#like i've read these books for years upon years upon years | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fatesundress · 11 months

Text

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine.

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones.

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary.

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly.

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile?

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up.

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about?

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers.

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession.

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary.

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure?

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning.

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with.

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge.

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books.

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls.

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin.

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated.

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again.

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any.

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now.

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice.

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all. You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else.

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them.

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten.

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.)

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true.

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer.

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t.

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid.

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless.

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that.

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately.

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end.

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight.

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes.

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand.

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain, a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him.

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love.

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock.

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly.

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it.

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.)

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish.

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same.

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much.

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition.

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal.

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it.

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is.

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —”

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant.

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor.

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together.

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident.

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be.

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop.

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece.

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that."

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval.

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will."

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis.

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain.

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.”

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back.

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake."

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster.

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating.

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself.

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh.

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes.

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?��

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you.

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

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

3K notes · View notes

stevesbipanic · 1 year

Text

Steve's only 25 when it all catches up to him.

It starts off small, things people wouldn't even be able to tell is an early sign of something wrong. Misplacing keys, forgetting which day he has his shifts, what time he's supposed to get Robin. Robin notices though.

Robin knows Steve always keeps his keys on the hook next to Eddie's by the front door, that's where he always finds them, he's not misplacing the keys, he's forgetting the hook exists.

Robin knows Steve has the same shifts every week, they never change because they line up with Eddie's at the record store nearby. Robin knows Steve isn't forgetting what time he's supposed to pick Robin up, he's forgetting Robin moved away a few months ago after she graduated college.

Robin keeps noticing when the kids start calling her because the little things are becoming big things.

Robin notices when Dustin calls and tells her Steve thought he and Suzie were back together, "Like how crazy is that we broke up two years ago, I don't think I've even mentioned her lately."

Robin notices when Lucas calls and tells her Steve asked when his next game was, "The season ended months ago, he came to the finals."

Robin notices when Max calls and whispers softly, "He asked to take me to the skatepark, Robin, I told him I had to help mum. He's forgotten I'm blind Robin."

Robin wished she'd noticed sooner, maybe years ago when Steve was getting knocked around a lot. She wished she'd screamed in the face of those Russians to take her instead. She wished a lot of things when Eddie called her.

"He's in hospital, Birdie, he collapsed at work."

Robin is back in Chicago for the first time since she graduated. She wished she'd visited sooner.

"Do you think the feds are gonna let me go soon, Robbie? I mean it usually doesn't take this long for them to bring me the NDAs."

Robin hopes Steve doesn't notice her eyes going glossy as she runs her fingers through his hair, "Don't worry Stevie, I'm sure they'll be in soon, Dusty is probs just arguing over something in his."

"At least he isn't having to explain he raised a demodog. Did I ever tell you about that Robbie?"

Robin smiles softly, "Yeah but tell me again, don't want to forget any of it."

Eddie gives Robin the gist of what the doctors said, Eddie didn't understand much, a lot of technical words and shit. Too many concussions, more than they knew about most likely. They say it'll probably get worse with no timeframe of how quickly it'll happen, there might be good days, there will be a lot of bad days.

The first bad day comes a week later. Steve barely remembers Eddie, trapped in a time when Eddie was just the kids DM. Eddie sobs in the corridor in Robin's arms. The next day it's like nothing happened and Steve gets discharged. They tell Steve, this time Eddie is the one to comfort him.

"I don't want to forget you Eds."

"It's okay if you do, sweetheart, I'll still be here."

It's Robins idea to start writing everything down. Eddie, Nancy and the kids all help. Filling journals upon journals of stories and pictures of Steve's life to help on the bad days. Steve has to quit his job, Robin moves back to Chicago, they make it work.

On bad days depending on how far back Steve is Dustin or Robin or Eddie will read through the books with him, filling in the gaps of what he needs. On the worst days, Eddie leaves the pile of journals on the bed with a note and waits downstairs to see if Steve will join him later.

They make it work for a few years. Steve celebrates his 30th birthday with perfect clarity. He writes himself an entry in the journal next to a big group picture with Steve and Eddie's matching rings showing.

That July, over a decade since Starcourt, Steve is in hospital again. He'd collapsed at breakfast. Eddie had thought it was going to be one of their good days, Steve had woken up fine, all his memories in tact if a little fuzzy. He'd made them coffee and giggled at Eddie's singing while he made them eggs and just like that it all came crashing down.

Steve's brain is shutting down. They don't know if he'll make it past Christmas. There's more bad days after that. More days with books left on the bed. Most days Steve doesn't even come downstairs. On the good days, Eddie always calls off work. He'd rather be fired than miss a single second of Steve smiling at him like he does, so full of love.

They have Christmas, the whole family comes, they have to bring every chair from around the house and squish in around the table just to fit but it's perfect. Steve sits between Robin and Eddie, face bright and full of love and life. Everyone gives him the tightest hug as the night closes, all lingering, afraid of letting go.

"I love you, dingus."

"I love you too, Robbie."

Later, upstairs in their room, Steve and Eddie go through all the journals, laughing softly at each little note the kids have left. Steve writes his little journal entry, a tradition of good days, and curls into Eddie's arm whispering soft loving words to each other before falling asleep.

Steve never wakes up.

The funeral happens shortly after, all of the family is still in town. Robin holds Eddie afterwards as they go through the journals together. When they get to the last page, they struggle not to smudge the ink with their tears.

Dear Eds and Robbie,

I don't know how many more good days I'm going to get so I'm leaving this here for you now. I love you both so much, you're equally my soulmates and I want you two to look after each other while I'm gone.

Robs, go travelling with Nancy, ok? Thank you for looking after me all these years but it's time for you to go look after yourself. Go see the world for me, tell me all about it wherever I am when you get back.

Eddie, I'm sorry we didn't get as much time as we hoped, I hope you know that even just a day with you has been worth a lifetime with anyone else. Go follow your dreams, write music, perform, show the world how amazing I know you are. I give you full permission to fall in love with whoever you meet along the way, I don't want either of you guys to be alone.

Thank you for giving me a life worth remembering.

Your Dingus,

Stevie

#omfg i sobbed writing this im sorry #stranger things #steve harrington #stranger things s4 #eddie munson #st4 #steddie #stobin #robin buckely #angst #poor steve #concussions #memory loss #fuck i actually cried so much omfg #ficlet #major character death #tw major character death #tw death

6K notes · View notes

lonelywitchv2 · 1 year

Text

Strawberries

summary: it’s safe to say you didn’t expect company when you snuck out for a picnic with Regulus, your relationship more forbidden than the forest itself.

content: the marauders basically being your older brothers after you grew up next door to the Potters, protective and angry James and Sirius, Sirius and Regulus still being on bad terms, fluff turned slight angst, short, food, teasing, mentions of Sirius and Regulus’ parents

wc: 587 (just a little blurb)

part ii part iii

join my taglist!

“So you’ve never read Pride and Prejudice?” You asked, almost offended by your discovery.

“No. Do you happen to remember that my parents are blood supremacists who forbade me from reading muggle literature?” Regulus responded.

“Okay, maybe I forgot. Either way, this is unacceptable. Reggie, it appears we have found our next book to read.” You announced, picking up a strawberry that Regulus had been reaching for.

“Oi! I was gonna grab that one!” He exclaimed, trying to reach for the red fruit, only to have you pull your arm away from him.

“You snooze, you lose,” You said with a shake of your head.

However, right as you went to bite into the sweet berry, Regulus tackled you, his body hovering over yours and your wrists pinned against the picnic blanket laid on the grass.

Throughout being tackled, you somehow managed to continue your hold on the strawberry, refusing to yield to him.

“You could’ve just asked to split it and I would’ve done it, love,” You pointed out, cocking your eyebrow.

“Well, this is much more fun. Isn’t it?” Regulus’s voice dropped to a whisper, his face lowering closer and closer to yours.

“It is…” You breathed out, lifting your head up until Regulus’s lips were pressed against yours, his hair brushing against your forehead.

The blissful silence was broken by a loud shout.

“What the hell is this?!” Sirius yelled, causing the two sixteen-year-olds to quickly break apart, scrambling to opposite sides of the blanket with their eyes wide in horror, the strawberry long forgotten.

You opened your mouth to respond but faltered at the rage burning in Sirius’s eyes.

“What is it Padfo- what in Merlin’s name is going on here?!” James’s eyes fell upon the sight of Regulus and you, his big brother mode immediately activating.

All words of defense and explanation quickly disappeared from your tongue, unsure of how to respond to the obvious rage emitting from the two boys.

“James, Sirius, I... I can explain- we can explain, please-” You stuttered out, struggling to get any words out of your mouth as your panic set in.

“No. No, c’mon Y/N, we’re leaving,” James said, his voice as firm as his grip on your arm as he pulled you off of the blanket, glaring at Regulus and dragging you away from the Black brothers- one of which was frozen in horror, the other seething with rage.

“Y/N-!” Regulus called out, going to stand before falling back from a shove from Sirius.

“What the fuck, Regulus?!” Sirius exclaimed, “Why her? Out of every girl in this school, you chose the one who’s like a little sister to me- is it to get back at me for leaving?”

“It’s not that, Sirius- I…” Regulus faltered.

“What? Spit it out!”

"Listen, I... I really like Y/N- really like her. Please, I'm not doing this out of vengeance, Sirius. I wouldn't even think about hurting Y/N! Siri… I’m not lying to you, I swear," Regulus stuttered out, the childhood nickname accidentally slipping off his tongue, "It's... real and I've never experienced anything like it before.”

“Godric… I just don’t…” Sirius paused, chewing on his lip, “I can’t do this right now.”

Sirius turned around for a moment, but turned to face his brother once more, “We aren’t done, Regulus. But this? This is.”

Regulus sat there speechless as his brother jogged to catch up to James and you, looking down to see the red strawberry sitting on the blanket, miraculously untouched.

#regulus black x reader #regulus x reader #marauders x reader #marauders #harry potter #james potter #regulus black #sirius black #sirius black x platonic!reader #james potter x platonic!reader #james potter x reader #sirius black x reader #marauders fanfiction #remus lupin #peter pettigrew #sister!reader #hogwarts #love you #~°~ miranda ~°~

2K notes · View notes

wriothesleybear · 4 months

Text

Best friend's Bachelorette Party

~a/n: Inspired by on the most beautiful fanart I've seen on twitter by minoru_uwuarts. Here’s a Christmas present for my fellow Wrio lovers. Probably my last fic to end the year. Merry Christmas and happy holidays everyone! Enjoy!🥰❤️

~warnings: some plot, smut, male stripping, mentions of blowjob, cunnilingus, jerking off, fingering, squirting, consent, gentle face fucking, ends in some fluff, fem!reader, MDNI!

~summary: Being the maid of honor, you throw your best friend a bachelorette party and order a male stripper. He tells you to meet him in the guest bedroom after the party. You took him up on his offer and it was not disappointing...

~word count: 5.9k

Being the maid of honor was a very busy job. The jobs included helping prepare for the wedding, getting invitation cards ready and sent out in the mail, helping the bride choose her dream wedding dress, and many other jobs. One of them included the bachelorette party. Your best friend said anything you planned was fine for her party because she trusted your tastes. In the past, you remember she mentioned wanting to get a stripper. Being the maid of honor, you wanted to fulfill her one and only bachelorette party of her dreams, so you did as she asked.

You've never ordered a stripper before or even gone to a strip club. It was a bit of an embarrassing new experience but it was for your best friend! While searching online for the best professional strippers who had good reviews and made house calls, you came upon a website called Celestial Temptations. It was a very fancy and elegant website that had a list of many different types of professional male strippers. They showed a picture of each gentleman with a personal description below it. Scrolling through the many types of male strippers was a bit exciting and made it difficult to choose which one to hire because they all looked gorgeous and sexy. You kept in mind what your best friend's taste was in men while deciding. You came across one in particular that caught your eye. His name was ‘The Duke’. He was a buff, handsome man with black and gray hair with part of it looking like animal ear tufts. Scars littered his skin but they added to his beauty. He wore a professional business suit that was open to show his torso and chest, tie loose as he pulled on it in the picture. You rubbed your thighs together, already getting excited just from his picture alone.

His description read: The Duke. "A man of mystery who will do anything to please a woman. "

You were already taken in by the picture of this man but his description just pulled you in more. Clicking on his profile, you get more information about him like his age, height, likes and dislikes, turn-ons and turn-offs, etc. You click on the 'order services' button and put in your information and payment, all the while, your heart is pounding with excitement. You get a confirmation email, telling you that the order went through and The Duke was booked for your best friend's bachelorette party. This was going to be an interesting party..

The night of the bachelorette party finally came and you were excited for your best friend to have the best time of her life tonight. Deep down, you were also a little excited about the 'special entertainment'. While the soon-to-be bride and guests were busy opening gifts, the doorbell rang. You figured it was the long-awaited entertainment. "I'll get it!" You hurry to answer the door, making sure that everyone is preoccupied with the bride. You open the front door to see a tall, handsome man that looks exactly like the man from the picture that you ordered for. A charming smile graces his facial features. A smile that makes your heart skip a beat.

"y/n, right?" You lose your train of thought when you hear his deep voice but soon snap out of it.

"Um yes! That's me. The Duke, correct?" He gives you a flirty smile and replies yes. You blush. "Follow me. I'll show you where you can get ready." Opening the door wider, you let him in and close it behind him as he scans the front room of the house. He then turns to you, smiling, "Lead the way." You lead him to a spare bedroom down the hall. As he followed you, he kept checking you out from behind without you knowing.

You open the door to the guest bedroom, letting him enter first. "Here you go, you can prepare in here and we'll do the show in the living room where everyone currently is." He sets down a bag on the bed and already begins to take off his jacket. You're able to see his back muscles flex through his shirt. His deep voice breaks your daze. "No problem. I'll be ready in five." He says as he turns to you, giving you another one of his charming smiles. You quickly turn around and get ready to leave but then he stops you. "Oh, and make sure you get a front room seat. I do a little something special for those who catch my eye." He teasingly says. Instead of turning around and replying, you simply shut the door. Leaning your back against it, you try to calm your beating heart. You could feel the heat in your cheeks and also between your thighs. You're finally able to calm down and gather yourself, pushing those feelings down. He says that to a lot of women probably. It's not that special, you think to yourself.

You head back to the living room to see that everyone has finished watching the bride-to-be open her presents. You gather everyone's attention. "Alright, ladies! We have a special show for everyone, especially for the main lady of the night." Noises of excitement and curiosity fill the room. You turn the bride's chair around so she's facing towards the hallway where the entertainment should enter from. "I remember you asked for a very special entertainment for your bachelorette party. So, I did my duty as maid of honor to fulfill that wish." Your best friend gets all giddy, getting an idea of what this 'special entertainment' could be. “Would it have something to do with that metal pole you installed today?” She points to the stripping pole connected to the floor and ceiling nearby in the room. You smirk, acting oblivious. “I’m not sure. I guess you’ll just have to wait and see.”

You grab a blindfold from your pocket and wrap it around the bride's head, covering her eyes. You dim the lights and turn the stereo on to play some sexy music to get everyone in the mood. Everyone begins to chant and cheer for the 'special entertainment' to come out, the bride especially.

Wrio hears the music play and the women calling for him so he takes that as his cue. He opens the door and walks down the hall towards the living room where the audience is waiting. All the women cheer as soon as he enters the room. His charming, seductive smile added to the sexy aura that surrounded him. "This must be the lucky lady." He walks towards your best friend and kneels before her. You remove the blindfold covering her eyes and once her sight focuses, it lands on the handsome man in front of her. She blushes as he takes her hand in his, leaving a kiss on the back of it. "I'm The Duke. I hear you're getting married soon. I better do my best to make your last night as an unmarried woman the most memorable one ever." Squeals and cheers fill the room once again, letting the man know to start the show. You take a seat nearby, grab a specialty drink, and take a swig of it.

While checking out The Duke, you notice he changed his outfit from earlier. He's now wearing a black suit with a red tie around his neck. His pants fit snuggly to his legs, accentuating his nice ass. Pulling on his suit jacket, he takes it off, tossing it somewhere in the room. Oh god, how can this man make taking off a simple jacket so sexy? Next, he begins to loosen his tie and unbutton his dress shirt. Whistles fill the room when he completely removes his shirt, showing his buff body and muscles. Your eyes scan his bare upper body, admiring his chiseled abs, ripped arms, and the scars that litter his skin. He grabs the blindfold from the floor, wrapping it around his eyes and tying it.

He walks over to the bride, and grabs the bottom of her chair, moving her to be positioned right in front of the stripper pole. “Gotta have front-row seats to the show.” His hips sway to the beat of the music as he grabs onto the metal pole and swings on it. He’s able to effortlessly climb the pole to the top of it, with his back to you as you can admire his ass and back muscles that flex when he grabs the pole. Wrapping his legs securely around it, he leans back until he’s facing the audience upside down. His hands grip the pole between his legs, holding him as he slowly slides down the pole. Screams and cheers fill the room once again. A flirty smirk covers his face from hearing the ladies cheer for him. Calling out to the bride seated in front of him, he tells her to take his blindfold off. Wasting no time, she unties the blindfold, letting it drop to the floor. The sight of his blue eyes gazing intently at her while doing his signature smile would make any woman’s legs turn into jelly. He slowly slides himself down the pole, face right in front of her legs. He uses one hand to grab her leg, positioning it to the side of his head as his hand moves up her leg to her thigh, making the bride blush. He removes his hand before going any further, leaving her wanting more.

He turns his head to where you’re sitting, eyes landing on you. Winking at you, he beckons you over with a finger. You’re hesitant, not wanting to take the attention away from the bride-to-be, but she walks over to you, grabs you by the hand and pulls you over to her seat in front of him. Plopping you down, you make eye contact with The Duke, his gaze sending tingles down your body. He uses both of his hands to slide up your legs, slowly easing up to your thighs. Similar to what he did to the bride but with you, he doesn’t stop himself at a certain point. Hands move further up to the inside of your thighs, almost touching your core. Blushing and slightly embarrassed from knowing people are watching, you try to close your legs but he prevents you from doing it. He chuckles at your actions. Removing his hand, he grabs your hand, pulling it to his abs to feel it. The feel of his soft, chiseled abs does something to you. You get entranced by the feel of them, slowly rubbing your fingers up and down his stomach. He brings your hand to his mouth, leaving a sweet, short kiss on the palm. Suddenly, he pulls you by the hand so your face is near his, eyes widened with surprise. He whispers in your ear, Meet me in the guest bedroom after the show. Your thighs clench together as heat goes down to your core from his mysterious words. He releases his grip on your arm, allowing you to pull away. You’re in a daze from your small interaction with him, but a cheer of “mores” from the guests breaks you out of your trance. You gain your composure and get up from the seat, allowing the bride to sit back down to have her turn again. Walking back to your seat, you’re left wondering what he meant with his words. What would happen if you did meet him in the guest bedroom after the party? The curiosity eats at you, leaving you wanting more. He knows the effect he has on you. That was his plan after all.

Once the entertainment was done, the party was officially over and the guests began to leave. You close the door once the last guest leaves. Joining your best friend on the couch, you're exhausted. Your best friend tells you how much she enjoyed the party and thanks you for it while hugging you as her words are slurred. She's wasted. You laugh, laying her down and putting a blanket over her. Once she settles down, she brings something to your attention.

"I think the stripper has the hots for you."

"What?" You pause, surprised by what she said.

"Yeah, I could tell how he looks at you, especially during the special dance he gave you."

"Yeah, okay. I'm sure that's just him acting for his job."

