You know, I thought of this all day...having you, like this..."

You sob around his fingers in your mouth as he rips another climax from you—you think you're seeing stars and you know if you are, they were hung there by him.

"Couldn't focus.." his teeth find your jaw, just under your ear, biting just a little harder than he usually does. "No matter what I did, I just kept thinking of this...of you...of you like this for me.."

Tom Riddle is a greedy man—in all ways—but he's not only greedy in the way he takes from you, he's greedy in the way he gives to you too, and though he would never admit it—he'd rather die first—this moment feels as close to worship as he'll ever come.

As you said, there's reverence in everything he fucking touches—you know you're lucky you get to experience it.

"You have this effect." He swallows hard, you feel it against your shoulder. "You have this effect on me...I—I can't stop wanting you-“

—and he's just a man, after all. No matter how well versed in dark spells and manipulation, no matter how cold and calculating he's able to be, beneath it all he's so very mortal. He tells you he was never made for love but when he buries his face in your neck and talks this talk it sure feels like maybe he was.

And all it does is make you want him that much more—knowing that you do this to him—you make him weak. You make him want and need and yearn.

"I don't even know what you've done to me," his voice is destroyed—his thoughts cut off by the evidence of your desperation for him, the lewd sounds coming from your pussy as you suck on the fingers in your mouth. "Fuck, you're so wet."

You groan, helpless and needy as a whore. Tom digs his teeth into your shoulder. It's all too much. There are many ways to come apart and this is Tom's only true undoing—in the aftermath of the destruction he causes, and you are—his collateral.

"Fuck—oh, fuck—" you're garbling, the words don't sound like words. "T-Tom—"

You're not sure how long you've been awake or how many times you've cum—how much oxygen you've inhaled since this all started but the one certainty is that you know Tom has very little patience left—if any.

"Fuck." He shifts, grinding against you. "Can you take me? Can you take me right now?"

All you can do is nod—your eagerness evident in the pace of it—drool dribbling down your chin and instantly the spell fades from your clit, his fingers pull out of your cunt and he's lifting your thigh up toward your head, fingers still hooked in your mouth. There's a moment of movement—trousers and boxers pulled down and then he's there—thick and heavy and warm between your thighs. You tense.

You'll never get used to the size of him. His ego made flesh. Though perhaps the greatest pleasure is in knowing he'll never get used to you, either.

"Gonna—gonna fuck you." He mutters against your neck as he glides along your slit—you're soaked, slick coating your thighs and the sheets and him but it never matters much because it always stings when he takes you. Especially like this. "It won't be soft."

You moan and he finally pulls his fingers free from your mouth, dragging them down to your throat, nails against your skin that feel more like claws because for all the human Tom Riddle is he's just as much animal.

He's never known soft—only with you—but you wouldn't have him if not for all his jagged lines and sharp edges. You let him take.

"Please, Tom-" words fail you, they always do when he's like this. "Please, gods—fuck me-"

Tom growls and it vibrates up your spine. You rarely curse when you can help it—so when you do, when you can't do anything to stop the pathetic vulgarities—he likes it too goddamn much and you know he's going to give you what you want because you give him what he needs.

A mutual give and take, as all the best things are.

"No god could compare to me." He doesn't say it with arrogance, just with certainty, like a letter he's written a thousand times. Then, he's flipping you onto your stomach, wrists still bound above your head as he lines up and presses inside you—all at once, deep and full and breathtaking. "Oh, yes—"

You cry out but it's muffled by the pillow, your cunt trying hard to adjust to the stretch—Tom is never cruel, but he is brutal, and perhaps the two get confused. There is a difference, though you know he would prefer to remain ambivalent on his own harshness, it’s the only way he's managed to survive this long—but here, with you, he thinks he can allow for a bit of mercy.

And he gives it, in his own way, only because you gave it first. It's as close as he'll come to offering himself without asking anything in return. To you, it's still a pretty close second.

"I'm going to make you feel this," he murmurs, lips against your shoulder, teeth against skin and if you had any tears left, this would be when they fell. "You'll think of this all day tomorrow. You'll think of me all day tomorrow."

He pauses inside you—he's taking it slow and the implications of that fact are far out of reach right now.

"I'll think of you anyway, Tom," you grit through your teeth, voice cracking on his name as he pulls out—only halfway—ensuring you feel that emptiness before he presses back in. "I'm—ohh—a-always thinking of you."

He makes a sound, a broken sort of sound, the same one you've heard him make only a handful of times—a raw, vulnerable, almost pathetic sound and all it does is make you want him that much more. He's still moving too slow, too methodically, drawing pleasure out from deep under your skin.

You clench around him because you know he doesn't want you to—he warns you against it with a cervix-piercing thrust.

"You're always thinking of me." His hand snakes around your throat, his lips to your ear—"and are you proud of that?"

You know that's a loaded question, the answer to which he doesn't truly care to know. But it's one you'll answer truthfully, regardless—because you know it'll affect him either way.

You nod, just once—and the grip on your neck tightens, cutting off an almost sob. His hips piston faster now, as though you've chipped off another piece of his control.

"Proud enough, then," he growls, his pace unforgiving, and that's enough to tear another broken sound from you—from the both of you. His fingers twist painfully around your throat, digging into your skin like a man possessed, and you know that means he's done holding back. His mouth is next to your ear, you can feel his smirk. "M'sorry—I'm—sorry—"

He says he's sorry but you know he's not. Not with the way he's groaning into your ear, not with the way he's driving his cock fast and deep. He is a manmade monster and a self-made god trapped inside a mortal man who needs so much to feel human. He knows to be nothing but intense. It's a wonder how the three can exist in him all at once.

"T-tom-" your voice fractures around his name, the only word you know now. "F-fuck—s'deep—ohh-"

His teeth sink into your neck as he cranks your head back with a pull of your hair, bared teeth on preyish flesh and you hardly have time to worry how deep he might devour because you feel his magic on your clit and you see those stars again—distant yet creeping closer, drawn down to your orbit by his power alone.

"M'sorry—" he mutters again, as though he was saying it to your cervix. "Fuck—"

You scream out again as the spell on your clit swirls faster—the sensation unfathomable each and every time—he's fucking you so hard you're burning underneath him and though the pleasure is as white hot as the flames that now cover every inch of you, you don't fear burning as much as you fear it's passing.

He's a fire in your veins, in your blood, and if he stops now you'll die of the cold.

"So good for me," he says, as soft as he can muster for being so lustdrunk— "so—perfect. You're perfect."

Perfect. You whinge and squeeze your eyes shut—choking on your breath. The words are more painful than his thrusts because time and time again you’ve failed to decipher their meaning—you know he doesn't believe in perfection, the concept too weak and foolish for his sake—but he's said it before, always in times like this—you are perfect.

You're perfect under his hands. You're perfect when you shatter apart for him, in the darkness, under the light of those stars he dragged down for you. 

"Ohh—fuck—Tom—" another climax wracks you, splitting you at the seams. "I'm—I'm—"

It feels like an earthquake and you're the epicenter, all the power and destruction Tom thrusts into you radiating from within you outward. His hand moves from your throat to your jaw, tilting your face back so he can kiss you, messily, open-mouthed and with teeth. But it's still a kiss. Something he rarely does.

"Yeah, yeah. Good—" he grunts into your mouth. "Mmfff—fuck—tight—“

A second later, he's cumming, a broken string of profanity tumbling from his chest into your mouth, release spilling deep inside you, warm and thick and he holds you tighter for it as you whimper and throb around him. Tom has always had his reservations. Always had his long list of fixations—and like you said, he pours himself empty into the ones he's chosen. It's in moments like these where you feel it more than ever—as his hips slow and his cock stops twitching inside you—the way that he's made you part of that list.

And when he's done moving through you—when he's done taking what he needs—he pulls away, yet he's still there. Freeing your wrists and rubbing them gently, curling you against him as you both descend.

"Thank you." He murmurs, face in your hair.

You tell him he doesn't need to thank you but you know it makes no difference. After all, he's still a man. A man with something to prove, even under a sky full of stars he dragged down for you.

Tom is a god at many things. You've never felt more alive than when you've reduced him to something lesser.

[bastardnoodle]

lee and his werewolf husband tom

[webbluvrsugar]

teaching Tom Riddle how to love.

cw: fluff with smut

He has you pinned on his bedsheets, you’ve sneaked away to his chambers just to do this, it’s not like you’ve been dating, but you’ve been hanging around — and fucking — each other for a while now, and for Tom, that’s a really big deal.

He’s been fucking you the way he wishes the past times, hard, rough, with your head flush against the pillow, ramming into you without any sorts of feelings, without attaching himself, it’s nice, pleasurable, but he’s been doing it for himself.

He’s inside you already, cock stretching you out as he stays still, his head leans down to meet your neck, breathing your scent before he kisses your jaw, his lips moving to your ear.

“Tell me how you like it.” His voice is low and it grumbles in your ear, when you can’t answer right away, he gives you a slight thrust.

Your hands goes to his on your hips, slightly pushing him back before taking his hands and placing them over your breasts, his breath itches, he slightly massages the flesh, toying with your nipples as he lets you guide him.

“Slowly…” you mutter, he carefully starts moving his hips in a pace he hasn’t used before, it all feels foreign, somehow more intimate but it still gets you to mewl so he doesn’t complain. “Like that.”

Tom nods, he keeps rolling his hips into you, slow and soft so you can feel exactly every way his cock stretches you out, letting out slow whimpers as he does it.

“Does it feel good?” He asks, another soft whisper in your ear as he makes his thrusts a little more sharp, taking your air out of your lungs and forcing a moan out of you.

“Yes, just… hold me close.” You ask, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him flush to your body, slightly burying your head on your shoulder.

Tom hasn’t felt like this before, like he’s being needed, he also didn’t think that slow, passionate sex would feel so nice when he obviously prefers to do it the hard way.

But you like it.

So he keeps doing it the way you asked him to, leaning into the pleasure your cunt provides as the time passes, and when you’re done and both lazy and mushy next to each other, your head flush to his chest, he lets himself provide that care to you, hesitantly dragging a hand to your hair and brushing it away to see your face, thumb lightly caressing your exposed cheek.

‘It’s not so unpleasant after all’ he thinks.

[peachessndreamss]

A Dark & Stormy Night

Summery : A storm rages over Winterfell and the Stark children look for comfort with their parents.

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of y/n)

Warnings : None

Word count : 1K

A/N : Short and disgustingly sweet. All my Cregan pieces can be enjoyed alone but are all interconnected and feature the same Lady Stark their children.

peachessndreamss Masterlist l peachessndreamss ask box

Night was falling early on the North, and before the final rays of watery daylight had leached from the sky Cregan Stark had looked out from the highest chamber of the Library Tower and seen the tops of the ancient Wolfswood trees disappearing into the great grey swell of clouds that rolled over the land and lay over it like a blanket. 

When the night had fully fallen and an eerie stillness settled over the land. It was the hour of ghosts and Cregan was finally ready to sleep. He closed the heavy tome he’d been reading from and placed it back on it’s shelf, the beeswax candle he’d been using to read by was now spluttering and spitting as it came to the end of its life, he took the candlestick in his hand as he moved from the library, through the halls of the silent castle, to the bedroom he shared with his wife. 

Lady Stark was already asleep, only the top of her head visible from where she’d buried herself so deeply under the furs on their bed. Cregan set the dying candle on the table next to his side of the bed and quickly stripped off his outer clothes and slipped beneath the furs in just his undershirt. He sighed contentedly, finding the bed warm from his wife’s sleeping body and the air heavy with her scent, he pinched out the candle, plunging the room into complete darkness and closed his eyes. 

