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ronearoundblindly · 2 months

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Safety Captain (1)

lifeguard!Steve Rogers x vacationer!Reader (see series)

Summary: A very sexy man shows up at a very unsexy moment during your vacation.

Warnings for mild language, other guests being as thirsty as Reader, and a vague injury/danger. WC 1945

Written for @bigtreefest's Summer Lovin' 300 follower celebration (I'm very late tho 🥲), using the prompts “it hurts when I ___” “then stop doing that” and pool/resort/hotel. There will be a few small parts to this with eventual smut; this is just the meet-cute sorta.

If you consider drowning a peaceful and relaxing experience, then your trip’s going splendidly.

Water hitting your lungs stings much worse than sunscreen in your eyes, but the shock makes you gasp anyway. Your skin feels pressure everywhere. You don’t know which way is up. The world is bright and blue and shimmering until an arm encircles and yanks you backward by your chest—your bare chest, you realize, since the cups on your bathing suit top flipped when you hit the the pool at such a steep angle.

Once at the surface, a gift and a curse greets you, garbled hum replaced by a solid slap of screaming, the blare of whistles. Light burns, water burns, air burns.

Oh yes, this is going swimmingly.

You struggle to get enough fresh hell anyway, coughing out water, air stinging worse. Your limbs contract to fight the pain, but the wall of muscle behind you is unyielding.

“Out of the way,” a deep voice shouts close to your ear. “Buck, make me some room. Get them back.”

He—whoever he is holding you so firmly and safely—moves you to the shallow end’s stairs with heaving strokes, and just when he releases your body to lift you out of the water, he quickly flicks the front of your suit back into place.

Bless you, kind sir. You’re in love…

…or maybe that’s the hypoxia.

Unceremoniously hauled to solid ground, you continue to sputter.

“It’s alright. I got ya. Breathe for me. That’s good.”

Your sunglasses are gone, so you squint up in his shadow to see nothing but a halo of dripping gold hair. Then your eyes adjust. You see him.

Suddenly, the world is bright and blue and shimmering again, all contained in the stare of your sweet savior.

When he smiles, well, you need even more air to recover.

You’re on your side until he’s sure all the water is out of you, until his hands help you sit up, looky-lous everywhere being herded farther off by two more lifeguards and some resort security.

“The boys…” you rasp out.

“Everyone’s okay,” he rushes, rubbing your back, warm and slick against your wet skin. “You don’t have to talk yet. Take it easy.”

You still feel compelled to explain.

“The—they were teasing him—“ you point to the chubbier kid in your group, the poor thing cowering by your lounge chair headquarters for the morning “—and I tried to stop them.”

“I know, shhh, I saw. Just breathe slowly.”

“Don’t like bullies,” you cough out anyway.

The lifeguard at your side grins from ear to ear, quickly interrupted by a girl shoving your sunglasses in his face.

“I found these,” she announces, elated. “I thought it was important since you were so brave, saving someone who fell in.”

You didn’t fall; you were pushed. There’s a difference.

The lifeguard’s smile turns tight, but he gestures for the girl to hand them over to their rightful owner. She continues to stare with huge, bambi eyes.

Politely, he takes them from her and clears of his throat.

“Thank you. Now step back please.”

Her disappointment is palpable before his blue gaze returns to you. As he asks if you’re ready to move, his palm lands on your lower back and stays there supportively.

The best you can do is shift your legs beneath each other and then hiss, “it hurts when I put weight on this leg. I think I twisted my ankle on the way down.”

“Then stop doing that,” he chuckles, swooping to get his arms under you and carry you to your lounger—the right one, immediately, as if he saw the boys fighting but knew exactly where you were before then, too.

The stout little thirteen-year-old who’d been picked on steps up to you with guilty eyes. He’s one of your charges today while the other adults all drink at the swim-up bar.

“I’m sorry they—“

“It’s fine,” you croak.

“—but they wouldn’t stop, and I told them to—“

“Hey, hey,” your lifeguard whispers, deflating the boy’s panic, “she’s gonna be okay. Just a little banged up, but we got the best of the best coming to help.”

Shamefully, the boy’s eyes turn down. “Sorry they called you a ‘bitch.’”

Great. Yeah. That needed to be repeated.

“Don’t worry about it. Can you go grab your cousin and—“ a brief wheeze overtakes you “—the girls and bring everyone back here so I know where you all are? Just a real quick check-in.”

He nods and runs off, almost plowing into a woman heading straight for you.

“Ah, your nurse has arrived.” The handsome, dripping wet man sitting with a hand still on your knee beams. “The best of the best, as promised.”

The older blonde lady purses her lips and rolls her eyes, ticking her head to the side. “Scoot, Steven. Let me have a look.”

He—Steven, apparently—rambles off what happened and what you mentioned hurt, standing out of the blonde’s way, but leaning over her shoulder, hovering while she manipulates your ankle.

“Thank you, darling.” She looks up pointedly. “I’ve got it from here,” she says, turning back to you. “I’m Sarah, dear. We’ll get you fixed up in no time.”

“I’m Steve,” your lifeguard interjects as he backs away. “Glad you’re alright, Miss…?”

You introduce yourself in return. “Thanks for…um…” You glance down and tug at the front of your swim suit, remembering that this man might have already seen and touched your breasts. “Thank you,” you finish weakly, voice hoarse.

Steve beams again before Sarah swats him away.

