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fatesundress · 1 year

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He evidently does not.

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

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

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

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

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

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

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

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

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

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I wonder why.”

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

“What, Tom?”

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

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

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

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

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Curiosity—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

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

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

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

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

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

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

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

“A professor?”

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

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

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

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

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

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

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

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

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

“So?”

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

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

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

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

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

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

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

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I —”

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

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

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

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

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

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

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

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

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

“Tom.”

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

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

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

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

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

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

The day everything changes starts the same as any.

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

Tom has cracked the book.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I have no need.”

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

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

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

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

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

“Why would he lie?”

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

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

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

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

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

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

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

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

“Should I?”

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

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

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

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

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

Summer blisters when it comes.

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

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

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You always are.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are regardless.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You are not his keeper. You know that.

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

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

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

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

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

You’re almost positive you did not.

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

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

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

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

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

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

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

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

It happens again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take to the library.

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

The third sign is the end.

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

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

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

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

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

He’s something else entirely.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I’ve been good at it.”

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

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

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

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

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

He sees all of you.

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

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

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

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

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

“I cannot.”

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

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

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

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

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

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

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

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

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

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

“Do you want me to lie?”

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

“Her death is the first step to —”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...What?"

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

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

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought I would have time.”

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

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

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

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

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

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

“You have lost me, Tom."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

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

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

Be well.

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

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

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

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

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

You find that to be true.

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

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

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

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

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

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

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

Due February.

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

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

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

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You drink, and don’t look away.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I take that back.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Indifferent it is.

“Can I help you?”

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

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

“Am I?”

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

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

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Where is Mari?

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

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

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

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

“Well then —”

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

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

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

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

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

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

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

“I haven’t protested.”

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

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

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

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

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

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

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

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

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

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

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

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

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

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

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

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

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

My door is always open.

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

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

It’s a tempting door.

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

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

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

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

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant.

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

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

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

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Renauld?”

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

“Well, yeah —”

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

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

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

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

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

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

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

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

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

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

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

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

And… he does.

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

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

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

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

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

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

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

But something about it itches.

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

You are green, through and through.

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

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

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

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

That makes it much worse when you sleep together.

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

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

“Yes.”

“Right.”

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

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

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

You’re incredibly daft about it.

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

The itch exacerbates.

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

You wake up and he isn’t there.

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

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

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

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

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

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

R.R

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

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

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

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

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

But you do, because he told you.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes."

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

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

“I earned this,” you hiss.

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

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

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

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

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

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

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

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

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

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

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

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

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

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

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

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

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

“Yes,” you agree.

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

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

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

He was your first in everything but this.

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

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

“How long?” he asks thickly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“N-no.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A finger presses inside and you moan.

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

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

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

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

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

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Will you give me more?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Maybe you already do.

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

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

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

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

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

You whimper.

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

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

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

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

“You can — uh — you can — ”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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eddiemunsonswhxre · 11 days

Text

whatcha thinkin about? / jj maybank

rated: m (18+, minors DNI)

masterlist

wc: 6.4k

cw: best friends to more, use of marijuana, explicit language, pet/nicknames, oral (f receiving), piv (protected), squirting, kinda some overstimulation, kinda fluffy too

after not being able to get relief in months, jj accidentally discovers this and has no problem helping you out.

you were so horny. you were laying on your bed with your best friend after sharing a blunt and staring up at the glow in the dark stars on your ceiling while music blasted through your speaker. and you were so, so horny.

how’d you get to this point? well, you hadn’t done anything sexual, not even with just yourself in months as your younger sister had to move in with you while her room was being redone. she moved out today, so after two and a half torturous months you were free to have friends hang out and do anything you pleased in your own room. when you told this to your friends, jj was the first one to offer to come over. you agreed instantly, he thought it was just because he was bringing a blunt for you to share and your favorite chips, but you really just liked being around jj.

jj was… almost perfect with you. his humor matched yours, dipping into the darker and dirtier side of things. he was extremely gentle with you, always taking extra care to make sure you were safe getting on and off the boat or making sure you always had water or a blanket or a snack whenever you needed. this was something he didn’t do for kiara or sarah but they didn’t take offense, they knew why. jj was also so easy to talk to. despite coming off as more immature and aloof, he was a great listener and good at comforting you and giving you advice. you gave him the same respect, but what you didn’t know was that you were the only one he would talk to about his feelings like that.

you liked jj, obviously. you found him to be extremely attractive and have more than once tried to hide your turned on state from him over a simple action. but you’ve never been this horny in front of him before. “whatcha thinkin about, mama?” he asks lowly, his words barely registering over adele’s belts. he moves onto his side, hand coming to rest on your stomach. he feels your stomach spasm underneath his palm but chalks it up to scaring you.

your eyes widen slightly and then you’re turning your head to avoid eye contact. “nothing,” you hummed.

“oh, don’t give me that shit, what’s going on up there?” he chides, moving his hand up to ruffle your hair before returning it to your stomach.

you narrow your eyes and reach to move your hair from your eyes. “seriously, jj, i’m not thinking about anything,” you groan. you want him to just drop it but of course he won’t.

he tsks and you wait for him to say something. instead, he begins tickling your sides. you yelp in surprise before you start giggling. you try pushing him away which only makes him move his torso above yours, hovering over and tickling your sides. your eyes are closed as you start laughing really hard and jj allows his eyes to wander. he hopes to mentally commit the image of your tits bouncing in your small tank top to memory.

you try and grab ahold of your strength enough to push him back and lose his balance. you feel the weed kick in and try to turn yourself over to get off the bed completely. jj doesn’t waste a second, grabbing your waist and forcefully flipping you on your back and crawls further on top of you. one of his knees falls between yours and you feel your breath shake through the laugh you couldn’t hold back. “jj,” you gasp through giggles.

“tell me,” he jokingly yells, moving to tickle your hips. you rock side to side while pulling your knees up trying to escape his touch, huge smile on your lips. your movement causes your skirt to ride up and jj knows if he looks for one more second he’ll be able to see your underwear. he looks away, partially regretting it, and pushes himself up farther. he pushes your knees back down as he moves, your knee grazing his inner thigh and causing him to bite his lip. he begins tickling towards your armpits, and you begin screaming with laughter. you felt yourself getting wetter every second. you couldn’t stop laughing, but internally your body was screaming with red lights flashing around you. the idea of him being so close to your core had you clenching around nothing, pushing some of your arousal into the fabric of your thin underwear.

you try squeezing your legs together but jj’s knee keeps them open just enough for you to not get any friction. tears begin filling your eyes from laughter as the wet patch on your underwear spreads. “what’s so important and secretive huh? so big of a secret you can’t tell your daddy jj?” he asks, using one of the cringey nicknames the two of you often threw around jokingly. but in this state, it just sent a wave to your core and a small gasp of a moan made it through your laughter. jj didn’t even notice your noises until he went to readjust himself over you and his knee presses against your soaked underwear. he froze in his place, feeling the warmth and wet of you against him, wet enough that he could feel both of your lips crushed against him.

you’re able to come down from your laughing as jj moves back, scratching the back of his head. “sorry about that, y/n,” he trails. you are absolutely mortified. the tears in your eyes turn to ones of pure embarrassment. you sit up pulling your knees to your chest, cringing as the sound of your pussy squeezing together fills the silence. jj gulps, using every ounce of control in his body to keep his dick soft.

“oh my god,” you mumble, embarrassed as you lay your head on your knees.

jj feels bad, he didn’t mean to make you embarrassed or uncomfortable. “it’s okay, y/n, i’m not like grossed out or weirded out or anything. i think everyone knows that that sort of thing just kind of… happens… even for no reason,” he tries reassuring, moving towards you slowly.

you shake your head trying to gather your thoughts. “i just- god i should’ve asked you to leave when it started i didn’t want this to be awkward.” you rant, raising your head slightly but refusing to meet his eyes. jj’s face changes as a lightbulb goes off in his head.