Cregan felt like he'd been asleep for  seconds when he woke suddenly. On first waking he had no idea what had roused him but after a few seconds of confusion the sky outside the window was split by a bright fork of lightning, followed by a deep rumble of thunder. Cregan groaned softly and rolled onto his side, slipping one arm over his wife’s waist, and splaying his hand across her warm stomach. 

A second, louder rumble of thunder rolled through the sky and rattled the glass in the Winterfell windows. Cregan sighed quietly, closing his eyes again, ready to sink back into sleep. There were more flashes of lightning that he could see through his closed eyes, and deep rolls of thunder that made the earth shudder. Lady Stark slept on, completely untroubled by the storm that raged outside her window, Cregan was envious of her deep sleep and he pressed a soft kiss to her shoulder. 

He was almost asleep again when there was a new sound which had him fully awake in less time than it took to blink. The creek of the bedroom door had the Lord of Winterfell sitting bolt upright and reaching for the dagger he kept beside the bed. 

Cregan was just about to demand who was entering their chambers when a flash of lightning illuminated the room and he saw the two frightened faces of his children huddled in the door, clinging to each other. The fear that had gripped his heart vanished and instead of reaching for a weapon he held his arms out to the children. 

“Come here, it’s all right,” he whispered, his eyes adjusting to the dark just enough to see the two small children shuffling toward him. 

His daughter, Aly, led the way, her hand holding tightly to her younger brother who followed behind, his thumb in his mouth and his eyes still full of sleep. 

“We’re scared,” Aly said. 

Cregan rather thought she was the one who was scared and had dragged her younger brother along for moral support. 

“Come up here then,” Cregan soothed as they reached the foot of the bed. 

Aly helped her younger brother, who was still new to walking and unsteady on his feet onto the bed before climbing up after him. Their son made a direct line to Lady Stark, who had finally woken up and rolled onto her back to see what was going on.

“What’s the matter darling?” she asked softly as she reached out to the boy, pulling him toward her. 

“Scared of the storm,” Aly answered as she wriggled up the bed toward the space in between her parents. 

“Would you like to sleep with us then?” Lady Stark asked as the boy settled his head against her chest and closed his eyes. He made a few small noises as he snuggled his face into the crook of her neck and grabbed at a handful of her hair. 

Lady Stark glanced at Cregan who was holding the furs back as their daughter crawled in between them and rested her head down on the pillows. 

“Will you tell us a story papa?” she asked as Cregan relaxed back on his pillow, tucking the furs around his little girl. 

“No my love,” he said softly, “it’s very late so you should just close your eyes,”. 

“What about the storm?” she asked with a pout. 

Lady Stark had relaxed back against her own pillows, the weight and warmth of the child against her chest making her sleepy again. 

“You'll be safe with us,” Lady Stark said softly, kissing the boy's forehead. 

Another fork of lightning split the sky followed by a great roar of thunder, a look of fear crossed Aly’s face and  she cringed away from the window and against her father. He wrapped one arm around her slight frame and pulled the child close. Letting his chin rest on the top of her head. 

“Papa, I'm scared,” she whispered, her voice only loud enough for him to hear. 

Cregan smiled to himself, he dreaded the day when he'd wouldn't be able to protect his children from the things that frightened them, but a storm he could keep them safe from and he gave Aly a gentle, reassuring squeeze. 

“I've got you,” he breathed, “I'll keep you safe,”. 

He wrapped his hand around her tiny fist and brought it to his lips, kissing her tiny fingers as her eyes closed and she started to breathe deeply. 

Cregan glanced over at his wife who was already sleeping with their son curled against her chest. There was another bright flash of lightning but the thunder sounded distant, muted and unlikely to wake the sleeping children. 

When he awoke again the wintry sun was streaming through the windows, the sky clear and bright with no sign of the previous night's storm. He brushed at his face, pushing his daughters hair from under his nose and tucking it back behind her ear as she slept on. He turned his head and caught his wife's eye from the other side of the bed. She gave him a sleepy smile.

“Did you sleep well my love?” She asked softly, stroking their sons back as he slept on. 

“Never better,” Cregan replied with a smile.

PS: Well done on finishing this truly dreadful and worthless piece of fanfic Ten kisses for you.

[undisclosedproxy]

Possessive, obsessive, aggressive T.R T.N M.R

Summary: A movie night where secrets get revealed with Y/N and the boys.

Popcorn flying through the air, laughter filling the homely manor and the television playing a long forgotten movie. This is how good life ha been living with the boys. Y/N was currently sitting on the warm carpeted floor in between Theodores legs, Tom was sitting to the right of them, comfortable on his own seperate arm chair and Mattheo to the left of them, taking up most of the couch sitting in the most annoying way so that he was touching both Theodore and Y/N.

”You should have heard her screaming Y/N” Mattheo laughed loudly basically wheezing at this point, ready to pee himself from laughter.

”Okay it’s not that funny. All we did was hook up and then she woke me up screaming, she was supposed to leave already.” Theodore said shooting a fake glare in Mattheos direction with his icy blue eyes. He continued to sloppily try to braid Y/Ns piece of long brown silky hair.

”You’re right. It wasn’t funny it was obnoxious. Actually it was downright absurd, only the lowest of the low human beings with that level of IQ-“ Tom started going on a very angry rant, most of the time everyone doesn’t know what he’s talking about when he has these moments of his temper betraying him.

”Come on tom, calm down a little bit?” Y/N asked with furrowed brows and a slight pout. She didn’t mind when Mattheo and Theodore start their friendly banter but sometimes Tom just doesn’t get the hint, or pick up on social settings vibes.

Tom huffed and looked away, he didn’t want to admit it but he cares about what she thinks. They all know it too.

”You pricks are both so fucking in love with Y/N, at this point it’s disgusting.” Mattheo chuckled loudly as he continued to throw popcorn at Tom. Mattheo draped a foot over Y/Ns head. She shot him a glare and smacked his foot with her free hand, the other trying to help Theodore braid her hair.

”Do not start.” Tom warned him with a harsh look as Tom continued to put the popcorn Mattheo keeps throwing at him in a trash bag.

”Oh, do not act like you weren’t going absolute crazy when she brought a guy home.” Theodore yelled extremely loudly for no reason which was so random. Y/N looked up at Mattheo with a confused look, then back up at Theodore who was fiddling with her hair trying to detangle the matt he had made.

”No i didn’t!” Mattheo screamed back obviously lying. He was trying to cover for himself in front of Y/N.

”You dickheads did too!” Mattheo yelled pointing at Tom and Theo. As he jumped up, the popcorn falling onto the floor, the popcorn kennels already in the expensive carpet. Tom groaned loudly obviously already knowing he is going to be the one cleaning that up.

“Well. We did not hex him.” Theodore said sassily as he crossed his arms with a huff, giving up on trying to untangle the braid.

”Yes.” Tom said dryly agreeing with Theodore.

”IT WAS LITERALLY YOU WHO HEXED HIM!” Mattheo screamed at Tom, Mattheo was met with Tom staring at him blankly.

”oh.” Tom said nonchalantly,

Everyone stared at him with a concerned look on their faces.

”Is this why no boys ever come back over after the first date?” Y/N asked with a dumb founded look on her face.

”Yes.” The boys all answered in the same nonchalant tone and all at the same time.

”You guys sound like a cult, i’m leaving.” Y/N said as she gets up off the carpeted floor from in between Theodores legs. She walks up the stairs while flipping them off as they stared at her blankly.

”Her ass is so fat.” Mattheo said while so obviously staring. He was met with eye rolling from Theodore, but obviously he was staring too because he had to re arrange his pants, and Tom just looking at him with a disgusted look as he grabbed a pillow and put it over his crotch as he huffed once again.

[heavenlybodies333]

MASTERLIST ⋆｡ﾟ☁︎｡⋆｡ ﾟ☾ ﾟ｡⋆

Criminal Minds BAU ⌕ .ᐟ.ᐟ ˎˊ˗

Spencer Reid ★ 𝐌𝐮𝐭𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐮𝐫𝐞𝐝 𝐒𝐞𝐝𝐮𝐜𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

★ 𝐕𝐢𝐚𝐠𝐫𝐚, 𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲?

★ 𝐉𝐞𝐚𝐥𝐨𝐮𝐬𝐥𝐲 𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐨𝐟 𝐚 𝐃𝐫𝐮𝐠

★ 𝐃𝐨 𝐈 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐲 𝐛𝐚𝐛𝐲?

★ 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲’𝐬 𝐠𝐢𝐫𝐥

★ 𝐒𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐲 𝐁𝐮𝐝𝐝𝐲

★ 𝐓𝐡𝐢𝐧 𝐖𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐬

★ 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲 𝐏𝐫𝐨𝐟𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐚𝐥, 𝐃𝐨𝐜𝐭𝐨𝐫

★ 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐁𝐥𝐚𝐜𝐤 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬

★ 𝐓𝐢𝐭𝐬 𝐎𝐮𝐭 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐒𝐜𝐢𝐞𝐧𝐜𝐞

★ 𝐋𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐞𝐬

★ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐩𝐞𝐧𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬, 𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝐕𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐬

★ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐕𝐞𝐬𝐭 𝐒𝐭𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐎𝐧

★ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐀𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐅𝐢𝐧𝐝 𝐎𝐮𝐭

★ 𝐀𝐢𝐧’𝐭 𝐊𝐚𝐫𝐦𝐚 𝐀 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡?

★ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐃𝐞𝐯𝐢𝐥 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐤𝐬 𝐇𝐚𝐫𝐝, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐖𝐨𝐫𝐤

★ “𝐲𝐨𝐮’𝐫𝐞 𝐬𝐨 𝐡𝐨𝐫𝐧𝐲” 𝐨𝐤 𝐬𝐨 𝐟𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐦𝐞

★ 𝐌𝐢𝐥𝐞 𝐇𝐢𝐠𝐡 𝐂𝐥𝐮𝐛

★ 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐬𝐮𝐛𝐭𝐥𝐞

Aaron Hotchner

✩ 𝐓𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐀𝐭𝐭𝐢𝐭𝐮𝐝𝐞’𝐬 𝐆𝐨𝐧𝐧𝐚 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐞𝐝

Hotchner’s daughter!reader

Note: All of my fics that have Hotch’s daughter!reader are not connected unless specified. They all are the same reader idea but not connected in a storyline💋

✩ 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐜𝐫𝐚𝐬𝐡𝐞𝐝 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐜𝐚𝐫, 𝐚𝐠𝐚𝐢𝐧?

✩ 𝐅𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐈𝐃

✩ 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐓𝐨𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐇𝐞𝐫

✩ 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐞𝐬𝐬

✩ 𝐔𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐈𝐧𝐯𝐞𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐚𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧

✩ 𝐂𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭. 𝐎𝐧. 𝐂𝐚𝐦𝐞𝐫𝐚.