While she wraps your ankle and anchors a bag of ice to it, you scan the guard towers to realize all three of the guys on duty are ripped, but Steve is…well, he’s something else.

“God, he’s gorgeous,” you sigh aloud without realizing.

Sarah snorts, muttering, “he gets that a lot.”

You smile, thinking it’s probably no secret that the cute guy gets around. “Bit of a man whore, is he?” you joke.

The nurse looks up at you sternly. “I should hope not! I raised him better than that.”

Shit.

Your face drops, a harsh and painful swallow globs down your throat, and you…just objectified that poor man to his mother who he so sweetly called ‘the best of the best.’

Is drowning totally off the table, or can you revisit that?

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean—I—I just meant—“

She squeezes your hand, putting you out of your misery.

“It’s fine, dear. He is handsome, and I suppose there’s no harm in looking.” She packs away the last of her gear only to catch Steve’s eye across the pool.

He waves in your direction.

Sarah chuckles but doesn’t wave back. You put a quick hand up and mouth ‘thank you’ even though he probably can’t see that part.

“Well,” the nurse adds, “seems you aren’t the only one looking.”

Having one foot twice the size of the other can work. You can make it work. You’ll just camp out on a beach towel farther up the shore, no problem. The whole party is together today, day three of seven, so the good news is that you aren’t responsible for anyone. Also, your foot is only that size due to bandaging and not because it’s that swollen. Still hurts though.

In addition to a wicked limp, you need a relatively hard surface to sit on or stand up from. You end up on the rim of damp sand, wriggling to get comfortable. You try laying on your side, propped up on a bent arm. You try your stomach. You’re about try your back, reaching for one of the kids’ towels to roll up as a pillow when you notice a group playing volleyball.

Must be fun to, like, walk and stuff.

You sigh.

It’s fine. You are lucky enough to be on this trip in the first place, your ticket paid for by all the parents combined (with the agreement you’ll help wrangle the younglings for periods while the moms and dads do adult activities). The ‘job’ is a wildly fair trade since the families only split so far was the pool yesterday.

Is that…is one of the volleyball players waving at you?

You look over your shoulder, but there’s only the rest of your group, splashing and running through the surf. No one is facing you or the game.

As you turn back, starting to raise your hand, you see the golden glow of the player’s hair and think that sure resembles the lifeguard, Steve, from—

The guy waving at you gets hit, hard, by a spiked ball and stumbles back. Some commotion rumbles through the group, but you can’t hear specifics.

Shit, that is definitely Steve, son of Sarah, employee of the pool, jogging toward you. Are your tits covered?

You awkwardly pull yourself upright, shielding your eyes from the partially-overcast, bright sky, and smile.

“Hey,” Steve chirps, “thought that was you.” He is, again, in naught but board shorts and beauty.

“Yup, living the dream.”

He ignores your sarcasm and asks how your ankle feels (“meh”), if it’s messed with your plans so far (“had to bow out of zip lining this morning”), and if he might be welcome to sit with you for a while.

You blink a few times in shock behind dark sunglasses. “Won’t your friends…?”

He shakes his head, hair falling into his face, and drops down to the sand.

“I don’t see why not,” you say after he’s made himself comfortable.

When the littlest girl from your group comes shrieking over, bucket and scoop in her hands, you’re about to apologize for the interruption, but Steve immediately offers to help her build the castle of a lifetime.

He is sure to warn her to be careful around your foot.

This time, when you mouth ‘thank you,’ he sees it and returns another beaming grin.

Alright, perhaps vacation is looking up.

Steve is…very, very good at strategizing the sandcastle. After the first ‘tower’ goes up, the other kids get involved. Before you know it, the parents are all behind you gushing over how good your friend is with them.

"Handsome, too."

"Lots of energy."

"‘Bout your age, isn’t he?"

They aren’t quiet enough to not be heard which is clearly the point once the mother of bucket girl shouts out that Steve should join you all for dinner.

Oh, sweet holy—

“Not sure I wanna dive into your family time, ma’am,” he says politely, encouraging some water be brought up for the moat they’ve just dug.

“Then you should take our lovely girl here out. Show her more of the island.”

You glare daggers at the other woman who just chimed in.

“I can’t walk,” you bite out. “Where am I gonna go?”

Steve clears his throat to get your attention. “They line food trucks over on the west road until late, and…” his lip pinches to the side “…I can carry you.”

One of the dads darkly drawls, “like a fucking princess,” and you hear a sharp slap from his wife in annoyance.

Steve’s gaze remains locked on yours as the parents erupt in obvious innuendo.

“Could be fun,” he admits, only loud enough for you. “How about it? Getting hungry?”

All you manage is a nod before a bucket of water is tossed on Steve, and he chases the culprit down the beach and into the clear blue sea.

You’ll have to wait until the ‘monster’ is vanquished by the ecstatic children jumping to take down the big, strong man you, apparently, have a date with.

[Next Chapter]

[Main Masterlist; Light Masterlist; Ko-Fi]

A/N: Apologies that this isn't the whole dang thing. With how long everything has been taking me to write, I was afraid it wouldn't even be summer anymore, and if there is even a small chance that posting this will light a fire under me to finish, I am willing to try.