"Nope, I can tell. I'm psychic and I know he has the hots for you. He's probably waiting in the guest bedroom for you right now. You should go in there and see." She says, her words slurring more as she begins to get sleepier. "If you don't go in there and fuck him, you're not my maid of honor anymore."

Rolling your eyes and laughing at her. "Whatever you say. You're drunk. Go to sleep." She begins to snore, signaling that she's passed out. You think about what she said in her drunk rant. You can't help the thoughts of what if she's right. Shaking your head, you ignore the thoughts and head to the guest bedroom where The Duke is waiting. You knock on the door and hear his deep voice saying Come in.

Opening the door, you see him sitting on the bed, legs spread. "I was wondering if you'd take me up on my invitation." He stands up and walks over to you. Your back leans against the door as he hovers over you. He cups your cheek, his thumb rubbing on your bottom lip, feeling the softness of your lips. He thinks about how nice they'd feel against his own. Not wanting to wait any longer, he presses his lips to yours. You feel the sparks as his lips finally touch yours. Hot, passionate kisses that take your breath, making it hard to breathe. His tongue invades your mouth, exploring and intertwining with yours. You feel like you’re suffocating, but it feels so good. His kisses are addicting. His hands move to the bottom of your shirt. "Raise your arms." Raising your arms, he pulls your shirt up over your head.

Once he discards it to the floor, he pulls you back into a kiss. Rough, calloused hands explore your upper half. Starting from your hips, up to your waist, and around to your back to unclasp your bra. It falls to the floor. His large hands cup your breasts, groping and pinching your nipples. You moan into the kiss. With an arm around your waist, he slightly bends down, wrapping his lips around your bud and sucks, as his free hand fondles the other. The tip of his tongue plays with the tip of your bud, hardening it. The feeling of your bud hardening under his tongue makes him moan. Your head falls back as moans leave your lips due to the pleasure. You comb your fingers through his hair, pulling him closer to your chest. He switches to giving your other breast the same treatment with his tongue, playing with the previous one with his hand.

Once he's done giving your breasts attention, he moves back up and kisses you while his hands move down to your thighs. He enjoys the feel of your soft, squishy thighs. If only they could be wrapped around his head. "Jump". Jumping, he catches you by the back of your thighs as your legs wrap around his waist. Not breaking the kiss, he carries you over to the guest bed, pushing you down onto it. His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a trail of kisses and hickeys. Your legs tighten around his hips, holding him close as you grind against his crotch, looking for some friction. "Someone's eager for my cock." He chuckles and teases.

The smirk leaves his face as your hand cups his cock through his pants, his breath hitching when you rub it. He grabs both of your hands, holding them against the bed next to your head. "Patience. I'll fill your pussy with my cock soon but first, I need a little taste." He litters kisses down your chest to your stomach. Letting go of your hands, he moves to the button on your jeans, unbuttoning it and pulling your pants down your legs. Tossing it to the floor, he spreads your legs and notices a wet spot on your panties. "Already wet for me and I've barely done anything." Fingers move to rub against the wet spot, making you moan. He leans down to lay on his stomach, switching his fingers with his lips. He kisses your pussy through your underwear, the wet spot growing. He experiments with the tip of his tongue, rubbing it against you. You groan from the little friction but it's still not enough. "More please." You quietly beg.

He moves your underwear to the side, enjoying the sight of your bare pussy. "Beautiful." You get embarrassed as he just lays there, admiring your pussy. "Don't just stare." You blush as you try to close your legs but he blocks you from doing that. "Sorry, I can't help myself." He shows his apology by rubbing his fingers between your folds, finally touching your pussy to help relieve the stress from the long wait. You gasp out at the feel of his rough fingers on your most sensitive spot. Rubbing your clit, one finger prods at your entrance, slowly teasing it. You whimper, silently telling him more. He pushes his finger inside you, feeling your tightness. He begins to slowly pump his finger, testing the pace as he rubs your clit. Moans fill his ears as he quickens his pace. You're already close, feeling the warmth in your lower belly. When you're about ready to cum, he pulls his fingers out, leaving you disappointed. "I'd prefer it if you came on my tongue for your first orgasm."

Slipping your underwear off and discarding it with the rest of your clothes, he spreads your legs wide, giving him full access to your core. It's a bit embarrassing but that soon leaves your mind once his mouth latches on your pussy. You moan aloud at the new sensation. His mouth was much more pleasurable than his fingers. His tongue licks your clit, switching between flicking his tongue and sucking. Your head falls back as you intertwine your fingers through his hair, scratching his scalp. You already begin to feel that pleasurable warmth again in your lower belly when the pace of his tongue quickens. His tongue moves to circle your entrance, before sliding into you. He uses his thumb to rub your clit as his tongue explores your insides. The simultaneous pleasure finally pushes you over the edge as you cum on his tongue. Your sweet flavor decorates his taste buds. He groans from the delicious taste, the vibrations of his moans, and his continuous motions helping you to ride out your high.

You begin to feel overstimulated, wanting a break, but he wants more. "Gimmie more. I know you can." He replaces his tongue with two fingers, pumping them into you at a quick pace as his tongue flicks and laps at your clit. It feels so good but too much at the same time. You're not sure if you want to push his head away or pull him closer to your core. You begin to feel the warmth again, more intense this time. "Come on. Come for me. Come on my face, beautiful." He says against your pussy as he continues to pump his fingers and lick your clit at a fast pace. The warmth finally snaps in your belly. You squirt on his face, your sweet nectar filling his mouth as he tries to devour all of it, not wanting any drop to be wasted. Your beautiful moans fill his ears as he continues, his pace unrelenting. This causes you to quickly come again, tears filling your eyes at the immense pleasure. Something you've never felt before. You want more.

He begins to slow his ministrations, helping you calm down from your three climaxes. Rubbing your thighs and leaving a kiss on your pussy, it causes your thighs to twitch and a whine to leave your lips from the sensitivity. He moves back up to your face, melting his lips against yours, making you taste yourself as his tongue intertwines with yours. "Want to taste my cock now?" You eagerly nod your head, wanting to return the favor. "Good girl." He pecks your lips and gets up to stand at the edge of the bed. "On your knees." You shakily move yourself to your knees on the bed, face right in front of his covered cock. He stays silent, waiting for you to unbutton his pants.

Your hands move over to his pants, unbuttoning and unzipping. Pulling his pants down, he steps out of them. He's still dressed in his underwear but you can see the large outline of his cock. You grope him through his underwear, admiring the length of it. "Look who's being the tease now." You look up, eyes meeting his. You notice the dark lust in his eyes, silently begging you to free his cock. You hook your fingers in the waistband of his boxers, slowly pulling them down. His cock springs out as his underwear falls to his feet. You gape at the sight of his cock. Large and thick with a vein lining the bottom of it. "Like the view?" His voice breaks you out of your trance. You nod your head. "Good. Now wrap your hand around it." Wrapping your fingers around his thick length, you slowly move your hands into an up-and-down motion. You spit on his cock to make it easier to jerk him off. “Suck my cock.” You lick his tip, swirling your tongue around his head, and insert it into your mouth. Sucking on his tip, you slowly take him inch by inch. His thick girth is overwhelming but feels so exciting. He grabs your hair into a makeshift ponytail, moving your hair out of your face, giving him a better view of you sucking his cock. “Good girl. Try to take a bit more. Show me how good you are at sucking cock.” His lustful words turn you on more. You want to please him.

You slide him out of your mouth, a pop sound is heard when you remove your mouth from his tip. Moving his cock up, you place your tongue on the base of his cock, near his balls. Keeping eye contact with him, you lick a long stripe up on the underside of his cock, all the way to the tip, and slip him back into your warm mouth. You go at a medium pace while sucking his cock, continuing the deep eye contact, causing him to twitch in your mouth. “Fuck. You really do know how to suck cock, don’t ya?” You moan in reply, the vibrations around his cock making his breath hitch. “Can I fuck your mouth?” A muffled ‘mhm' is heard as you give him consent. Holding your head in place, he begins to gently thrust into your mouth. You relax your jaw and place your hands on his thighs as you let him use your mouth.

Looking up, the view above you is glorious. He’s looking down at you, watching you intently. When you lick one of his sensitive spots on his cock, he moans. Hearing his moans makes you happy, knowing that you’re able to make this hot man feel immense pleasure. Wanting to hear more of his moans, you use one of your hands to massage his balls as you suck his cock more. Curses leave his mouth as his head falls back with his eyes closed. You’re making him go crazy. He’s never felt this much pleasure before. But it’s not enough, he wants more of you.

He pulls you by your makeshift ponytail, pulling you off of his cock. "Get on your hands and knees for me." Listening to him, you turn around, getting on your knees and hands. He rubs the side of your thighs, up towards your ass, and gropes it. Grabbing his cock and giving it a few pumps, he rubs his cock head between your folds, teasing your clit. You slightly whine, wanting more, you shake your ass. He chuckles. “Patience beautiful. I’ll give you what you want in due time. You have to tell me what you want though.”

“Fuck me, please. Make me cum on your cock.” Embarrassment has long left you, mind too dazed from the lust and want for him to have his cock inside of you. It’s more than a want, it’s a need. “For you, anything.” He prods your entrance with his tip then finally slides his head in. Slowly sliding himself inside your pussy, you flinch a bit by his massive girth. It’s been a while since you’ve gotten laid and your previous boyfriends never had a size like The Duke’s.

Once you’ve relaxed and gotten used to his size, he slides his cock out to the tip and thrusts back into you. He continues this, turning into a steady pace. The view of his cock disappearing inside of you and the sight of your ass bouncing against his pelvis causes his control to falter. Sounds of your moans, the pap pap sound of your ass hitting his pelvis, his grunts, it’s becoming too much for you. His hand wanders over the expanse of your back, slightly pushing down on it, signaling you to arch your back so his cock can reach deeper into you. He’s hitting your soft spot, the shocks of pleasure shooting up your body, making your arms jelly and causing you to fall face-first into the pillow. Your moans are muffled into the pillow when he quickens his pace. He wraps his arms around you, pulling your upper body up against his chest. “I want to hear you. I want to hear the sounds you make when you finally cum on my cock.” He says into your ear. His hand slides down your stomach to your clit, rubbing it while thrusting into you. His head moves down to your neck, sucking and licking another hickey onto your skin.

One of your hands holds onto the arm that’s stimulating your clit while the other goes to his head, fingers interlocking with his hair, pushing his head into your neck. Your nails dig into his arm, but he doesn’t care. It excites him. His free hand grips your jaw, turning your head to face his own, pulling you into a breathtaking kiss. The softness of his kiss compared to his hard, deep thrusts makes your head dizzy and pussy tighten around him. You break the kiss, crying out as you cum on his cock, juices leaking down your thighs. Your legs shake from the exhaustion of being on your knees so much. He’s unrelenting. The pace of his actions does not falter one bit. You already want to cum again, and you don’t mind. You don’t want him to stop, lust taking over your mind, making it hard to think straight.

He’s getting close as well. The tightening of your pussy around his cock with the melody of your moans filling his ears edge him closer and closer. Until he suddenly pulls out. You’re confused and disappointed as you’re denied your next orgasm. You turn your head to look back at him, whining for more. You’re about to ask him why he stopped, but the question is unable to leave your mouth as his hands grab you, flipping you over on your back. He crawls over you, pressing his chest into yours as his weight pushes you into the bed, making you unable to escape his intense gaze. Hands grab your wrists, pinning them to the bed on each side of your head. Sliding himself into you, he doesn’t hesitate and continues his quick pace. He looks into your eyes, intent on watching your facial expressions as you fall over the edge once again. “I want to see your expression when I fill you up.” He whispers against your lips before connecting his own with yours. Your moans are muffled in a passionate kiss as his thrusts get deeper and slower. Every time he thrusts in and out of you, his groin rubs against your clit, adding to the pleasure. He breaks the kiss, giving you the ability to speak. “Fuck. I’m gonna cum again. Don’t stop. Please.” He smirks as he pushes his hips down against yours, moving his hips in a circular motion, sending more pleasure to your soft spots.

You cry out as you release your nectar on his pelvis and cock. You twitch and shake under him as he continues his thrusting, whining from the overstimulation. You feel him twitch inside you the closer he gets to his orgasm. Wrapping your legs around him, you urge him to cum. He loses his self-control and grabs your thighs, pushing them to your chest, and pumps into you quickly. Tears fill your eyes from the sensitivity, conflicted about whether to tell him to slow down or speed up more. He grunts and moans above you. His beautiful, addicting moans. He moves his hand to your clit, rubbing it in circles. When you once again cum on his cock for the nth time, that finally sends him over.

He quickly pulls his cock out of you and moves to hover himself over your belly, straddling you as he vigorously pumps his cock. His head falls back, sensual moans fill the room as his seed spills over your breasts, covering them in his sticky, warm liquid. Once he finishes emptying himself on you, he topples over on the bed, lying next to you as you both try to catch your breaths.

“I thought you were going to cum inside.” You sheepishly say, trying to hide your disappointment. He turns his head to look at you and he notices the slight disappointment on your face, making him chuckle. “I don’t do that on the first meet. But if you really want me to, go on a date with me.” He turns onto his side and wraps an arm around your waist, pulling you flush against him. “You gonna pay for me this time?” You tease, smirking. “Of course. What kind of gentleman would I be if I let a pretty lady like you pay.” You chuckle in reply, but a thought nags you in the back of your mind. “Do you say this to all of your clients?”

“Nope. I usually don’t sleep with clients. It’s a rule in my business contract.”

“Oh no, are you going to get in trouble then?” You ask, slight worry in your voice. He only chuckles, leaving you confused. Cupping your cheek, he kisses your lips. The kiss only lasts a few seconds but it portrays his feelings. “I don’t mind breaking the rules if it’s for you. There’s something about you that makes me addicted to you. Plus, the sex was mind-blowing, don’t you think?” You gently slap his chest. “Such a sweet talker.” Drowsiness and exhaustion start to consume you, making your eyes heavy and yawn. He tightens his hold on you, resting your head in the crook of his neck. Once settling down, he notices his own exhaustion due to a very busy night. Both of you soon fall asleep, satisfied.

Sun rays peak through the crack in the curtains, shining on your face, causing you to stir and slowly open your eyes. Groaning, you rub your eyes to ease the sting of the sudden blinding sunlight. You move to turn away from the sunlight, but you notice that something is blocking you from doing so. You feel a solid build against your back and a strong, heavy arm wrapped around your hip. It takes you a second to gather your surroundings, the memories of last night a slight blur. You remember some moments from the bachelorette party. Playing games, opening gifts, serving drinks, then the entertainment part of the party. You slowly begin to remember what happened after the party ended. Accepting the invitation from The Duke and meeting him in the guest bedroom, then having your face shoved in the covers as he pounds into you from behind. You blush once you finally remember everything.

You slowly turn your head to look behind you and your questions are answered when you see The Duke is the one lying behind you. You carefully try to remove yourself from under his arm, trying to avoid waking him up. Suddenly, he wraps both of his arms around your waist, hold tightening as he pulls you close to his chest. "Where do you think you're going?" He whispers in his deep morning voice, nuzzling into your neck. “Um-m I need to get ready for my friend’s wedding.”

“There’s no rush. It wouldn’t hurt to get a little bit more rest. Or we could get a little session in before you have to leave.” Littering kisses down your neck, his hand gropes your body, making you excited. “As tempting as that sounds, don’t forget, I’m the maid of honor so I have a lot to do on the day of the wedding.” You move to sit up in the bed, pulling away from him to stop yourself from falling into the trap of being ravaged by the handsome man again.

He grabs your wrist when you try to get up, moving your hand to his lips to leave a kiss on it. “When can I see you again?”

“Well, since you do owe me a date, how about you come to the wedding with me as my date?”

“How could I deny a request from a beautiful lady.” He teases, inching his face close to yours. When he goes to kiss you, you stop him by putting a finger over his lips. “Best we get ready then.”

“Not even a small kiss, especially after how close we are already.” Smiling, you move your face close to his, lips slightly grazing each other. Just as he thinks you’re about to kiss him, you pull back. “Later. After you get ready.” Disappointment is shown on his face this time, making you giggle. Getting up, you start heading towards the guest bedroom bathroom. You turn back to look at him. “Come on, let’s shower.” He throws the blanket off of his bare body, getting up to follow you. You can already see his cock is hard again, causing heat to shoot down to your core. While lost in your thoughts, he picks you up, getting you out of your daze. “Come on. Didn’t you say you have a wedding to get ready for, maid of honor? You can admire my cock in the shower while getting ready.” He says, his signature flirty smile graces his face. Geez, he was going to be the death of you.

#wriothesley #wriothesley x reader #wriothesley smut #genshin impact x reader #genshin impact smut

581 notes · View notes

ririglow · 1 year

Text

I Wanna Be Yours | Joe Burrow

pairings : joe burrow x reader

word count:16k+

genre : best friends to lovers

synopsis: joe has been keeping his distance from you , upon discovering why your friendship changes forever.

warnings: reader being totally oblivious, mentions of slight body dysmorphia, reader has 🧚🏽‍♀️beauty marks🧚🏽‍♀️, Joe being an asshole for like a second, best friends doing couple shit, smut, oral sex (fem receiving), overstimulation, a rushed ending (literally wrote it at 3am),

A/n: finally letting my baby I've been keeping since July 2022 out, it's been well, may you find success 😭 enjoy yall

From Joey:

Hey, I'm skipping out on movie night. Sorry.

You stare down at your phone with a frown, after re-reading the text for the third time. Making sure you were reading things clearly. Your gaze reflects an aggressive glare. Are you fucking kidding me? He's bailed out on you yet again, you wouldn't be so annoyed if this was his first time canceling. However, recently, Joe has been clearly avoiding you at whatever cost. He has become particularly standoffish with you lately, giving you nearly every excuse in the book when you offer to hang out. If it's not working out, it's a team meeting, and when that's not an option- he says he's "too tired". His excuses were aplenty.

Joe has many attributes, but being a good liar isn't one of them. You knew something is wrong. Feeling very offended, you eventually begged him to hang out with you one day. After all, it's been a while since you two actually spent some time together, a perfect opportunity. But as soon as he showed up at your condo, your plan backfires. The plan for the day you arranged turned into Joe purposely busying himself away from you like the goddamn plague. Giving you halfhearted responses, making sure his attention was everywhere but you the entire time he was there while giving you the cold shoulder, in spite of what? You have no clue. And that is what's been killing you, the reason you're being utterly disregarded is entirely baseless.

That horrid hangout was last month, and since then you haven't seen and hardly talked to each other up till yesterday when you swallowed down the grudge you were planning on holding and invited him over for a movie night. Something you used to do frequently when you were kids.

Swallowing down the anger and hurt, a moment of worry comes through. If it was any other friend giving you nothing but a buoyancy of discourteousness you would've reciprocated the same energy. Without hesitation. However, this was no ordinary friend. This is your best friend, someone you have known ever since he was merely an awkward preteen that had an obsession with Nickelodeon and Disney. The first and only child you ever knew was when you first moved to Plains Ohio when you were just nine years old. It has always been you and him, the classic two peas in a pod. He saw you pass through every milestone, from having your first crush, to your first experience of heartbreak, and the first time you had fallen and broken a bone on your body at the local neighborhood playground which resulted in eleven-year-old Joe carrying you all the way home crying.

Just as he was there for you, you were there for him. Throughout all high school, you've been to every single one of his games, basketball or football. When he suffered through his drought at Ohio State you were there giving him encouragement and support. And when the opportunity came for Joe to take his talent down to Louisiana at LSU, you were right there. As well as taking multiple trips to games to support him, as you juggle between school and extracurricular activities. His career progressed into the NFL, and you sat right beside him on his parent's couch cheering him on. You were always there.

Reading his text over yet again you type out a response.