“ah, so you’ve been worked up for a while… is that what you were thinking about all that time?” he asks, a bit of slyness falling into his tone. you chuckle at him, glad that he could always change the mood of a conversation.

you wipe at your eyes before speaking, “yes, well, kind of, it just hit me that my room is just my room again.”

jj looks at you with slight shock. “please don’t tell me you’ve gone these entire like three fucking months without masturbating or something,” he says in a tone that sort of sounds like worry.

you feel your cheeks heat up, but know it’s probably not noticeable with how red you were from laughing and crying. “there hasn’t been opportunities,” you say with a shrug.

“fuck, y/n, i… i can’t believe that, i absolutely couldn't do that. i jerk off everyday- sorry- my point is it’s a part of our routines and not having that can be bad. shit, you should’ve asked to use my room,” he jokes at the end.

“to what? masturbate in your bed? no,” you laughed, relaxing more.

jj raised his brows and lowered himself to sitting on your bed again. “i would’ve done it all up for you, washed sheets, a speaker, water, whatever else,” he continues.

your heart tightens in your chest, pussy mimicking your action. “so kind of you,” you mutter, rolling your eyes.

“i’m deadass, y/n. it’s a tragedy you’ve had to hold out this long,” he says, watching with a smirk as you shudder slightly.

“can we not talk about me using your bed to get off?” you ask.

jj shrugs, moving closer. “i don’t know, can we talk about how wet you are?” he didn’t know if this remained in the gray area. he wanted to push a little and see if he could get you, but also wanted to stay where he could still manage to laugh it off as a joke.

your breath caught in your throat as your eyes met his. “jj…” you trail as some kind of warning.

“be so honest with me, did you only realize you could now masturbate freely in your room again or were you thinking about someone? maybe daddy jj helping you out?” his voice becomes huskier but he forces the teasing look to remain on his face.

you can’t stop the strangled noise that leaves the back of your throat, visions of his slim fingers sliding in and out of you with ease. “maybe,” you whisper, testing the waters jj had dragged you both into.

jj didn’t expect that answer, therefore in one moment he lost his ability to laugh this off if things went wrong and you backed out. “why don’t you come closer, mama? don’t want to have this conversation too loudly over the music right?” he raises his brows, gesturing to your speaker that was supposed to hide your conversations with jj from prying sisters and parents. “yeah, why don’t you just sit right on my lap here,” he says, reaching for your hips as you push yourself to move closer to him.

“y-your lap?” you stutter, his grip on your hips sending a throbbing heat to your pussy.

he nods, guiding you into his lap. your legs rest on either side of his, using your thighs to keep your core from his dick. “you trust me?” he whispers, looking at you with sincere eyes. he’d decided to just go for it. you nod apprehensively and he leans down, placing the softest slow kisses across your neck. a small sigh of content passes through you as a hand subconsciously finds purchase in his hair. “tell me exactly what you were imagining, what did you have me do to you?” jj mumbles against your skin.

you stay silent, partially in shock as his words absorb. you’re brought to reality when he pinches some skin on top of your hip. “oh-” you mutter, brain scrambling. were you really going to tell him this? “hands,” you spit out without thinking, “you could do things with your hands they’re… really nice to look at,” you try explaining.

jj chuckles into your neck causing you to wince in embarrassment. so smooth y/n… “nice to look at it? hm, i can only imagine all the things you wish they could do to you,” he says, his hot breath covering your collar bone as he still focuses on your neck. he’s getting lost in the moment, so lost that he can’t consider how bad the outcome of this could be. instead of a soft kiss, he licks along your collarbone slowly. you shudder under his touch, pressing your chest towards him slightly. jj takes this as a confirmation and attaches his lips to your skin, sucking harshly while his grip on your waist tightens.

you’re unable to stop the breathy moan that leaves your lips and your grip in his hair tightens. “jj…” you whine quietly when he nips at your skin.

he grunts, running his hands up your sides. “fuck, y/n… you don’t know how long i’ve waited to hear you moaning for me,” he admits. he has definitely gone past the gray area. he had sped away from it and there was no going back now as his cock grew hard underneath you. he pulls his face from your neck, yanking you harshly down so you’re fully sitting on his lap. you let out another small moan as you feel how hard his dick is beneath you and are unable to stop an experimental roll of your hips. jj closes his eyes at the pleasure, momentarily wondering how the fuck he ended up here. “are we doing this?” he asks quietly, opening his eyes to meet your glossy ones.

you bite your lip in slight apprehension. “i want to…” you say, trailing off and moving your eyes from his.

jj looks down for a second. “but…?” he asks, knowing you had more to say. if you didn’t to for some reason he’d accept that, but how was he supposed to see you again and not think of this?

“but i’m scared it could ruin our friendship, like make it… awkward,” you say, your hands falling from his head and shoulder to crack your knuckles, a nervous tick jj picked up on years ago.

jj’s hands move back to just above your hips, pushing away his thoughts regarding your soaked pussy being pressed against his cock only separated by your underwear and his swim trunks. “what would make it awkward?” he asks softly, not trying to sound sarcastic but thoughtful.

a huff leaves your lips, your pussy pulsing against him still undeniably aroused. “we think about it and regret it later, or it turns into a regular thing and just… i am not built for friends with benefits, jj,” you say, looking at him with worry in your eyes. jj knew why you said that, since knowing him, he’d had three different friends with benefits situations. jj maybank didn’t date and you knew that. only, if it was you, jj would. and he figured it might be time to tell you.

“who said we had to be friends with benefits? we could be… something else,” he suggests, struggling to put it into words.

you roll your eyes. “jj what does that even mean?” you groan.

his eyes flick between yours, trying to gauge your feelings. “you know, people who do those types of things but aren’t just friends…” he stammers.

“are you trying to say like… be together?” you ask, extremely unsure of yourself.

“yes, y/n, i want to date you,” he pushes out, embarrassment heating his cheeks. you were shocked at his confession, but felt nothing but excitement flood your body. you don’t waste another second, reaching to grab the sides of his face and you’re quickly crashing your lips to his. jj’s eyes flutter shut as his grip tightens and he passionately kisses you back. you moan into his mouth, your hips moving without your consent. his hands travel to your ass, using his grip to harshly push you towards him. you take the hint and continue grinding against him as the kiss turns sloppy. you’re barely able to catch your breath as jj won’t let you pull away that you’re both panting against the other. another wave of arousal floods your panties and jj swears he can feel it. this is what causes you to pull away from his lips. your foreheads rest against each other and your eyes hold each others gaze. “so,” jj starts, “are we doing this?”

you pull back from him and reach towards your phone on the bed. he watches you carefully, watching as you pull up spotify. you change your playlist, not necessarily wanting your first time with jj to be to set fire to the rain. jj smirks as a chase atlantic song plays from your speaker and you turn it up, hopefully loud enough to drown out any noises either of you would make. “you have a playlist for this?” he asks teasingly.

“shut up,” you groan, tossing your phone on your bedside table. jj chuckles and pulls your face back to kiss him.

his teeth latch on your lower lip, tugging it just enough to get a moan out of you. “i can’t wait to make it through every song on this,” he teases before reattaching your lips.

you pull on the hair at the nape of his neck causing him to let a small noise out of his throat. “mm, don’t think it’ll be easy,” you say, unable to stay off of his addictive lips long enough to finish your thought. “this playlist, is hours long,” you sigh into his mouth, feeling the head of his cock nudge your clit as you grind against him.

“you say that like it’s supposed to discourage me,” he says, pulling back and using his grip on your ass to hold you close to him. you squeal as you grip on to him to avoid falling as he moves himself to his knees. he leans down, carefully lowering you onto the bed on your back. “is your door locked?” he asks as he pulls back. you shake your head no and he gets up to do it.