#essie’s summer lovin’ 300 follower celebration #summer lovin’ celebration #essie’s 300 follower special #steve rogers fanfiction #steve rogers x reader #lifeguard au #steve rogers fluff #steve rogers fanfic #steve rogers fic #steve rogers x female reader #steve rogers x f!reader #steve rogers x you #steve rogers au

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sunder-soul · 3 years

Note

Enemies to lovers type thing with Tom riddle where you’re forced to dance at the Yule ball together if you think you would enjoy writing that smut can be included if you want and could it have a happy ending I’ve had a rough week 🥲 thank you very much 💜

A/N: Y'all... no one @ me about this... 😳

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The Deal

Summary: You're stuck with the arrogant, charming Riddle at the ball and you can't imagine anything worse. Riddle appears to be imagining something else entirely. [AFAB reader ★ no pronouns ★ ambiguous house] Wordcount: 6.7k Content warning: SO MUCH EXPLICIT SEX OML. THE RAUNCHIEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN PROBABLY.

Permanent Tags: @grimdevil @voidmalfoy @weirdowithnobeardo @pearlstiare @fromthehellmouth @moatsnow @lucys-brain @arana-alpha @tallyovie @expectoscamander @nothinghcppens @itsjustfics @mikariell95 @suicide-sweetheart636 @toasterking @empath-bunny @hueanhdang @seriouslyginnychase @whoreforgeorgeandfred @lemirabitur @tm-mrvl-rddl @fish-eg @silverdelirium @cranberrypills @valentinecarnage

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[GIF CREDIT]

“Wait,” Chen say, looking like she’s barely containing laughter as she places her hands on the table on either side of her plate. “So… Dippet wants the prefects to set an upstanding example of conduct and demonstrate unity by all going to this thing together.”

“Yes,” you say in a clipped voice.

“And… and you’re all required to attend.”

“Yup.”

She presses her lips together, brows raising. It’s impossible to tell if she’s more amused or sort of incredulously sympathetic.

You exhale in defeat and your head falls onto the table with a thunk. “Go on,” you mutter, knowing what’s coming next.

“Eugene and Ruby have been together since the beginning of time,” Chen narrates to your crumpled form. “Mandeep’s already asked Rosalie, and the Gryffindors are all going together and Chell asked Roger the same bloody day the ball was announced…”

You groan weakly in affirmation, unmoving in your permeating dismay as she lists of all the other prefects. All of them except…

You fold your arms around your face, trying to block out the inevitable conclusion of her words.

“Which means…” she manages to say without laughing. “The only prefect left for you to go with is –”

“I’m going to murder him by the end of the night,” you say flatly.

Chen’s snickers spill over. You shoot her a look of deep betrayal and she manages to compose herself (sort of). “Look,” she says around her suppressed smile, “I know you hate him, but he’s really not that bad –”

“I would rather eat a Flobberworm whole than go to the Yule Ball with Tom Riddle,” you deadpan.

“Well,” comes Riddle’s smooth, irritatingly pleasant voice from behind you and you nearly break your neck turning to face him. He’s got that stupid amused expression on his stupid face, one brow raised, lip half curled like everything’s just a big stupid joke. You genuinely have no idea how everyone finds him charming. “It seems you’re doomed to a rather dire evening, indeed.”

“Riddle,” you say tartly, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t realise that you’d slithered up behind me.”

“Clearly,” he intones, seeming deeply unimpressed.

“What do you want? I’m busy.”

Riddle’s eyes slowly flick to your empty plate, the napkin you’ve folded into a very poor attempt at a swan, the two goblets you’ve managed to balance on top of each other, and Chen’s bitten-back smile as she pretends to read a book that you’re pretty sure she’s cracked open at random. “Yes, you look positively overwhelmed,” he says in barely concealed sarcasm.

“Most people actually enjoy spending time with their friends, Riddle, but considering who you fraternise with I understand if that’s a slightly baffling concept to you –”

“You must have noticed by now that we’re required to attend the ball together,” Riddle interrupts, looking across the Hall with a slightly bored expression as he clasps his hands behind his back. “I’m here to formally offer the invitation.”

“I’m formally accepting it,” you say colourlessly, “now can you formally sod off?”

His eyes narrow and Chen chokes on a laugh that she hides (unsuccessfully) behind her hand. “Of course,” Riddle says coolly, jaw lifting a fraction as he looks down at you, “I wouldn’t dream of taking up any more of your precious time.”

“That’s very good of you,” you say with no small amount of snark.

“I’ll be in the Entrance Hall at seven,” he says, tone ice hard. “Wear something nice.”

“You wear something nice,” you retort grumpily to his retreating form.

Chen arches a brow at you very pointedly, and you lean down on your arms again feeling extremely testy.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The Hall looks stunning, ice crystals hanging in long spires from the massive, blazing hearths, dancing snow falling from the starry ceiling, and everywhere everything gleams and glitters and shines like the whole place is covered in an early morning frost. You and the other prefects on set up duty finish decorating with mere minutes to spare, and you dash off full-speed to your dorm to wrestle on your dress. You sit down in front of the mirror to fix up your face right as the clock chimes seven.

“Shit,” you breathe, seizing your wand and beginning to Charm yourself to glamour at a truly reckless pace. Ten minutes later you’re sprinting back to the Entrance Hall, heels dangling wildly in one hand and dress bunched in the other.

Riddle is leaning against the stone arch of the Great Hall, music and voices and clinking of glasses already pouring from the open doors. He catches sight of you racing towards him and watches blankly as you skid to a stop in front of him. “You’re late,” he says flatly.

“Yes, thank you Riddle,” you pant through gritted teeth, balancing a little precariously on one foot at a time as you wrangle on your heels. “God, whatever would I do without you.”