To: Joey

you've really been a terrible friend lately…if there's something wrong you can tell me

You watched as the "delivered" text turned into "read at 8:30pm". It wasn't long before the three grey dots appeared showing you that he was typing out a response. Sitting up from your slouched position on the couch, your heart race increases as you imagine all the possible responses to his reasoning for being such a shitty friend.

This better be a good fucking reason, you thought watching the gray dots appear and reappear again as if he was typing out a whole novel worth. You clicked your phone off and placed it beside you, not wanting to look at the screen any longer, hoping that it will somehow make his response come faster. You wish that he was face to face so you could take a read at his expression, maybe he'll feel guilty that he's treating you like this or angry as he expresses what you might've done to make him act this way.

Eventually, your phone buzzes, and a sigh leaves you as you muster up the courage to open the message. And when you do, your mouth slackens.

From Joey <3

That's certainly not the response you were looking forward to, did he really just send you a one-word—not even a whole word—a one-letter text? Despite being absent in your presence it felt like he had landed the biggest slap on your face, followed by a simple "fuck you". The analogy was a bit drastic, sure but so was his response. It was deceptively simple, though it tells you a lot.

Your finger itches to hit the call button and give him an earful of scornful remarks. But you decided against it, knowing it would only add insult to injury he's clearly got an issue with you, and instead of being the one who does the chasing, you're going to let him come to you.

"Fuck him." You grumbled, shutting off your phone and tossing it aside with a little more force than usual as if you were imagining it hitting his face. Letting out a pitiful huff you look at the variety of snacks you had gotten scattered on the coffee table, including your best friend's favorites.

Without giving him another thought, you reluctantly grabbed the bowl of popcorn and turned on the TV. Your movements were sluggish and unintentionally nonchalant, the curiosity was still nagging in the back of your mind.

What the hell did I do to him?

"I'm sure you didn't do anything wrong," Mrs. Burrow assures you, a ground rake in her hands as she smooths out the soil bed. You stood in the middle of the miniature garden surrounded by vigorous plants, fruits, and vegetables. After your somber movie night two days ago, your curiosity only grew about Joe's unorthodox behavior. Despite telling yourself you weren't going to go on a wild goose chase for him.

Truth be told, you had too much of an empathic nature about you to give him the cold shoulder right back. As much as you wanted to, that was simply not your character.

You were his best friend, someone with whom he can tell everything whether it was good or bad. It felt very defective to brush him off aside not knowing if he was undergoing something that was truly difficult. To have a better insight along with some real needed advice, you decide to unleash your complications on Mrs. Burrow, his mom. Hoping to have a clear-cut understanding of what's been going on with her son.

"Has he contacted you since?" She adds, pausing a moment to stick the tool into the ground leaning against it, with one hand on her hip.

You bit your lip, looking off to the side. "He tried to,"

"What does that mean?" She furrowed her eyebrows curiously.

"He texted me yesterday morning and I left it on read." You said almost shamefully as you realize how immature it appears. But you honestly didn't care. If he was going to act petty with you for whatever reason, you were going to do the same with him. "It was only a Spongebob meme, but that's his way of trying to act like everything is okay." You were sure of it.

"You kids are truly something else, I don't like seeing you guys like this." Mrs. Burrow shook her head in disapproval.

"He's the one who started it!" You exclaim, feeling a sense of deja vu of the time when you and Joe were kids and would point the finger at each other about who broke her favorite vase. "Sorry, I'm probably putting you in a really awkward position right now." You said sheepishly, making your way to the small two-person table and taking a seat with a sigh.

She followed suit taking a seat on the opposite side of you, the rake still in her hands.

"Honey, you're fine. This is just all so unsuspected." She says.

And you could see why, you and Joe hardly ever had any problems, sure you guys would bicker about something every now and then. But it has never come down to this where one is being hostile towards the other, you could remember the times you were mad at him for no less than two days, let alone have the ability to be disdainful for weeks like he's been with you.

That's what hurts the most, him allowing himself to be distant without a care in the world, acting as if though it doesn't affect him. Here you were mind going crazy about what he's possibly going through, yet it seems to be he doesn't give two-shits about how you're feeling and concerns right now.

"I don't know what to do," You said, sounding completely defeated, leaning your chin in your palm.

"Maybe you should go talk to him, face to face?" She suggests.

"Yeah, I guess that wouldn't be too terrible." You agreed reluctantly, that had been your next move even though a part of you wanted him to come to you instead.

"So," Mrs. Burrow said with a smile. "I hear you're dating someone."

You let your face light up in surprise at her abrupt mention of your dating life, automatically knowing who informed her.

"His name is Malik." You told her though you're more for certain that she already knew that.

She let out a hum, before looking at you seriously. "Is he treating you right? I heard he's a bit of a playboy."

You wanted to roll your eyes, of course, Joe ranted off his hatred for Malik, saying the same shit, yes Malik had his reputation as a playboy back in high school. However, years passed and a lot has changed so much that you didn't even recognize him when you ran into each other at the grocery store, the presumptuous and egoistic high school boy you once knew was now replaced with an amiable and responsible man. Yet you couldn't get Joe to see that, no matter how much you pleaded and begged for him to hear you out about Malik he simply wouldn't listen.

You still remember the day you told him about the first date you were going on with Malik, angry was an understatement describing how Joe reacted.

Multiple curses fell from your lips, as you stood in front of the bathroom mirror struggling to wrap your thick and luxuriant hair into a neat ponytail. Due to how voluminous your hair is, your hands were insignificant trying to grasp every single strand. This has been a complication with you for as long as you could remember, when your hair is not tamed you would always need a second pair of hands to assist. And those hands would always lead to,

"Joey!" You called out, letting your arms flop down to your sides in defeat. He was supposed to have a lunch date with his friends who were bringing their gfs/wives, not wanting to feel like the oddball he invited you to keep him company. You were supposed to leave twenty minutes ago, and you just knew if you kept taking a chance with your hair it would be hours.

Grasping your brush and two ecstatic hairbands, you left the bathroom.

"Yeah?" His voice sounded muffled coming from all the way downstairs.

You skipped down the stairs and made your way into the living room seeing him sitting on the edge of the sofa, legs spread, with his phone in hand, eyes focused on the screen.

"Can you help?" You asked, holding up your hands which held the brush and hairband.

Almost immediately he pulls his attention away from his phone to look at you with a small smile. "Sure, c'mere."

Your heart skipped a beat at his attention towards you, you made your way towards him without saying a word, you handed him the brush and hair band before plopping down on the floor in between his legs. His thick thighs caged you in, barley being covered due to the pink shorts he wore, you were so close to him the scent of his cologne filled your senses.

This was a bad idea, you thought, feeling him carefully brush your hair. Relishing in his gentle touch, you had been in the position many times before with him helping you with your hair, why does it feel different now? The answer is, In those times you didn't stupidly develop a crush on him.

As much as you tried to ignore it, those thousands of butterflies swarming around inside you couldn't be stopped. Or the hopelessly long gazes you found yourself giving him when he wasn't looking. It was incredibly impossible not to fall for him. He's so sweet, considerate, understanding, yet so complex in many things as well as being extremely overprotective. But you didn't care, he wouldn't be Joe if he didn't have all those aspects about him.

A small sigh of content escapes you before you could stop it, due to how engrossed you were into thinking about the man that was generously helping out in doing your hair.

He paused and set the brush aside before grasping both of your cheeks, tilting your head back so you could look at him in an upside down Spiderman kiss way.

"You good?" He asks, his thumb rubbing by your hairline.

A shiver went down your spine at the seemingly loving gesture. Sometimes you wonder if Joe ever felt an ounce of the same feelings you have for him. But then you remember Joe has always been affectionate and gentle towards you, it wouldn't be right for you to try and make it into something that it's not.

Giving him a weak smile you nodded your head that was currently being cradled in his large hands. "I'm fine."

"C'mon you can tell me." His eyes twinkled with curiosity at your feeble response.

No you can't, you really couldn't not without dying from shame and embarrassment.

"Really I'm fine" you say , looking deep into his blue eyes a few strands of hair fell down his forehead from him leering over you, your fingers itching to brush it away.

Joe starts to open his mouth to say something when the phone that was in the front pocket of your shorts began ringing. He removes his hands from your face and settles them back into your hair as you retrieve your phone.

You looked at the caller ID and noticed it said 'Malik' almost immediately you hurriedly pressed ignore in guilt. Here you were sitting in between the legs of your best friend who you have a huge crush on, while the guy that was taking you out on Friday night was calling you.

"Who's Malik?" Joe asks with a familiar caution in his voice.

Oh boy, you knew a wave of excessive protection was headed your way. Along with some serious interrogation, after your last not-so-pretty breakup two years ago almost every boy you ever showed interest since then Joe manages to scare them off. These days you won't dare mention a guy that you were seeing in wary of Joe's overprotective tendencies.

"Malik, ya know from high school? I ran into him at the store two weeks ago, um, we've been talking since," You trailed off, noticing the brushing of your hair was getting slower and slower. You could practically hear the gears turning inside his head. " He wants to take me out on Friday."

"Malik as in, Malik Jack-ass?!" He exclaimed, stopping his movements.

You glanced over your shoulder, his expression was hard to read but you could tell the bits of shock coming from it.

"It's Jackson, and yes." You say, not wanting to refer him to the nickname you and Joe came up with in high school.

"What the hell are you doing talking to him?" The wrinkles between his eyebrows appeared as he looked at you with confusion and annoyance.

"Because I can? Look, he's not the same Malik from high school okay? He's really changed." You explained.

He lets out a scoff. "And you know that from the amount of time you've been talking to him, which is?"

You hated how he made sense.

"Two weeks," You mumble out, watching Joe throw his hand up in the air in exaggeration. "But, I can just tell he's different now! If he was the same guy back then, I wouldn't last a day talking to him."

"You don't think he still has those same qualities ? People just don't get rid of that shit, that's usually the type of person that they are!" His voice was heavy with fury and his eyes were narrowed. Joe always has a protective effect over you, but you've never seen him express this much anger over a guy you were talking to.

"Whatever Joe, it's not cool to judge people from their past, especially when they were in high school!" You shot back, turning your body back around prompting him to continue with your hair.

"I'm not being judgemental I'm simply taking into consideration the way he's treated girls so he won't do the same to you." He gathers your hair a little roughly and tight forming it into a high ponytail causing you to hold on to his bare thigh for stability as you wince.

"Ow! Take it easy," You scolded, swatting him on the leg. "And he won't!" You said after he was finished, turning back around to face him, still sitting in between his thighs.

"How would you know? You're not going on the date." He responded, you gave him a look of bewilderment .

Did you hear that right?

"Excuse me?" You questioned, eyebrows being raised in shock.

"You heard me, I'd be the worst fucking friend ever to let you set yourself up for disaster like that." His jaw was clenched, and you noted the way he said the word 'friend' almost as if he was disgusted to call himself that which confused you a whole lot more.

"You're not acting like my friend, you're straight up acting like my goddamn father right now! Which is so fucking annoying let me do what I want to do Joe, I'm not helpless." You huffed out, due to you being only two years younger than him for as long as you could remember Joe looked at you as if you weren't responsible or competent . He had his reasons to think that, back when you were younger however you needed him to know that you were twenty-three years old, very much capable of handling your own situations and relationships.

Joe looks at you for what seems like forever with mixed emotions, before letting out a humorless laugh and throwing up his hands as if he was backing off. "Okay, you got it, I'll be sure to refrain from saying "I fucking told you so" when shit doesn't work out the way you wanted it to."

And he was right, things hadn't been working out the way you wanted to, but Malik wasn't the problem—far from it actually, it was you, for the longest you'd been trying to force the feelings you have for Joe to disappear and create something with Malik. Which ultimately made you try to walk in a relationship with only for the convenience it brings. You were content for the time being but you weren't truly over the moon or jumping with joy. All because you couldn't shake off the devotion you have for Joe. In the short time of five months with Malik you've found yourself thinking about him.

Every.Single.Time

Whenever Malik pulls you into a hug, you couldn't help but to think about Joe's much longer and stronger ones being wrapped around you. When he goes to give you a kiss, you imagine the lips you've been itching to taste for years, being pressed against yours. There was no way around it, and you felt completely horrible knowing Malik didn't deserve any of it. Which is why you ended things with him two weeks ago.

You inform Mrs. Burrow that you were currently single and weren't seeing him anymore. Her face contorts in surprise, with a bit of joy?

"Oh dear, what happened? He didn't do anything, did he?" She asks with concern

"No, it just didn't feel right, I guess." Your words come out in a mumble of shame, knowing you ended a potentially good relationship with someone due to your overwhelming love you have for your best friend who's currently ignoring you.

"Hm, wasn't the kind of guy that you're going for?" She says with a knowing smile, you felt as if her words had a double meaning to them or maybe your detection was off.

"No," You let out a sigh. " He wasn't."

"Does Joe know?" She asked curiously.

"No, don't think he'll care too much anyway." You shrugged.

"You don't know that, it'll probably make his day." She waves her hand dismissively, causing your eyebrows to knit together.

At first, her words confused you, why would Joe be happy? There was no reason for him to be before your realization hits you like a truck. You remember Joe's off Standish behavior when you first brought Malik around him, it was at a small get-together party hosted by your mutual friend from high school, and his displeasure went unnoticed by everyone. You thought it was just his socially awkward persona, but now you are looking back at all the times his mood went black whenever Malik was in his presence. Now that you are in deep thought about it, you realize that the whole time you were with Malik Joe was slowly distancing himself from you.

Was he still holding his animosity towards your decision to date Malik?

"I assume you'll be able to make it this weekend though right?" She says, breaking you away from your thoughts.

Your eyebrows furrowed in confusion. "What's going on this weekend?"

"The trip to Hocking Hills," She said. "Joe told me you wouldn't be able to make it because you made plans with Malik."

"I'll try to make it." You told her, depending on how your visit with Joe would go.

After chatting with Mrs. Burrow for a couple of minutes you finally said your goodbyes and made your way to your car. As you drive down the familiar street of Joe's neighborhood, in preparation for how this unsuspected visit from you will go. You couldn't help but feel nervous, not knowing what the outcome will be. Eventually, you made it to his luxurious townhouse, as you parked behind his Porsche in the driveway you notice an unfamiliar car parked in front of the lawn with the engine running, when you got out and walked up the gravel walkway you glance at the green neon lights in the windshield, squinting your eyes you realize the word 'uber' is branded inside the car.

As you neared the entrance of the home, you went to lift up your hand to knock on the door. But before you could do that, the door swung open revealing not only a shirtless Joe but a girl next to him who made you do a double take due to the fact she was a girl you didn't think Joe would go for, she's a girl who looks just like you.

The sight has you completely baffled, she has your exact physique, along with the same type of full hair, and the same skin complexion. The only thing you notice that's different is her facial features, which helped with noticeable botox.

Definitely a instagram model, you thought eyes dancing around her entire physique. Her own eyes looked you up and down condescending.

"Did I come at a bad time?" You asked taking a quick glance at Joe noticing his arm wrapped around the girl's waist.

"No you're fine." Joe clears his throat before saying. "This is-"

"Abby! My name is Abby" The girl interrupts give you smug smile as she offers her hand.

You took another look at Joe before bringing your attention to Abby grasping her hand with a tense smile. "Y/n, nice to meet you."

"I didn't know, you were coming over" Joe spoke, his voice laced with surprise and his face burned red as if he'd been caught sticking his hand in the cookie jar.

"Yeah, thought I'd pop up to see how you were doing." You cut your eye at him as you gave him a sarcastic smile.

Abby clears her throat looking between you two, more specifically you as she takes note of your tensed expression as you glare at the man beside her.

"Well, um, I'm gonna head out." Abby spoke, sensing the tension, she turned to Joe and gave him a sly smile. "Call me?"

He struggles to look at her as he replies."I will stay safe."

Abby proceeds to walk out giving you a subtle nod as you watch her walk down the walkway and into the backseat of the Uber, when the car door closes you turn to face Joe with a raised eyebrow.

"What's that look?" He asks as you step inside, closing the door behind you.

"Nothing, just surprising your dipping your toe into something new." You said turning around to face him, taking in his disheveled appearance. His hair was slightly messy with a few curls dropping down, and his sweatpants hung low. Before you slipped into the depths of a salivating horn ball, you quickly looked away. "Or should I say your dick?"

Joe let out a breathless chuckle, running his hand over his hair multiple times. "What are you doing here?"

"What are you doing here?" You mocked, Joe rolled his eyes at your childish answer as he stepped away from the doorway. "The real question is, what's up with your attitude lately?" You follow him out of the foyer and into the living room, where you spot two empty wine glasses. With a frown you turned your attention elsewhere, hating the fact that it was more likely when you were sitting watching horrible movies all night by yourself, Joe was accompanying someone else as you drowned in sorrow from his absence.

"Nothing, I've just been busy." He says looking everywhere but your face as he grabs the glasses from the coffee table and heads to the kitchen.

"With Abby?" You say, leaning your forearms against the island counter as you watch him place the glasses in the sink. "Is that why you're acting like this?" You questioned again, You couldn't help the bitterness in your tone, from jealousy and anger.

From all the years you've known Joe, you know that he likes to keep his relationships private, and behind closed doors. He has a history of withholding his relationship status for the longest until he suddenly pops up with a girl on his arm randomly. To this day he wouldn't gossip about any girl that he takes interest in, he'd rather keep it to himself. Displaying his romantic life with anyone for Joe was a no-go.

"Acting like what? and no, she's just a friend." He responds, rinsing the glasses. His back was turned to you, showing a clear view of his toned muscular shoulder blades with faint red scratch marks. You managed to force yourself to look away, automatically knowing that his definition of her being a "friend" meant that her role is a casual hookup.

"A "friend" who you ditched your real friend for?" You questioned shooting daggers at the back of his head, before adding. "Your best friend actually, who had to spend her Friday night alone."

"Is that what this visit is about?" He asked turning around while letting out a small huff when he noticed the small glare upon your pretty features, ignoring the way how cute your nose scrunched up or your soft lips form into a pout.

"Yes! amongst other things, I want to get clear with you." You answered, relaxing your hostile stare.

He let out a hum briefly looking you up and down before saying. "What is it?"

You stood up straighter fiddling with your car keys in hand. "Are you still mad at me for dating Malik? Is that why you've been trying to be distant?"

The curiosity in you peaked more as you watched him draw back, his demeanor appearing to be flabbergasted, while he battled with himself to give you an answer. You wonder if he was conflicted between telling the truth or giving you a bold face lie.

"No, I'm not mad about your dating life. You are your own person. It's not my place to have a say about who you chose to have in your life." He finally says, after a couple minutes of silence. "You're happy, that's all that matters."

You laughed sarcastically. "You know, that would be so touching if it were true."

"It is the truth!"

"If it is, then why are you being so shitty towards me?" You pressed.

"I have not. You're being ridiculous."

"No, you are. You canceled on me yet again!"

Joe rolls his eyes. "Me canceling your plan to hangout automatically makes me a shitty person? Really?"

"No but doing it consistently and purposely makes you one." You said not understanding how can he not see what you were coming from.

"Oh that's rich coming from you." He chuckles as he shook his head.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"How many times have you canceled out on me to make plans with Malik? Do you see me coming into your home calling you a "shitty person" ? No! So cut all of this bullshit out!" His voice is raised and you could see redness creeping upon his neck.

He was getting angry.

"Are you serious? I have never stood you up for Malik it was always work-related." You look at him in disbelief before chuckling." Every time you find a way to bring him up, that just goes to show me you are acting like this because of him."

For some reason you didn't want to tell him you ended things with Malik. The fact he was willing to be mad at you for your choice to date him and neglect you because of it has you pissed.

He threw his hands up in frustration while letting out a deep sigh. "I'm not doing this with you."