✩ 𝐅𝐢𝐫𝐬𝐭 𝐈𝐦𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 𝐀𝐫𝐞 𝐚 𝐁𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡

⋆⁺���⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Outer Banks 🪼⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

Rafe Cameron 🫧 𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝟒 𝐮 🫧 𝐒𝐭𝐢𝐥𝐥 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐚𝐦𝐞 𝐛𝐢𝐭𝐜𝐡, 𝐚𝐢𝐧’𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐧𝐠𝐞𝐝 🫧 𝐃𝐚𝐝𝐝𝐲’𝐬 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐀𝐬𝐬𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐧𝐭 🫧 𝐂𝐮𝐦 𝐧’ 𝐂𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐞 🫧 𝐈𝐬 𝐢𝐭 𝐜𝐚𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥 𝐧𝐨𝐰? 🫧 𝐓𝐡𝐨𝐭𝐬 𝐧’ 𝐏𝐫𝐚𝐲𝐞𝐫𝐬 🫧 𝐅𝐥𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐝𝐚 𝐊𝐢𝐥𝐨𝐬

⋆⁺₊⋆ ━━━━⊱༒︎ • ༒︎⊰━━━━ ⋆⁺₊⋆

Wizarding World ⋆.˚⋆ ✮⋆˙🚂⋆⚯ ͛

Tom Riddle ༒ 𝐎𝐧𝐥𝐲 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥𝐬 𝐆𝐞𝐭 𝐭𝐨 𝐂𝐮𝐦 ༒ 𝐅𝐨𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐦𝐞, 𝐅𝐚𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫, 𝐟𝐨𝐫 𝐈 𝐡𝐚𝐯𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐝 ༒ 𝐭𝐨𝐨 𝐦𝐮𝐜𝐡 𝐞𝐜𝐬𝐭𝐚𝐬𝐲 ༒ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 I ༒ 𝐖𝐡𝐚𝐭 𝐬𝐡𝐞 𝐝𝐨𝐞𝐬𝐧'𝐭 𝐤𝐧𝐨𝐰 𝐰𝐨𝐧'𝐭 𝐡𝐮𝐫𝐭 𝐡𝐞𝐫 II ༒ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱-𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 I ༒ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐄𝐱-𝐅𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐬 II ༒ 𝐈𝐭 𝐭𝐚𝐤𝐞𝐬 𝐓𝐰𝐨 𝐭𝐨 𝐓𝐨𝐱𝐢𝐜 ༒ 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮, 𝐈’𝐦 𝐬𝐨𝐫𝐫𝐲 ༒ 𝐒𝐚𝐢𝐧𝐭𝐬 & 𝐒𝐢𝐧𝐧𝐞𝐫𝐬

━━━━⊱

Mattheo Riddle ༝༝༝༝ 𝟔𝟔𝟔 𝐰𝐚𝐲𝐬 𝐈 𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐞 𝐲𝐨𝐮 ༝༝༝༝ 𝐒𝐤𝐮𝐥𝐥 & 𝐁𝐨𝐧𝐞𝐬 ༝༝༝༝ 𝐘𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐦𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐩𝐬, 𝐀𝐩𝐨𝐜𝐚𝐥𝐲𝐩𝐬𝐞 ༝༝༝༝ 𝐂𝐢𝐚𝐨, 𝐚𝐦𝐨𝐫𝐞 ༝༝༝༝ 𝐕𝐢𝐫𝐠𝐢𝐧 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐚𝐫𝐲 I ༝༝༝༝ 𝐈’𝐥𝐥 𝐛𝐞 𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐨𝐝 𝐆𝐢𝐫𝐥 𝐢𝐧 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥 II ༝༝༝༝ 𝐁𝐚𝐝 𝐈𝐧𝐭𝐞𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐬 ༝༝༝༝ 𝐃𝐢𝐫𝐭𝐲 𝐅𝐮𝐜𝐤𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐌𝐢𝐧𝐝 ༝༝༝༝ 𝐁𝐥𝐨𝐨𝐝𝐛𝐨𝐮𝐧𝐝 ༝༝༝༝ 𝐋𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐚 𝐆𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐚𝐦𝐧 𝐖𝐞𝐭 𝐃𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐦

━━━━⊱

Sebastian Sallow ⛦ 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐝𝐨, 𝐃𝐚𝐦𝐧𝐞𝐝 𝐢𝐟 𝐈 𝐝𝐨𝐧’𝐭 ⛦ 𝐂𝐚𝐥𝐥 𝐦𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈'𝐥𝐥 𝐜𝐨𝐦𝐞 ⛦ 𝐇𝐨𝐰 𝐭𝐨 𝐭𝐞𝐥𝐥 𝐢𝐟 𝐲𝐨𝐮𝐫 𝐞𝐱 𝐢𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐚𝐧𝐭𝐢𝐜𝐡𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐭 ⛦ 𝐓𝐡𝐞 𝐋𝐨𝐬𝐭 𝐀𝐫𝐭 𝐨𝐟 𝐌𝐮𝐫𝐝𝐞𝐫 ⛦ 𝐃𝐨𝐧’𝐭 𝐦𝐚𝐤𝐞 𝐦𝐞 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐨𝐬𝐞

━━━━⊱

[cinnxmxngxrl]

“Camden’s sin”

Pairing: Alfie Solomons x Shelby!Reader

Check Alfie’s Masterlist here to see the next parts

Summary: You were a Shelby working in your family’s business. You tried to convince yourself that it was just that, business. But Alfie Solomons wasn’t just business, not when he had you bent over his desk.

WC: 2.3k

Warnings: intense smut, minors DNI, unprotected piv, filthy language, oral(f!receiving), rough sex, creampie, reader is Tommy Shelby’s sister.

A/N: Again, english is not my first language, so sorry if any mistakes throw you off. I’m planing to do several more parts of this (please tell me if you have any request, this is my second time writing).

Your brother trusted you. For some reason, you were good with numbers—that was a fact. And you were good with people, probably because they all saw you as the innocent and youngest Shelby sister, but you were smarter than any man in the room. They underestimated you. That’s why you got sent to Camden Town almost every week. That, and because Alfie Solomons was utterly obsessed with you. Tommy found it convenient, really, since it always gave you the upper hand in every deal. Alfie simply couldn’t resist you.

You never thought anything of it. Yes, Alfie flirted with you—crude and blunt, filthy sometimes—but you were sure of his intentions. Just a game to piss your brother off. So you dismissed his banter.

The morning air was thick in Camden. It always was. You walked through the bakery like you owned the place, weaving through the towering barrels and busy working men until you reached his office. You didn’t even get a chance to knock. His voice came through the door, rough and immediate.

“Get in.”

You pushed the door open and stepped inside. The air reeked of rum and cigars. He was there, of course—seated at his desk, leaning back in the chair. Sleeves rolled up, revealing strong, tattooed forearms. His beard was thick and wild as ever.

“Well, bloody hell. The Shelbys sent me an angel today, eh?”

“You knew it was me coming, Alfie.”

“That I did. Every week, like a sharp clock, you are,” he grinned. “Lookin’ like fuckin’ sin, you do.”

You sighed. You knew all his lines by now. He’d used them a thousand times already.

“Let’s talk business, yeah?”

“What? No hello? No how’ve you been, Alfie? No I’ve missed seeing your face?”

He twitched his jaw when you stayed silent, completely ignoring his advances once again.

You tried your best to talk numbers, to finalize the new distribution routes. But it was almost impossible with the way his eyes were trailing over your body—lazy, deliberate, like he was undressing you with every glance.

“Are you even listening to what I’m saying?” You were pissed now.

“Well, forgive me, yeah? It’s fuckin’ hard to focus when you’re lookin’ like that.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the desk, smirking. “You do it on purpose, you do. That dress, that mouth painted red like bloody temptation itself.”

“This isn’t a bloody game, Alfie.” You warned him, trying to stay cool and composed—even while he was practically eye-fucking you across the desk.

“Course it’s not a fuckin’ game,” he said, voice low. “I want you. And yeah, yeah, before you say it again—I know you’re Tommy’s sister. I don’t give a fuck whose sister you are, right?”

“You’re crossing the line. Stop it.” You were trying hard not to flinch, not to blush. Trying to seem unimpressed.

“Oh, am I crossing the line?” His eyes dropped to your legs. “I’ll stop it when you stop sittin’ there with those… those fuckin’ legs crossed tighter than a nun. Pressing your thighs together since the moment you got here. Probably the same way you press them every night thinkin’ of my mouth.”

He smirked, proud of the reaction he managed to pull from you.

He had you now. He bloody well did. And it pissed you off that he was so damn observant, that he noticed everything.

“Fuck you.”

“God, please.”

Your cheeks burned—with anger, yes, but with something deeper than that. Something dangerous. Something like desire.

“You’ve mistaken my tolerance for interest, Alfie. If you want to keep doing business with the Shelbys, then you fucking behave,” you hissed.

“Business?” he scoffed. “Treacle, the only thing I’m gettin’ from business with the Shelbys is fuckin’ blue balls. Havin’ to stare at you every fuckin’ week without being able to touch you the way I want.”

“Are you done? Done saying all the… filth that’s inside your mind? You’re a pig.”

“Done? I’m nowhere near done.” He leaned back, eyes gleaming. “Next time you come here, I’ll tell you what I want to do to you—page by page—like a fuckin’ scripture.”

You stood up, turned away without another word, and walked straight out of his office. Just like that. Gone. Leaving Alfie cursing under his breath.

The truth is, you should’ve told Tommy. Should’ve told him that Alfie crossed a line, so he’d send someone else. But you didn’t.

No matter how hard you tried to stay away from that man, there was an invisible string pulling you toward him.

You wore black that day. High-necked. Buttoned all the way up. But when you walked into Alfie’s office, the first thing you saw was him—waiting for you with a little old leather notebook in his hands.

He didn’t say hello. Didn’t greet you like most days. He just opened the notebook and looked at you.

“I made you a promise, right? And I’m a man of my word.” He tapped the cover with a grin. “Fuckin’ poetry I wrote for you.”

“You think I came here to hear your filth?” you said, sitting across from him, arms and legs crossed.

He ignored you completely. Cleared his throat. Adjusted his glasses. And began to read from the first page.

“You come here all proper, all buttoned up, pretendin’ to be holy. But I’d get you against my desk anyway, with my hand under your tight little skirt, as you moan my name like a fuckin’ prayer.”

He turned the page.

“You’d tell me to fuck off—’cause you love to pretend you don’t want me. But when I feel your thighs squeeze around my fingers, I know it’s all lies.”

Another page turned.

“I’d put my mouth between your legs, eat you until you can’t remember your fuckin’ name. Make you scream so loud your brother in Small Heath would hear you.”

“And I’d fuck you from behind, right on this desk we’ve signed a hundred papers on. You’d beg me not to stop. In fact, you’d beg me to go harder, ’cause—”

“Stop.” You cut him off. Your voice soft, but sharp.

You felt the heat pooling low in your stomach. Felt your undergarments dampen. But you didn’t show it. You stood up, hands trembling, legs unsteady.

“You think you’re clever? Think I’ll melt because you wrote all your filth in a book like some fucked-up priest?”

He stood too, walking around the desk toward you with slow, measured steps. “Maybe. Tell me—is it workin’?”

“You should be locked up.” You should’ve slapped him. Should’ve run. But you didn’t. You stayed. You listened to every word.

“Maybe,” he whispered, closing in. “But I’d find a way out. Just to find you.”

He was towering over you now. So close you could smell him—cigars and rum and sin.

“I should take what I want right now,” he murmured, voice rough. “Should bend you over my desk and do every fuckin’ thing I wrote in that notebook. Everything you’ve been denyin’ me.”

Your knees buckled. Your breath hitched.

“But I won’t, treacle. And you wanna know why?” His voice dropped to a growl. “Because when I do—yeah?—you won’t be walkin’ straight for a fuckin’ week. And it’s gonna be your choice.”

“My choice?” you whispered, your voice barely there, feeling his eyes devour you.

“Yours. You’ll come back here tomorrow. Not for business. Not like a Shelby. You come back for me.”

Somehow, your legs carried you out of his office. Out of the distillery. Back to the car waiting for you outside.

The moment you stepped inside Alfie’s distillery the next day, you knew it—this would be the last time you ever walked out of here untouched.

You made your way into his office, and like always, he was already expecting you. Leaning back against his desk, arms folded, eyes on you like he’d been waiting all fucking day. He looked as irresistible as ever.

“You’re late,” he said.

You checked your watch. “No, I’m not.”

“Yeah, you’re about twenty fucking meetings late for what I really want.” His voice was low, husky. “Lock the door.”