You stand and exhale sharply, trying to settle yourself. For the first time, you properly assess Riddle.

Typical.

Riddle looks gorgeous, the bastard, his black hair styled into very attractive waves, his robes simple but cleanly cut and maddeningly flattering of his lean, elegant form. At first glance they look black but upon closer inspection you realise he’s wearing an impossibly deep blue that makes his pale skin look smooth and creamy in the contrast. If you could have found him unattractive, you admit a little begrudgingly, you would have.

Riddle is looking at you, too, the dark angles of his brows pulling together in a slight but critical frown as he takes in your appearance. “I said wear something nice.”

“I hate you,” you say bitterly, turning towards the Hall. “Lets just get this over with…”

Dippet has the prefects on duty all night so you barely even have to see Riddle for the first two hours as you weave through the crowd snagging silver Shrinking Flasks of Firewhisky off rowdy seventh-years, re-Charming a long, tottering icicle before it impales someone, and rescuing a terrified-looking Ravenclaw fourth-year who had sprained her ankle and was promptly nearly trampled to death by the horde of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, who were dancing with such exuberance that they’d established a blast radius that no-one could enter without receiving at least one elbow to a soft body part.

You wearily push your hair back with a long sigh as you turn back to the crowd, the Ravenclaw girl limping away with the Matron behind you.

“Here,” Chen says dryly, handing you a drink in a wide-brimmed glass as she materialises beside you.

“Thanks,” you mutter, necking it.

“Rough night?” she asks, watching you with amusement.

You set the empty glass on the table and shoot her a look. “That Flobberworm is seeming mighty appealing right about now.”

She snorts. “Stop complaining. Half of this room would have torn limb from limb to go with Riddle, and you actually landed the date and you’ve not even spoken a word to him all night. It’s causing quite the outrage.”

You sigh in reluctance. “I suppose I actually have to dance with him at some point…”

“Well here’s your chance,” Chen smirks into her cup, turning away without another word.

Riddle comes to a stop in front of you and eyes your retreating friend. “Have I offended her in some way?” he asks smoothly. “She needn’t leave on my behalf.”

“But who would miss that chance?” you ask monotonously, looking around the crowd warily. “What is it? Is Diggory puking again?”

“No,” says Riddle with detached amusement. “I thought that you and I ought to dance at least once tonight.”

You suppress the urge to sigh again. “Yeah you’re probably right,” you mutter, stepping past him towards onto the dance floor, “right, come on then, don’t criticise my dancing, Riddle, I’m this bloody close to snapping and stabbing someone with an icicle.”

“Sounds like you’ve had quite the evening,” he smirks from behind you as he follows.

“Just be glad you were on planning and not set up,” you mutter, turning to him. “If I never have to cast another Frost Charm for the rest of my life I’ll be happy.”

“Such a low bar,” Riddle says softly, lifting his jaw slightly. “Though I suppose they say that simple things appease the very simple.”

You glare at him, but he just smirks at you again as he steps closer, and in one fluid movement he takes your hand in his and places his other on your waist. “You are such a prick,” you say brazenly, still glaring at him as you both step into a simple, muted dance that requires very minimal enthusiasm.

Riddle doesn’t look injured by this insult in the slightest. “You bring out the worst in me,” he says with disinterest.

You look away stonily. Now that Chen’s mentioned it, you suddenly notice the not insignificant number of slightly envious glares being shot your way now that you’re actually dancing with Riddle. “This is stupid,” you mutter, looking down, “I’m going to get absolutely strung up for being your date and I don’t even want to be here.”

“What do you mean?” he frowns.

You arch a brow, unconvinced by his confusion. “Don’t play dumb, Riddle, the list of people who wanted you to ask them to this thing was longer than the list of people who didn’t.”

Riddle’s expression slowly turns into amusement. He looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “Lucky you,” he says smoothly.

“Oh yeah, lucky me,” you scoff, returning your gaze to your feet. He’s an excellent dancer, the bastard, and you’re having to watch where you step just to keep up.

A stiff silence falls for several minutes during which you make more discoveries that make your blood boil. Riddle, apparently, has the audacity to smell absolutely incredible for one, and worse he actually dares to display something half-way resembling decency. When a very drunk Hufflepuff boy stumbles backwards into you with flailing arms, Riddle turns you so sharply that both of your feet leave the ground for a brief second to get you out of his way and prevent a slightly catastrophic collision. You stare at him in silent shock but he just looks away and neglects to comment.

Hateful boy, you think bitterly. If he had any real decency he’d be holistically unpleasant and let me dislike him in peace.

The moment the song changes, you pull your hand from his and step back. “Right, done,” you say dully, looking away. “Now I have to go find Diggory and make sure he’s not passed out under another table.”

“Diggory’s fine,” Riddle says smoothly, “I took him to the Hospital Wing an hour ago.”

“Chen, then,” you mutter, looking around the crowd for her.

His lips twitch in amusement again. “She appears to be rather preoccupied at present.”

You catch sight of Chen through the crowd. She and Jacob Steed appear to be attempting to swallow each other whole right there on the dancefloor. You give a long, weary exhale. “Well, I’m sure I can find something to do.”

“Dance with me again.”

For the second time, your neck just about snaps under the velocity of you looking around at him. “What?”

Riddle’s expression is curiously neutral, standing there among the throng of people with his dark eyes on yours. A long second passes, and then he looks away himself. “No matter,” he says in an absent sort of tone, like this is all very normal, “enjoy the rest of your evening.”