"Doing what?"

"Having an argument. Because I called off on a stupid movie night." He furrows his eyebrows as he stares down at you with annoyance. "Don't you have a boyfriend to do that with any way or was he too busy balls deep in another chick to care?"

You felt a deep ache in your stomach as the words leave his mouth. You were hurt for two reasons: him calling your movie night "stupid" especially since you went all out for it buying his favorite snacks and the fact he couldn't see that you really wanted to spend time with him. Not Malik. Him the man who you're really in love with.

"What's really stupid is that you neglect me because you hate Malik so much!" This time your voice was raised as you glare at him.

"I already told you that's not true I've been busy!" He yells running a hand through his hair in frustration.

"Bullshit!" You shouted in return before trying to calm yourself. "Honestly I better go before I say something I regret later."

Joe scoffs while shrugging. "You know where the door is."

You bit the inside your cheek resisting the urge to reach over the counter wrapping your hands around his neck. However, you were never a violent person and couldn't imagine putting your hands on your best friend. So instead without giving him a glance you snatch your keys from the counter muttering under your breath "I hope Abby gave you crabs"

"What did you say?" He asked pushing himself away from the counter. You purposely didn't respond knowing it was one of his biggest pet peeves. As you proceeded to head towards the front door, you could hear his footsteps trailing after you.

"Fine you don't have to tell me, just know I won't be answering your calls or texts!" He shouted after you.

You laughed sarcastically. "Oh what will I ever do without talking to you."

"That's funny considering that's the exact reason you're here right now" He said smugly.

There is no doubt that he has you there, but you cannot allow him to have the final word.

"Unfortunately Malik was unavailable." You shot back .

"Yeah spending time with his other girlfriend I'd assume." Damn he won.

"Shut up!"

"You shut up!"

"Don't tell me to shut up!"

"Just did!"

You would've laughed at the childish banter if you weren't highly annoyed. Leave it to you two to argue like children. Without saying another word you yank the front door opened and proceeded to walk angrily over to your car.

Joe shut the door loudly with a sigh hearing your car drive away. He hates fighting with you, in fact, he hates anything that causes a frown on your face. And knowing he was the reason made him feel like shit. Of course, when you confronted him about being distant, he knew where you were coming from. You were right he has been pushing you away because of Malik. He felt as if its the right thing to do. It made him sick to his stomach that Malik gets to hold and kiss you the way he's been yearning to do for years. To the point the feeling was becoming overwhelming he needed to stay away. Of course, he feels guilty and a little disgusted with himself to put you in the position of feeling like you've done something wrong.

Especially since it's not your fault he's fallen head over heels for you.

The situation is definitely not easy to be in since he's convinced you for sure don't love him like he loves you. Each day goes by and it feels like the feeling grows stronger and gets deeper. He knows feeling this way will only cause a great deal of trouble. The love continues to evolve whenever you were near even when you two were arguing he felt his heart swell with heavy emotion. There were many times he thought about just blurting out how much he's in love with you however in came that fear of confessing to someone you've been close to and tarnishing the indestructible bond you developed.

In fact he would rather suffer knowing you are smitten by another man , than to not have you as his best friend. He couldn't imagine losing you even though it already felt as if he had the minute you told him you're dating Malik.

Letting out another deep sigh, Joe walked into his living room and plopped down on the couch fishing his phone from his pocket to try and get his mind off you for once. Of course, that didn't go well because as soon as he opened his phone he was met with a picture of the two of you on his lock screen.

The picture was taken by his mom on the day of his 25th birthday when you gifted him a bouquet of peach-colored flowers. He remembers the embrace he pulled you in tightly, the pleasant smell of your natural, earthy, and rich scent as he thanked you. As well, he recalls pulling away when his mom announced that she was taking a picture of you both with her brand-new digital camera. Immediately you jumped up in his arms, and your legs were wrapped sideways around his waist in a hip carry position. No surprise there you were always an intimate hugger, never shying away to hold someone close. Your arms encircled his neck, he could feel his cheek pressing against yours as his right forearm gripped your waist and his left hand held the flowers firmly. You smiled brightly as the camera flashed.

Ultimately it became his favorite photo of you both, mostly because how naturally you two looked so much like a couple.

Additionally, the picture managed to capture his favorite piece of jewelry on you. You received it as a college graduation present from him: a two-piece diamond anklet bracelet. The idea of him spending a large amount of money on something so small on you was something you absolutely didn't want to accept at first. It seems you never take it off now, which he really enjoys.

A caller ID soon took over his screen interrupting his gaze. He answers it without hesitation.

"Hey Mom, what's up?" He said.

"Nothing much just finished making your father and I's lunch." Said Mrs.Burrow. "You know Mrs. Elwood from down the street? The nice lady that used to give you and y/n's those gigantic candy bars? Poor thing fell down the stairs."

"Really? That's terrible. Is she okay?" Joe furrowed his eyebrows in concern.

"She suffered a broken hip unfortunately but other than that she's fine. Luckily her daughter was visiting and immediately called 911. So she's currently in the hospital right now, maybe you and y/n can visit her ?" She tells him.

He stayed silent for a moment not knowing if he should tell his mom about the argument he'd just had with you.

"Joe? Hello?"

"Yeah, Ma I'll see." He murmurs picking at the loose thread of his sweatpants. With ample opportunity he'll visit he just wasn't so sure you'll both go together.

"Honey are you okay? you sound a bit down when you picked up the phone." She could immediately detect the sourness in his tone.

"Me and Y/N kinda gotten into an argument." He blurts out, knowing there was no way he could get away from his mom's intuition.

There was silence on the other end for a minute. Now it was Joe's turn to call out. "Mom you there?"

"I'm here, just thinking what in god's name is going on with you two. "

"I don't know mom, she came over bringing up the fact I'm not being a good friend to her." He explains. "Then it escalated from there."

"Was it a really bad argument?"

He shook his head as if she could see him. "No. It was just ridiculous. Her argument completely stems from the fact I didn't join her for movie night."

"And why didn't you?" His mom asked curiously.

"I've been busy." Joe said defensively.

"With what?"

"You know working out, training camp is in a couple weeks. Umm—" He stops to think of any other things he was currently doing which wasn't much.

"Here I'll finish it for you, avoiding my best friend because I'm in love with her and I don't like the fact that she's dating someone." She said in a mocking deep voice.

"Mom!"

"What?! That's exactly what you're doing Joey. And you are breaking her heart in the process." She scowls. "This method of trying to make your feelings go away is not doing you any good. You need to tell her how you feel now is a perfect time."

"How is now the perfect time mom? pretty sure she's got me on her block list." He said while rolling his eyes and he wasn't kidding he knew you can get petty like that.

"For one she's coming on the trip-" His mom started to say but what cut off.

"Mom I already told you she can't make it." He huffs out sinking deeper into a grumpy mood remembering why you're not going. Fucking Malik Jack-ass's birthday since when did you actually give a shit? he swears he never thought he'd see the day.

"Yeah, when she was dating that Malik guy," Robin says and he could practically see the smirk on her face.

What?

"What do you mean?" He asks incredulously. There was a tugging in his heart as his mind process her words. What does she mean by "was dating"? He was certain you were still seeing Malik and you weren't going on the trip.

"I mean Romeo, your girl is single and she's making it to the trip this weekend."

He felt as if ice-cold water have been thrown on him. Millions of questions were running rapidly in his head. You and the Jack-ass broke up? Since when? Why didn't you tell him?

Before he could utter out another word his mom continues to clarify.

"I talked to her earlier when she came over pretty upset by you and told me during our conversation." She adds.

"What? why didn't she tell me?" Joe now felt bad and concerned as to what the hell might've happened between you and Malik.

"She said you probably wouldn't care considering the way you're acting toward her."

If he felt bad before, he now feels like shit. It was a fight between happiness and having pins and needles stick him repeatedly. Before he can do any internal celebrating he needs to know if you were distraught in any kind of way. No matter how long he waited for this day to come he couldn't be happy with himself knowing you were undergoing heartbreak.

"Did she say why?" He said carefully his mind racing with all the possibilities of why you two would break up; Did the old Malik show up? Was he not giving you the amount of attention you deserve?.

"Just that he wasn't the guy she was going for," Robin said reassuringly she knew how passionate Joe was about you. " Don't worry she said he didn't do anything bad, they ended things on good terms."

With that, Joe finds himself at ease but only for a bit, he couldn't fully relax unless he hears it from you directly face-to-face. He wants to know you're not sugar-coating anything in protection for Malik because God knows how badly he's been wanting an excuse to punch him square in the face. Joe was never a fighter by no means but when it comes to his love he wouldn't hesitate to protect.

You hated packing.

Mostly because you were terrible at it. In the past you overpacked so much you felt ridiculous, now you're scrambling around trying to limit the number of outfits and necessities. You tried to make it a thought process but ultimately threw in what you felt is necessary. With a huff, you zipped your travel bag not feeling entirely satisfied you knew once you get to the resort you'd forgotten something. For a moment you thought about not actually going, the argument with Joe still had you in a sour mood best friends or not there's no way you'll enjoy being in his presence for three whole days. But despite that, you knew you couldn't leave Robin in the lurch especially after giving your word.

Halfway through you gathering your items, three loud knocks were heard at the door. Furrowing your eyebrow you checked your phone to see who could be possibly stopping by, but nothing. There wasn't any new text messages and the last person you to talk with was Robin telling her you were still getting ready.

Your feet padded along the carpeted floor toward the door, and curiosity peaked until it didn't. Standing there dressed in a white tee and white hoochie daddy shorts, is Joe practically towering over you.

Immediately your eyebrows were pulled down as you eyed him." What are you doing here?"

"You look nice." He said, looking over your appearance. Nice being an understatement, you looked beautiful, he thank God for the heatwave Cincinnati was currently experiencing because if it weren't for that you wouldn't be standing there in a mini floral print lace dress. You never really wore dresses or anything that showed off your body casually, always finding comfort in baggy stylish clothes. You've always preferred to rather leave something to the imagination. That's one of the things he loves about you.

"Thanks." You mumble, tugging at the cropped cardigan even though it was almost crossing over to 90 degrees outside. Despite the compliment, you still kept your tone cold. "Now are you going to answer my question?"

"Can I come in first? I brought lunch." He helped up a bag in his hand that you didn't notice before.

You contemplate for a minute eyes darting between him and the bag, which has the logo of your favorite restaurant on it. He's trying to butter me up, you thought getting a whiff of the fresh food.

Without saying a word you step aside, you told yourself you were only doing this because you missed out on breakfast. Like knowing the back of his hand Joe navigates through your condo and into your living room. He set the food bag on the coffee table before sitting on the curved sectional sofa. There his expression flicker to something unreadable as he makes eye contact with you.

"Why are you showing up here unannounced?" You asked while taking a seat in your lounge chair.

"Like you did with me a couple days ago?" He raised an eyebrow at you, his tone wasn't irritated or vexed but rather amusing in fact if you weren't mistaken he seem to be in a good mood. A certain glow in his demeanor catches your attention. His overall presence felt relaxed and less annoyed the opposite of what you've seen for months now.

Abby probably lifted up his mood this morning The thought left a bitter feeling in your chest and for that, it made your glare towards him even harder.

Joe notices your harsh stare and chuckles finding it rather cute, of course, he knew you were rightfully mad at him but he couldn't help it your angry faces were never intimidating in the slightest. "Would you stop pouting? you're gonna get wrinkles by the time you hit thirty."

"You still haven't answered my question as to why you are here." You started crossing your legs as well as your arms.

"Maybe if you hadn't blocked my number, you would know." He said reaching into the bag and pulling out the take-out containers. The fresh smell had your stomach grumbling and mouth-watering

"Well, you did say not to call or text." You shrugged. "I was just making it easier for you."

"It isn't. Believe me, not exactly a good day if I don't hear from you. " He sighs. His voice sounded soft and gentle you'd never heard him speak like this before. As soon as his pale blue eyes met yours, you instantly felt a tickling sensation at the pit of your stomach as if millions of butterflies were crowded in one tiny room.

He looks at you with so much....love? no, It can't be. You wanted to scoff at your own delusions of course you would mistake his happy mood for something that's not that there.

Clearing your throat and breaking away from his eyes. "Are you going to answer my question?"

"Do I have to? C'mon, you know we always ride together whenever we go on a trip." Joe didn't care how mad you were at him, there's no way you could break a tradition like that.

"Who says I'm going on the trip?" You said nonchalantly. Though you had a pretty good idea of who it was that told him.

He rolled his eyes. "My mom told me. But you already knew that, so would you stop being stubborn?"

You expected him to elaborate more on what Robin told him specifically about the fact why you weren't seeing Malik anymore but it never came.

You raised an eyebrow while scoffing. "Forgive me for not wanting to be stuck in the car you."

"Look, I know you're still mad at me and for that I'm sorry. Let me make it up to you the best way I know how."

"By giving me food?" You quirked an eyebrow while accepting the container he handed off to you.

He chuckles showing off a duchenne smile. "Well I don't know anything other than food that will make you forgive me."

Your love and affection

a kiss maybe ?

"Coughing up Tee's number didn't cross your mind?" You half-joked. If you weren't stupidly in love with your best friend Tee would definitely be the guy you'll try to go for. He's so sweet and smells good every time you're around him.

Joe instantly loses his smile as he looks at you irritated. Making you laugh out loud. You don't know why, but it amuses you when Joe always felt strange at the thought of you with someone from his team. In fact, he told you it would feel similar, liking one of his blood brothers. "No, It didn't. It never will."

"Don't worry, I'll get it out of you somehow." You assured.

"Good luck with that." He says, shaking his head.

"I'm guessing you're not going to leave until I agree to ride with you, huh?" You inquired as you observed him comfortably lean back into the sofa. He took up the majority of the space, sitting there with his legs wide open and one arm stretched out.

God, you were supposed to be mad at him. But him sitting there looking like that your grudge is becoming fruitless.

"You guessed right. I'm not leaving here without you." He clarifies keeping his eyes trained on you. His gaze has been possessing since the moment he walked in. You heart skips a beat it was a look you certainly wasn't used to coming from him.

Lord give me strength. You thought while swallowing as you focus your attention back on your food.

The humming engine and music faintly played in the background filled the silence in the car. As Joe drove along the highway, one hand on the wheel, the other was picking at his lip. It's about an hour into the ride, and you have yet to indulge in a full conversation with him, only talking in a monotone, giving him occasional one-worded responses, and even answering with "k". He knew you were on some petty payback plan and had every right to be. Back at your condo, he thought maybe the food he'd bring will soften you up to him and it did, but only for a moment. As soon as you two hit the road, you were disconnected from him. Now he was left feeling pretty angsty, never have you two been on a quieter ride in your entire life, especially on a road trip. He really fucked up. With a sigh, he took snuck a peek at you and was met with the most endearing sight.

As your head rested against the window, hands crossed and eyelids hanging low, you stared ahead dazed. Sleep was just a few seconds away. Soft puffy lips he'd dreamt of kissing so many times were slightly parted. The wind that was coming through the window was blowing you long coils all around, you looked ethereal. And even more so in that dress, he wonders if Malik ever had the chance to see you in it or if was he the first person to witness such beauty. Sundresses were never your go-to summer fit so probably.

He came to the realization that you had taken off your sweater and that the strap of your dress had fallen off your shoulder revealing more of the swell of your breast. That's when he saw them. Tiny parallel streaks of thinned glossy skin printed on the slope of your breast. Stretch marks. He'd heard you complain about them to your girlfriends over the phone one time calling the marks ugly.

How so wrong you were. He felt they made you more enticing. Lifelike even. They were an everyday beauty of something he'll like to see often. Striking and heavenly just like you.

The sound of a loud horn pulls him away from his stare.

"Shit!" He cursed loudly placing both hands on the wheel as the angry driver of the semi-truck blew their horn again.

You jerked up in surprise a shriek left your lips as the car narrowly avoid contact.

"Jesus! Joey are you trying to kill us?!" You shouted, heart, feeling like it was ready to burst from your chest.

"Sorry, I kind of spaced out." He replied. His face beat red not sure if it was from almost crashing or the embarrassing fact that you were the reason he was distracted. You were quite literally going be the death of him.

"You're red." You stated with a frown of concern. "Are you okay? Do you want me to drive?"

"No! I'm fine, really." He clears his throat keeping his eyes forward. "Just the heat is getting to me I guess."

The window was immediately rolled up and you reached for the console control panel, where you tapped the ventilation system and selected 'fast air conditioning' without saying a word.

It was something any normal person would do if they were in the middle of a heat wave, however, since he knew you always preferred to have your window down. He didn't bother turning on the air.

Silence filled the car for the next few minutes with Joe's attention fully on the road with a faint smile.

You notice. "What's that grin for?"

"You called me Joey."

"And?" You said wanting him to elaborate more.

"That means you aren't mad at me anymore. Whoohoo!" He cheered taking one hand off the wheel to reach over and enthusiastically shake your shoulder.

Your tongue poked the inside of your cheek trying not to smile at his over-the-top celebration. "Yeah, well, after nearly experiencing death I thought maybe holding a grudge isn't the best way to go out."

"Now who's the one being dramatic? We weren't going to die I had it under control."

"Lost in your thoughts so much you almost crashed is having it under control?" You raised an eyebrow watching him struggle to answer. "What were thinking about anyway?"

You, as always. He thinks.

"How much you were right about me." He says and then fell silent.

He could practically hear the gears in your head turning.

"What do you mean?"

Taking a deep breath his gaze remains on the road. " I didn't like the fact you were with Malik. "

"Why?" Your tone had a sense of hopefulness to it as if you were expecting him to say something.

"Because," He paused thinking over the next words that were going to leave his mouth before continuing to say. " I was stuck into thinking he was the same person from high school and I didn't want my best friend with someone who would hurt her in the end."

Joe missed the way your face dropped with disappointment.

"Well, he didn't."

"I heard. Are you sure you're okay?"

"Other than the fact I'm back to square one, I'd say I'm feeling fine." You said bitterly crossing your arms.

"Don't sweat it, the right one will come." He said.

You scoff. "Easy for you to say, you got people flocking to you left to right."

"Oh, and you don't?Superbowl girl" Joe teased.

You groaned out loud at him referring to the time you went viral for attending the Superbowl the camera broadcast you for millions to see for five seconds. Within a short period of time, you gained followers and thirsty users in your direct messages. For some reason, people thought you were attractive at that moment looking concerned for Joe as he lay on the ground withering in pain.

"You just had to bring that up." You said shaking your head with a smile.

Joe's chuckle erupts throughout the car. " I'm just saying I'm not the only one here whose dms looks like a thirst fest."

A laugh left your lips and he felt his heart swell. Even your laugh was beautiful. It was light and laced with amusement.

"You were right too you know." He looks over at you in confusion causing you to elaborate more. "Things didn't turn out the way I wanted."

"Like I said, don't sweat it. They will soon enough."

You and Joe continued joking, laughing, recalling nostalgic memories for the rest of the ride until you eventually arrived at a modern style lodge cabin. It wasn't over the top luxurious or anything but you can tell that it's sleek and spacious while still having a cozy atmosphere. With the car parked, you immediately got out and stretched while Joe circles around the car to retrieve the bags out the trunk.

"This looks peaceful." You comment looking at the cabin. The mellow glow of the evening sunset made it look extra harmonious.

"And isolated," Joe adds with a sigh.

"Sounds like you got a problem with that." You began to head for the walkway up to the cabin.

"I do." He says walking alongside you toward the entrance of the lodge each hand carrying his and your travel bag. "Easier for us to get killed. Next time I'm picking where we go, not my mom."

"I'll be sure to tell her that." You said in a sly tone.

"Don't you dare." He warned cutting his eye over to you.