You obeyed without thinking. As you stepped closer, his thumb grazed your throat—rough, calloused fingers surprisingly gentle.

“You want to hear it again? Page by page? ’Cause I’ve written a thousand more.”

“No,” you breathed, “I want you to show me.”

He groaned—and that was it. Restraint fully vanished. He grabbed you and crushed his mouth against yours, desperate, hungry, all tongue and teeth as he yanked your head back and devoured you like a man starving for something only you could give, with the need to own you.

You moaned when he shoved you against the desk, one hand on your throat—holding, not squeezing—while the other dragged your dress up.

No knickers. He swore.

“Fucking hell… You woman… you’re trying to kill me, are you?”

Before you could reply, his hand was already between your thighs, feeling the heat, the wetness.

“Oh, you’re so ready for me, ain’t you? Fucking dripping on my fingers.” He growled—and then dropped to his knees, right there on his office floor. Because there was only one reason Alfie Solomons got on his knees, and that was to eat cunt.

“Alfie—” you began.

“Shut up. Let me read my scripture,” he rasped. Then his mouth was on you—no patience, no mercy.

His thick beard scratched the inside of your thighs, but all you could feel was the way his tongue worked you open. Lazy circles over your clit turned into relentless strokes as he devoured you like you were his first hot meal after the war.

He pulled back for a second, just to look at you.

“Tastes fucking divine.” He gave one long, filthy lick. “Like fucking salvation.”

“Oh God—God—” you whimpered.

“No, treacle, the Lord’s got nothing to do with it. This is all me. So say my fucking name.”

“Alfie… Oh, Alfie…” you moaned, hands buried in his hair, grinding shamelessly against his mouth. He latched on your cunt harder, tongue ruthless going through your slick folds, sucking your clit in the right way. fingers gripping your thighs to keep you from flying apart.

And then—you broke. You came in seconds. Hard. Loud. Messy. Your whole body shook, and you would’ve collapsed on the floor if it weren’t for his strong arms holding you up.

He stood, his beard glistening, soaked in your fluids. Eyes dark as the night, wild. He didn’t wait a second—his hands were already unbuckling his belt.

“You ready for page two?” he growled. “’Cause I’m still fuckin’ hard. And tired of waiting.”

You nodded, It was all you could do, you were speechless, breathless.

He grabbed your body forcefully, turned you around, and bent you over his desk, one hand pressing between your shoulder blades, pinning you down like he’d envisioned a thousand times.

He spit into his hand, stroked himself rough and fast, like the world was about to end. And then—

He slammed into you.

You screamed his name, gripping the desk so hard your knuckles went white. He was huge, and if that wasn’t enough, he was brutal with his unforgiving thrusts that had you seeing stars and the whole fucking galaxy.

He pounded into you so hard you didn’t know if he loved you or hated you, hands bruising your hips, balls slamming against your ass over and over.

“Fuck—fucking—” he choked out, and you realized that this was the first time you’ve ever seen Alfie Solomons struggle to find words. “You trying to kill me? Squeezing my cock like that with this tight little cunt.” He smacked your ass, hard.

All you could do was whimper, pathetic little whimpers that came out of your mouth as he continued to dive into you.

The room was full of it—all of it—the wet slap of skin against skin, the creak of the desk under your body, your muffled cries, his snarling breath mixed with all the filthy words that came out of his mouth.

“Custom-fucking-made for my cock, you were.”

“You feel so good… so wet and hot and tight for me.”

“Look at you, listen to you—moaning like a fucking whore for me.”

He was feral for you. He had turned into a beast like never before. Because even if he had his fair share of women in the past, no woman had ever made him feel like this, not a single one of them had ever felt as good as you did right now, It was all he had ever dreamed of, and more.

And you—you—were taking it, it was all you could do, cause you were built for this. No one ever fucked you like a real man should, no, that was something only Alfie could.

That sharp sting built in your belly and then it snapped—and you came again, harder this time, clenching so tight around his cock he cursed in Yiddish. You didn’t know what he said, but the way he said it made your whole body throb.

“I’m gonna fill you up… so bad it’s gonna fucking drip out of that pretty pussy all over your thighs yeah? You want that?”

“Yes… please, Alfie… fill me up.”

He pulled your hair back, arched your back against his chest, and fucked into you harder. Once. Twice. The third thrust—he buried himself deeper and he came with a guttural growl, spilling himself inside you as he moaned your name into your shoulder.

He stayed there inside you, holding you close, his lips at your throat, whispering things that made you melt, and kissing your shoulder softly, as if trying to comfort after he was the one to wreck you

When he finally pulled out, you felt it—his cum, mixed with your juices, dripping down your thighs. He shoved it all back inside with two fingers, stuffing you full of him again.

“Tell me you’ll come back next week, yeah?” His voice was oddly soft now.

You barely managed a whisper. “Try not to go mad until you see me again.”

He smiled against your skin. “Now that, treacle… that’s a promise I can’t make.”

NEXT PART HERE

‪dividers by: @/saradika-graphics‬

[cloveswifey]

Clingy

Dad!Tom riddle X Fem!Reader

Fluff

"Mommy is mine!" Mattheo, your spirited three-year-old, shouted, pushing Tom's face away from you.

"Excuse me?" Tom feigned offense, placing a hand over his chest dramatically. "She is married to me, little buddy." He proudly displayed your ring on his finger, causing Mattheo to cry in despair. You couldn't help but roll your eyes at your husband's playful antics.

Mattheo had definitely entered that clingy phase. He only wanted you to feed him, hug him, play with him, and put him to sleep. He absolutely despised when Tom even gave you a little peck on the lips, and oh, was Tom having fun teasing your little one.

In the past few days, Mattheo's clinginess seemed to escalate. Not that he wasn't clingy before, but now it had become even more intense. As you tried to cook, his little hands would constantly explore your body, causing him to become upset when Tom was around. In an attempt to scare Tom away, Mattheo would even throw his food at him, which only made Tom laugh even harder.

You gave Tom a knowing look and remarked, "I wonder where he got his bad temper from."

Tom affectionately placed a hand on your growing stomach and whispered against your head, "Let's hope this little one isn't as jealous as his brother."

[galacticleechart]

This was way too much fun too draw... Enjoy Tom Paris holding up one of the warp 10 salamander babies

[snipdoodle]

In your new leather jacket, you're somebody else!

[iniquitousyearning]

SLYTHERINSLUT0’S RIDDLEMAS

dec 23rd. tom riddle — wet dreams, house rivals.

RIDDLEMAS MASTERLIST. I 2024

summary: tom’s been infiltrating your dreams, and you decide it’s time to call him out on it.

warnings: 18+, SMUT MDNIIII, coercion!!!!, dark!tom, mind manipulation, religious undertones, gryffindor!reader, enemies if you squint, fingering, squirting, begging, dream sex, tom riddle is his own warning, so much praise, dirty talk, verbal sparring.

You've never been a heavy sleeper. Even as a child, the smallest sound—a creak in the floorboards, a shift in the walls—would jolt you awake. For years, you chalked it up to some ingrained survival instinct, some form of trauma response to whatever part of your childhood still haunts you. You got used to it.

But lately, it isn't sound that’s been waking you. It isn't movement or foundation shifts, either. It's the dreams.

Dreams—strange, lucid, intense dreams of him. Always him. Dreams that make you feel like you're drowning, like you're flying, like you've found a new level of intoxication that you'd never imagined possible—and each time the dreams wake you up, the sheets (and whatever bottoms you may have been wearing) are always soaked, and your thighs are always shaking.

It's maddening.

They feel too real to be anything but a violation, his presence bleeding into your subconscious regardless of how much you try to fight it. You know it means something is wrong. You'd tried to rationalize yourself into going back to sleep, telling yourself it's just hormones or some form of stress, but you're too smart to believe your own excuses.

You know it's more than that.

He's haunting you in your sleep—in the most unexpected way. The dreams are always lucid enough that you can feel it—you can feel him—his mouth on yours, his hands on your hips, his dick bullying your fucking cervix and his magic on your clit—leaving behind nothing but hunger. Hunger that's so intense it makes you want him in a way it almost scares you.

You tell yourself you hate him, you've always hated him—but denial only lasts for so many days, as you realize you can't look at him or talk to him without the dreams forcing their way to the forefront of your mind, making you remember the feelings and the sensations and how much, despite hating him, you want them to be real.

You wanted to believe it would pass. That this was nothing but a phase, a trick of your overactive mind. But deep down, you knew the truth. Tom Riddle has wormed his way into your head, into your dreams—out of spite—and he's not letting go.

So after a hell of a week of this—with damn near zero hours of sleep—you decide to seek him out. To put an end to this madness. Once and for all.

It takes every ounce of courage and Gryffindor-like reckless bravery you can scrape together just to go through with it, but somehow you do. Somehow, you make it across the castle, make it to his door. You're in your pyjamas, for Merlin's sake. It's 1 a.m., and the slick still coating your thighs from what had to have been your tenth lucid orgasm in a matter of a week is a humiliating reminder of why you're even here at all.

And when the door opens, you have the strange feeling that he's been expecting you, even as he makes a great show of acting surprised to see you, looking you up and down with a lazy, smug glance that makes your pulse quicken so viscerally you lose the last shred of sanity you were pathetically clinging to—

"What the fuck—" you prowl forward without hesitation, forcing him a step back into the room. "—are you doing to me?"

Even if you're not imagining some form of surprise in that smug little smirk, he does his best not to let it show.

"Me?" He says, all pretend innocence, flicking his hand out to shut the door behind you with some spell you don't care to name. "You'll have to be more specific."

You glare at him, refusing to acknowledge how unfairly attractive he looks in just sweatpants and an oversized shirt—because of course, even casual looks like this are a weapon in his arsenal.

"Cut the bullshit, Riddle," you snap, and you're not sure if it's your lack of sleep or some form of desperation-fuelled bravery, but you're suddenly invading his personal space, poking an accusing finger into his shoulder. "You're fucking haunting me—"

He blinks. "I’m haunting you. And how am I doing that?”

There's a part of you that knows it's a trap—that this is probably exactly what the smug bastard in front of you has been wanting, but your brain is so deprived of sleep and your body is so starved of respite that you decide 'fuck it'—you want answers, and you're going to get them.

"You're in my dreams," you say, bluntly, forcing an exhale alongside it. "You've been in them every night for a week straight. I haven't slept a bloody minute."

That's when it happens—the tiniest flash of amusement in his eyes, so brief you might've missed it if you weren't ready to tear his fucking throat out.

"You're accusing me of giving you dreams?" He asks, in a tone that makes you want to grab him by the front of his shirt and make him cut the bullshit, and you can't tell how much of your own expression is irritation and how much is lust. "You think I've somehow managed to invade your mind?"

"Don't be condescending," you spit, trying to focus on the spot between his eyebrows that makes the heat in your core roar the least, "and don't act like you're incapable. As much as I can't bloody stand you, we both know damn well your mind magic is strong enough to do this to me—"

"Mind magic," he echoes with an amused snort, "you think I'm doing some kind of mind magic to invade your dreams, is that it?"

He's so damn good at this, you think—infuriatingly good. The way he's playing it off like the idea is absurd, completely laughable—

"Fucking precisely.” You can't hide the heat from your voice. You don't care to try. "These aren't just dreams. They're—they're strong. I feel you. Your hands, your tongue, your—"

Dick. You can't even bring yourself to say it.

And the bastard just smirks, like he's reading your mind anyway. Like he knows. That glimmer in his eyes—arrogant, insufferable—only confirms it.