And he turns and weaves his way away from you, vanishing into the crowd in seconds.

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

If you’d thought decorating the place had been rough, it’s nothing compared to the clean up.

“Go to bed,” says Professor Slughorn, waving a tired hand at the group of you a few hours later with bleary eyes and rumpled hair. “We’ll finish up in the morning… and well done tonight, all of you!”

You trudge out the door of the half-cleared Hall with the other prefects, your eyes drooping in exhaustion, and just outside the doors you stumble on your heels as fatigue gets the best of you.

A firm hand closes around your forearm and you look up at once, alert in an instant. You’ve not seen Riddle since the weirdness after you’d danced. “Careful,” he says smoothly, slowly releasing you once you’ve re-found your balance.

“Good idea,” you mutter, falling back against the stone wall beside the doors and lifting your shoe to finally remove it. “Stupid things… god my feet hurt.”

Riddle doesn’t reply, choosing instead to look around the empty chamber. Everyone has meandered off to the dorms, and there’s nothing for him to look at but utter silence.

You eye him as you fiddle with the strap of your other heel, leaning heavily on the wall behind you. “What are you doing?” you ask a little suspiciously.

He meets your gaze, seeming a little surprised. “Waiting,” he says with a small frown like it should be obvious.

“For?”

Riddle arches a brow. “Proof that you can walk straight.”

“I can walk,” you say, rolling your eyes, “I’m just tired.”

“If it had been possible to avoid asking you to be my date, I would have done so,” Riddle says suddenly.

You stare at him incredulously. It takes a long moment before you can gather yourself to reply. “Jeez Riddle,” you exclaim, “I get it, I’m repulsive to you, no need to go on about it –”

“I was more referring to your obvious displeasure,” he interrupts curtly, standing up a little straighter. “You were hardly subtle about the fact that tonight was less than enjoyable for you.”

“Oh yeah because you were such a joy to be around,” you shoot back, folding your arms, “I said wear something nice and all that –”

“That was clearly a joke,” he says coolly, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah it was hilarious. Was calling me simple a joke too?”

“And all of your insults?” he asks icily. "Jokes, are they?"

“I’ve cleaned up four different peoples’ vomit tonight and this conversation is honestly less pleasant,” you mutter, wrenching off your other heel. “Goodnight, Riddle, thanks for absolutely nothing.”

“You look very nice,” he says angrily.

You are once again rendered speechless by surprise.

“Is that what you want? Flattery?” he continues, waving at you furiously.

“I don’t want you to flatter me,” you scoff indignantly, “I don’t want you to do anything, Riddle, I don’t want anything to do with you at all.”

“Well my deepest apologies,” he replies in a cold, hollow voice, his dark eyes narrowing, “for depriving you of my absence for so long.”

He glares at you, and you glare back. You feel like you’re the only person in the whole school who can’t stand him, all his sickly charm and ease, his pretty face that makes people quite convinced that he can’t be part of all those nasty things his friends are rumoured of doing, his incredible grades, his ability to hold a conversation with literally everyone in the whole castle. He pivots so fluently from scene to scene that people don’t seem to notice that he’s doing it; bashfully modest and self-assuredly proud, soft-spoken and assertive, hard-working and effortless, popular and singular, charismatic and genuine. No one seems to notice that Riddle is everything at once. But no one is everything. Which means some of it, or most of it, or all of it is a lie.

You suddenly blink, coming out of your thoughts with a jolt and realising that you’ve both been stood there in conflictive silence for some time.

But Riddle has gone from a cold glare to a detached frown, looking at you with an expression that wouldn’t be out of place in an exam hall. It’s worse, somehow. You’re consumed with a slightly unhinged craving for him to go back to glaring at you, to go back to glaring at him yourself. But you can feel that you’re not.

You watch as his head tilts ever-so-slightly like he’s studying you, like he’s sifting through whatever he’s seeing on your face at the moment, because it suddenly feels like you have no idea what he’s finding there.

“What are you doing?” you ask quietly, and immediately resent yourself for not sounding angrier. For not sounding angry at all.

Riddle is silent for a moment. You wonder if he’s going to step closer. You wonder why on earth you’re thinking about him stepping closer. He swallows, and you adamantly keep your eyes on his to avoid looking at his throat. “Waiting,” he says just as quietly.

You’re tired. It’s been a very weird night. This is the longest you and Riddle have gone without insulting each other and that’s extremely disorienting. That's why this is happening. That’s why your nerves start tingling in your stomach, why your chest suddenly feels too tight. “For what?” you manage to ask without wavering.

He frowns slowly, thoughtfully. His dark eyes seem to have pinned you there against the wall. You wonder if you even could turn and leave right now of your own accord. “I’m not sure,” he says carefully.

Riddle is a liar. He’s an actor. He’s very, very good at presenting whatever will get him what he wants at any given moment. That’s what he’s doing now. You think it must be what he’s doing now, and the nervousness prickling under your skin is wiped away by the hot resentment that whatever he’s doing was working. It was working on you and you’re supposed to know better.

“Do you think you can just bat your eyelashes at me and make me fall for you like everyone else, Riddle?” you ask coolly, lifting your chin a little antagonistically.

He actually laughs, a very genuine-looking scoff of disbelief and surprise, shaking his head slightly as he looks at you. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asks, arching a brow in a sort of resigned amusement.