“if my doors locked-” you start, pushing yourself onto your arms.

jj turns the lock. “then no one can walk in, you can make an excuse if they even notice,” he says, walking back over to you. “now, why don’t you just let me prove what my hands can actually do are better than your fantasies,” he teases, climbing back on your bed and between your legs.

“o-okay,” you say, head going dizzy with arousal. jj shuffles towards you on his knees, grabbing just below yours and tugging you harshly towards him. you yelp in surprise but he’s already throwing your thighs over his to rest on the outside of his hips. he lifts your skirt, laying it on your stomach and you shudder as the exposure to the air makes you shiver under your wet panties.

jj is uncharacteristically quiet as his eyes are trained on your pussy, his hands rubbing your upper thighs sensually. you squirm under his touch, whining in desperation. “so impatient, mama,” he teases. he moves closer, his finger trailing along the outer seam of your underwear. you whine again, needing any kind of friction immediately. “mm, i guess you’ve been waiting long enough today, huh?” he says, more to himself. you nod and he’s bringing his thumb to rub light little circles around your clit. you relax into his touch, lifting your hips slightly to meet his hand. jj is nothing short of mesmerized. you were so wet he could feel your arousal beneath your panties, some of it soaking through the fabric and onto his thumb.

your thighs involuntarily clench at the small movements jj’s making around your swollen clit and it causes him to laugh. “jj, please,” you whimper.

“i’m never going to get tired of that,” he says, pulling his thumb up and sticking it into his mouth. your jaw drops open at his action, watching his eyes close as he sucks any remnants of your arousal off his thumb. he pulls his thumb from his mouth with a pop and looks directly at you with a smirk. “or of that,” he says, moving himself back. “slight change of plans,” he says, resting his hands on your upper thighs.

you furrow your brows at him. “what do you mean?” you ask lightly, pussy throbbing at this point.

jj chuckles, hooking his fingers into the waistband of your underwear and moving them back and forth. “you’ve gotta let me eat this pussy, baby,” he says, watching your face closely.

“holy shit,” you whisper, hands coming up to cover your face. you couldn’t believe this was happening.

“yes or no, baby, it’s 100% up to you,” he mumbles, softer this time to reassure you you don’t need to do anything if you don’t want to.

you shake your head moving your hands. “god, jj, please,” you whine and jj can see the way your pussy clenches around nothing.

he smirks once more. “thank god,” he grumbles, pulling your underwear swiftly down, moving your legs up so he can pull them completely off and throw them somewhere on your floor. “take your top off, wanna have those pretty tits on display for me, okay?”

it takes less than two seconds for you to obey, sitting up slightly to pull off your shirt, quickly followed by your bra. you go to reach for your skirt but jj swats your hand away. “the skirt stays,” he mutters, pushing you down and his eyes scan your entire body. he glides his hands over your tits, giving them a small squeeze before continuing down. when he finds his eyes falling on your bare pussy for the first time he feels his cock jump under his shorts.

you watch him closely as he maneuvers himself to align his face with your pussy. you gulp in anticipation as he uses his thumbs to pull your lips apart, a hungry look on his face as he sees how your arousal literally glistens in the setting sunlight coming in through your window. he looks up to you, holding eye contact and lowering himself down with his tongue stuck out of his mouth. his tongue lays flat against your core as he drags himself up to lick a fat stripe up your pussy. your eyes close involuntarily and your head falls back onto your pillows. his tongue drags across your clit, causing you to clamp your thighs around his head. “jay,” you gasp out a moan, rather loudly.

“hey, you gotta keep it down. we don’t want someone trying to interrupt us, do we, mama?” he says in a stern almost warning tone that you hadn’t heard him use before. it had you clenching your thighs once again. you nod in agreement and look at him expectantly. jj can’t make you wait any longer, and honestly he can’t either.

jj’s tongue flattens against you once again, licking a faster stripe from your entrance to your clit. you bite on your lip as he repeats this action over and over again. the heat of his mouth makes you shudder. once jj feels you relax from this movement, he knows it’s time to switch it up. he adjusts himself, using his tongue to now quickly flick your clit. you have to cover your mouth to be safe as the knot in your core begins to tighten deliciously. jj can feel you clenching around nothing and decides to fix that for you. he moves his arm under him so he can slip a finger into you. you didn’t anticipate it, a shocked moan leaving your lips. his middle finger moves slowly in and out of you in contrast to the speed of his tongue. your moans become closer together and jj knows he’s taking you in the right direction. he removes his middle finger, momentarily pulling away from you completely to hook your legs over his shoulders, your heels resting on the middle of his back. the slight change in angle heightens the pleasure you feel as jj reattaches his lips to your clit. except this time he’s sucking on it and quickly enters two fingers into you.

your hands fly to his hair, chest heaving at how good he was making you feel. jj looks up, watching your breasts move with each heave of your chest as they’re squeezed together between your arms. the view was nothing short of ethereal and jj wished he could have a picture. he’d talk to you about that later… “jj, please, don’t stop,” you whine, pushing him further into your pussy. he begins switching between flicking and suckling on your clit and his fingers switch instead to curling inside you. “shit,” you moan, trying your hardest to keep it lower than the music which proves to be hard as the song switches from one to another. the sound of jj’s tongue against you mixed with the sound of his fingers fucking into you are sinful and it just adds to your building orgasm.

jj swears he could cum in his pants if he let himself relax, but he didn’t want everything to be over so soon. although another song had started, successfully drowning out the majority of your sounds, he could both hear and feel as more arousal began leaking out of you. “jj, i-i, something’s- oh fuck, somethings not right,” you try to say through your moans. you’d made yourself cum with your vibrator many times, and a few times a guy had managed to push you over the edge, but it never felt like this. jj though, couldn’t hear you. he was too caught up in making you cum and the sounds your pussy was making for him. “j- wait i- oh my god,” you say, your voice reaching a squeak at the end. jj looks up at you this time, not slowing his assault on your clit. your head falls back and the knot is the tightest it’s ever been, it’s almost painful. “i’m going to… ah shit- gonna cum,” you barely get out. jj speeds up his movements despite you not thinking it was possible.

your thighs lock around jj’s head, shaking as a way too loud moan of his name leaves your lips and your vision goes white. jj’s movements falter as he feels the vice grip on his fingers and them almost being pushed out of your pussy by a huge abundance of arousal. he thinks (or maybe doesn’t) quickly and moves his mouth lower, switching his fingers and mouth. he rubs quickly across your clit with his mouth hanging open near your entrance, tongue out ready to catch the harsh stream of squirt leaving your pussy. it’s so intense hitting the back of his throat that it causes him to choke a little. your orgasm begins to subside and he’s able to stop his fingers, instead moving to caress every part of you coated with your release with his tongue. he doesn’t stop until you're lightly pushing his head away.

he pushes himself up, looking down at the massive mess you had made before moving up and leaning over you. he brushes your hair out of your face, analyzing your widened eyes that seemed focused on nothing as you tried to catch your breath. you blink a few times, finally meeting his eyes. “you never told me you were a squirter,” he jokes with you, stroking your cheek to help ground you.

“i-i, i didn’t… i’ve never.. oh my god,” you say, pushing up a little to look down, wincing as you move your legs and feel how soaked your bedspread is.

jj moves with you, your admission feeding his ego. “so… you’ve never squirted before? you’re saying i’m the only one who’s made you squirt, ever?” he teases, using his hand to guide your chin to look at him.

you nod slowly, feeling embarrassed. “i- i’m sorry,” you say, not sure how you should be feeling.

jj looks at you shocked. “sorry?! uh uh, mama, don’t you dare be sorry. that was hot as fuck,” he says, stroking your jaw comfortingly. you continue to look away, replaying what had just happened in your mind. jj notices and leans down, putting his lips next to your ear. “let’s see if we can make you squirt around my cock,” he whispers, dropping his hand between your thighs to rub your sensitive clit.