Before you could say anything else the front door opens abruptly revealing Joe's mom in all her glory. A smile on her face when she spots you two climbing up stairs of the porch.

"Finally you both are here, I was afraid you guys got lost or something." She said ushering you both in.

Upon entering you were met with a bright and open generous space, with high ceiling and cedar wood construction walls. The entrance of the cabin is connected to the kitchen which is sleek and spacious. It also smelt of Joe's mom infamous meatloaf that has your stomach rumbling. From where you were standing you could into the grand living space that features a dramatic stone fire place and floor-to-ceiling windows. Next door is a formal dining area with the view of the back patio. If you had the option to live here you would gladly take it.

"We almost did. Since someone wanted to tell me about a shortcut they seen on Google maps." Joe not so subtly cut his eye over to you.

"You took that wrong turn,not me." You shot back remembering the moment of frustration when he misheard the direction he was given.

"And let's not forget we wouldn't be standing here at all because someone wanted to daydream behind the wheel." You added.

"What?!" His mom turn her head in direction.

"It was nothing I had it under control." Joe said sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck.

"Jesus, you know what next time we are all going in one vehicle."

"Speaking of next time, he said that you-"

"Ahem!" Out of nowhere Joe started to fake cough uncontrollably.

"You okay honey?"

"Yeah m'fine." He said clearing his throat. You wheeze out a chuckle that didn't go unnoticed by Joe who squints his eyes in your direction when his mom turned her back.

"Well anyway, your father and brothers went out to grab firewood for the firepit tonight. I'll show you both your room so you guys can get settled in." She says walking out the kitchen.

You didn't miss the way she said "room" instead of rooms and apparently Joe didn't either,

"We're sharing a room?"

"Yeah, when I initially thought y/n wasn't going I ended up booking a cabin that fit all of us."

You hated the way your stomach flutter with excitement and nervousness. Sharing a room with Joe was frequent when you were younger was easier and less nervous now as you are a full grown adult with feelings It feels like a dream and nightmare at the same time.

His mom lead you both to the other side of the house , passing the spiral stairs you thought you were going in the direction of. Instead she stops at the only bedroom located in the back of the house on the first level.

"Okay here we are!" She exclaims opening the door revealing a spacious rustic bedroom with wooden ceiling and walls, two large floor-to-ceiling windows faced the direction of the lake. You would've admired it more if the only bed in the room didn't capture your attention.

A faint ding of a timer goes off in a distance.

"That must be my dinner rolls. Get settled in you two!" A smile was thrown your way before she rushes out the room her kitten heeled sandals clicks loudly against the hardwood floor.

There was a pregnant pause as Joe silently walks over to the cushion storage bench to set your bags down. You examine more of the room, specifically to busy yourself from acknowledging the big fat elephant. For the life of you it felt like you couldn't tame your racing heart, sharing a bed with Joe was the last thing you needed in order to get rid of your feelings for him. There's no way you'll be able to get through the night.

"Looks like we got our own bathroom." Joe spoke, snapping you away from your racing thoughts.

You turned in his direction to see him walking inside the adjacent bathroom. Oddly enough you notice he didn't mention anything about the single bed. Clearly it wasn't a big deal for him and it should put you at ease however it raised even more questions. Is he expecting you to protest? Look for another place to sleep?

"Really? That's cool." You said trying to appear nonchalant as possible.

When he steps out the bathroom you see him look at the bed with a grimace. "Nope, absolutely not."

You felt like your heart fell down to your stomach in despair. It was because of you isn't it? Of course he doesn't want to share a bed with you he probably feels weird.

"What is it?" You asked in a quiet tone, pretending to take interest in the outside world.

He clearly sees you has someone who he didn't want to be that close and intimate with.

"It has too many pillows."

Oh.

You looked over and he was right; the king size bed were mostly filled with different sizes of pillows. Before you knew it he began to toss some of them at the foot of the bed.

"Is that necessary?"You asked standing near the opposite side of the bed.

"There going to end up on the floor anyway seeing that m' gonna be dealing with a wild sleeper tonight." He said with a teasing smile.

"I am not a wild sleeper." You said in denial.

"Sure," He sarcastically rolling his eyes.

"Well, you snore so I'll be dealing with that."

"What? No I don't."

"Do, too. You snore like your dad whenever he nods off in his comfy chair." You laughed.

He slowly licks his lips before pressing them together as an attempt to hide his smile and keep a straight face.

"Take that back right now."

"Nope. You sound exactly like this—" You said before mimicking the obnoxious loud sounds you once heard coming from him.

Seemingly out of nowhere he makes his way around the bed launching for you, quick. A shriek left you as he got a hold on you his hands latches their way to your sides fingers wiggling alongside your ribcage. Immediately bubbly laughter left you as you tried to get away not prepared the way his fingers danced around your weak spots.

"Joey! Stop!" You laughed as you fall laying on your back on the bed.

"Take it back." He playfully scolded. His hand moves down towards your stomach the place where he knows you're the most sensitive.

"Noho!"

"You know I haven't given these to you for awhile so you've asked for it now." He chuckles as you try to capture and stop his hands.

"W-wait, hold on!" You yell out rolling on to your sides as you try to move away. The fact that you could very well be revealing everything that underneath your dress wasn't a factor in that moment.

All you could think about the sensations you were experiencing and Joe's laugh in the air mixed with yours.

He began to tickle all over your neck and collarbone, your hands struggled to capture him in order to stop his movements. Soon you broke out in silent laughter. Tears forming at the corner of your eyes at the intensity of his tickles.

"S-s-stop it Joey!" You said in between giggles.

"Or what?" He taunts, pausing his movements.

"You really don't want to know." Your voice was giggly and non-threatening whatsoever.

"Oh yeah?" He said before his hands went back to work.

Your reaction is immediate, a shriek of laughter fell from your lips, legs flailing up causing your dress to rise more likely flashing Joe but you didn't care as you tried to pry his fingers away.

"Oh,my god. I can't breathe" You said.

He laughed. "Yes you can. Just say sorry and I'll stop."

"Wait,stop, joey."

"That's not sorry." He said.

"Okay! I'm sorry!" You gave in, just as his hand went to your thigh to continue the torture. Tiny droplets of tears rolled down your cheeks, which were weakly wiped away as you were still on the high of laughter.

As he hovers over you on the bed, his hands stop. While catching your breath, you realized the position you were in. Joe was on top of you with one leg caged in between yours, his small diamond chain dangling in front of your face. Relax, calm yourself. Even though you were telling yourself to refocus, that was easier said than done. Because as soon as your eyes met his, the same look he had given you at your condo appears yet again. The same covetous gaze you tried to justify.

He's staring at you like he wants you. Does he want me? You wondered full of hope.

Your heart will stop when he says what he says next.

"You have the most beautiful smile."

You've been complimented before by Joe. However, it has never been done with so much passion and desire. It was shocking and exciting. Especially from someone you never would've thought would speak to you that way. That someone who is your best friend.

But a friend just wouldn't look at you in the way he is now.

"Um, uh, thanks." You stammered out.

He smiles sheepishly. " Hope m' not making you feel weird."

With his large frame leering over you with his arms propping himself up on either side of your head along with that look. Feeling weird wouldn't even be on the list of the thing you're experiencing right now.

"You're fine." You said getting warm.

He opens his mouth to say something but the sound of loud voices could be heard down the hall. The sound of his dad and brothers voices.

Immediately he gets up as you follow suit adjusting your dress which had risen up quite high.

"I'm gonna go see if they need help with the firewood." He said before abruptly leaving the room quite flustered himself and was looking everywhere but you.

As the day progressed, you and Joe were in a state of awkwardness and uncertainty. As a result, you had allowed yourself to ignore the obvious tension and converse with his family throughout dinner. You couldn't help but glance at Joe, who was already staring at you before quickly averting his gaze elsewhere. However awkward it may have been for you, you can't now deny that he was at least attracted to you.

It had your head spinning and heart skipping. Yet you couldn't help but to feel confused as to why. Was it the dress? Or did he got caught up in the moment? The questions were embedded within your mind later on in the evening when you found yourself sitting around the fire, everyone was stuffed from dinner and delicious pumpkin pie all except Joe who is on his second serving of the dessert. Voices and laughter overbearing the crackling of the fire as you sat silent enjoying the nature and atmosphere around you.

You were brought out your thoughts by soft weight being layed upon your exposed shoulders.

"Hey, cover up with this ,honey it looks like your freezing." You turn your head to Joe's mom wrapping a chunky knit blanket around you.

"Thank you." You said in relief, she was right with the temperature drastically dropping down your thin dress was fruitless against the night weather. "Whatcha got there?"

"A guide of all the things we can go to and do tomorrow" She said taking a seat next to you in the empty camp chair a small pamphlet in her hand. "There's a winery and flower farm I think would be great to visit."

"That seems fun." You would actually agree to go anywhere, it hasn't even been an entire day yet you could feel yourself catching cabin fever already.

"Oh! I meant to ask if you were comfortable with the room situation? If you're not I can always make one of these goofballs room with each other." She gesture towards Joe and his brother who were joking around with each other.

"I don't mind it." You said and immediately cringing at how fast you answered.

"Good, maybe this be will your opportunity to confess your feelings to him ." She blurted out.

Your head whipped in her direction so quick you were surprised it didn't snap. "W-what?"

" The looks were giving at him during dinner alone gives it away, honey."

You wanted to be mendacious and deny. Though it would be pointless as one, you wouldn't come across as believable and two, she wouldn't buy it either way. To be cautious you took a glance in Joe's direction he was still engrossed in his conversation with his brother, it brought you a huge relief he didn't hear anything that was said. You would've probably died from embarrassment.

"It's that obvious huh?" You said with chuckle.

"He feels the same way to you know." She says casually. "You guys just needs to stop dancing around before it hurts you both."

"I don't want to risk ruining our friendship." You muttered, staring ahead at the fire. You knew your friendship is valued and didn't want it to end because you misinterpreted things with Joe.

"He is very attached to you, so I don't think that will happen."

Before you could utter another word a droplet falls from the sky and lands on your cheek followed by another. Soon came the sound of pounding thunder in a distance. Everyone immediately got up from their seats and began to scramble inside. Once you were away from the rain it seem everyone went their separate ways to call it a night.

After saying goodnight to Joe's parents you and him both proceeded to head towards your shared room. The room you'd been given that has one bed. There wasn't a single word uttered once you entered the room and has you walked over to your bag to fish out your pajamas which is a oversized looney tunez t-shirt gifted by the man himself and a pair of pajamas pants....which is not packed. Your eyes widened, the pajamas pants you were sure you packed weren't there.

You searched frantically in the bag hoping you may have overlooked but came up empty handed, except your underwear and t-shirt. God this is going to be awkward.

"What's wrong?" Joe asked taking off his shoes as a distressed sigh leaves your lips.

"Nothing I just forgot something." You mumbled out quickly going inside the bathroom to do your nightly routine.

Another deep sigh left you when you shut the door behind you and turned on the lights. The bathroom is fairly spacious with an elegant rustic style that goes along with the rest of the cabin. Typical personal care products and essentials are splayed throughout. When you got finished admiring you walked toward the huge walk-in shower. You knew the water controls would cause you a headache just by looking at it. And it did after several attempts of learning you finally got to your right temperature and soon as you stepped in before shutting the glass door the heated water soon soothes your tense muscles. The Steam rose to the ceiling clouding above your head, and the sweet fragrance of your body wash filled the space around you as you gently rub it against your skin.

As you got lost lathering your thoughts began to drift to the conversation you had with Joe's mom.

He feels the same way too you know

No, you in fact don't know, aside from the moment earlier you don't ever remember Joe looking at you with any interest.

It was hard to not take Joe's mom's word though. Especially since she's the person who knows him well and through. Now you started to question his real reason for disliking Malik. Was he just jealous the entire time? Just the thought made you happy and feel lightheaded.

You begin to hum to try to take your mind off the speculation and forced yourself to think of something else.

Finally, after what felt like forever, you turned the shower off and stepped onto the fluffy mat. You quickly dried off and lather your body before slipping on your underwear and t-shirt. Sighing, you glanced in the massive rectangular mirror, mentally wincing at how the shirt came down to your mid-thigh. Fingers brush over the tiny stretch marks that are splayed on the side of your thighs. Deep down, you knew nothing was wrong with them and that it was natural and inevitable. But you couldn't help to think about Joe's reaction to them. Would he find it strange?

You shook your head mentally scolding, hating yourself for getting sprung over what a man thinks of your body. No matter who it is, you were raised better than that.

When you emerged from the bathroom along with steam. You find Joe sitting down on the end-of-a-bed bench with a full bowl of popcorn and a remote in his hand as he stares at the TV. He turns his head in your direction when he sees you walk past him swiftly to put your discarded clothes away.

"What's all this?" You asked after zipping your bag, gesturing toward the bowl.

"Isn't it obvious? I owe you a movie night." He says quite proudly.

"Hm , I thought it was stupid?" You said tugging down the shirt as you walk over to the bed.

"What I said was stupid" He shakes his head. "I'm doing this as a part of making it up to you."

There goes that look again....

"So what do you have in mind?" You climb on the bed careful not to flash your underwear and layed by the end of the bed flat on your stomach.

"I was thinking you pick while I'm in the shower?" He holds out the remote for you to take which you gladly did.

"Don't mind if I do." You muttered, immediately going to horror. It was the perfect setting a horror movie night anyway, deserted cabin, heavy rain and thunder.

"No horror movies!" He adds standing up and getting ready to head into the shower.

"Scaredy cat." You called out right as the bathroom door shuts behind him.

Thirty minutes later, Joe returns from the steamy bathroom with just sweatpants and a towel drying his wet hair. In the same position, he spots you laughing at your phone most likely at a tiktok video . Your eyes caught his gaze and you sit upright turning off your phone. He gulps suddenly becoming nervous, it's been awhile since you've shared a room and the first time to actually share a bed together. For the longest he's dreamt of this. The love he has for you is too strong to ignore the situation and act like everything is fine.

"Superbad or The Hangover?" You asked keeping your eyes on him as he got situated on the bed next to you.

He ponders for a second before saying. "Um, Superbad, haven't seen that one in awhile."

The wind continues to howl as the rain pours down harshly outside when you press play. He pretends not to notice the brush of your elbow, despite being in a fairly large bed you two were in close proximity both sitting up with your backs on the headboard. In his peripheral vision, he secretly stares at your side profile looking for any sign of discomfort about the fact your lying in the same bed. Instead he sees you focused on the TV laughing without a care in the world. Your relaxed state automatically makes him feel the same way. No big deal. It's just like sleeping by himself, and he's willing to pretend he's alone. Yet how can that be possible when he is in fact not alone and is joined by you—the person he's head over heels for in just a t-shirt? No doubt it will be a challenge.

"That was you in high school." You nudged him before pointing towards the screen which splayed Michael Cera's character Evan awkwardly talking to Becca.

He scrunches his nose. "I'm gonna pretend you didn't just say that."

"Am I wrong though? Remember Emily Robinson from study hall?" You questioned with a teasing smile adorned on your face. "She pretty much threw herself you at every given chance and you were totally oblivious. "

"The opposite is true, I wasn't oblivious." He said with honesty.

Confusion filled your eyes as you furrowed your eyebrows. "What? You're lying!"

"I promise you I'm not." He chuckles throwing his hands up in defense. " I knew she liked me, I just didn't know how to tell her off."

As you shake your head, you exclaim, "Oh, that's so hard to believe."

"And why's that?"

"That's the case with virtually every girl who shows interest in you."

He shrugs. "Or who knows maybe it's because I'm always looking at someone else."

"That's a possibility." You said in a quiet tone completely unaware how he looked at you while saying that.

The irony of teasing him about his obliviousness and failing to see how deeply in love he is with you is quite funny. Outside eyes are already taking notice of what is happening. Why couldn't you? She's waiting for you to make the first move his mother would say and he prays to god she's right.

For the rest of the night you spent watching a couple more films as the storm outside turns into light drops of rain. It was 2am when you both decided to finally call it a night, after flickering off the TV you cautiously tucked yourself underneath the covers Joe is currently under. There's a generous amount of space between you as you faced away from each other, tension arises as the only sound in the room is the plattering of the rain.

By a slight whisper you wished him a goodnight.

As your body rolls over yet again for the millionth time, you let out a frustrated sigh. Sleep seemed so close yet so far away. You've tried practically every method from counting sheep over the fence to creating fake scenarios, all of which include the man sleeping next to you. And still nothing . This type of restless night drives you crazy, sleeping in an unfamiliar setting causes this and because you can't help but to still process you're sleeping in the same bed as Joe, so your mind couldn't help but wonder.

You kicked majority of the blankets off your body hoping that some coolness would ease your mind into exhaustion. Again, nothing. Feeling completely hopeless you sat up, eyes looking around as if you could make out anything in the pitch darkness the only thing that's visible is the alarm clock on the nightstand that reads 3:30am.

Movement beside you caught your attention as Joe rolls over on his stomach. You couldn't distinguish which direction his head was turned as you laid back down as an idea came to you.

It's worth a shot, hopefully he'll take pity on you.

"Joey?" You whispered.

No response of course, you said it so low you practically mouthed it. You were still debating on whether you should wake him up or not. It's selfish and quite frankly inconsiderate you know this. Especially since you're ruining someone else's good night sleep for you own gain. But you're desperate and can't go to sleep so you call out his name again a bit more louder.

"Joey?" This time you reach over to softly poke at his bare shoulder. Since when did he take off his shirt?

"Yeah?" He responds , in a voice that sounds nothing like he'd just been woken up.

"Are you awake?" You ask , dumb question. Of course he's awake, sounds like he's been up this entire time.

A slight chuckle comes from him. "No, I'm asleep."

"How long have you been up?" You mumbled.

"Since you start fidgeting"

So about an hour. Damn.

"Sorry , I can't go to sleep." You said sheepishly.

Suddenly, there is silence and you believe he has fallen asleep until you feel him shift closer to you. Your back is facing him, and you are so glad it was because you got flustered instantly. He lifted the blankets up and said softly. "C'mere"

Well fuck, there's no way you're going to be getting any sleep tonight.

Without saying a word you shift under his arms, his bare chest pressed against your back as you got situated. A sigh of content escapes you as Joe practically engulfs you in his embrace. He feels so warm,big,and strong. His arm pulls you in tighter which you had no problem with. This is definitely not what best friends do.

What is this?

"Are you comfortable?" He asked you could feel his lip on the shell of your ear and the urge to turn around to lock lips is strong.

Swallowing thickly you nod your head. "I am, didn't think you're the cuddle type Joey."

"M'not but I know you are." He says.

That's true. Almost everyone knows you're a fan of cuddles, so much in fact you sleep with a body pillow at home.

"Well, thank you." You said in a way to be grateful as you trace over the multiple prominent veins on his hand in front of you. You wished to see the size comparsion to your hand and his but you could feel it. So big just like the entirety of him.

You weren't blind you'd seen how Joe has grown into his muscular frame since the Superbowl, the countless workouts really pays off as his arms and chest became more defined. Which you are more than lucky enough to be currently cradled in. Reality hits hard at the situation. Joe is cuddling you right now, full on koala hugging you from behind. You always wondered was it'll be like to be smothered in his arms, close to his body, you never thought you'd see the day.

During your enjoyment of mindlessly playing with his hand, you can feel his heart beating against your back. As if he were nervous or scared. As you furrow your eyebrows, you open your mouth to ask him what's wrong when he grabs your hand and laces it with his.

"I need to tell you something." He says quietly, gripping your hand with firmness.

You tilted your head in his direction with concern. "Everything okay?"

"Not really." He chuckles slightly but it was far from sounding amusing, it was more of a nervy laugh. "You know, I care about you alot. We've been friends since forever and what I'm about to say could possibly ruin that."