“Why do you even bother with me, Riddle?” you ask in exasperation, shoulders falling. “There’s about four hundred other people in this castle who would be happy to fawn over you all you like. Is it because I’m the only one here who genuinely can’t stand you? Are you such a bloody narcissist that you have to prove that you can collect everyone?”

Anger flashes in his eyes. “I wouldn’t presume to understand my feelings, if I were you,” he snaps, “I don’t presume to understand them myself.”

You blink. The admission seems to register with him a second later and his lips press together hard, looking away in visible agitation.

But he doesn’t leave. He’s bound his gaze to some shadowy part of the Hall behind you, and he doesn’t say a word. You study the expression on his face, the tension there, the way its twisted on his lips. He looks like he’s annoyed with himself. Or maybe he’s just pretending to be. How could you tell the difference? How can you ever know what’s real with Riddle and what’s not?

You sigh with resignment, fatigue, curiosity, and drop your heels to the ground with a clatter that echoes around the dark stone of the loft Hall. Riddle looks back at once. “What are you doing?” he frowns, eyes flicking to your shoes.

You give him a long look. “Waiting.”

He stares at you. Above you, the flames in the wall sconce flicker slightly like they’ve been swept by a breeze and the shadows play down Riddle’s face.

You almost feel a little triumphant when Riddle does indeed take a step closer, slow and measured, watching your closely, and when you don’t say a word, he takes another. He doesn’t touch you, the scant space that remains between your bodies the last sliver of an alibi, the eleventh-hour chance for either of you to turn away. You wonder if he’s faking it now, the heavy way he’s looking at you, the strangely guarded expression in his dark, watchful eyes like he thinks if he moves too quickly you’ll bolt like a wild animal.

You wonder what he’s thinking as he slowly leans down to you, still watching, still wary, and you take a breath to try to settle the butterflies that bloom instinctively in your stomach as you watch Riddle’s lips draw closer and closer to yours. He’s barely a centimetre away from kissing you when he stops.

You immediately look up at him.

He’s unbearably close, he’s the only thing you can see, his smell flooding your thoughts and his body just inches from yours. You watch with surreal fascination as Riddle’s eyes flutter shut and he takes a long breath, his forehead coming to rest against yours and it’s weird seeing him like this, not just that he’s so close, but that he’s seemingly so uninhibited, usually so calculated and deliberate and refined. Riddle draws closer like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, and when you feel his hands come up and rest on your hips you suddenly realise that you very much don’t care if Riddle is faking it or not.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s soft and tentative and warm and Riddle is only barely returning it, like both of you are just trying to figure out if this should even be happening – but you’re rather convinced that it should be, because this barest press of his lips is sending waves of heat under your skin that pool wonderfully in your stomach, and you wonder if he hears the breath you draw in, if he feels it, if he knows how frighteningly good this feels, how much the desire feels like you’ve lost your balance all over again.

After a long, fragile moment, you pull back.

You catch his eyes opening slowly. Somehow your hands have ended up on his chest.

Riddle’s eyes flick between yours like he’s trying to find something in one of them, waiting, perhaps, for the return of your insults, or perhaps for something worse.

For a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat and the flickering flames above.

Both of you lean in again at the same time, lips meeting hard as his hands slip around your waist and yours lace around his neck, and this time it’s not tentative, this time it’s downright insatiable, hot and hungry and brazen, and your head is spinning so much that you forget to worry about someone walking in and coming across the two of you as you kiss him harder, and harder, and his hair is softer than you’d expected, his hands are warmer, his body firmer, and when his hand slides under your thigh and pulls it up against his hip to press in closer, you’re filled with such an intense hunger for him that you break the kiss, intimidated.

Riddle’s full lips are slightly parted and he’s breathing hard, staring at you. He looks very much like he wasn’t expecting this hunger either.

“I… I don’t think that we should…” you manage to say over your racing heart.

Riddle blinks and then lets go of your thigh at once, stepping back before you can even react. “Of course,” he says blankly, his eyes dropping with a frown, “my apologies, I didn’t mean to imply that –”

“Riddle,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes, “shut up, I was going to say that we’re being rather conspicuous and I’d rather not get interrupted by an unsuspecting ghost, they might die all over again from pure shock.”

Riddle either doesn’t know what to say to this or doesn’t think it even deserves a reply, because he just stares at you again.

You refrain from making some snide remark about this in favour of stepping forward, taking his face in your hands, and kissing him as hard as you can. There’s a broom closet on the other side of the hall and you very much intend to get him into it.

Riddle’s breath speeds up and he can’t seem to decide where he wants to touch you, your cheeks, your hair, your waist, your back, his hands dancing between them as you push him back across the Hall in long steps that he just barely stumbles on until finally his back hits the door of the closet. You kiss him deeper as one of Riddle’s palms come to rest against your jaw, and you realise he knew exactly what you were doing, what you were intending, because his other hand drops to the handle of the closet and the door springs open.

Riddle pulls you inside, slamming the door shut and pushing you hard against it, lips meeting yours in the dark so hungrily that you gasp right into his mouth without meaning to. Your fingers battle with the tie around his neck, pulling the knot apart and then moving on without hesitation to the buttons at his throat but Riddle doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. Something in him has snapped, all the hesitation and tentativeness and slowness has vanished, his lips are devouring yours, relentless and wild and full of craving, one forearm boxing you in and the other hand tangling in your hair to pull you closer still. The intensity of it isn’t frightening you anymore. Now it’s just making you very, very excited.