“jj…” you gasp at the sensation, still sensitive from the intense from the orgasm you just had.

his teasing personality definitely carries into his intimate moments you realize. “awe, don’t tell me you’re gonna quit after just one orgasm,” he says, smiling at you before connecting his lips to yours. you whimper into his mouth, holding his neck and pulling him closer to you as his fingers rub slow circles over your clit.

your hands start to travel slowly down his chest until you reach the hem of his shirt. “off,” you mumble into his lips. jj smiles into the kiss, using his hand not on your clit to guide your hands under his shirt. you let your hands roam his chest before using your nails to lightly scratch downwards, eventually following his v line. once you hit the band of his shorts, he’s pulling away from you to pull his shirt over his head, tossing it behind him similar to how he’d thrown your panties earlier. you start to lean towards him, wanting to mark up his neck like he had.

however, jj stops your movements. “y/n, if i don’t fuck you right now, i’m gonna bust from just your touch and i really need to fuck this pussy,” he says, looking at you both serious and joking. you nod, returning to your previous position as he stands up and reaches for his backpack. he digs around in it for a second and you rub your legs together in anticipation. you’d dreamed about this for so long. and finally, on a random day, you finally get it. part of you wishes you would’ve done this sooner. yes it was unintentional, but maybe you could’ve brought up your feelings for him over the past so many months and this would’ve come so much faster. but, it was happening now and that’s what really mattered.

he pulls a condom from his bag and wastes no time getting rid of his swim trunks. your eyes fall to his dick, seeing that it was slick with precum. he quickly opens the condom and slides it on while your mouth waters at the slight. you wanted to taste him, wanted to feel the weight of him on your tongue. “don’t look at me like that… fuck. next time i want you sucking me dry, got it?” he whines before giving you an accusatory look as if he wasn’t the one who decided he just had to fuck you right now.

you just nod and watch as he puts his knee on the bed. “can i take my skirt off?” you ask, wanting to have a better view and it was soaked beneath you.

jj hesitates, he really wanted to fuck you in a skirt, but there’d be more opportunities. “if you’re more comfortable,” he says, nodding towards you. you quickly discard it and look at jj for further instruction. a pang of possession hits him hard in the chest when he sees the way you’re staring at him. “flip over,” he grumbles. you blink in shock but push yourself up onto your hands and knees. jj forcefully pulls your hips towards him causing your back to arch. he gently pushes on the back of your head until you follow his lead and he pushes your face into the pillow. “need you to moan into your pillow mama, probably gonna get quite loud,” he grunts as you move to having your arms crossed above you and your face on your cheek.

“cocky much?” you question with a smirk. it falls off your face when jj lads a hard smack on your pussy and you move away from him.

jj moves into the position he wants and grabs your hips. he guides his dick to slide between your folds, barely thrusting forward enough to graze your clit. “ready?” he asks, rutting against you.

you purse your lips before nodding, a small, “yes,” leaving your lips. jj immediately reaching for his dick and guiding it to your entrance. you clench in anticipation, jj smiling at the sight before slowly pushing just the tip into you. “fuck,” you whine into the pillow. he takes this as a good sign, slowly sinking further and further into you. you’re so wet, it’s barely a struggle to slide deep inside you.

“i love your pussy, holy shit,” jj groans as he bottoms out. you were so warm around him and the way you hugged his cock felt like you were two pieces of the same puzzle. not only did you taste good, you felt fucking amazing. jj’s mind wanders for a moment, thinking of all the different ways he can destroy your sweet cunt. but he’s brought back to reality the way you clench around him. he pulls his hips back as you squeeze him, the sensation on his tip making him concentrate on not finishing at that second. he pulls about halfway out before thrusting back into you. his thrusts aren’t very fast, working on the fact that he had to make you cum again. you moaned into your pillow as the head of his dick hit a spot that no one had hit before. you didn’t normally fuck in this position, having only really done it once before, so feeling this new sensation had stars swimming in your vision.

jj used his hands to guide your hips back on to him. he was able to go so deep his balls rested against your lips getting them coated in your arousal and it was driving him crazy. the wet sounds could already be heard pretty clearly between the two of you, the music doing its job at covering it up for anyone outside the room. it made you both hornier, and you were already feeling an orgasm begin to build. “faster,” you turned your head out of the pillow to moan quietly.

“faster? already, baby?” he asks with a smirk. he knew he could make you dumb on his cock. “you just really want me to cum fast don’t you?” he teases. you whimper in response and that’s all it takes for him to mostly pull his dick out of you just to slam back in. you let out a scream of pleasure into your pillow and jj can’t help but feel proud in that moment. he realizes you’re going to cum a lot faster than he thought and sets an unrelenting pace. the noise it makes is loud. the wet skin on both you colliding created a loud smacking noise and was accompanied by your bed frame rocking into your wall and the little noises jj was letting out. “need you to squirt all over me, cmon,” he grunts as he hammers into you. neither of you notice the speaker go quiet as it switches songs, the beginning of the next one having a quieter intro than previous.

jj leans over you, using a hand near your side to hold him up as his other reaches around to find your clit. “oh fuck,” you moan in the most pornographic tone that has ever left you. jj feels a spurt of cum leak from his slit at that and groans, speeding up his fingers on your clit. the way you clench so tightly around him and moan every time he thrusts into you tells him you’re close. maybe you just needed a few words of encouragement.

“cmon now, y/n, need you to squirt all over this dick so i know you’re all mine. hmm, yeah,” he starts, practically growling in your ear. “need to feel you cum while i’m deep inside your pretty little pussy. fuck, i fit so well. s’like you were made for me, this fucking cunt was made to get fucked by me. need you to come for me, right now, oh god,” jj grunts, struggling to keep up his pace and avoid cumming before you.

your moans turn into chants of his name as he feels the first drops of you escape down his cock. he anticipates you to scream, but as the wave hits you, your mouth drops open drooling against the pillow and your eyes roll back into your head. you’re spraying jj from the hips down basically with your warm squirt and through your silent spasming you don’t even feel him finish. jj slows down his thrusts, small streams of squirt still making it past as you continue spasming beneath him. he’s trying so hard to not fall on top of you and also catch his breath. he finally pulls out, a small gush falling out of you as your hips barely stayed up and you gasped for air. he pulls the condom off, throwing it into the trash and tries his best in his wobbly state to lower your hips onto the bed and straighten out your legs. jj shakily lays down next to you, looking into your widened eyes. “oh my shit,” you mumble, still out of breath.

jj smiles, resting a hand on your back. “there’s many more where that came from,” he winks at you. you want to make a smart ass remark but you’re still coming back to reality. jj’s hand rubs soothingly up and down your back as he notices you were struggling with coming down from your orgasm. “you’re okay, pretty girl. you did so good for me,” he coos soothingly. his words help ground you and once you have the ability to you reach out for him.

his hand grabs your forearm, pulling the upper half of your body towards him. you were both slick with sweat and your cum, but you didn’t care just yet. jj pulls you against his chest, yours pressing to his, and uses a hand to comb through your hair while both of your shaking legs intertwine. “thank you,” you mutter when you finally feel stable again.

jj snorts, “for what?” he thought you were about to say some stupid shit about fucking you too good or something.

you look up to him, “never been held after,” quietly leaves your lips. jj feels a small stab at his heart seeing how sad your eyes looked. he just brushes your hair back while he avoids the more insensitive questions, wanting to know how someone could not need to just lay with who they just fucked for a minute.

he doesn’t want to dim the moment, so he takes a different direction. “well, you know how it is with me, probably a little too touchy to begin with. remember all those times i ‘accidently’ touched your ass helping you off the boat? yeah, they weren’t accidents,” he admits with a smile on his face.