"What are you—?"

"I lied earlier," He interrupts causing you to frown.

Lied about what?

"In the car, I told you I was being distant because I didn't want Malik to break your heart." He swallowed heavily, before continuing, "That wasn't entirely true. I just didn't like seeing you with him...or with anybody else."

Time seemed to have slowed down and the air became thicker. Your heartbeat increased, and your stomach twists immediately. However with all those things happening it didn't stop you from uttering out a blatant "W-what?"

It's hard for you to comprehend that he's basically confessing his feelings for you. So long you've hoped and dreamt about this exact moment.

"I want you to be mine and I don't want you to be with anyone else." He sits up leaning on his elbow his other arm is still wrapped around your waist and fingers still laced with yours. "I hate to sound cheesy like those cliché rom coms you make me watch—" He laughs before continuing. "But I'm really in love with you, it's to the point where I can't stop thinking about you."

Happiness bloomed inside you and you felt a sudden flare of relief. Joe—the man you've been in love with—just confessed his feelings. Your heart has been daring to hope that he feels the same way for a while, even though you've convinced yourself that it's not possible.

Holy shit.

"You really love me?" You said gripping his hand tightly.

He leaned down to rest his chin on your shoulder. "I do, so much."

"I love you too," You smiled when you heard him a sigh of relief. Your hand slips from his as you reach up to caress his jawline. "I have for a long time actually. Took you long enough."

You feel him smile and lean against your hand. Just when you thought everything couldn't possibly get better, he opens his mouth and asks a question you've been waiting for so long.

"Is it okay if I kiss you?"

The excitement unfolded like a flower as you nodded your head. And before you know it his mouth is on yours. He's passionate and fierce as if he'd been stranded in a desert in need of a drink and you were that cold glass of water he found and drank so desperately. His tongue traces over your bottom lip before slipping into your mouth wasting no time exploring every inch. You moan as his tongue intensifies swirling against yours , while doing so his hand grips your waist holding you against him.

That's when you feel it. The hardness prodding on your lower back, you could feel it through the thin fabric of your t-shirt which had risen dangerously high.

Pulling away, he kisses you from your jaw to your neck, gently sucking while you gasp, wrapping an arm around his neck as you enjoy the feel of his lips. Under the thick blanket, his hips are pressed against yours, keeping you in a state of shock. He felt massive and thick. And you want more of it.

"I want to touch you." His words are muffled due to his never ending kisses on your neck. "Can I touch you? Hm?"

"Yes, please do." As soon as you gave him the go he takes his hand from your waist and travels down to your expose thigh gently massaging it cherishing how soft you feel. You sigh in contentment, eyes fluttering shut when his hand goes underneath your shirt and go upwards to cup your left breast.

Taking you completely by surprise he rubs your breast before trailing back down to the hem of your underwear where he slips fingers inside. You let out a whimper when his fingertips glides over the area you wanted him the most. His body tense when he felt your arousal that was practically soaking his hand. Tiny moans escape your lips as he circles your sensitive clit, your hips immediately start to squirm.

"Keep still." He groans, his forehead dropping down to rest on the back of your shoulder. You weren't aware that the more you squirm the arch in your back goes deeper, essentially grinding your ass against his hardness.

"I can't, not when you're touching me like this." You murmur hand clutching his forearm where you could feel the muscles flexing with every strum that his fingers makes.

"Fuck!"He grunts breathlessly as your hips continues to move. There's no way he going to cum like this as much as you're making him feel absolutely good he was ready to explode at any given moment by the movement of your hips.

He takes his hand out of your underwear much to your dismay letting out a sound of disappointment he quickly repays you with a kiss on the lips before sitting up yanking the covers off the both of you tossing it to the side.

"Roll over on your back for me." He commanded.

You follow his order, finally coming face to face even though you're in almost complete darkness the outline of his body and features were visible to you. The diamonds from his chain certainly stood out as well. He grabs both of your legs and spread the wide getting situated between them.

"Lift up your shirt all the way." He said quietly, almost at a whisper.

You could feel your soul take flight as an unsuspected feeling of realization consumed you. This isn't a dream, Joe is really here in between your thighs ready to fuck you in the most delicious way possible. No amount of words could explain how happy and eager you feel.

When you finished taking off your shirt he wasted no time bending down attaching his lips on your tits, the coldness of his chain grazes your warm skin causing you to shiver. His tongue flicks and licks around the hardness of your nipple before he gently sucks.

"Hmmm Joey." You moan grasping the back of his head, not knowing what felt more good his tongue or the fact his cock is being pressed against your aching pussy.

Another moan escapes from you when he strokes his hips against you rubbing right on your clit and causing you to be blinded by pleasure. His hair tickles your chin when he switches over to your other breast giving it the same attention. It took everything in you to keep your moans at a lower level, still mindful of the fact you're doing this under the same roof as his family. The last thing you wanted is for one of them to come down and interrupted your intimate session. God , you would never show your face again.

Joe detaches his lips with an audible 'pop' leaving your skin glazed and sit up on his knees while his hands grips your underwear and swiftly pulls it down. Lifting up both of your legs together he takes your panties off completely. Now you're on full display, laying there letting him venerate every inch of your body. For some reason you didn't have the urge to shy away or cover up like you did with past lovers ,no, you are ready for him to see and cherish you including the imperfections.

"You have the softest skin. So beautiful." He mumbled lowering his head to kiss by your hips trailing down to your inner thighs peppering extra kisses on your beauty marks. Joe lifts his head up for a moment grabbing a spare pillow handing it over to you. "You might wanna hold on to that, m'not gonna be able to contain myself."

Without giving it a second thought you wrap both arms around the pillow when he hitches both your legs over his shoulder. His mouth is on you in seconds, low groans leaves his lips as he engulfs his tongue over your folds and run it on your clit where he sucks and massages.

"Oh, my god!" Your words muffle due to your mouth on the pillow. And your hips tries to come up from the bed but they don't have the chance because Joe's hand immediately reaches out to slam you back down.

He takes your legs off his shoulders and held them down each flat on the bed, spreaded wide, his hand on holding down your thighs firmly. The intrusion of his tongue slipping inside you takes you by surprise, a loud raw moan wanted to desperately get out but all you could muster up is a whimper. Eyes closing shut, your legs started to shake at the intense pleasure.

Messy smacking and slurping noise could be heard underneath your heavy breathing, the way he's eating you is borderline sensual yet unhinged. He left no parts untouched, you could feel wetness pool beneath you. Which turns you on even more.

A familiar heat is burning inside at the pit of your stomach and you knew that it'll only be a matter of time you gush out your release.

"M' gonna cum." You sob out in a whisper, twisting your upper body to the side slightly.

Joe pulls away yet again and you swore you were seconds away from reaching down to finish yourself off. However when Joe releases his hold on you and reaches down to take off his sweatpants that idea is immediately gone.

He carries a throbbing cock beneath the thin happy trail; it slaps against the lower abdomen where a prominent vein runs from his tip to his thick shift. There is no way you could deny that you are a little intimidated; the sheer size of him had you gulping.

He settles back in between your thighs, this time lifting your left leg on his shoulder. That's when he notices it, the diamond peice anklet, a smile adorns his face when he pressed a kiss on your ankle. His eyes focuses back on you drinking in your needy state, the pillow he gave you is clenched in your grip with anticipation.

Not wanting for you to wait any longer, he spits loudly into his palm before wrapping around his hand around his length, slick noise of the sound of him jerking could be heard.

Gripping your left leg as your right curls around his waist, he aligned his tip to meet your seeping wet entrance you shuddered feeling a slightly burn from being stretched out.

"It's okay, take a deep breath for me, you gotta relax" He assures you noticing the way your muscles tensed. The last thing he want is for you to be uncomfortable.

You force your eyes to be transfixed on the digital clock on the nightstand as you focus on taking deep breaths for a few seconds. Once it became tolerable and no longer confining he involuntary pushes his hips forward going deeper. As soon as he did that you tighten around him. His face contorts into an expression of pleasure, pressure on your thigh is coming from his hand that grips it tightly. You can tell he was holding himself back from fully pounding into you relentlessly.

His thrusts are slow and impactful. Moans after moans continues to leave your lips.

"Faster Joey, I want you to go faster." You said mindlessly body jerking up at every stroke of his hips.

"You sure?" He asks.

You nodded before he presses his lips together and took hold of your waist when he slams into hard and fast. Your left leg is still on his shoulder when he leans down to lock his lips with yours silencing your moans. The pillow you were gripping is tossed to the side as you find stability in clutching on to Joe's biceps, digging your nails into his skin.

"Fuck Joey!" You cried out as his tip kept hitting your sweet spot. Faint sounds of skin smacking filled the air along with the sound of your wetness. "O-oh my g-god, you feel so good!"

"You like that baby?" He asked, his chain is brushing against your chin with every stroke.

"Mmhmm, I love you so much." Eyes rolling to the back of your head at the constant pleasure, he fucks you even harder thrust filled with passion. You were on the brink of letting out a scream of pleasure, stopping you from doing so you leaned and sink your teeth into his shoulder.

You can feel your stomach tighten when you felt a strong deep pleasure within. A surge ready to be released.

"Cum for me, just let go." He reaches his hand down and plays with your clit. You let out a mixture of a whimper and sob, your back arching, legs still, eyes fluttering, and jaw slack. The feeling you're experiencing felt otherworldly, it has you in disbelief. He fucks you through it nicely with slowed thrusts before pulling out, your left leg slips off his shoulder and lies limp.

"Oh my god." You breathed out placing a hand on your temple as you try to find your train of thought. He quite literally fucked you stupid.

"You still with me?" The corner of his mouth curls up into a smile. A hum in response is all he got. Once you have officially recovered, he orders you to lie on your side. Confused, you turn to the right facing the direction you were in earlier. As Joe kneels in between your legs, he straddles your right thigh and lifts your left leg to curl around his left hip. Almost before you can process the position, he enters you and starts to devour you.

Your tits bounces rapidly at his merciless hips slam into you over and over again. It wasn't long before they're being groped by Joe who pants heavily above you, a low moan coming from him occasionally.

He hovers over your quivering body with a bruising grip on your hips. His pace is sharp, quick, and so deep you felt dizzy with never ending pleasure as your sensitive body takes in everything that he's giving to you.

"J—mhgh" You couldn't fathom any coherent words as you began to feel overstimulated. This position he has you in makes you feel like you're being fucked beyond your limits.

Joe notices your hands blindly searching for anything to cling to and releases your breasts from his hold. His hands completely engulfs yours as he laces them back together place them on either side of your head.

A couple more thrusts followed and you've approached your second orgasm. Way more intense than the first , so intense you've made a mess on Joe's lower stomach matting down his happy trail and coating the both of you with your essence.

"Shit," He grunts out feeling the aftermath of your orgasm, pace becoming sloppy as he's rapidly approaching his release. He pulls out abruptly ready to fist his soaking cock when you stopped him.

"I wanna do it." You said sitting up he was still straddling your leg as you reach down to stroke him.

"Fuck fuck fuck" He chants, head leaning forward to rest against your shoulder. He moans your name as his release hits, lips connecting with yours when he's spilling multiple spurts on your hand and even on your chest.

With a sigh you both shared a lazy kiss before plopping down next to each other. There is a moment of contentment instilled in your heart during this time, and you remain there for a moment. Enjoying the presence of the man who just took you into a different realm. It wasn't long before the moisture and stickiness on your skin became a discomfort.

Taking a deep breath you slowly eased out of bed. When your feet planted on the floor your legs buckles slightly.

You hear Joe chuckle in amusement. "Take it easy, huh? Where you going?"

"Shut up, I'm headed to the shower." You blushed holding on to the bed post.

He stands up and walks over to you with a glint in his eye. "I take it you got room for one more?"

Taglist:

@luvjoe9 @idyllicbarb @lonelywiththestars @balanceingrace @maricciardo @joeburreauxsworld @tigertales9 @clumsyjoeb @certifiedlesbianbaddie @cherry2stems

If you want to be apart of the taglist dm me babes!

#joe burrow #joe burrow x reader #joe burrow fanfic #joe burrow imagine #joe burrow fanfiction #joe burrow x black reader

2K notes · View notes

str4wbaeby · 5 days

Text

𝓶𝓪 𝓶𝓾𝓼𝓮 pt.1

ᵒᵇˢᵉˢˢᵉᵈ ᵃᵘᵗʰᵒʳ ˣ ᵇᵒᵒᵏʷᵒʳᵐ ʳᵉᵃᵈᵉʳ

⤷ note : pt.2 | pt.3 | moodboard

his presence lingered in every corner of the bookstore, name spoken in reverent tones by both staff and patrons alike. and who he might be? the literary virtuoso, Ren Takahashi, who recently emerged as a new generation fiction writer, standing as a towering figure in the realm of literature. despite being a new name in the writing community, he was quick to rise to fame with the release of his latest masterpiece, which depicted the story of a yearning painter desperately in search of his muse; the story mainly revolving around the theme of lovesickness.

being an avid book lover, it was not unusual for you to keep up with the latest updates in the community, be it newly released books or the newly emerging writers. for you, Ren was not an unfamiliar name but you never really felt truly drawn to any of his writings, which often tended to revolve around a similar theme of infatuation and obsessive love.

as you made your way through the aisles, you couldn't help but notice the prominent display of his new novel on the central shelf, the vibrant red cover drawing you in. opening the glass panel, you carefully took the book out. as you started to read, your expression quickly shifted with eyebrows furrowing into concentration as your lips curled into a smile of intrigue. turning the pages with a gentle flutter, you seemed to absorb each word presented before you. completely enamoured by the book, you failed to notice the presence of an unknown figure, leaning against the opposite bookshelf, eyes longingly staring at your small figure

"so, do you like the book?", the figure softly spoke out, careful not to startle you while clearing his throat in the process.

needless to say, you were a bit startled at first but the gentleness of his voice oddly managed to calm you down almost instantly. you were never really much of a talker, thanks to your introverted nature and not wanting to make this interaction any awkward, you just found it easier to nod your head in response. your eyes were still fixated on the pages, only to look up at the figure once you were satisfied with thorough scanning of the book. infront of you stood the most gorgeous men you have ever laid your eyes upon in your 23 years of living. luscious long hair tressed a shadowy cascade against his pale porcelain skin, hazel eyes twinkling under the bright store lighting as his 6'2 figure stood towering over you, leaning against the wooden shelf in a relaxed stance.

a shade of pink subconsciously coated your cheeks, as you struggled to maintain eye contact with the handsome stranger.

"do you come here often ?", his velvety voice echoed in your ears, slowly luring you in like a siren's song. at the sudden loss of words, all you could do was nod at his question in agreement.

noticing your flustered state, he chuckled softly, silently taking in your adorable expression and soft features.

"say, would you like to have a cup of coffee with me at the nearby cafe? I've heard their pastries are quite popular here"

the proposal was unexpected. especially coming from someone like him; someone as beautiful as him. you were average to say the least, easily passing as just another face in the crowd. why would he want someone like you?

quickly snapping out of your trance, you politely denied his offer with a firm "no". but why? didn't you like him too? the dejected look in his eyes reminded you of a lost puppy. concealing the pain with a fake smile, he handed you his number in a piece of paper, telling you to call him if you ever wanted to talk or had a change of heart regarding your little coffee date. or he could just show up at the bookstore to meet you again? you wouldn't suspect anything, right? it'll just be another coincidence, after all! ♡

with a seemingly disinterested look, you took the paper out of his hand, only to catch a quick glimpse of something that caught your eyes.

"(555) 867-xxxx

- Ren Takahashi "

#yandere scenarios #yandere imagines #yandere oc #male oc #yandere male x reader #yandere #yandere oc x reader #yandere boyfriend #yandere prompt #yandere insert #yandere fic #yandere x reader #yandere male x you #x gender neutral reader #x reader #x reader insert #gn reader #mochiii.writes #divider creds: cafekitsune

336 notes · View notes

thewordypeach · 1 year

Text

Cherry Waves

pairing: Paul Atreides x fem!reader word count: 9.2k warnings: fluffy smut. virginity. oral (m receiving), fingering, unprotected p in v, vague mention of dom/sub, breeding kink?!?!?, etc. chubby reader, no use of y/n (however your name is daisy lol) summary: you consummate the arranged marriage to your new husband, paul atreides. author's note: this is my second story that i am posting! i've been working on this one for awhile now... absolutely adore Paul Atreides and Dune. watched both movies like 5 times and just finished up the book! waiting for the next one from the library :) also Timothée's hair in this film is just ungodly and totally unfair - like i don't know if i want to be his hair or have it?? anyways, it's fluff with smut or smut with fluff??? its cute and dirty. that is all. thank you for reading!!!!! addendum: 05/04/23 - this is picking up reads because of Dune 2 promo and i just wanted to let you know that it's poorly edited, and a sequel will be coming soon.

For the first time since you landed on Caladan, the rain has finally stopped. And for the first time since you arrived, you are completely alone with him. Your husband. You haven’t spoken more than two words to him; you’ve been nothing but frightened for the last week, afraid of your new life on this new planet. You know you are going to have to accept this new life because you have no other choice. The other thing you are going to have to accept is him.

Paul Atreides.

You watch as he kneels before a delicate blossom, eyes fixed upon the intricate folds and hues of its magenta petals. His once sharp features have softened, the angles smoothed into an expression of wonder and reverence. You’ve seen this look of his before but can’t seem to place it. His slender fingers reach out and touch the velvety surface of the flower as if he were under its spell. His dark hair, wild and unkept, falls in loose waves around his face.

While you can’t help but notice how breathtakingly handsome Paul is, it’s not his looks that initially drew you in, but rather it is his quiet intensity that captivated your attention. He turns and his green orbs take a quick scan of you. His eyes have always held a depth of knowledge and experience far beyond his years, and even now as he observes you, he knows something you don’t.

“The flowers on Caladan are a wonder to behold,” He says tepidly, almost as if he’s afraid of scaring you away. He knows you’ve been on edge the last few days, practically jumping out of your skin every time he speaks to you. He straightens, his lean frame moving gracefully as he strides toward you. “Each one is so unique, with its own fragrance and beauty. Some are delicate and sweet, like the jasmine that grows near the waterfalls, while others are bold and robust, like the wild roses that climb the cliffs.”

You are frozen in place, knees trembling beneath your skirt. Paul stops when he is in front of you, his body mere inches away. Those eyes of his, perfectly green like the forest that surrounds the two of you, sparkle with reverence. He’s been in disbelief at how strikingly beautiful you are and how you don’t even realize it. The thought of you not knowing your strength or beauty brings a sadness to him that he can’t shake; it brings forth a determination to help you see and understand your true worth.

Gently, he raises his hand and touches a finger to your temple, sweeping away a piece of black hair. Underneath the light, the strands of hair shimmer with a blue hue. He moves his attention back to your face, “Caladan didn’t have daisies until you,”

When it comes to you, Paul can’t help but be tender. He knows you’ve been through so much. He sees the turmoil etched upon your face; Paul is afraid your sadness and fright will be permanent, and he does not want to go forward if you are intimidated by him. The corners of his lips pull down, shaking as he confronts you, “I… I know that you are scared of me, Daisy,”

Your throat tightens. You aren’t scared of Paul but rather, you are scared of what lies ahead in your future with him. He’s the son of Duke Leto Atreides; Paul has responsibilities that you never dreamed of. Folding your arms around your body, you swallow dryly and think of what to say with careful consideration because you can tell that Paul is growing frustrated with your lack of reciprocity.

“My lord,” The way you regard him by his formal title makes his chest constrict. He does not want such formalities when it’s just the two of you but he bites back the urge to correct you. He impatiently awaits the rest of your words. Your eyes cast downward, afraid to look him in the eye as you confess, “I’m not scared of you. I’m scared of the responsibilities that come with being your wife. I do not want to burden House Atreides.”