You finally shove his shirt out of the way and spread your hands across his chest, and in the darkness and the all-encompassing gravity of the way he’s kissing you, nothing exists but the way he feels, his warm skin, his body beneath your hands, the way Riddle exhales hard with something like frustration and slips an arm around your waist to pull you up, stepping in to pin you against the wall. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct and Riddle’s hand is sliding up your thigh again but you can barely keep track because his lips move to your throat and pleasure explodes across your skin. You push your fingers into his hair and hold him there as his mouth moves in that same insatiable way against your skin, looking up in the dark and seeing nothing but blackness as Riddle draws a moan from your lips that you would have been ashamed of if he didn’t feel so good.

“You’re making this very difficult,” he mutters against your skin, lifting his head and kissing you again, and your eyes flutter shut even though it makes no difference anyway. You kiss him back desperately, wrapping your legs around him tighter, pulling him closer, and it’s a long moment before you remember what he’s said and that you should probably figure out what he means.

“Making what difficult?” you breathe, leaning in and placing your lips against his throat yourself, dragging your teeth across his skin.

His hand curls hard in your hair as he takes a wonderfully sharp breath. “Resisting,” he says tightly.

You scoff and pull away. “Why on earth are you resisting?”

“I don’t know,” he says in a hollow tone.

“Well stop,” you murmur, placing your palms against his cheeks.

Riddle doesn’t say anything. The silence is suddenly as permeating as the dark, tenuous and deafening.

Slowly, you feel him lean in, you feel the warmth of his lips hovering right above yours.

“There are things I want to do to you,” Riddle says quietly. His voice has gone heavy and deep.

Heat flushes your face. You try to stop yourself from breathing harder, but you can’t. “Like what?” you whisper.

His mouth presses right next to yours, electrifyingly slow. He can feel the way your chest is heaving, he can hear your breath, and suddenly you’re wondering how dangerous it is that Riddle can tell exactly what sort of effect he’s having on you. “Things to make you feel good,” he murmurs, and his hand on your thigh is moving up towards your hip, pushing up your dress as it goes, his palm warm and his fingers splayed hungrily against your skin. You press your lips together hard. “Things to make you…”

You shift in anticipation, unable to stop yourself, desire pulling so hard at your body that it feels like gravity is tipping over. Riddle pulls away, his hand frozen on your hip.

You wonder what expression the darkness is covering on his face.

“There’s a table beside you,” he says quietly, voice splitting the silence and sending shivers down your spine. “I’d like you to put your hands on it.”

You stare at where you think his eyes would be. It takes a second for your brain to catch up with the fire aching in your stomach. You look to the side, but you can’t see anything in the darkness.

Riddle suddenly moves, hands taking your waist hard and slowly he lets you down – but his hands stay where they are. He turns you to the side and guides you forward a few inches until – sure enough – you feel the edge of a wooden table pressing against your thighs. Riddle steps in behind you, hands still grasping your waist, and you try very hard not to gasp when you his mouth suddenly presses against your throat. “Go on,” he murmurs.

The darkness hides the way your fingers are trembling as you place them as he asked on the surface of the table. Riddle has not yet relented in his slow, torturous kisses down the slope of your shoulder.

“Do you want me to make you feel good?” says Riddle very quietly, right against your throat, his voice dangerously soft and smooth enough to make your stomach twist.

You exhale, closing your eyes tightly. Slowly, you nod.

“You do?” he says, smirk audible. One of his hands slides down your hip at a teasing pace and takes a handful of your dress.

You nod again, wondering exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into as Riddle’s teeth press against your skin and he draws your dress up again.

“There are things you want me to do to you too, aren’t there?” he says softly, and you have to consciously suppress a gasp as Riddle’s hand slides up the inside of your thigh. “Hmm?” he prompts with another kiss when you don’t respond, fingers sliding up your skin.

You nod, wishing you could say something but your throat has closed up and you’re barely managing to stay standing, let alone speak.

“Things like this?” he murmurs, and without warning his fingers brush against your underwear, feather-light but he’s been teasing you for so long that even that makes pure electric heat shoot through your body and there’s no stopping your gasp this time.

Riddle’s hand still on your waist tightens. “You want me to touch you, don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, his fingers playing across the surface of your underwear and making you very, very aware of how wet they are. Riddle doesn’t give you time to feel self-conscious about this. “Tell me,” he says smoothly and you shiver again at his voice, the way you can feel it in your chest every time he speaks, his lips pressing just beneath your ear as his fingers continue to dance. “I want you to tell me.”

You dip your head and you try to gather yourself, to focus on the cool wood beneath your palms, to think, but your whole body is aching with how badly you want him, the feeling pooling heavy and almost painfully beneath his fingers and you nod without meaning to. “Yes,” you somehow say, and your voice doesn’t sound like your own, breathy and hollow and full of wanting.

His lips stay on your skin as his fingers press harder and your hips shift at the heat that blooms with his touch, your lips part with a gasp, and Riddle’s mouth curves into a smile on your skin as he breathes a small, warm laugh. “Do you want me to take these off?” he asks you, sounding like he knows the answer as he curls a finger into your underwear.

Your head falls even more. “Yes,” you whisper.

He pulls at them gently and they’re gone, Vanished, and before you can react Riddle’s hand on your waist is tilting you forward a little more, making your palms flatten on the wooden table –

His fingers slide slick against you and every thought in your head disappears as electric pleasure explodes in your body. Riddle’s lips never leave your skin as he touches you slowly, ceaselessly, somewhere between gentle and ruthless. His free hand grips your waist so tightly you can’t help but like it, and inch by inch he goads more and more heat into your stomach, you’re leaning more and more on the table as you start to spiral.