“i knew it,” you mumbled and cuddled further into his chest. both of you take a few minutes to just appreciate where you are with each other and bask in it. until the stickiness becomes too uncomfortable.

jj pushed himself and you up, wincing at the sensation of your sticky skin separating. “let’s get cleaned up, yeah?” he asks you. you nod, both of you shakily standing from the bed to head to your en suite bathroom. you grab your phone, turning your speaker down significantly causing jj to chuckle. he grabs his phone as well, looking at the top notification.

john b

hey man, guess you forgot we were all meeting up at y/n’s to go out at 8:30 to the beach. we decided to just go, meet up with us if you want.

a tip? close y/n’s window before fucking her next time, especially when trying too hard to hide it with the music.

#eddiemunsonswhxre #jj maybank #jj maybank smut #jj outer banks #jj maybank x you #jj mayback imagine #jj mayback x reader #outer banks #outer banks fanfiction #outer banks smut

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mammonsrockstargf · 2 months

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Satan would love goodreads.

He sees you one day, reviewing a book on your phone in the living room of HOL. He stands behind where you're sitting on the couch, peering over your shoulder, watching your finger press the four stars on the book you just read.

“What’s that?” he asks. You look back and smile at him, showing him your D.D.D. He leans down curiously, resting his hands on the back of the sofa while reading the words on your screen.

“It’s an app where I can rate the books I read,” you say. He reaches for your phone and looks at you for approval which you give with a nod.

He scrolls the app, checking out your reviews. “Isn’t it smart? You can give the books stars and write reviews and then you can look back on what you’ve read!” you exclaim, gesturing excitedly with your hands. Satan's gaze flickers from his phone to you and a light blush grazes his cheeks when he catches your excitement over books. “Yeah, that’s pretty cool,” he says, giving you back your phone while clearing his throat.

Now, Satan doesn’t really think he needs Goodreads. Demons have an excellent memory and most of the books on the app are human books, so he’d have to write in Devildom books manually, but he figures it wouldn’t be all that bad to download the app just so he can see your reviews. Plus, he does read a lot of books…

And boy, does he write the most scalding reviews. Everytime you see him rate a new book, you get genuinely concerned for the authors well being if Satan didn’t like the book.

I have lived for thousands of years and will live for thousands more and yet I wish I could regain the six hours I wasted on this horrible book.

I would rather spend a decade chained to Lucifer himself than read this horrible pile of shite again.

The plot was bland as fuck and the language barely did anything to make up for it, what a sad excuse for literature.

You come to look forward to these reviews, giggling whenever he gets particularly brutal. It’s a side of him you hardly ever see.

One day you recommend him a bad book on purpose, just to see what he’ll do. It’s quite easy to blind side him because Satan hardly ever checks on what’s new in the human literature world.

When you get to notification that he’s read it, you immediately press it, excited to see what he’s said, only to find the review relatively… tame?

Your brows furrow as you read the half-assed text, complimenting the plot twist at the end. “Didn’t see it coming.” It reads and you shake your head. That plot twist had been some of the absolute worst you’ve ever read. You’d been excited to see Satan tear it apart and call on the lazy ending.

You recommend him another book that you’re sure he’ll hate. Once again, the review is fine. Even the small following Satan has gained on the app seems confused.

This book is fucking horrible, why did he give it three stars?

Yeah, I followed him for his brutally honest reviews, but this is just weird.

You recommend him a bad book for the third time, just for good measure. “There’s no way he’ll be able to pretend to like this one,” you think as you innocently bat your eyes lashes at him and give him the book. Satan hesitates for a bit, looking down at the book. Then he sends you a tight-lipped smile. “Yeah, I’ll give it a go.”

You’re lying in bed when Satan barges into your room. “Satan, what are you-“ he plops the book down in front of you on the bed and crosses his arms. “Are you doing this on purpose?” A smile tugs at your lips before you think better of it and quickly fake a confused expression.

“What? I would never!” you say and he rolls his eyes and begin pacing your room. His fists are rolled into tight balls, knuckles turning white. He’s kind of hot like this you realize.

“Did you not like the book?” you ask and he stops pacing to just stare at you for a few seconds. “Are you serious? It made me want to rip my fucking eyes out!” he shouts and you giggle.

Satan feels like he’s going insane. Are you toying with him or something?

“What’s going on?” he asks and you shrug, sending him a mischievous smile. “I didn’t mean to tease you…” you say. “I just liked your reviews on bad books, so I thought I’d recommend you a bad book on purpose,” you begin to explain. Satan's mouth slightly opens and his brows raise at you.

“But then your reviews were so nice all of a sudden so I just kept recommending-“ You’re interrupted by Satan's manic laughter. He’s glaring at the ceiling, looking kind of insane in all honesty and you begin to wonder if you’ve maybe pushed him a bit too far this time.

You wrap your arms around your knees as your bed creaks with Satan's weight as he sits down next to you. “Are you even aware of how much I had to hold back-“ Satan grumbles, while he draws closer to you. His brows are pinched and his eyes are flashing green.

“Wait what?” you interrupt. “You held back because you didn’t want to upset me?”

“No!” Satan huffs and scratches his head. “I mean I thought you liked those books,” he says and pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes shut, while letting out a long breath.

“Oh, you big softie!” You chuckle as realisation dawns upon you.

“I am not a softie!” Satan's eyes snap open again. “You so are!” You squeal when Satan is on you, so you’re pressed against the bed, trapped between Satan's hands on either side of your head. Much to your surprise he begins tickling you. “Satan, no!” you yelp and try to get away from him, with no prevail.

“Take your punishment, human!” The demon howls. You’re gasping for air, lightly slapping his chest, in a fit of laughter. The side of Satan’s mouth quirks up. “This is the next best thing to eating you!”

a/n: thank for reading! <3 you can find my other stuff here

#perse writes #fics #satan #obey me #obey me shall we date #obey me swd #obey me fluff #obey me satan #obey me satan fluff #obey me fic #obey me satan x mc #obey me satan x reader #obey me x reader #obey me x you #obey me x mc #satan fluff

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grimesgirll · 4 months

Text

you jumped at the chance to babysit for rick grimes.

your mom didn’t have to repeat herself when she instructed you to arrive at rick’s early the next morning to give him some help with his baby girl.

not that you minded, but you babysitting for rick was a part of your mother’s larger plan to welcome the new arrivals into the community. it was an easy way for the survivors - namely their leader, rick - to warm up to everyone. and you had to put your half finished developmental psychology degree to use somehow.

you’re disappointed when you show up bright eyed and bushy tailed to be greeted by rick’s son carl, and not the dreamy sheriff himself.

carl is more than happy to pass off the bubbly little baby - who you learn is named judith- to you and dash out the door after giving you the rundown on her routine and lack thereof.

it doesn’t take long for judith to get used to you - or get into the habit of pulling your long hair. carl mentioned that she’d had a solid breakfast already this morning so you hunker down next to her playmat to tire her out in preparation for her next nap.

thoughts drift from tummy time to the absent head of the house. where was he? you knew part of the reason you had even begun babysitting was to help rick with childcare if he accepted his new position as constable, but you couldn’t think of anywhere else he would be.

and truth be told, you’re disappointed.

the first day the southerners had arrived, you looked on as rick stepped through the gates, judith in his arms. you’d been shocked to see a baby but you were even more enthralled by the hot suburban dad who’d landed on your doorstep.

not as old as your own father but nearly old enough to be, rick grimes had been blessed by age. his wild, grown out hair and tense but demanding disposition immediately attracted your attention.

it’s wrong; you shouldn’t be crushing on the man you’re babysitting for.

but you’ve been so bored!

let’s be clear: alexandria is your home. the safe zone provided more stability than the road could ever offer but survival was boring. at least inside of alexandria.

but out there?