"Hm," he says with something bored, running a hand through his hair. "Your subconscious—"

"It's not a bloody subconscious thing," you cut him off, uninterested in whatever bullshit he was about to feed you. "It's you. You're invading my dreams—I feel you—my body fucking feels you—"

He laughs at that. Like some sick, sadistic freak. He actually laughs—

"Listen to yourself." He says, with a mocking tone that makes you want to shove him. "Are you that desperate to hate me that you're pinning your dreams on me?"

"Hate doesn't even begin to cover it," you spit, stepping closer, your frustration boiling over. He shifts slightly, his back brushing the wall. "You've got a hell of an ego, but even you have to know this isn't something I'd want. I wouldn't put you in my dreams willingly if you paid me to do it—"

He hums, smirk never faltering, if anything it fucking grows at the tirade.

"You've been dreaming of me for a week," he points out, coolly, as if this is the most casual conversation in the world. "And now, here you are—standing in my dorm in the middle of the night, dressed like this." He takes a step toward you, now. "Do you know what that's called, sweetheart?"

Your lungs hitch at the pet name. Your mind is at war with your cunt and it's losing—

"Delirium?" You choke out, noticing another flash of something in his eyes as the gap between you closes. "Insomnia? Sleep deprivation?"

He gives you a mocking arch of the eyebrow.

"No," he says, in a tone that makes you seethe. "It's called obsession."

"Oh. The irony," you can't help but hiss at him, heart pounding because he's in your space and you're in his and this shouldn't be getting to you the way it is. "It's rich, coming from you, that you'd put that on me when—when you've been mindfucking me every goddamn night—"

"Mindfucking you?" He repeats, almost lazily, as his gaze drops, sweeping over you—your pyjamas, the clear lack of bra, the flush creeping up your neck. "Is that what you think I've been doing? You think—"

The way he doesn't even deny it—doesn't argue the accusation—makes your blood boil in a way you can't control.

"It's the only explanation. You've been—you've been—" you cut him off but your sentence falters because his gaze is moving so deliberately, dragging over you like he's cataloging your weaknesses, and the anger curdles into something raw and desperate. "God, Tom, I just need it to stop. I'm so fucking tense and tired. I'm so wound I can't even focus—I'm wet all the time—"

His eyes snap up to meet yours at that, and he gives you a look you can't even begin to interpret. You bite your tongue, realizing the words that left your mouth just a moment too late to pull them back, and you know you've lost the upper hand in this, somehow. You feel the ground slipping from under you and you hate the way your body shivers as he takes another slow, deliberate, step forward.

"Is that what you are?” He wets his lips. "You've come all the way here, in the dead of night, in your pyjamas, half out of your mind with exhaustion because you're wet. Isn't that right?"

You know better than to answer, though you feel yourself walking straight into the trap he's set.

"Piss off," you snap, but the bravado in your voice is paper-thin as he takes another step forward. He's so close now that his scent overwhelms you—leather and spice, something sharp and smoky that makes your head spin. You recognize it, of course you do; it's the same as in your dreams, and the familiarity makes your knees feel unsteady. "You're—"

"Don't act so offended," he leans closer, his voice a low murmur, quiet, almost silky as it wraps around you, and suddenly you barely remember what you were so pissed off about. "You can't even deny it. I made you cum tonight, didn't I? In your dreams."

Your teeth grit. "You know you did—"

He takes one more step and now you're backed right up against his desk—and gods, Tom's tall, so much taller than you—and it feels like he's looming over you, caging you in.

"Mhm." There's a flash of triumph in his eyes as you lose your words. He leans down, breath grazing your ear just as he brings two fingers to your temple, pressing the pads against it. "Let's watch, shall we?"

Watc—oh no.

A cold sense of dread washes over you as you catch on to what he's insinuating, merely a second too late—

"Tom—"

He whispers something, something that pulls you under, and the next thing you know—in a flash of consciousness you didn't even consider possible—you're staring at yourself inside a dream you remember all too well. A dream sequence where you're moaning and trembling beneath him, your head thrown back, eyes rolling in unabashed pleasure as he drives into you, hips snapping with thrust after thrust after thrust—

And it's one thing to have felt it in the safety of your dreams, in the dead of night when you woke slick and desperate, clenching around nothing. But this—this is visceral. You can't look away because it's projecting inside your mind: the flush blooming across your chest, the arch of your back, the way your lips part with every desperate breath. You hear the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth, mingling with his low, guttural grunts—and worst of all, you can feel it.

You can feel every ounce of pleasure he's giving you, as if he's giving it to you now.

"Mm," you hear him hum from infront of you—it's too much—you're lost in the memory, the dream, and it's a strange, voyeuristic, intimate experience to watch yourself and him like that. "You're worse off than I thought."

You’re gripping the wood of his desk so hard your fingertips are numb, heart flying out of the room as his hand slowly slides from your temple down to your jaw, holding you in place—

"Stop it." You manage to hiss at him, trying to force some semblance of control back into yourself—the last thing you need is to start melting against this bastard. "Tom—"

"You feel that?" He murmurs, breath brushing your neck, and you can't even focus on anything but the sensations he's forcing through your memory—seeing him above you, feeling him inside you. "You do, don't you? This is exactly what you've been feeling all week, isn't it?"

You want to snap at him, cuss him out, but oh god—

"Damn you," you hiss, even as his hands slide down to your hips—and it almost feels as if he's touching you twice, as if there are two sets of hands on your body. "Fuck, Tom—"

"Mm, you look good from this angle," he murmurs, and you fucking keen as you watch, in your mind, his hands slide over your stomach, pushing up your shirt and exposing your tits, groping as he fucks you. You keen as you feel it. "You love this, don't you? You want this."

"I—" you gasp, trying to convince him, or yourself, or goddamn anyone. Still fighting some invisible battle between resistance and submission because you hate that he's right. "I—god, what are you doing to me—"

"What am I doing to you?" He whispers, and you're not sure if the question is rhetorical, or if he's giving you permission to ask it. "I'm not doing anything that you aren't letting me do."

Your knees feel like they're about to buckle, and it's taking all your strength just to stay standing because the pleasure playing out in your mind is pouring into your veins and you can't even fathom how it's possible but you can't do anything to fight it—

"Oh, god—" you moan, unbridled, your physical body slumping back onto the desk as you feel the slick between your thighs, growing with every goddamn thrust. "Oh my god—"

He takes the opportunity of you slumped back against the desk and instantly leans down, bringing his lips to your ear—

"Not even god could keep your legs underneath you." His hand creeps up your thigh. "You're helpless."

"Helpless," you repeat, with a shaky gasp, and you hate how much the word turns you on. This is the first time you've ever been called helpless, and you're not even sure that you care. He's got you in his clutches, he's winning, and it's so infuriating and so goddamn perfect. “Tom—please, please touch me. I need to—fuck—"

You feel his lips brush the skin of your neck in a way that has you trembling with want, but—fucking hell, that's not what you need—you need his hands on you, you need him to just—

"What do you need?" He cooes, and there's a sly tone to his voice that makes you want to throw yourself at him all over again. "You need to cum?"

You moan, low and needy, writhing against the desk because this fucker—he knows exactly what he's doing. He’s got the upper hand here and you want it back. You want—

"Yes," you manage to gasp out. "I need you to—I fucking need you—inside me—"

As soon as that leaves your mouth, the dream fades from your vision and he's urging you to lay back. There's a soft thud as he places a hand on the desk next to your head, and he leans down, bringing his lips back to your ear, and you can't remember a time when you've ever wanted anyone else this bad.

"I'm touched," he murmurs, fingers slipping to the waist band of your pyjama pants, "that you want me that bad."

"I hate you," you manage to gasp out, but that's a lie, and you think he knows it. His fingers on your skin as he pulls your pants down make you ache for him, and you're struggling to not make another sound that will give him ammunition. "Why do you have to—"

"Why do I have to what?" He asks, and you know he's just trying to get a reaction out of you. "Tease you? Make you helpless?"

Your pants get hardly half way down your thighs before he decides it's enough and slides a finger through your soaked slit, and you can't hold back the moan that tears itself from your throat.

"Fuck, you're soaked.” He hisses through his teeth. “You've been sitting in your dorm for days, hm? Dreaming of me touching you, wishing you could touch yourself without thinking of me—do you want to cum, sweetheart?"

"Yes," you gasp out, and you're not above begging at this point. "Yes, god, please—I want to fucking cum—"

"There we go," he cooes, and he's enjoying this more than you'd like to acknowledge. "You know how long I've been waiting to hear you say that?"

"I'd say at least a week," you throw back, in a vain attempt to keep a shred of your dignity, but that's hard when he's circling his fingers around your clit and your body is jerking against the desk beneath you. God you really are helpless. "Because that's how long you've been plaguing my head, giving me wet dreams like some goddamn incubus—"

He chuckles at that, and you hate him a little less when he slips two fingers inside you, "You think I'm a demon?"

"You certainly act like one," you choke out, because he's crooking his fingers and your mind is going fuzzy and he's not going to let you get the upper hand back, even for a second. "Fuck—oh, yes, yes, yes."

"You've got me all wrong," he says, with a smile that would be boyish if it wasn't so sinister. "Demons come to punish you. I'm here helping you get that relief you've been needing so badly."

"Just want t-to help me," you moan as his long fingers work you open, thumb brushing your clit, "out of the kindness of your heart—"

"Out of the kindness of my heart,” he repeats, with a mocking tone, and it's the way he murmurs those words that's making your thighs clench around him until he grabs the fabric of your pjs bunched around them and pushes your legs up to your chest, working his fingers impossibly deeper. "Out of the goodness of my soul—it's what I do, darling, I'm known for my benevolence—"

"You're a good man," you know he can tell you're being sarcastic, but his fingers are filling you so fucking full you're nowhere near ready to start a fight again when you're this close to losing your goddamn mind on his desk. "You're such a good man, Tom—“

"Mhm," his breath tickles your ear. "What else am I?"

"So good with your fingers," you're moaning, and he's going to get a bigger ego than he already has. You're too far gone to care. "God, you're so good, I'm going to—"

"Yes, you are," he answers, and it takes you a second to realize that he's not correcting your words anymore. He's simply telling you that you are, in fact, about to fall apart for him. "Give it to me. You've earned it."

You almost want to snap back at him, you almost try to, but you're so far gone the words don't form on your tongue and you're not sure you'd be able to fight the fire pooling in your stomach.

"Oh, fuck—“

He doesn't even let you finish that, he just dips his hips down, bringing his hand that's not buried in your slick up to cover your mouth, muffling those strangled screams before they spill out and echo down the hall—

"That's it," he murmurs, his voice a low hum against your skin. "Be a good girl. Let it all out for me."

And it's that; that stupid combination of cooing warmth and the phrase 'be a good girl' that sends you over the edge, and you're muffling your gasps and moans and screams against his palm because gods, what would happen if someone heard you? What would happen if people realized what Tom Riddle was doing to you—your house rival, your sworn enemy—

"There we go," you're falling apart and he's watching you as if he owns you, as if this is where you belong—writhing beneath him, release squirting out around his fingers. "Ride it out for me. Such a good girl, you needed this so bad, I can tell you were aching for this."

You're struggling to say anything back, the only thing that comes out is a strangled moan of his name, and you've always known how bad he was, heard from other girls how good he could be with his hands, but this—you've never had this, never been this before.

"Such a fucking mess," he's murmuring, his voice low and rough and so goddamn beautiful. “How'd that feel? Hm?"

"So—so good," it feels like the words are being forced out of your throat, and you're struggling to think with enough clarity to form anything that's not an embarrassing moan of how much you needed this. "Needed it, need more, I—"

"More?" He murmurs as he slips his fingers free, and he's bringing his other hand up to your jaw, forcing you to look at him as he brings his soaked fingers to your lips. "Greedy girl."