Right as you’re on the brink of release, Riddle’s fingers come to a still and you let go of a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding, too caught up in the rise.

“Are you serious?” you gasp, panting.

He laughs again. “Yes,” he says softly, his hand releasing your waist and coming up to rest against your throat, gently guiding your face to the side as he presses his lips to your cheek. “I’d like to listen.”

And his fingers resume, slower than before like he knows it’ll be torture for you, and you force back a moan at the wave of pleasure that tears through you.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, lips a smirk on you skin.

You would have told him yes if you could speak but you’ve been wanting this for too long now, you body is on fire –

“There’s more I want to do to you,” Riddle whispers in your ear as he strokes you closer and closer to your climax. “Would you let me?”

“Riddle,” you moan, eyes shutting tightly.

“Would you?”

You think you know what he means. You don’t really care. You’ll let him do just about anything. “Yes,” you whisper, wondering if he means now or after he’s –

His fingers press harder and unbearable pleasure immediately blooms in your core under his touch. You fall fast, struck by your orgasm with such intensity that the breath is knocked from your lips and stolen from your throat, and Riddle’s fingers don’t still, he only holds you tighter as you moan. You’re gasping as you come down, chest heaving and an ache in your core.

“I’d like you to do that again,” Riddle murmurs, and then his lips leave your cheek and you barely have a second before his hand flattens against your back and he pushes you smoothly down onto the table. Your eyes fall shut and your pulse triples because you know exactly what’s about to happen, you feel him against you and it takes everything in you not to rock back into him but you don’t have to wait long.

In one unbroken movement Riddle pushes inside of you and your entire body comes alive with electric pleasure that has you gasping as he holds you there, as he draws back and pushes back in so hard your vision splits with stars and heat explodes beneath your skin. One of Riddle’s hands traces down your back as his other holds your hip tighter, and with gentle pressure he pushes you down a little more, tilting your hips in his hands and Riddle’s thrusts hit something inside of you that makes you choke on your moans, because you’re still so tangled up from his fingers teasing you that you’re close again already, and god he’s never going to let you live this down –

As you try to stifle the sounds he’s drawing from you each time his hips collide with yours, you hear him take a long breath, his hand tightening on your hip. “There,” he says quietly and his palm slides up your back, slipping across your shoulder and coming to rest very, very gently against your throat, too gentle to bear given how hard he’s gripping your hip, how relentlessly he’s fucking you – “You’re going to come for me again, aren’t you?”

You screw your eyes up tighter.

“Aren’t you?” he repeats smoothly, and he yanks your hips back an inch like he’s demanding you answer as he slams into you so hard that another moan is knocked from your lips and pleasure curls rebelliously in your gut.

“Yes,” you gasp.

“Good,” he says softly. Riddle suddenly pulls you up and you’re too malleable in his hands, you really are letting him do all these things to you, things you’re very much enjoying him doing, things he’s clearly thought about –

His hand slides up your throat to rest right under your jaw as he tilts your hips a little more, and your back arches even more, your head falling back against his shoulder as you open your eyes and look straight up into the darkness as heat and pleasure starts to well up in your stomach and your chest heaves harder and harder as you get closer and closer with each of his thrusts –

“You feel…” he murmurs, lips pressing hungrily against your throat, “very… very good.”

“Go on, Tom,” you say through your hard breathes, mimicking his own words from what feels like an age ago, “give me what I want.”

Riddle takes a slightly hollow breath, his forehead falling onto your shoulder, and there’s something a lot more uncontrolled about his movements that make a smile pull at the corners of your lips because you’ve just learned that for all his composure, Riddle rather likes someone making him lose a bit of control.

You’re right on the brink again, precarious before the fall, and the desperation and pleasure and heat spurs you on without a second thought. “Please, Tom,” you whisper, half just to see what he does. “Please, I want you Tom, I–”

Riddle turns his face into your shoulder as a sound half-way between a groan and an exhale falls from his lips, holding you tighter than ever and you tip straight into another orgasm as you feel heat burst inside of you, as his movements stutter and stop, as his breath comes hard against your skin, his arms somehow now wrapped tightly around you and holding you in place. You think it’s about ninety percent of why you haven’t collapsed by now.

You open your eyes, slowly coming back to your body and making sense of the world again. Both of you are breathing hard, and Riddle’s forehead is still slumped against your shoulder.

“Are you alive?” you ask in mumble, looking to the side as if you might look at him, your cheek pressing against his soft hair.

“I think so,” he murmurs, sounding very tired.

You breathe a laugh and push him away so you can turn to face him, sliding your hands up his chest and taking his face in your palms again. “Well what on earth happens now?” you ask, amused and tired yourself.

“I’m not sure,” he says in the same voice, leaning down and resting his head on your shoulder again. You suppress another laugh. Riddle likes closeness after sex, who bloody knew.

You lace your arms around his neck and he immediately leans in more, taking a very long breath that makes his whole body relax like its taking the last of his energy with it. “Are you going to go back to hating me?” he asks wearily.

“Probably. You are a bit of a prick,” you say against his hair, pushing your fingers through the soft waves.

Riddle hums and slides his hands around your waist, pulling you closer. “I suppose I better go back to hating you too, then,” he murmurs.

You smile, turning your face into the crook of his neck and closing your eyes. “Deal.”

･｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

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