whatever was out there was written all over the face of every new survivor your community had taken in. you’d heard bits and pieces; cannibals, maniacs on a power trip, robbers, corrupt cops even in the end of times.

and you could really see it on rick.

he had the demeanor of someone always scanning the room for the exit. you’ve never seen him so much as smile so it’s hard to imagine anyone like him adjusting or relaxing, even somewhere like alexandria.

your mother had theorized that some childcare could help ease the ex-cop’s anxieties, give him and carl a chance to breathe.

someone like that needs a lot more than a day away from the kids though. rick grimes needed an all inclusive vacation

and maybe a blowjob.

you tear yourself away from your wild thoughts about the rugged leader to turn your attention to the little girl hitting you with all of the sleepy cues at once. glancing at the clock, you decide it’s time for a nap and scoop up the eight month old. it’s not until you try to lay her down in the nursery that judith gives you your first problem.

seems like you had a velcro baby on your hands.

your hypothesis is proven correct during little judith’s second afternoon nap when you’re resigned to the living room armchair.

any attempts to place the little girl on her back, stomach, or side were met with tears. you’d just huffed and posted up on the rocking chair, ready to rock her for the duration of her nap.

it could be a pain but some babies just slept better hearing another heartbeat besides their own. it’s biology. judith is long out of the fourth trimester but that doesn’t exempt her from wanting to fall asleep in a pair of warm, snuggly arms. and besides, it’s not like you have anything better to do.

so you’re still curled up with judith when her father arrives in the afternoon.

gun holstered on his hip, the front door swings open to reveal rick grimes, looking much more like a resident of alexandria than he'd arrived. despite his new haircut and the difference that a shower makes, rick still looks pent up to you. like the feral man who'd shown up at your gates was just bubbling under the surface.

“hey there,” he greets once he registers your presence.

in his constable uniform, rick is even more handsome than you imagined all cleaned up. his chestnut curls are trimmed - courtesy of your neighbor, jessie - and he’s fully fitted like an officer of the law, and not an outlaw.

"oh, hi," you sit up and offer as much of a salutation you can being nap trapped.

"you must be deanna's daughter."

"that's me," you chirp, keeping your voice low to avoid waking up the little girl on your lap. "sorry, you caught us during naptime."

the southerner shakes his head. "no problem. looks like you got her down easy enough."

easy? you want to ask him to repeat that again but you just smile.

"i'm sorry i wasn't here earlier to introduce myself, i'm rick." the man extends his hand to you and you have to steel your nerves so he doesn't feel your hand shaking.

you're shocked when you hear confidence dripping from your voice as you give him your name. under his dark blue gaze, you want to squirm but you're holding it together somehow.

"you know, you can probably get out here early today. carl should be home soon."

you do your best to hide your disappointment. "leaving early on the first day?" you grin. "i think i like this job."

that earns you a chuckle from the sheriff who points to the sleeping baby you're holding. "i've got it from here if you wanna head out."

you don't but you put on your pearly whites and utter a peppy "sure!" handing over the still sleeping judith to her father.

"thanks for agreeing to this," rick commends you, eyes looking over the picture books and learning materials piled up in your arms. "i really appreciate having someone here to look after judith during the day."

“don’t worry about it, she’s such an angel, rick.”

"yeah, she is," he agrees, pausing to glimpse down at the napping infant. "i guess we'll be seein' you tomorrow?"

“whenever you need me.”

as his gaze follows you out the front door, rick is hard pressed to confirm if that was actual innuendo that came out of your mouth or just a generous offer.

he’s even more surprised to see you on his doorstep again after supper.

“hey,” you start. “i think i forgot one of my books here when i was watching judith. do you mind if i grab it?"

your burnt orange journal is right where you'd left it - intentionally - on the accent table in the upstairs hallway.

"oh, perfect! it's right here," you exhale in manufactured relief as if you hadn't left it there a few hours ago just for this purpose.

"is she down?" you ask rick in your best quiet voice.

he nods his hickory head of hair. "wanna see her?"

you nod enthusiastically and he leads you a few doors down the hall where you two pop your heads into a dark, curtain drawn room.

“how’s she been sleeping?” you ask innocently, following the father’s gaze to the sleeping infant lying peacefully in her crib.

“good enough,” he grunts. “all things considered.”

“how have you been sleeping?”

a chocolate eyebrow raises.

“you know, you have to get some sleep too.”

“isn’t that you’re for?”

rick must notice your reaction from the way he clears his throat and walks back his words, clarifying, “taking care of judith and all so i can,” he makes air quotes with his fingers, “rest.”

breathing deeply in an attempt to calm your racing heartbeat, you offer a smile with your exhale. “yeah, but that’s only during the daytime. she still has two wakeups at night, right?”

the man leaning in the doorway beside you shrugs. “two or three, give or take.”

“that’s a lot of time to be waking up at night.”

his ocean blue eyes twinkle as he shoots you a look and crosses his arms. “tell me about it.”

you motion towards the crib. “so i know judith likes to be held for naps, but have you ever tried room sharing with her? or even sleeping with her in the bed?”

rick gives you a quizzical look. “i thought you weren’t supposed to let them sleep in bed with you.”

“only if you’re a heavy sleeper,” you discern. “or if you drink or you’re a smoker.”

“really?”

you nod. “it’s called the safe sleep seven. its a big thing in other parts of the world." you draw an awkward breath. "not that there's anything wrong with watching her from the monitor," you refer to the device in his back pocket.

"well," rick runs a hand through his dark waves, stopping awkwardly at the end like he forgot about his haircut. "judith's always been held so it wouldn't shock me that that's how she likes to go sleep."

"did you have to snuggle her to sleep to get her down tonight?" your honeyed voice inquires curiously.

"i held her." he answers with a sigh.

"it makes sense. humans are programmed to want to be close to each other."

a silence settles over the two of you before rick clears his throat. "yeah, maybe i'll have to look into this sleep safe seven."

"i can bring a book next time i'm over," you offer. "i was a developmental psych major in college."

"so you have a degree to babysit?"

you roll your eyes. "i was supposed to end up doing research. you know," you gesture to judith in her nursery. "working with younger kids like her and figuring out what works best for them for sleep, learning to eat, the potty, play, school, all that."

"sounds like you're pretty smart," the ex-cop concludes.

you shrug. "smart enough."

with that, you two are walking down the stairs and you're heading towards the door when rick asks you if you'd like anything to drink.

you stop in your tracks, turning around on one heel. "you know, i'm kinda thirsty. i'll actually take a water."

rick's hands around the cold glass must be tattooed in your mind from how intently you're watching him. you thank him for the glass and gingerly take a sip, taking a moment to notice how his hands are braced against the counter. a cacophony of cracks erupt when the man rotates his neck and you can't help but laugh.

the older man frowns. “what’s so funny?”

“did you not hear the way your neck cracked?”

he shrugs it off. “gotta do it sometimes.”

“not like that,” you insist, glancing at his hands again, you get an idea. “why don’t you let me show you how you’re supposed to crack that?”

rick gives you a sideways glance.

“my roommate was in school to be a masseuse.”

“you don’t have to do that.” he says quickly.

you shake your head at him. “it’s not a problem. you can give me pointers.”

it’s wrong; rick shouldn’t be face down on the sofa in the house your mother had given him, getting a massage from her young twentysomething daughter.

and he most definitely shouldn’t be trying to hide an erection.

never would he have imagined getting a massage from a college student a week ago. like the haircut, rick wants to accept your community’s gifts with tact but that’s hard to do when your hands are kneading lower and lower down his back.

“when was the last time you relaxed, rick?”

the question comes out of nowhere and he almost wishes judith would pop up on the baby monitor to spare him from answering.