You're not thinking about the implication of him calling you that, you're not thinking about how you should fight back, you're not thinking about how much you hate him—you’re just thinking about the sinful taste of you on his fingers, when they press against your tongue. Without a second of hesitation you suck them clean, tasting yourself, and it's obscene. You're obscene. But you don't care, it just makes that ache in you grow worse—you need more, you need him.

Dear god, what happened to you.

“So good," he murmurs, the praise dripping like honey from his tongue. You hum and he exhales. "I'll find you tomorrow."

"You'll find me tomorrow?" You repeat, as he withdraws his fingers from your mouth, and you're struggling for air, your chest heaving beneath your rumpled shirt. "What are you going to do, come into my room?"

"I'll come into much more than your room," he says, with a laugh that dances with promises of sin. "Now go. Before someone finds you here."

You push yourself up on trembling arms, pulling your pants up your thighs, your heart hammering in your chest because—god, that was incredible, you want more of it, and you can hardly even believe it happened. With a breath, you force yourself to move.

You look back at him as you get to the door. Your legs are shaking and you're not going to hold it against yourself for needing the wall to support you as his eyes rake over you, the corners of those lips curled up his signature smirk, and you want to hit him so goddamn bad—but then he speaks, like he read your mind, and it snaps you out of it—

"No dreams tonight." He says. "Scouts honour."

"You're no boy scout," you throw back, and your voice is a little breathier than you'd like. "And this changes nothing."

He smiles, slow and languid and knowing. "Of course."

You want to roll your eyes at the condescension dripping off his tongue, but you're worried that if you stay here any longer the only words on your tongue will be 'do it again'.

"You just owe me." You say as you crack the door open.

"I owe you," he agrees, and you think that his smile is just a little too genuine—like he would give you anything you wanted, just for another taste of that. “I'm keeping score, darling. Sleep well."

You hate him for calling you that, you hate his stupid smile, you hate the way he knows he's got you.

What he doesn’t know, is that you’re going to make him pay.

"Good night," you mutter, and then you open the door and slip out into the hallway.

[daemontargaryenwhore]

Aegon finally taking high valyrian classes on duolingo.

[birdofwildness]

୨୧✧˚Secret smokes

୨୧✧˚Tom Riddle

summary:: reader's father invites professor Riddle over. He doesn't know his Well behaved daughter is dating her professor.

warnings:: professor x student, age gap, filthy af smut lmao, 18+

The classroom breathed in shadows. Dust motes wandered lazily through the golden afternoon light, as if time itself hesitated to pass through these walls — reluctant to disturb the stillness that had settled over desks ink-stained and solemn.

Y/N sat motionless, eyes fixed on the half-filled parchment before her, though their mind drifted far from words and wandwork. There was a weight in the air — not from the lesson, but from him. From the way he moved between rows like a thought that wouldn’t let go, silent and precise, all darkness and deliberation.

Tom Riddle did not speak often, but when he did, the room listened as though the walls themselves leaned closer.

“Time,” he said at last, his voice smooth and quiet, like the first drop of ink on clean parchment. “Essays. Leave them here.”

The scrape of chairs followed — the familiar shuffling of escape. A soft murmur of relief. But not for Y/N.

As she rose to leave, hand brushing the cool wood of the desk, his voice reached her again. Lower this time. Private.

“Miss Y/L/N,” he said, his tone carved from curiosity and something harder. “Remain.”

The door sighed shut behind the last departing student. Silence, again — but a different kind now. Closer. More intimate.

Y/N turned, slowly, like someone called back by name in a dream.

He stood with the elegance of a blade resting on its edge, one hand resting lightly on the desk, the other folded beneath it — posture relaxed, yet coiled.

“You’ve been avoiding me.”

She didn’t answer immediately. The word avoiding was too deliberate. Too sharp.

She leaned back against the door after closing it behind her, her fingers still resting on the brass handle, as if measuring the weight of the silence before her.

“I’ve been breathing,” she said at last. “That’s not the same.”

Tom’s gaze flickered to her face, then back to the shadows between them. He didn’t move. He never did when he held the advantage.

“And yet,” he said quietly, “you look like someone who’s been holding her breath for days.”

She crossed the room slowly, not in surrender, not in defiance, but in something more dangerous: knowing. The kind of knowing that only exists between two people who’ve spent nights unraveling each other in silence and in heat, and who’ve learned to fear what follows the morning.

“You want something,” she said, stopping just beyond reach. “You always do.”

Tom didn’t deny it. Instead, with the slow, precise motion of someone revealing a move long prepared, he reached into the inner pocket of his coat and produced a single envelope.

The parchment was heavy, elegant. Ministry seal. Her father’s signature in unmistakable, impatient strokes.

He held it out to her as if it were nothing more than a passing curiosity.

She took it without a word, fingers brushing his — brief contact, deliberate tension. Her eyes scanned the contents, each line tightening something inside her chest.

Dinner. A formal invitation. Her father, all formality and veiled curiosity, inviting Tom Riddle to their home like he was just another promising young man and not the living embodiment of all the unspoken things she could never admit out loud.

“‘I would be honoured to receive you this Thursday at seven. I believe we have much to discuss,’” she read aloud, voice flat.

Riddle watched her — not smug, not triumphant. Just quiet. As if waiting for her to catch up to something he already knew.

She turned the letter in her hands, once, twice, then looked up. “Why?”

A single word, precise, level. But beneath it, a hundred unspoken questions.

Tom tilted his head slightly. “Why what?”

“Why did he invite you?” she asked, sharper now. “My father doesn’t do polite gestures.”

“No,” Tom agreed. “But Horace Slughorn does.”

The name landed between them like a dropped stone.

Her fingers tightened on the parchment. “Slughorn.”

“Who else?” Tom’s voice was smooth, unhurried. “He collects people. And when he can’t keep them, he introduces them to others who might.”

Her father.

The realization clicked into place like a lock turning, and Tom saw it—saw the moment she understood.

She didn’t speak for a long moment, only watched him — carefully, quietly. Then a corner of her mouth curved upward. Not a full smile. Just the beginning of one.

“You’re nervous.”

Tom blinked. “I’m not.”

“You are,” she said, stepping closer. “You’re doing that thing with your thumb again.”

He looked down without meaning to — his thumb pressed just slightly against the side of his index finger, a motion so small it was almost nothing. But not to her.

She grinned, all wicked amusement now. “You want to impress him.”

“I want access,” he corrected.

“Which means,” she said, tilting her head, “you want to impress him.”

He didn’t answer. That was answer enough.

She touched his collar, adjusting it like she had every right to. “Don’t talk too much. He hates people who sound like they’re proving something.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “I am proving something.”

“Exactly,” she said sweetly. “That’s why you have to act like you’re not.”

A pause. Her voice softened, but only a little: “And don’t smile unless you mean it. He’ll know.”

He looked down at her, eyes narrowed in mock suspicion. “Are you trying to help me or sabotage me?”

She leaned in, lips just near his ear.

“Who says I can’t do both?”

Tom let his gaze linger on her face a moment longer, then said, “And what’s he like? Your father.”

She let out a dry breath, somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. “You’re asking me now?”

He said nothing — just waited.

She stepped back, arms loosely crossed, as if needing distance from her own answer.

“What do you think?” she said. “He’s exactly what you’d expect from a blood supremacist Slytherin who clawed his way up the Ministry like it was his birthright.”

“Charming,” Tom murmured.

“Oh, he is,” she said, sarcasm curling at the edge of her voice. “In that cold, immaculate, politically untouchable sort of way. He speaks in veiled threats and thinks compassion is a weakness you beat out of children by age twelve.”

Tom tilted his head slightly. “So you’re saying we’ll get along.”

She met his gaze. “I’m saying he’ll recognize you. Even if he doesn’t know what you are, he’ll know that you are.”

He smiled, slow and sharp. “I’ll take that as encouragement.”

She rolled her eyes, but the corners of her mouth betrayed her — softened, despite herself.

“You would,” she muttered, stepping closer. “You always do.”

Tom didn’t move away. His smile faded into something quieter, something less practiced.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. She reached up — a small, almost absent motion — and brushed a strand of hair from his forehead. Her hand lingered just long enough to mean something.

Then she leaned in and kissed him — not hungry, not dramatic. Just warm. Familiar. The kind of kiss that wasn’t asking for anything, only marking the space between them as theirs.

When she pulled back, she said, “Don’t be charming tonight. Be dangerous.”

He looked at her, the ghost of a smirk returning. “Darling, I never stopped.”

...

The dining room was exactly what Tom had expected. Dark wood. Crystal decanters. A silence so carefully maintained, it felt like the room itself was holding its breath.

Her father sat at the head of the table, back straight as a blade. Not a single hair out of place. Not a single expression wasted. He looked at Tom as one might examine an antique wand—valuable, but potentially volatile.

Y/N sat to the side, in quiet observation, glass untouched. She wore nothing expressive, and yet she seemed to burn brighter than the candles.

“Tom,” her father began, voice low and steady, “Slughorn speaks of you often. I must admit, I was curious.”

Tom inclined his head with just the right degree of humility. “That’s generous of him. Professor Slughorn has always had an eye for talent.”

Her father gave the barest nod, the kind that said: And I’ll decide for myself if he was right.

They spoke of inconsequential things first — the rise and fall of this or that department, a new magical regulation Tom pretended to be concerned with. But every word was a test. Every smile a blade.

“You seem quite... forward-thinking for one so young,” her father said, sipping his wine.

“I don’t see much use in looking backward,” Tom replied. “History only teaches what happens when people lack vision.”

Her father smiled — faint, almost approving. “Indeed.”

Y/N said nothing. But she watched Tom closely, like someone watching a storm from behind glass.

At one point, Tom caught her eye. Just for a second.

She raised her brow, subtle, amused.

You're enjoying this, it said.

And maybe he was.

Her father set down his glass with the precision of someone who disliked unnecessary movement.

“And how is she in your class, Mr. Riddle?” he asked, voice casual in the way a dagger might be considered a decorative accessory. “I assume she participates.”

Tom didn’t even glance at her. “She’s exceptional,” he said, smooth and immediate. “Sharp. Focused. Rarely distracted by the trivial.”

Y/N gave him a sideways look, one brow lifted just slightly. “You say that like you’re surprised.”

“I’m not,” he said. “But your father might be.”

Her father didn’t react — not outwardly. He turned his gaze to her instead. “I expect excellence, you know that.”

Y/N leaned forward just enough to meet his eyes. “And yet you never ask me how I’m doing. Just whether I’m performing.”

The room stilled. A pause, long and deliberate.

Tom spoke then, softly: “She’s not just performing, sir. She’s outpacing most of the class.”

Another silence — deeper now. Not awkward. Just heavy.

Her father nodded, but it wasn’t praise. It was acknowledgment. “Good.”

Y/N picked up her wine, sipped it slowly, and said, “You don’t have to worry. He trains us well.”

Riddle’s mouth twitched — a flicker of amusement. Her father didn’t catch it. Or chose not to.

The conversation had drifted back to policy — some dull bureaucratic reshuffling that neither of them had any real interest in.

Y/N didn’t speak. She didn’t need to.

Instead, her hand moved — slow, deliberate — beneath the linen of the tablecloth, fingers brushing lightly against the fabric of Tom’s trousers. Just resting, at first. Casual. Almost dismissible.

Tom stiffened the slightest degree — a flicker, nothing more. His jaw tightened as he turned his wineglass slowly between his fingers, saying something polite about international Floo network regulations.

Her hand moved upward. Barely an inch.