Concern floods Paul’s face and he is quick to shake his head. His brow knits together and he rushes to speak, the words tumbling out before he can think about what he’s saying, “Daisy, you need to understand that I didn’t choose this life either -”

He stops and inhales deeply to calm himself. Paul takes a step closer and the gap between your bodies narrows. Immediately, you can’t help but notice how his scent is a tantalizing combination of rain and a woody floral. It makes you think of safety. Paul drops his voice to a whisper, “I have responsibilities to House Atreides that I can’t simply ignore. But that doesn’t mean I don’t care about you or that I won’t do everything in my power to protect you.”

“You don’t even know me,” Your voice shakes with emotion. This isn’t how you address nobility but damn Paul’s title. His status brings forth an apprehension that claws inside your already rattled heart. You have known each other for less than ten days and yet here he is, declaring protection with everything he has. However, despite his best effort you still feel like a burden. He’s too young to feel like this - he has his entire life ahead of him and now? He has a wife to take care of. Your eyes snap up and you breathe out, “You shouldn’t have to deal with this, any of this…”

Paul studies your face, sensing your doubts and your burdens. Your eyes remain clouded with fear and melancholy. Oh, how Paul yearns to alleviate your concerns and set your mind at ease, but he feels helpless in doing so. His father never taught him how to be a loving husband; Paul is only schooled in politics and the responsibilities of a Duke. Navigating the complexity of matrimony has never been part of his training.

“I understand that this might be difficult for you to understand,” He cups your face and caresses your cheek with his thumb. Paul realizes this is the most affectionate he’s ever been with someone and it breaks his heart knowing this is the first time you are on the receiving end. He silently vows to give you all the love he has. As he speaks, warmth radiates off his words, “You are not a burden, and you will never be a burden to me because we are in this together, Daisy. You are my family now. I promise we will figure this out, together.”

Tears swell in your eyes, “I’m sorry, m’lord -”

“Daisy,” He sharply cuts you off, “You don’t have to apologize - none of this is your fault, okay?”

Paul leans his forehead against yours, “We are a team now. You are my wife and I will do everything I can to protect you.”

You close your eyes, letting the tears fall down your cheeks. Paul is quick to wipe them away and much to your surprise, he kisses each of your eyelids. Your hands cling to his waist, suddenly desperate to keep him close. Paul notices the change and feels your urgency as if you are afraid of him slipping away. He responds by planting butterfly kisses on every inch of skin he can reach. More tears crash down and Paul sweeps them away. You can’t help but giggle at the valiant effort that your husband is making to make you feel better.

The sound of your giggle makes Paul giddy and it causes his stomach to flip. He’s never felt like this before. His lips stretch into a smile as he continues to assault your beautiful face with endless amounts of affection. Paul stops for a brief moment, pulling away to see how your face has brightened. You look like sunshine now and it leaves him breathless.

Your eyes flutter open, wanting to see why your husband has stopped. Paul is peering at you with so much love and admiration that it makes your breath hitch inside your chest. You have never felt so safe and so adored. A look flickers across his verdant eyes and before you can say anything, Paul captures your lips with his.

Technically, this is not the first time he has kissed you but this kiss is exceptionally better than the one you were forced to share at the ceremony. This kiss felt natural and it felt right. There is a certain innocence to how he is applying soft pressure against your lips. Almost as if he’s afraid of breaking you. You want more, no, you need more. You can’t get enough and truth be told, neither can Paul. A desire ignites inside him and his stomach coils as something stirs inside his pants -

“Paul!”

The interruption causes you to jump but for Paul, the interruption of Gurney Halleck angers him. You are blushing at being caught in a compromising position, hiding your face against Paul’s chest as the future Duke turns to the weapon teacher. Annoyed, Paul scowls at the smirk on Gurney’s face. Gurney didn’t think Paul had it in him because truthfully, Gurney didn’t support the arranged marriage; he had his own misgivings and predictions about you. But upon seeing this revelation, Gurney’s opinion swiftly changed.

“My apologies for the interruption,” Gurney clears his throat, “My lord, may I remind you that your weapon’s master doesn’t like to be kept waiting…”

Paul glares at Gurney before turning his attention back to you, his face softening into that of a lovesick puppy. Your face is still pressing into his chest. Gently, he lifts your head and sweetly kisses your cheek, murmuring, “I will see you later, okay?”

Unwillingly, Paul tears himself away from you and stalks toward Gurney who is patiently waiting by the edge of the garden. Gurney, having known Paul since he was a wee little one, chuckles at the bulge in the young master’s pants. When Paul is close enough, Gurney leans over and mutters, “May I suggest a cold shower before training?”

Paul’s face turns bright red upon realizing what Gurney is talking about.

Throughout weapon training, Paul is distracted. His thoughts are consumed by you. Gurney notices and finds himself pushing the young boy harder, and harder. Paul mustn’t give in to thoughts of temptation. Gurney barks order after order, hitting Paul over and over until the boy is on the ground, huffing and puffing, sweat pouring down his face.

A look of determination etches upon Paul’s face as he lifts himself from the ground, swinging his blade around and glaring at Gurney. Paul is about to lunge at his weapon’s trainer but Gurney makes the quick decision to draw the session to a close because it’s clear, they won’t get much farther than this.

“Paul,” Gurney orders, raising his hand for the boy to halt, “That’s enough for today,”

“I’m not done yet,” Paul hisses, clutching the handle of his blade. He eyes as Gurney walks over to the table of weapons and begins to clean them, buffing the blade until it shines.

“Your skills are improving Paul,” Gurney says gruffly, “But there’s something else you need to learn if you want to be a good husband,”

Paul looks at Gurney with a quizzical look, unsure of how being a husband has anything to do with a training session. The young master huffs, “What are you talking about, Gurney?”

“What I mean, boy, is that being a good husband takes more than just sword skills,” Gurney replies, his tone serious. “You need to have control over your thoughts.”

Paul blushes, had it really been that obvious? He sheepishly admits, “I… I guess I was a bit distracted...”

“A bit?” Gurney guffaws, throwing his head back. Paul’s naivety is something else. He presses, “You spent two hours thinking of your wife - this type of distraction is unacceptable, young master Paul. What are you going to do when an enemy has overpowered you?”

“I have my shield -” Gurney is swift to penetrate the forcefield of an unsuspecting Paul. The defence shield vibrates at the intrusion causing Paul to stumble, his green eyes snap to his waist where the blade is hovering above his sweat-soaked shirt. Paul lets out a sigh of frustration, feeling like he has not only let himself down but Gurney as well.

Gurney scorns, “How many times have I told you? The defence shield is only -”

“As good as the person wielding the sword,” Paul finishes Gurney’s sentence. Gurney ignores Paul and continues with his speech, “Even the most powerful shield can be breached by a skilled warrior and no matter how advanced or sophisticated your shield technology is, if you can’t properly use your sword, you are vulnerable to an attack.”

Gurney sheathed his blade, eyeing Paul who looks defeated. Gurney lets out a exhale, “Paul, marriage is a lot like weapon training. You have to be willing to put in the work, to learn and grow together, and to be there for each other through thick and thin.”

Paul turns off his defence shield and runs his finger along the edge of the blade, fascinated by the vulnerability - one wrong move and he could cut himself, and bleed to death. Suddenly, the weight of being a husband falls on his shoulders and he thinks about the promise he made to protect you. He's liable for another person now and he wonders if he's even ready for the responsibility of having a wife. The young master mutters, “What happens if I can’t keep my promise of protecting her?”

Gurney furrows his brow and gives Paul a stern look, “Then you’ll have failed not only her, but yourself as well,” he says firmly, “A true warrior doesn’t waste time worrying about the what-ifs. Instead, focus on the task at hand and what you can do to prevent it. Train harder, study your enemy, and always be one step ahead. The best way to protect her is to be prepared for anything that comes your way and that means forcing yourself not to think frivolous thoughts about her,”

Paul grimly nods but Gurney sees the young boy hasn’t been convinced yet. Gurney feels for him; this is new territory and Paul has yet to find the best way to navigate it. Gurney continues, “As for your wife, you cannot be with her every moment of the day, but you can teach her to be just as skilled with the sword as you are.”

Paul hurries down the corridor of his family's castle, trying to get back to you as soon as possible. He is so excited to see your face that his stomach is churning with anticipation. He wants to hold you, touch you, kiss you. You are all he’s been thinking about and he is so close to seeing you again. Paul accelerates around the corner and nearly collides with his father, Duke Leto Atreides. Paul is caught off guard and he stumbles back.

Duke Leto regards his son with a knowing look as if he had been waiting for Paul. Leto watches as Paul straightens himself out, smoothing and adjusting the black tunic with the House of Atreides symbol on his chest. Paul suddenly feels nervous being in the presence of his father, he’s unsure of what to say or do. Paul waits for instruction.

“Paul,” His father nods. Leto knew that Paul would be in this area of the castle because Gurney had already informed him. In fact, Gurney had also informed the Duke of the kiss that the young master and his lady shared in the garden - Gurney said it wasn’t just any kiss either. It was the kiss; the type of kiss that would’ve certainly led to something more had it not been for Paul’s strict training schedule.

Leto is amused by his son’s red face which is impatient and restless. The Duke knows that Paul will not disobey his orders and decides his teachings in matrimony couldn't have come at a better time. He offers a smile to Paul, “Relax, son - Gurney told me you’d be here,”

Paul clears his throat and nods, “Yes, my lord - can I help you with anything?” Paul is dreading the answer and finds himself becoming resentful toward the Duke because now, Paul has been delayed from seeing you. When the Duke gives a curt nod, Paul’s stomach drops - why did he have to be such a fool and ask such a question?

“Yes, Paul. There is something you could help me with,” the Duke motions for Paul to follow him down the corridor of their castle. As they walk through the dimly lit castle, the glowglobes above them illuminate the towering walls made of rough-hewn gray stone. The Duke’s footsteps reverberate through the long, empty hall, echoing off the walls and filling the silent space.

Leto thinks about how small Paul used to be and how it seems like it was only yesterday that Paul was running around the castle and playing pretend with all of his imaginary friends. He has grown into a tall, handsome young man but despite all of his training and teachings, Paul still has yet to master his stoicism. Leto notes how Paul's lips are pursed with muted animosity - his son is annoyed with him. The Duke is amused by this; he knows he is yet another barrier keeping Paul from his new wife.

As the Duke regards his son, he realizes that Gurney is right. Paul is completely smitten by you and those verdant eyes of his are pooled with so much love that it spills out. His infatuation with you is written across Paul's face. This is a side of his son that he has never seen before. It pleases him because originally, Leto was resistant to the arranged marriage brought on by the Padishah Emperor who insisted that Paul take one of his daughters from House Corrino.

The Duke knows that this type of look on royalty is frowned upon and that it may be seen as a weakness. But Leto cannot help but feel proud of his son for allowing himself to feel and express intense emotions. In a world where political alliances rule, it is a rare and precious thing to see someone unabashedly show love and affection. Leto thinks of his own reasons for not marrying his concubine, Lady Jessica, and does not wish for Paul to be burdened with the same regrets.

With a sense of determination, the Duke decides to do everything in his power to help Paul build a strong and loving relationship with you. Leto refrains from chastising his son about his open display of affection because he realizes that Paul needs guidance on other matters; matters attaining to the bedroom.

He knows Paul has received the talk about procreation but Leto is about to give his son advice on proper lovemaking. It's a topic he was unwilling to breach but Lady Jessica was insistent that it happens tonight as it's obvious the newlyweds will be consummating the marriage sooner than later; she gave her own advice to you earlier and now, it is the Duke's turn.

He takes a deep breath, carefully selecting his words. He doesn't want to scare Paul and begins imparting his knowledge with a casual statement, “Gurney informed me of your training session,” He pauses when he realizes that Paul isn't paying attention to him. However, the Duke presses on, “Paul, you’re a husband now. You have a wife - a beautiful wife -”

“She is beautiful, isn’t she?” Paul interjects rather dreamily as a dazed look crosses his eyes. There he goes again, letting his love spill out. Leto realizes that he'll have to remind Paul about the importance of keeping his emotions in check but for now, it could wait.

"Yes, she is. And now that you're a husband, there are certain things you must do and certain things you must not do," Leto stops and turns to his son, watching as Paul's expression changes to that of confusion. "You are responsible for her happiness, her sadness - your actions will directly affect her well-being."

Paul slowly nods, taking in his father's words. Leto cocks his head to the side, asking, "Son, do you know how to keep your wife happy?"

The young master shakes his head and casts his gaze downward - no, he doesn't know how to keep you happy. And it's been plaguing him all day. It's what kept him distracted during weapon training. But when his father speaks again, it's not the type of advice he was expecting to hear: "Listen very carefully, Paul. I’m going to tell you the secret to keeping your wife happy -"

Leto glances around, making sure that they were alone and just for added measure, he lowers his voice, “You’re going to kiss her lips, kiss her until you can’t breathe. And your hands, they’re going to touch her. Everywhere. Slowly at first, but with purpose...”

Paul's face grows hot with discomfort and simply put, he's dumbfounded by these instructions; it takes him a minute to realize that his father is giving advice on foreplay. His cheeks burn crimson. He's hesitant, feeling like a fool for asking such a silly question, “How do I know if she likes it?”

"Oh, you'll know, son … you'll know," His father's eyes darken and it startles Paul. His father inches closer, his voice dropping to an even lower octave, “Your fingers and tongue are tools, they will aid you in making your wife happy."

This advice is the limit of the boundary Leto is willing to cross. He's unwilling to give any more as it is up to his son to learn that not every woman is the same and that what Lady Jessica likes might not be what Lady Daisy likes. Leto also doesn't want to scar his son with his own prowess because what he and Jessica do in their bedroom is none of Paul's business.

But of course, Paul can't help but wonder how his father knows such things and it quickly dawns on the young master that the Duke does these things with Paul’s mother - is this the reason for their happiness? The thought makes him feel uneasy and strange. He never thought sex could have such a profound effect on a relationship but it makes sense. Paul suddenly understands the gravity of his father's advice and the complexity it will bring to his own marriage; ultimately, Paul is frightened yet intrigued by the idea that his tongue and fingers will help him in the pursuit of your happiness.

Paul's brows knit together and he gazes down at his fingers, watching as he repetitively curls and uncurls them. He clarifies, "I can... I use them... on her?"

"Yes, Paul. Use them on your wife - and remember to listen to her. Nonverbal cues are still cues, her sighs and moans will tell you everything you need to know," His father sees Paul struggling to hold back the utter panic and he feels for the young boy who is about to become a man. Leto remembers feeling the same way when it came to bedding Lady Jessica for the first time. He places a reassuring hand on Paul's shoulder and adds: "The most important part is consent, Paul … remember, you have an entire lifetime to spend with her. Don't feel like you need to rush through it all tonight."

Paul nods, his throat tight and dry. The prospect of seeing you makes him anxious, and despite knowing that he desires you with every fibre of his being, he can’t shake off the uneasiness of being a disappointment. What if he can’t please you? What if he can’t perform? Will this make you love him less?

“Breathe, son. Breathe.” The Duke pats his son's shoulder and gives an encouraging smile, “You’ll do fine, Paul. I’ll see that a change is made for your weapon training session tomorrow and I’ll make sure that Gurney Halleck doesn’t bother the happy couple.”

“Have a nice evening son, and be safe,” with that, Duke Leto Atreides departs, leaving Paul alone in the corridor to ponder on what lies ahead of him tonight.

The young master leans against the cool stone and closes his eyes, taking deep breaths to steady himself. The weight of responsibility and expectations from both his father and his new wife weighs heavily on his conscience. Paul has to remind himself that he loves you and he is willing to do anything to make you happy.

The sound of the bedroom door opening startles you. Quickly, you stand. Hands trembling as they smooth out the cream-coloured negligee that adorns your body. It was a gift from Paul’s mother; she gave it to you earlier. It seems that gossip travels around the castle at an alarming rate because not even an hour after you and Paul were seen kissing in the garden, Lady Jessica was pulling you to the side for a little chat because she seems to think that tonight is the night that you finally consummate your marriage.

And she’s right because the moment Paul steps into the room, and closes the door behind him - locking it - you know exactly what is about to happen. Paul stands across from you, eyes blazing at the sight of you, drinking in your body. He’s wearing his usual black tunic. His wavy hair looks even more dishevelled than before. His cheeks are rosy. And once again, his eyes capture you and pull you into those pools of emerald. Every ounce of his love surrounds you and it spreads like wildfire across your body.

You can't believe that Paul Atreides is yours. He's so unbelievably handsome with his aquiline nose, his high-cheek bones, and his slender neck that tapers gracefully into his lean shoulders. He oozes noble lineage and the thought of providing Paul with an heir makes you giddy.

“My lord,” You finally speak. You give a curtsy, bowing your head in the process. Paul cringes; he hates when you call him by his formal title. He despises it. It makes his blood boil. He takes several long strides until he is standing in front of you. Paul places his fingers beneath your chin, lifting your head until your eyes meet his.

For a moment, you look… frightened. But there’s something else hiding in those russet-coloured eyes of yours. Paul softens, he’s suddenly all too aware that he still has the remnants of distaste written across his face. “Daisy, please… when it’s just the two of us - Just you and me - call me Paul,”

It almost feels like treason disregarding his title but he doesn’t want such formalities with you. Never. Ever. Your cheeks flush with embarrassment and you nod, "Of course, my -"

You swallow his title and shakily breathe out, "Paul," his name sounds foreign as it leaves your lips. You feel … naughty calling him by his name. You don’t think you’ve ever regarded Paul as such, not even during your marriage vows did you call him just Paul. His name leaves your lips once more, “Paul,”

The way you say his name makes him smile. He smiles so wide that his teeth make an appearance and the skin by his eyes crinkles with delight. He softly replies, "Daisy,"

You return the smile and your eyes glisten with adoration as you and Paul regard each other with a newfound appreciation as if you're meeting him for the first time. It might as well be since the first few days were tumultuous, filled with uncertainty and a longing to be anywhere that wasn't Caladan. But now, all you want to be is with him.

Paul can't help himself anymore and gives into temptation, his eyes glancing down at the negligee your body is adorned with. It’s a bit tight and it leaves almost nothing to the imagination; he's able to see the colour of your flesh through the transparent silk. His eyes linger on the imprints of your breasts as they poke through the fabric but what really intrigues Paul is the secret that lies between your thighs. Paul notices the strap of your negligee has started to slip down your shoulder and he reaches up to adjust it, his fingers gently brushing against your collarbone as he does so.

Immediately, he notices that the simple touch has caused goosebumps to explode across the surface of your skin followed by a tinge of red. Paul is fascinated by this change and wonders what other reactions you have in store for him. Meanwhile, you're growing impatient with him. You wish he'd just kiss you already because you miss the feeling of his lips against yours. But he doesn't and unbeknownst to you, Paul is planning to take his sweet time.

Paul steps back, unbuttoning the top of his tunic. He's never gotten used to the tightness of his uniform and he lets out a sigh of relief. His eyes briefly glance at you standing there. You look annoyed by his actions and this amuses him.

You begin to shift on the balls of your heels, teeth biting into your lower lip as you think ‘patience is a virtue’. Paul has had a long day of weapons training and royal responsibilities. Surely, he is tired. But you have also waited all day for him and waiting a few more minutes sounds torturous - maybe if you ask him to kiss you, he'll listen.

"Please, Paul..." Your voice comes out whinier than intended. You feel embarrassed but it's Paul's reaction to your petulance that makes the pink colour in your cheeks deepen into crimson.