“can’t tell ya’.” he replied honestly.

you hum in response, observing as he twitches under your mischievous ministrations. rick didn’t have to go to massage therapy school to know that this massage is nowhere near professional. it’s downright racy as your fingers skim the top of his lower back.

god, he has a nice ass for a dad, you muse. you wonder what he’d look like fully nude on this sofa and if you weren’t touching him through his undershirt.

“that’s a little low.” the new constable remarks, calling you out.

you giggle. “i don’t know. i think the muscles down here really need some attention.”

rick hisses when you venture past his lower back and squeeze. he wants to say something but it feels so fucking good to have the tension manually worked out of his muscles.

“flip over.”

rick is about to bust out of his pants.

“flip over, please.”

the brunette finally complies; he wants to be embarrassed but doesn’t have a second for the emotion because you’re falling to your knees in front of him, pointing.

“want me to help you with that?”

“what?” he sputters.

“please, let me.”

wow, you want him. and who is he to deny you? not with how much of a roller coaster the past few have been; he should at least get to decompress.

“go ahead-,” rick doesn’t get another word out of his mouth before you’ve fully yanked his pants down and scootch further between his legs, attaching a hand to his waist. you slide his briefs down and are almost smacked in the face by the eight inch cock in front of you.

“rick…”

“if it’s too big, i understand.”

he starts to say something else but can only manage a gasp once you swallow the first few inches of his cock in your mouth. you ease your way back up to alternate between gripping his length and lapping at his precum covered head.

god, he can’t let deanna find out.

or spencer for that matter. no need to give your brother another reason for rick to be on his bad side.

he can’t be bothered to think about your family when you’re on your knees with his dick in your mouth.

“you’re doin’ so good for me, honey,” rick praises.

you moan deeply around his cock as you fit him further down your throat. it doesn’t take long for his hands to find your hair and suddenly his thick length is sliding down. you just swallow around him the best you can. you wonder if he’d believe you if you said you’d never had a dick this far down your throat.

it’s only once your windpipe starts to feel rick’s size that you raise your mouth up and off of the man in front of, catching a shallow few breaths before diving right back down to envelope him in your mouth.

rick can’t get enough of this. a hot, more than willing knockout of a woman on her knees with nothing but relieving his stress on her mind. and nothing was a hotter than a girl who actually wanted to give a blowjob, and by the way you’re hollowing your cheeks and pumping what doesn’t fit down your throat, he knows you’re loving this. a good girl like you deserves more than just his dick in her mouth.

“slow down, sweetheart.” he instructs, even though it takes a moment for you to slow the vigorous pace you’d committed to. “i wanna help you out too.”

your eyes widen with delight and he doesn’t have to tell you twice to come up on the sofa with him. instantly, rick is in between your legs and undoing the button of your jeans in order to pull them down to your ankles.

his thick cock jumps at the sight of your sopping panties.

blushing, you lift your hips as rick clutches and discards the undergarment on the floor. that’s when he gets the opportunity to take in your already soaked little hole. he can’t help himself from slipping a finger in and driving it deeper at the sound of your raspy squeaks. the same noise comes out of you once he gives you another. you must’ve wanted this for a while from the way you coat his fingers. you’re wiggling and rotating your hips like they’re on fire and he only has two digits inside of you.

“easy, girl,” he warns and you pout as you struggle not to buck your hips.

“i need you, rick,” you gasp. “feel you in my core. i’m so hot for you right now.”

you so are. rick thinks and adds another finger.

not only are you making his dick swell more than he thought it could but your insides are hot. that tight little core is choking his three fingers like a boa constrictor.

“i’m gonna come on your fingers,” you make him aware, hoping he’ll move you to his cock.

“go right ahead, sweetheart.”

so you do.

you let out a muffled sob into his shoulder. he doesn’t stop scissoring his fingers into you until he removes them from your reluctant cunt. your mouth opens automatically when he lifts his sticky digits to your mouth. enthusiastically, you let him slip them into your mouth and suck until they come out clean.

you can barely respond to the “good girl,” he’s whispering huskily into your ear because your lips are pressed to his. disregarding the fact that your pussy is dripping all over the new sofa, you fold into the kiss.

where have you been? you wonder while his tongue starts to pick a fight with yours. the fact that you’re suddenly in his lap doesn’t register until you feel his hand on the small of your back.

“you’re up,” he whispers in your ear before shifting you on top of him.

you only understand what he means when you suddenly feel like you’re being torn in half. “fuck,” you exhale, conscious not to be too loud as to wake up the baby upstairs.

from his rapid breaths into your bust, you can tell that’s holding back.

“rick,” you whine.

fingertips find your hips just as your arms wrap around his neck and you’re holding on for dear life as the constable starts lifting and lowering you on his cock.

“god,” you cry through gritted teeth.

rick is fucking you just like you thought he would.

he doesn’t wait for you to roll your hips or ride him, no, he just fucks you. yeah, you’re on top but rick is the one pounding into you from below. you feel every ridge and vein on his impossibly thick cock as you brings you up and down on top of him.

this is the fucking that you expected from the dauntless, untamed man that rolled through your gates with his equally intimidating allies. you wonder how long it’s been since rick had a good fuck. by the way he ruthlessly spears you on top of him, you know it’s been months at least. you conclude it probably wasn’t for his lack of skill though, not with how he maintains a delicious pressure on your clit with those same digits he used on you earlier.

your core is calling again: this time it’s lava hot. whatever tension rick had you dripping at earlier is no comparison to the overwhelming internal buzz pulsing inside of you.

“fuck, honey, you’re gushin’ around me.”

you look down. he’s right; you’ve made a slick mess of both of your laps. the words to respond don’t make it to your mouth because rick is once again picking up the pace.

every time you coil around him, rick just adopts a more devastating pace. it’s like after months of going without, he’s doing everything in his power to be as deep inside of you as possible. any deeper and he’d be back in your throat.

“you gonna come again on my cock, baby?” the brunette murmurs in your ear.

“yes, sir.” you croak, not having the capacity to comprehend what your words were doing to him. unless your body and the mind of its own it had counted.

your core is reacting right on time to rick’s consistent teasing. “that’s it,” he encourages, applying even more pressure despite your shaking legs. every time you sink down onto him, you feel full to the hilt.

“ah, fuck.”

rick’s orgasm hits before your finale; nonetheless, his tightening embrace and desperate thrusts into you are just what you need. the contrast of your hot core with rick’s warm cum should make you sick with worry and maybe something else but you’re too fucked out and drawn into your peak to care.

sweat coats your brow and your hair is sticking up in every direction but you’re just swallowed up by the tightening in your core. swallowed by how full you feel. you feel like you could make even more of a mess on top of rick.

the jolt that reverberates through your core this time is galvanizing. you wonder if there was anything before this orgasm.

head laid forward against his chest, perfectly glistening tits rising and falling with each full breath, you are at peace. who knew that relieving rick of his stress could bring you so much pleasure?

and when you look up at him, all you can do is offer a pupil blown smile.

he might just like alexandria.

#the walking dead #rick grimes #rick grimes x reader #rick grimes smut #rick grimes imagine #twd imagine #twd smut #rick x reader #ricky dicky doo da grimes #constable rick #not beta read #grimesgirll #reader was a developmental psych major before the apocalypse #happy 15 days to this blog lol #reader is really forward #reader has rick rabies #blowy #p in v sex

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eiightysixbaby · 11 months

Note

Wait! Rockstar!Eddie. Straddling Eddie before his show helping him put his eyeliner on, your so close to his face as you concentrate on not poking his big brown eyes. His grip on your waist is hard. He can feel you trembling and can see your hands shaking. He moves his hips on purpose making you gasp. Your wearing a skirt on purpose and he knows you don’t have anything else on underneath 😫

don’t do this to me. don’t. do. this. to me. rockstar!eddie is my weakness.

you love any excuse to help him get ready for shows, so it’s a no brainer when he asks if you’ll do his eyeliner for him. the sheer thought of him in smudged black eyeliner gets you worked up, and you don’t do a good job at hiding it. you straddle his lap where he sits on the couch in his dressing room, his big hands immediately coming to hold your waist, rings cold against your scorching skin. your hands fumble with the eyeliner pencil as you take the cap off, almost dropping it on the cushions beneath you.