He glanced at her, just once, from the corner of his eye — a look that said, Now? Really?

She didn’t look back at him. Didn’t even smile.

Another inch.

He inhaled through his nose, a breath so soft it wouldn’t register to anyone else — except maybe her father, who had spent a lifetime reading the smallest changes in men’s composure.

But Tom didn’t flinch. He didn’t stop talking. He just gave her a look — one raised brow, mouth set in that tight, don’t test me line.

And still, she moved higher.

He placed his hand — calmly, purposefully — over hers, halting her progress. Squeezed once. A warning. A promise.

She finally looked at him then, eyes bright with something between mischief and triumph.

Dinner ended not with dessert, but with dismissal. Her father folded his napkin with military precision, then stood.

“Riddle,” he said, voice crisp, “join me for a cigarette.”

It wasn’t a question.

Then, to Y/N, sharp and final: “Bed. Now.”

She opened her mouth — not to protest, but to say something, anything — but Tom caught her gaze, gave the barest shake of his head. Not here.

She lingered a second too long, then rose. Her footsteps were quiet as she left, but her presence clung to the room like perfume.

The terrace was cold and dark, lit only by two hovering orbs of enchanted light. Her father took out a silver case, offered it silently. Tom accepted, wordless.

The first inhale came with silence. The second with smoke. The third, finally, with words.

Her father spoke without looking at him. “You have plans.”

Tom exhaled slowly. “Of course.”

“Big ones, I assume.”

“I don’t bother with the small kind.”

That earned him a small grunt of approval. Or recognition. Hard to say.

“What field?” the man asked, flicking ash into the dark. “Ministry? Academia? Power like yours doesn’t stay long in classrooms.”

Tom’s gaze lingered on the horizon. “Classrooms are useful. People don’t watch you closely when they think you’re just a teacher.”

“And when they start watching?”

Tom smiled faintly. “Then I’ll already be somewhere else.”

A beat.

“You don’t want a post. You want position.”

Tom turned to him now, face calm. “I want reach. I want leverage. I want freedom.”

“Freedom?” the man repeated. “Strange word, coming from someone who follows so many rules so precisely.”

Tom met his eyes. “Rules are tools. You don’t smash a door if you can unlock it.”

A long silence followed. Not uncomfortable — just heavy with understanding.

The old man tapped the end of his cigarette against the iron railing, eyes never leaving the night.

“And legacy?” he asked. “Do you care for that sort of thing?”

Tom didn’t answer immediately. He watched the glow at the end of his cigarette dim, then reignite.

“Legacy is inevitable,” he said. “If you're worth remembering.”

“But some prefer to shape what they leave behind.”

Tom glanced at him. “You mean heirs.”

The man didn’t deny it. “You’ve built the mind. Built the name. Eventually, you’ll need the line.”

“So,” her father said, eyes on the darkness beyond the terrace rail, “is there a girl already?”

Tom didn’t look at him. “Pardon?”

“You’re young,” he said, as if that explained everything. “Sharp. Ambitious. Someone in your position—well. People will want to attach themselves.”

“I imagine they will,” Tom said calmly.

“And have you let anyone?”

A long pause followed — not of hesitation, but of deliberation. Then:

“No.”

Her father studied him, a sliver of smoke curling between his fingers. “Strange. A man with your... charisma.”

Tom allowed himself a smile. “Charm and attachment are rarely the same thing.”

“Do you plan to marry?”

“Eventually. If it’s useful.”

...

She climbed the stairs slower than usual. Not because she was tired — far from it. Her pulse was annoyingly loud in her ears, and her skin prickled with a kind of static that refused to settle.

He’s staying.

That thought had been repeating itself like a spell ever since her father had mentioned the guest room. Just one word — guest — but said with such clipped finality, as though it meant nothing.

But it did.

Because the guest room was next to hers. Just a few quiet steps away, separated by nothing but old plaster walls and a hallway that creaked in two places.

She opened her door and closed it behind her gently, then leaned back against it for a moment, letting out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

Her room was the same as always — books half-stacked on the desk, a half-finished cup of tea gone cold on the windowsill, bed not quite made. But it felt different. Like it was holding its breath, too.

She moved with too much purpose, adjusting nothing and everything — smoothing the coverlet, brushing invisible dust from her vanity, catching her own reflection and looking away too fast.

She sat on the edge of the bed, then stood. Sat again.

He’ll come up soon.

Of course he would. Tom didn’t leave things half-finished. Especially not her.

She crossed the room in measured steps, fingers grazing over the wardrobe’s handles before pulling it open.

The cool air inside touched her skin as she reached for the nightgown she hadn’t worn in months — silk, pale, almost translucent where the light hit it just right. It was too delicate for sleep, and too deliberate for coincidence. But tonight wasn’t about sleep. Not really.

She held it up for a moment, watching how it swayed slightly in her hands. Then slipped it on.

The fabric slid over her shoulders like a whisper. She shivered — not from the cold, but from the knowing. The weight of intention.

She let her hair down next, the pins clinking softly into her palm one by one. The mirror caught her eyes, then her mouth — a tilt of something there, amusement or anticipation, she wasn’t sure.

She dabbed a little perfume on her wrists. Not her usual one — something sharper, older. The kind that lingered.

Then she turned down the lamp. Not out — never out — but low enough that the shadows could settle, stretch. Wrap the room in something softer.

She sat again, this time near the window, one leg folded under her, the other bare foot grazing the floor.

And waited.

Not idly. Not passively.

She waited the way a flame does — steady, quiet, and entirely ready to burn.

The hallway creaked once. Then silence again — too perfect to be natural.

She didn’t move. Not yet.

Then: the softest brush of knuckles against wood. No knock. Just a touch.

Her door opened a fraction, slowly, deliberately — not waiting for permission.

Tom stepped inside like the shadows were holding the door for him.

His jacket was gone. The sleeves of his shirt rolled to the elbows, exposing the lines of his forearms — precise, composed, and somehow more intimate than anything else about him. His eyes swept over her, pausing at the curve of her knee, the drape of the silk.

He didn’t speak. Just closed the door behind him.

“I thought you’d take longer,” she said, voice low, barely carrying.

“I didn’t want to,” he replied.

He moved closer, not hurried, but with certainty. His presence filled the room long before he reached her.

“I see you got ready for bed,” he said, glancing down at the nightgown, a smile ghosting over his mouth.

“Didn’t plan to sleep.” Her gaze didn’t leave his. “Did you?”

He stopped just before her — close enough for the air to shift, for the quiet to catch fire between them.

“No,” he said. “I came to ruin that plan.”

She stood slowly, the silk of her nightgown whispering against her legs. He didn’t step back. He never did.

For a moment, they just looked at each other. No words. Just breath and space and the heavy, aching pull between them.

Then her hand came up — fingers brushing the collar of his shirt, barely touching. She wasn’t pulling him closer.

She didn’t need to.

He leaned in. Not hungrily, not urgently — but with that terrifying precision of his, as if he'd calculated the exact degree of heat in the air between them.

And kissed her.

It wasn’t soft. It wasn’t brutal either. It was measured — the way one tests the strength of a lock before breaking it. His lips pressed to hers, slow, sure, and utterly in control. But there was tension beneath it — like something barely held back.

Her fingers curled into the fabric of his shirt.

He deepened the kiss then — just a little. Enough to taste the edge of what he wanted. Enough to tell her he could take more. Would. When he chose to.

When they broke apart, his mouth lingered close, breath warm against her cheek.

“I’ve had to pretend all night,” he murmured, voice low and sharp. “Don’t make me pretend in here.”

"You don't have to." She pushed herself up onto tip toes, giving him a light kiss. She needed him.

He was hungry, lust overwhelming him. He kissed her back,intense. His hand found her hip, keeping her close. He pushed her back slowly against the bed, both of them falling into a heap. She watched him kick his loafers off and strip off his shirt before he climbed above her.

Tom slid her gown down, his eyes flicking over her. As he pulled it up he let out a small exhale astounded by her body.

His mouth lowered, a trail of small kisses forming along her breasts. His jaw rubbed against her nipple, causing her to let out a small gasp.

"You gonna let daddy down there know your professor is fucking you?" He murmured against her skin.

"Fuck you,Tom"

"You already did." He smiled in a wicked way.

then he dipped his head lower, kissing lightly over her chest and stomach, down to her hip.

She pushed his head down between her thighs, opening her legs up to him. He wanted to make her beg.

He let his tongue reach out, slowly gliding through her folds and she pushed her hips up, desperate for more. He worked slowly, wanting to taste her, like the first time. He found her clit, pressing himself against it momentarily as she gasped.

"Please, Tommy"

"You okay sweetheart,I heard you gasp" Came a noise from outside.

Fuck,fuck, fuck. She though.

"Answer him,doll" his voice vibrated.

"Everything's fine,thanks dad" She muttered. Then an answer came the last time. "Okay,good night."

She settled back into his touch as his hand found her hip, pushing her back against the bed. His other hand came up to her pussy, his middle finger slowly pushed into her entrance. She let out a small moan."Don't say anything about what just happened with my dad"

His finger found a rhythm, as he added another, filling her up. Tom lowered his mouth back to her clit. A small suck of it lifted her hips up from the bed. "Do I look like I want to talk about your damn father?"

His fingers curled into her, as he sucked on her clit again. His tongue came back to lick against her folds. He enjoyed her whines.

As he sucked against her clit for the final time, her orgasm washed over her.

She sank back into the bed. He kissed her lightly.

[peachessndreamss]

Weirwood Tree

Summery : While in labour with their second child, Cregan and his wife take s short walk to the Weirwood tree to help get things moving.

Characters : Cregan Stark x f!wife reader (no use of Y/N)

Warnings : Pregnancy and childbirth (nothing explicit)

Word count : 3k

A/N : Turns out you never shake being a Stark girl, Ily Cregan so much.

“I’m sorry t’say it, my lady, but your labours have slowed up,” the midwife said softly as she drew the sheets back over Lady Starks bent knees before dipping her hands in a bowl of water. 

“Slowed up?” Lady Stark repeated incredulously, dropping her head back on the feather pillow, “but it's been hours already,” she added, tears burning her eyes. 

The second child of Lord Cregan stark and his lady wife was in no rush to make their way into the world. Despite the frequency and strength of her earlier pains once the midwife and maester had been sent for, everything seemed to have come to an uncomfortable halt.  

The midwife had brought her ancient grandmother along with her, known through Winterfell and the winter town as Auld Joan, she had been a midwife in her own time and had delivered Cregan's father and uncle. She was mostly blind and deaf now but still attended births but spent most of the time sitting as close to a heat source as possible and dispensing wisdom if necessary. She was currently sitting in a chair next to the roaring fire, her ancient hands clasped on her lap, knuckles bulging out of shape and fingers curled like claws. 

“I know it's been a while,” the midwife said soothingly, placing a warm hand on Lady Stark's knee, “but sometimes it's just like this,”. 

“The last one wasn't like this,” Lady Stark grumbled, her mood darkening as she tried to shift around into a more comfortable position. 

“You mustn't compare one with another,” the midwife soothed before touching a cold cloth to the lady's forehead. 

“A walk will geyit moving ,” the old woman wheezed from her seat by the fire, “no’ this lying about,”. 

The maester, who had been mostly disinterested in proceedings up until this point shot the old woman a dark look, he was standing in the far corner of the room, a leather case of vicious metal tools clutched jealously to his chest. His grey robes matched his grey and sickly looking skin. He wasn't particularly interested in births or deaths or the everyday ailments of life and resented being summoned to the birthing room of any woman. 

“This position is agreed upon as being the correct way for labouring mothers,” he said coldly in a clipped southern accent. 