He pauses, a single eyebrow of his raising as his lips lift into a playful smirk. "Please, what, Daisy?"

Paul watches you through those thick, dark eyelashes of his. He waits for your answer and what you're unaware of is that he has enough patience to wait forever. After all, he is the son of a duke. Since birth, he's been taught to endure and persevere.

“I-I…” You stutter, feeling suddenly overwhelmed by the look clouding over in Paul’s verdant eyes. It causes an unfamiliar feeling to stir inside you and your thoughts quickly become a jumbled, incoherent mess. But thankfully, what you can recall is Lady Jessica’s advice: if you can’t tell him, show him.

Slowly, you walk forward with Paul watching your every move. Your fingers tremble as you reach for the button of his tunic, feeling a mix of nervousness and excitement. As you unbutton his tunic, you quietly inquire, “How was your weapons training?”

Your question brings a sense of closeness that you’ve never experienced before. But truth be told, you don’t care about his weapon training. You just think it’ll help speed things up a bit. But Paul is distracted. His gaze lingers on your face; he’s admiring the smattering of freckles that dance along the bridge of your nose. You glance at him and see that his lips are still curved into an adoring smile. It makes your heart swell.

Paul finally answers your question but his words fall on deaf ears because your mind is distracted by the sight of his lean waist. You find yourself growing envious of his body and begin to feel insecure because there is no denying the fact that your body is fuller than his, your bits fleshy and pudgy. Of course, Paul sees the change in your face and at first, he’s confused. But as he watches your eyes studying his body, particularly his perfectly flat stomach, he realizes what is bothering you.

"Oh, Daisy..." He coos. His voice breaks through your thoughts and you look at him, puzzled. Paul tilts his head to the side and traces his finger along your rotund jawline. Truth be told, he adores the ampleness of your body. He’s been admiring your curves for days and now, he finally has the opportunity to touch them. Paul is filled with the utmost delight at the prospect of being smothered by you body that’s bigger than his.

It is this exact thought that unleashes Paul from his restraints and he leans down, capturing your lips with his. You sigh happily and instantly forget about your jealousy. You relish the feeling of his supple lips pressing against yours - finally. He places a hand on the nape of your neck and the other on your hip, fingers digging into your thick flesh. He eagerly presses his body against yours, but it’s not enough. It’ll never be enough.

This kiss is different than the one in the garden. It's urgent. Needy. Paul is eager for more and he deepens it by swiping his tongue against your bottom lip. Your mouth opens - you've never been kissed like this before and at first, you're timid. Unsure of what to do. But Paul seems to be just as lost as you are. It doesn't stop either of you from trying.

Time blurs and for several minutes, it's nothing but a kindling mess of trembling hands and soft, wet noises. There is no rhythm and there is no tempo. Paul is sucking your tongue into his mouth and next, you're nipping at his lower lip; he growls when you do so. The growl reverberates through your body and dissolves into a heavy pleasure that presses down into your core.

Your lungs are desperate for fresh air and reluctantly, you separate. Your chest heaves against Paul’s and you gaze at him, noting how his eyes are still closed, lost in the throes of passion. His lips are swollen, bee-stung. Your lips are swollen too. Paul begins to run his hands up and down your back, his feathery touch tickles and you giggle softly at the sensation. His eyes snap open, verdant eyes flickering with burning desire.

“Do you want to lie down?” His voice is low-pitched but clear, his intentions are polite and sincere. He'll never stop being a duke even during the most intimate of times. He presses his forehead against yours, patiently waiting for an answer.

"Yes," Your voice shakes. He takes your hand and leads you to the bed. Tension begins to simmer beneath the surface and it causes your throat to dry up, making it difficult to speak. Those pesky nerves have come back and you wish they hadn't because you were having so much fun before -

“Are you okay?” Paul asks lowering your body down first before sliding his body next to yours. Your stomach is violently fluttering and you can only nod in response. You wonder if he can hear how fast your heart is beating.

Paul can just tell by wavering doubt on your face that you’re not okay. He peers at you, his face full of concern. He speaks, “Tell me you’re okay, Daisy,”

You swallow dryly and nod for a second time. Your fingers are gripping his arm because you are afraid that if you let go, he might disappear. It takes you another minute to gather yourself.

“I’m o-okay,” Breathlessly, you repeat, “I’m okay,”

This time it's Paul’s turn to nod. His lips turn into a soft, reassuring smile. He tenderly tucks a piece of your hair behind your ear and addresses your concerns, “We don’t have to do this - we don’t have to do anything if you don’t want to,”

Your heart tumbles over its own rhythm and you quickly shake your head. You want this - you want him. You want him to penetrate you with the bulge that has been steadily growing in his pants. You whisper, “But… but what if I do want it?”

He bites into his growing smile, trying to hide his excitement. He’s thrilled that you feel the same way and he loves hearing you speak. He wishes that you’d do it more and he knows in time that you will. As his father said, Paul has an entire lifetime to spend with you.

“Make love to me, Paul…” Your confession is quiet. Barely audible. Paul is unsure if he has even heard you but at the sight of your blushing cheeks, he knows that he wasn’t dreaming. You are silently pleading that he feels the way because if he doesn’t, you might just perish from embarrassment.

Paul pauses to watch the look of yearning etch itself across your face. You start to shift beneath the intensity of his gaze, your eyes dropping down. That’s when Paul feels your hands moving down his body. Your fingers latch onto his trousers, attempting to unbutton them but you’re having trouble, and it’s making you flustered.

Paul is loving every second of it. He enjoys how your brows have furrowed in concentration and he particularly likes the frustration growing on your face. You bite your lower lip and impatiently huff as you give up. You realize he’s been watching you this entire time and your eyes snap to his. You glare at the coltish expression on his face. Paul finds your exasperation endearing.

You bury your face into his arm, mumbling, “Paul, make love to me…”

Blood rushes through his body and goes straight down to the bulge straining against his trousers. He loves your wantonness and he wants to hear you beg for it again. He pulls your face away from his skin, eyes devouring you. As he holds your chin between his hands, Paul demands, “Say it again,”

You can’t help but glare again at him. He knows you won’t disobey. You speak, voice clipped with precise ardency, “Paul Atreides, my lord, will you please fuck me?”

The mixture of his full name and his title sends his blood into a frenzy. If he was already turned on before, then what’s happening to his body now? One thing for sure is that you don’t have to ask again because, within a minute, Paul has hastily thrown off his trousers and he’s now completely naked.

Your eyes, well… your eyes are instantly locked onto the appendage between your husband’s thighs. Of course, you have seen what a phallus looks like in art and in scientific videos. But in comparison to Paul’s, those examples were tiny and they definitely did not prepare you for the real thing.

His cock is so engorged and so pink, the tip of it glistening with some sort of secretion. As he moves his body back down to the bed, his cock twitches and bobs. He sees your fascination and watches how you are practically salivating over his well-endowed gift. Your core squirms with anticipation and your thighs involuntarily flex at the thought of him being inside you.

“Do you want to touch it?” His voice is timid, hesitating to request such a thing from his innocent wife but he’s held back long enough. Paul is so sure that he’s going to burst at any second - he watches as you reach out, hand faltering at second thoughts. Paul inhales sharply, “Touch me, Daisy, please…”

When your fingers brush against the tip of his cock, he shudders and his stomach constricts causing his cock to quiver. You quickly look up at him, wondering if you had hurt him but it’s clear you haven’t. He has an intense but dazed look on his face and he’s biting down on his lower lip, restraining himself. Paul is holding himself back and persevering through the pure torture you’re currently putting him through.

You wonder what’ll happen if you firmly grasp his cock, so your hand wraps around his girthy shaft and a throaty groan escapes from deep inside Paul’s body. His reaction pleases you and slowly, you continue to drag your hand down until it rests against the furry tufts on the base of his cock.

You notice how Paul’s chest is heaving and he’s pressing his body into the mattress, hands gripping the sheets, knuckles almost turning white. He looks at you through half-lidded eyes, pleading for more but you’re taking your time, exploring his body, finding ways to incite reactions from him. You know he’s enjoying your hand gliding up and down his cock but what if… what if you were to taste him? You readjust your body so that you’re sitting with your mouth hovering over his cock.

“Daisy, what’re you…” Paul says, his voice deeper than usual. You lick the tip of his cock, tasting the pearly secretion that has been leaking out. Paul gasps, swearing under his breath. You lick his cock again and once more, Paul reacts with a throaty gasp. You’ve overpowered him with one simple move and now he’s yours. It is at this moment that Paul realizes he is supposed to be listening to your sighs and moans but instead, you’re listening to his.

He watches as you thoroughly lick the tip of his cock. The sensation is immaculate and he’s struggling to remain cool and composed. You aren’t exactly sure what you’re doing but you’re enjoying the smoothness and warmth of his arousal. You seal your lips around him and slowly, very tentatively, lower your mouth down. Paul groans loudly and his hand finds the back of your head, his fingers gripping your hair so that it’s not in the way of his view.

The sight of you, mouth full of his throbbing cock, practically sends him over the edge. He has to restrain himself by closing his eyes and silently begging that he doesn’t ejaculate - he can’t. Not yet. He’s trying to convince himself that it’s your turn to be pleasured but when his cock hits the back of your throat, you gag and the sound makes him completely forget everything. His eyes snap open, watching as you bring your mouth back up, leaving a trail of spit pooling down his cock.

“D-Da-Daisy,” Paul sputters out, completely out of breath. You ignore him, dragging both your hands along his quivering cock. He struggles to find his words but when he does, he orders, “Stop,”

He grabs your hands and pulls them off his body. Shocked, you look at him. He looks like a man who has just been to hell and back. His hair is beyond dishevelment, strands of it sticking to his damp forehead. His eyes are wild, his once verdant eyes have been taken over by expanded pupils that have blackened out any colour.

Before you can ask what you did wrong, Paul is tugging off the negligee and exposing your naked body to him for the first time. His eyes sweep over every nook and cranny, noting every bulge of abundance. He’s taking inventory, marking his favourite areas. He’s particularly drawn to your breasts and how they swell against your chest, gravity pulling down the pillows of dough. They look rather heavy to Paul and he just has to reach up to grasp them. God, they’re so soft and perfect. He’s quick to lower his mouth, latching it onto your perky nipple. The sensation of his tongue swiping over the sensitive bud makes you gasp, “Paul,”

He grins against your skin and can’t help himself, he just has to nibble at the fleshy softness of your chest, which causes you to gasp. Your hand grabs the back of Paul’s head, fingers kneading through his hair, locking him there because your breasts absolutely love the attention. Meanwhile, Paul feels like he is in heaven, sighing happily as little noises continue to escape from your mouth.

Simply put, he can’t get enough of you. He licks and sucks your breasts as if they were ripe fruits, his tongue sweet and rough against the sensitive flesh. He alternates between too much and not enough, which creates a perplexed feeling between your hips, right in the crest of your crotch. It’s vague, incomplete. You have never felt such a thing before tonight. You flex your thighs, hoping that you can rid yourself of the unnatural feeling.

With his mouth still attached to your breast, Paul takes his hand and plants it on the inside of your thigh. This movement doesn’t help the unnatural feeling that has been steadily growing and you squirm, hoping Paul doesn’t notice. Of course, he does and he detaches himself to peer at you. He loves how pink and splotchy your cheeks have gotten, and he loves how your eyes have narrowed into a lusty squint.

Testing you, he drags his fingers upward. His cock throbs at how saturated your thighs have gotten. He doesn’t even think you’re aware of the wetness seeping from your flower and he cups your fuzzy mound, which causes you to squeal in surprise. The sudden intrusion is too much and you’re squirming out of his grasp. Paul is quick and wraps his other arm around your body. He’s strong enough to hold you, keeping you locked against him.

With his voice barely above a whisper, Paul asks, “Can I?”

You swallow hard. You desperately want him to touch you down there but you’re terrified of what might happen because you heard that unnatural things can occur. Paul senses your worry and feels your hesitation, and immediately takes his hand away - consent is the most important thing. You can’t help but notice how your pussy suddenly feels lonely now…

However, those thoughts are quickly pushed away because Paul pulls your body down with his, your chest colliding with his as he lies underneath you. You feel like you’re crushing him and for a third time, you begin to squirm.

“Daisy,” His grip tightens. You stop squirming and sheepishly glance up at him. He’s gazing at you, with so much love and adoration, that it makes your breathing hitch inside your throat. Paul whispers, “You’re the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

The compliment makes you blush, your skin reddening even more. You confess, “I’m not a woman yet -”

“Yet,” Paul interjects and shifts so that your body is lying next to his. He kisses your temple, “Lay back and relax, I’m going to try something…”

You’re reluctant for Paul to see such an intimate part of you. He pleads, eyes begging for a chance. He murmurs, “Just trust me, okay?”

His words make you reconsider. You decide to trust your husband and you lay down, inhaling to calm yourself. But the moment Paul places his hands on your legs, your heart rate spikes and rattles against your chest. As he spreads you open, he looks at your flower with reverence. It’s so puffy, so pink and so wet that it glistens beneath the glowglobes.

He positions his body between your thighs, his cock rubs against the inner flesh, and you shudder at the sensation. He looks at you, worried. You shake your head, “Paul, I need you…”

At your request, he is so quick to touch you. His finger slides along your folds. You suck in and bite down on your lower lip, holding back. But Paul yearns to hear you, and he does it again, repeating the movement. A small groan escapes and it’s all the encouragement that he needs. Through heavy-lidded eyes, you see that he is in deep concentration, studying as your hips jerk when he presses his palm against a sensitive little nub that’s hiding between your petals. As he does it again, your mouth goes slack and a moan slips out. He begins to circle it with determination, knowing this must be the spot.

There’s a liquid heat pooling in your core and the more pressure he adds, the less you can take it. You are back to squirming beneath his touch, gasping and groaning at the pressure building inside. It’s such a foreign feeling - you feel like you’re going to burst open. You feel scared about what might happen. You want Paul to stop, yet you don’t. Everything is so conflicting and your throat is parched, and you want your husband to look at you. But Paul is so engrossed in what he’s doing - he’s absolutely fascinated at the stickiness that seeps through your magnificent folds.

Unable to take much more, you reach down and grasp his chin, forcing him to look at you. At first, he’s baffled. He was so sure that you were enjoying his hard work - your eyes are hungry, having not been satiated yet. The look sends a chill down his spine and when you whimper, his cock twitches.

If he wants to make you a woman, it needs to happen now. You whimper again, “Paul, I need you … I need you inside of me,”

“Are … are you sure, Daisy?” He asks, eyes glazing over. You nod and reach up to caress his cheek. Paul is so unbelievably sweet. He begins to trail kisses along your stomach, tongue dipping into your belly button causing you to throw your head back into the pillow. He grins wolfishly and continues marking his territory, relentlessly teasing you until you are nothing but a wet, blubbering mess.

Finally, after a lifetime has passed, Paul sweetly kisses your lips and his cock brushes against your swollen labia. The first meeting. Wetness against wetness. You wrap your arms around his neck, pulling his shoulders down into your body. Paul steadies himself, his chest puffing out with excitement as he lines the tip of his cock against your entrance.

“Fuck,” He hisses. Paul knows it’s going to be a tight fit and he’s worried about hurting you. He plants a tender kiss against your jaw, whispering, “Tell me if I hurt you, okay?”

You nod, shutting your eyes and moaning out as his cock begins to nudge inside. It’s definitely a little too large for comfort and your body is resisting - you have to order yourself to relax. And when he’s finally pushed past, there’s a popping sensation. It’s quick and it hurts, pain shooting through your pelvis. You wince.

Paul notices and stops, he attempts to pull out but you’re quick to lock your legs around his. His lips move against your skin, “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” You sniffle, shaking your head. But Paul can see straight through your lie. He asks the question again, shifting because he’s afraid of causing you pain. This time, you answer truthfully, “It hurts but your cock… it feels so good, Paul - don’t stop, please don’t stop -”

He listens and continues to push his hips forward. Your eyes remain closed but your mouth hangs open, little mewling noises coming forth. Paul struggles to remain composed as your tight cunt swallows his girth. At a glacial pace, he pushes into your body and buries his face into the crook of your neck. He’s struggling not to cum because, for him, the suction of your velvety walls is swiftly driving him toward the edge.

“You’re such a good girl,” He’s barely audible, hands gripping the side of your protruding stomach. He gives one final thrust, grunting, “Cunt so goddamn tight,”

His cock is fully inside, buried to the hilt. You’re gasping, fireworks sparking behind your eyelids. Your hands are trailing along his back, nails digging into fevered flesh. It still hurts but it’s a good type of hurt. He begins rocking his hips, slowly at first, stretching out your virgin cunt. The mixture of pain and pleasure has you splitting open, crying out, “Oh, fuck! Paul!”

For a moment, Paul thinks he’s hurting you again and he pauses. You hiss at him, “My lord, just fuck me already,”

Your lord does not like that. He sits up on his knees, arms placed on either side of you and hovers over your body. It glistens with sweat and you’re eyes have snapped open at the sudden loss. You see that Paul’s eyebrows are knitted together, irritated that you brought up his nobility. He pulls out, noting the smear of crimson around his cock but doesn’t think twice about it and shoves it back inside.

You cry out, “My lord,”

He seethes, biting down on his lower lip and begins to rapidly thrust in and out. You want to be properly fucked and he’s giving you exactly what you want. The room fills with your cries of pleasure as Paul spitefully fucks your sweet cunt. The same sweet cunt that is making crude, wet noises, making it impossible not to spill his seed right then and there.

He wants to make sure that you finish too but Paul knows he’s close. He feels the familiar sensation of an orgasm building inside; he knows the feeling all too well because he’s no stranger to masturbation. In fact, he’s spilled his seed onto this very bed many times in the past year. He’s restraining himself, the friction starting to become too much for him - the tight coil wants to snap and he can’t stop thinking about filling your womb with his seed.

He shudders, willing himself to slow down so that you can catch up to him. His thrusting turns tender and he begins to lovingly guide his cock into your body, burying it against your hilt. Paul notices that you like this more because your moans have become guttural, coming from somewhere deep. He does it again, fully burrowing his cock in your velvety walls. They are contracting, practically convincing Paul to spill his seed. He's barely able to resist the temptation.

You seem to be fighting your own demons and reaching for something that you aren’t even sure exists. Certainly, it must because what else is this feeling that has pooled inside your belly? The liquid is hot, near boiling point. Each time Paul thrusts his cock, it hits a spot and it makes your cunt convulse, and your eyes roll back because the stimulation is too much.

Your hands grip Paul’s strong arms, nails digging into his flesh. Paul reaches down between your bodies, fingers fondling your fuzzy little mound as he remains buried inside. He pushes your puffy lips apart and presses your button. It sends a jolt through your body and you bellow out, “Paul!”

He presses his thumb against the sensitive little nub and glides his cock against that spot, and you’re so close - so close. Paul pushes his cock into the depths of your cunt, practically tearing into your womb. His cock quivers against the friction of your walls and he shudders, eyes closing tight while his hand continues to work your clitoris. He wills himself not to cum but it’s useless because, within seconds, he’s shooting his hot, thick load into your tight, breedable cunt.

You cry out, feeling as Paul’s arousal fills you. It’s the thought of Paul impregnating you that causes your orgasm to boil over. Your pussy clenches and convulses with gratification at having the opportunity to give Paul an heir. You cling to him, needing him more than ever as you repeatedly call out his name, prolonging the vowels, “Paaaaauuuul, Paaaauuuul, Paaaauuuulll!”

#paul atreides #dune #timothee chamalet #paul atreides x you #paul atreides x reader #smut #fan fic #castle atreides #duke leto atreides #thewordypeach #chubby reader #paul atreides x chubby reader #paul atreides x fem!reader #thewordypeachwrites #wpw

2K notes · View notes