“Agreed by men who know nothing about it,” the crone grumbled. 

“What does she mean?” Lady Stark asked the midwife who was now gently feeling the swell of the lady's belly. 

“Baby's not quite in righ’ place, that's why things have slowed,” she explained as she pressed on the left side of the belly, Lady Stark winced, “but grandmother thinks a little walk might get things moving again,”. 

The midwife glanced over at her grandmother who had closed her eyes and was now looking peaceful in the flickering light of the fire, she looked back at her lady and dabbed the cloth over her cheeks before putting it back beside the bowl of cold water. 

“What do you think?”Lady Stark asked. 

She shrugged, making a point not to look towards the maester before replying. 

“It helped me with mine, and it wouldn't do you any harm,”. 

The maester opened his mouth to disagree and lady stark held up her hand to silence him. 

“Just walking through the keep, out into the godswood for the fresh air should do it,” the midwife continued. 

The lady nodded and lifted herself up onto her elbows, she addressed the maester, privately enjoying ordering the sour faced man about. 

“Lord Cregan is outside the door, fetch him in,” she said. 

Cregan Stark had paced the halls outside of his wife's rooms since he'd been asked to leave them several hours before. While he wasn't accustomed to being removed from parts of his own castle he respected that father's, even lords, were not expected to be present at the births of their children,so he was surprised to hear the door opening when he was fairly certain nothing much had happened yet. 

“My Lord?” The voice of the maester echoed off the walls as the lord strode into view, “your wife would like to see you,”. 

He nodded, his face stern as he stepped past the man and into the warm, dark room. 

“Seven Hells,” he murmured as he pulled at the collar of his shirt, instantly feeling the heat of the room rolling over him like a wave, sweat breaking out on his forehead and upper lip. 

As he looked around the room he was surprised to see the midwife helping his wife into her fur boots, a long, heavy cloak already covering her shoulders. 

“Going somewhere?” He asked, raising an eyebrow. 

She turned her flushed face to him and smiled. 

“Yes, we're going for a walk,”. 

Cregan’s brows rose but he nodded without further comment, knowing better than to ask questions.  He watched nervously as the midwife helped his wife to her feet, ready to spring forward at any moment if it looked like Lady Stark might lose her balance. 

Once he was happy she was safely on her feet, Cregan stepped towards them, offering his arm to his wife, who took a small step and linked her arm through his. 

“Twice around the godswood’ll do it,” Auld Joan spoke from the chair, she opened one ancient eye that could just be seen through the folds of skin that made up her face. 

“Or as far as you need’t,” the midwife added, her eyes flicking towards the maester. 

From the darkest corner of the room the maester muttered under his breath “foolishness” but no one else could hear him or pay him a moment's more attention. 

As the Lord and Lady of Winterfell stepped out of the stifling room and into the cooler corridor of the keep they both gave a sigh of relief. As they walked they instinctively drew closer to one another. Finding comfort and strength in each other's presence. 

“This is an unexpected pleasure,” Cregan said as they stepped through the door of the keep and into the much colder air of the inner bailey. The ground was a mess of mud, straw, snow and grey brown slush that cracked and crunched under their boots. 

“Yes,” she agreed, her hand tightening on his arm as her foot slipped a little on a patch of hidden ice, “Auld Joan felt this would be the best way to get things moving again,”. 

Cregan nodded, “She's seen a fair few babes born in her time, she knows what she's talking about,” he paused and took a deep breath of cold air, “I think she might have even delivered my grandfather,”. 

“Surely not!” She exclaimed, looking up at her husband's handsome profile, “that would make her more than a hundred years old,”. 

“I've heard of stranger things in these parts,” Cregan said with a shrug. 

They walked quietly together, moving slowly and carefully through the slush.

“Not as easy as last time then?” He asked as they made their way past the archery butts where the young men of the household were practising and past the stables with their snorting horses and young boys shovelling straw. 

“No, this one seems to have an obstinate Stark streak in them already,” she replied with a soft laugh that sounded like music to Cregan's ears. 

“I seem to recall your own family are known for their stubbornness so I won't be taking all the responsibility for that,”. 

“Pigheadedness, I believe my father called it,” she replied with a laugh, Cregan gave his own snort of laughter. 

“Your father certainly has a way with words,” he agreed. Recalling a few choice phrases her father had used for him during their courtship. 

As the pair crossed into the godswood the sounds of the keep and the town beyond the walls seemed to fade away and they became the only two people in the world. The ground was covered in a dusting of snow which had frozen overnight and now crunched under foot. From the dark canopy of the trees small birds sang between themselves and bounced from branch to branch, leaves rusting and falling to the ground in their wake. 

“Aly is worried we won't have enough time for her when the baby arrives,” Lady Stark said as they passed under the first dark boughs, “she kept asking me if we were going to send her away when I was putting her to bed last night,”. 

“She's a sensitive soul,” Cregan replied with a soft laugh, his mind wandering to the little girl who was at that moment playing in the same nursery he played in as a child, waiting for his own younger sibling to be born. 

“I dread the day we do need to send her away,” she lamented, drawing her body even closer to his in the cold air. Her free hand resting low on the swell of her belly. 

“We've many years before that day, my love,” he soothed, “and perhaps many more babes to fill our home,”. 

Lady Stark laughed softly, feeling the dull ache of her labours growing in strength as they followed the well known path through the trees.

“You are insatiable, always wanting more,” she said softly and Cregan laughed. 

They had been married 6 years and now were as comfortable with one another as any married couple could expect to be. Having been friends before they’re union had made things easier but the months after Cregan’s return from war had tested them to their limits. The time spent apart had been long and difficult for the both of them, when Cregan had left he was already old beyond his years but on his return he was darker and colder than the longest winter night. He’d forgotten laughter, softness and gentleness and his first few months back in Winterfell had been fraught as the two learned to live with one another again and find their way back to the happiness they’d briefly shared before the dragons tore the realm apart. 

The followed a well trodden path through the woods, her arm wrapped tightly through his and his hand resting over hers, warm and solid. As they walked, Cregan listened to her breathing, noticing every change to her breath and hitch in her voice. He was ready to take her in his arms at any moment to rush her back to the midwife if was necessary. 

They turned a corner in the path and were now on course to the weirwood tree, its ancient face seemed to watch their approach and its blood red leaves reflected in the black water at its roots. 

Suddenly Lady Stark stopped, her free hand going to her belly with a sharp intake of breath, she groaned, her teeth biting into her top lip as a strong contraction wracked her body. Cregan tightened his hold on her, fear gripping at his heart and twisting his stomach. 

After a few seconds of pain her face relaxed and her eyes opened, her cheeks were flushed with colour and despite the cold there was sweat at her hair line. 

“I think this might be working,” she said with a small smile, “or perhaps the baby can feel the tree,” she added, glancing toward the weirwood. 

“A good Stark then,” Cregan replied, forcing a lightness in his voice he didn’t feel. 

She stepped toward the tree and he followed her closely, never letting her more than an arm's reach from him. Once close enough she placed her hands on the tree, feeling the rough bark rasp against her skin. 

“Do you think the old kings of the north were born under this tree?” she asked, turning her face up as a shaft of wintery sunlight broke through the dense leaf cover, “snow and leaves for their midwife?”.

Cregan raised his eyebrow in thought for a moment before replying. 

“They were certainly conceived under it,” he smiled.   

“Yes, I remember the stories,” she agreed, turning to look at her husband and seeing the playful glimmer in his eyes. 

During the long months of the war she’d found comfort in the thousands of books in the Winterfell library, starting with the histories of the North going all the way back to the first men and how those ancient kings of the North did everything important in their lives in sight of a weirwood tree, they were born, married, made oaths and died as close to the trees as they possibly could. The histories had included stories of rituals the ancient peoples had contrived to conceive their children under the boughs of the weirwood trees, they believed these children would have the gifts of prophecy or live impossibly long lives because the powers of the tree flowed through them. 

“Perhaps, when you’re healed, we should try it ourselves,” Cregan teased. 

“When this one is delivered I’ll let you know if you’ll be welcome in my bed again,” she replied with a sly smile, before adding “my lord,”. 

Cregan gave a bark-like laugh, stepping closer to her and slipping his arm over her lower back and around her waist. She turned to face him, moving her hands from the ancient and cold bark of the tree to the living warmth of his shoulders, she studied his features before taking a deep breath and letting her forehead press against his. Another contraction wracked her body, she groaned and gripped tightly at the fur and wool of his cloak, taking strength from his body into her own. 

“I think we need to go back,” she said softly, their foreheads still pressed together. 

“I think so,” he agreed without hesitation.

Keeping his arm wrapped around her waist the two of them turned, she leaned heavily on Cregan as they completed the loop around the godswood and headed back through the castle courtyard. The space now almost completely empty as most of the household had been summoned for the midday meal. 

The progress was slow but they soon made it back to Lady Stark’s chambers, the room was cooler now, the windows had been thrown open but the coverings drawn across them to keep the room dark. The two women were sitting by the fire, talking quietly while the maester was still standing in the corner of the room, glaring. 

The midwife jumped to her feet and took Lady Stark’s arm, allowing her to slip from Cregan’s hold and move toward the bed. 

“How are you feeling my lady?” the midwife asked softly. 

“It helped, the pains are coming much more quickly now,” the lady replied. 

“Baby will be here soon,” the midwife agreed, “perhaps before the noon meal is over,”

Lady Stark glanced over her shoulder at her husband pausing by the door. His broad shoulders blocked out almost all of the hallway behind him.

“I want you to stay,” she said softly as she was helped back onto the bed. 

He smiled but shook his head. 

“This is not my place” he said softly, as he felt a burning sensation at the back of his throat and in his eyes as he fought the sudden overwhelm of emotions. 

“Thank you, my lord,” the old crone said from her seat, “we’ll take care of them,”.

Cregan nodded, knowing well enough when he was being asked to leave, he gave his wife a final look before stepping out of the room and closing the door behind himself and resuming his pacing. He wondered if his own father had paced nervously or if he had taken to the woods to hunt until the deed was over with and the child was cleaned and neatly wrapped in a blanket. He couldn’t imagine being any further than the castle gate while Lady Stark laboured. 

As the midwife predicted the midday meal hadn’t finished before there was the high pitched, squalling cry of a newborn that caused Cregan to stop in his tracks and lean heavily against the wall of the hallway, his hand clutching at his heart that was beating fast enough to burst. 

The door to the chambers opened and the midwife stepped out, a smile on her face as she saw her lord in a moment of unguarded emotion. 

 “A son, my lord, hale and hearty and with plenty to say for himself,” she said, the sounds of the crying child still coming clearly from the room behind her. 

“God's be praised,” Cregan said, his voice cracking with emotion. 

“Come meet him,”. 

Cregan felt his knees turn to water when he stepped into Lady Stark's rooms, the sight of his beloved wife cradling a squalling newborn was a joy that pierced his heart like an arrow. 

“Your son, my lord” she said with a tired smile, turning the bundle just enough for Cregan to be able to see the child's face. 

He stooped and took the child, cradling him close to his chest, for a few seconds the child stopped wailing, his blue eyes opening wide and taking in his first sight of his father. The two of them looked at each other for a few seconds, Cregan's own eyes filling with tears. One hot tear was about to track down Cregan's face when the baby in his arms screwed his eyes shut, opened his mouth and started to howl, his cries even more desperate than before. 

Lady Stark laughed from her seat on the bed, holding her arms out to take the child back. 

“Give him back, you're upsetting our son,” she said, grinning at Cregan who jealously clung onto the child, rocking him gently and trying to sooth the screaming babe. 

“Sorry my boy,” Cregan said softly, “but you'll just have to get used to me,”.