Eddie almost makes you nervous when you’re so close to him like this, he’s simply too pretty to handle. you don’t know how to control yourself, getting all giddy and shy. his breathing is measured as your gentle hand comes up to draw the waxy black substance along his eyelid. you hold his face still with your other hand, trying so hard not to flinch and poke his eye out when his thumbs rub small circles on your lower back. his eyes are half-lidded when you pull the pencil away momentarily, lashes fluttering as he blinks at you expectantly. he’s so hot like this, dressed in his stage garb, confidence radiating off of him. you smudge the liner with the pads of your fingers just a little bit, perfecting the rockstar look.

you tremble as you move to the other eye, your brain using all of its power to focus on doing Eddie’s makeup rather than the feeling of his hands inching closer to your ass every second. he senses how worked up you are, rolling his hips up into you once you’ve pulled your hand away from his eye for a moment. you gasp, biting your lip between your teeth. the skimpy little skirt you’re wearing is only helping you, the fabric riding so far up your thighs and giving Eddie such easy access if he wants it. he smirks, tilting his chin up to kiss your jawline, nibbling just a little bit. you whine softly, desperately trying to finish the makeup on his other eye.

“what’s got you so worked up, sweetheart? it can’t be little old me, hm?” he purrs, rolling his hips against you once more, as if to punctuate his sentence.

“y-you’re teasing me,” you pout, putting the cap back on the eyeliner and setting it down on the table.

“oh? am I?” he taunts, craning his neck towards you again to kiss your earlobe. he sucks the delicate bit of flesh into his mouth. “I would’ve guessed this is what you wanted… considering that sorry excuse for a skirt you’re wearing,” he continues, his hot breath tickling your ear and giving you goosebumps. “…and considering you’re wearing nothing underneath, I think I would be correct,” his voice is a low rumble, fingers brushing against your bare cunt for only a moment before he draws them away.

you moan, this time grinding yourself against him. you can feel how hard he is, and you grind yourself down once more, letting the outline of his cock create perfect friction where you need it most. he just watches you with a smug smirk plastered on his lips, letting you get yourself off on him. he’s guiding your movements with strong arms and steady hands, groaning when you whimper his name. you know he has to go on stage any minute now, but you don’t really care. let him be late, let him walk on stage with your juices soaking his jeans, hickeys on his neck. he knows you’re close when your cries of his name become repetitive, just Eddie Eddie Eddie over and over, your head thrown back as your clit catches on the fabric of his jeans. eager fans waiting for the band to come onstage shout Eddie Eddie Eddie just the same, and it spurs you on to know that you’re the one that gets to have him.

you completely soak him when you cum, but it doesn’t phase him. he’s sick, and he loves it. he plays his show with soaked black denim clinging to his legs, winking at you when he spots you in the crowd. all he can think about is how good he’s gonna fuck you once the show’s over.

#leah’s got mail 💌#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #rockstar!eddie munson #rockstar!eddie x reader #eddie munson smut

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missmeinyourbones · 1 year

Note

megumi+just the tip B WORD

NSFW 18+. MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED FOR INTERACTING.

cw: AFAB!reader, penetrative sex, aged up characters (as always), slight coercion/dubcon if you squint really hard, megumi is just SO easy to persuade

…

he knows you shouldn’t, knows you can’t.

megumi knows this, yet he still finds himself teetering on the edge of agreement.

"please, megumi," your sweet voice sends chills up his spine.

your foot runs up and down his calf as your hips slowly grind into his with purpose. and on any normal day, megumi would be giving in to your pleas the second they left your pretty lips.

today would be no different, if it wasn't for his best friends sleeping on the couch one room over.

as your hips clank against his once more, he groans as if it physically hurts him to decline your request (it does).

"we can't," his voice is strained with what little determination he has left. "i want to, but we can't."

and he swears you’re purring against his skin when your lips dance along the sweet spot just below his ear.

"i can be quiet," you coo through kisses to the tender skin on his neck, and megumi swallows the saliva rapidly pooling in his mouth.

his grip on your waist tightens, "it's not about that."

"then why not?"

"because those idiots are a room away," he hisses through a frustrated whisper.

you can’t help but smile at how worked up he is over a few sweet words and slow touches. you love it—how sensitive he is, how easy it is to get him to cave when it comes to you.

you try to hide your smile through a faux pout.

"they're asleep," you gently remind him, soft hand reaching down to palm him through his pants, "and like i said, i can be quiet."

i can't, he thinks as he bucks his hips into your hand, chasing your touch when he’s just barely gotten a taste of it.

through closed eyes, megumi says nothing, because he knows that if he opens his mouth, it won't be to deny you any more than he already has.

and just when he thinks he has one final chance at redeeming himself, your lips find his with a whine.

"just the tip, at least"

and at your five pathetic words, megumi nearly bursts in his pants.

his groan shakes your chest and sends vibrations straight to your core. checkmate.

with you know practically riding his torso in anticipation to feel something, you lick his jaw with conviction. "please. need it, need you.”

before you can even look, megumi’s already pulling down his pants to free his leaking cock.

"shit, okay," he breathlessly agrees before warning, "just the tip though."

you eagerly nod, only half listening to what he says. "mhmm," you mewl, "just wanna feel you."

there’s no need for prep when megumi just barely glides his sticky tip through your folds and pushes himself into you. he lets himself sit in the warmth of your cunt for a moment, before he slowly rocks his hips back and forth, fucking you with no more than his bulbous tip.

and it feels heavenly. just enough for you to feel his slight stretch, but not enough to fully satisfy that ache in your stomach that needs him planted inside of you.

you’re a moaning mess from just his tip and still megumi can’t help but seek your praise.

"g-good?" he chases.

and you let him. "so good, love you."

and in the heat of the moment, his tip turns into inches, and inches melt into his full length. and before you know it, megumi is buried inside of you as deep as he can go. you’ve completely swallowed him whole with just a few pleas and whimpers. and you can’t help but laugh a little at how easy it was to get him here when just a few moments ago, he was too proper for something as dirty as this.

he mistakes your giggle for a sob, so his head is quick to snap your way. but when he sees the stupid smile on your face, he shakes his head in disbelief.

"can you not laugh when i'm fucking you?"

"sorry, i—nnghhh," you're cut off with a brash moan when he snaps his hips a bit harshly.

that’s what i thought, he stubbornly thinks before returning to his natural pace.

your moan-filled giggles fill his ear again. he pries his head up from the crook of your neck to look at you, curious to find out what’s so funny about him completely rearranging your guts right now.

he nudges your nose with his, a silent command for you to open your eyes and look at him. so you do, and the smile that you flash him could make him cum alone.

"just the tip, huh?"

megumi rolls his eyes, but you don’t miss the smile that creeps across his face before he buries his head in your neck again.

"shut up."

#FOR U CASS B WORD #megumi fushiguro x reader #megumi fushiguro x you #megumi x reader #megumi x you #megumi fic #megumi fushiguro fic #megumi smut #megumi fushiguro smut #minors dont read #minors dni

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magics-neptunes-things · 8 months

Text

Hi guys!

After the last one, I needed another with fluff and easy love, so this just come from my imagination. I hope you will like it ♥

Resume : Motherhood is hard, especially when your better half is in training camp far from you.

TW : Little Angst, but fluff :)

PART 2 IS HERE!

______________________________________________________________

Alexia and you met when she was going through one of the worst moments of her life. It was when the footballer made her ACL. For your part, you had graduated as a physiotherapist a few years ago and were looking for a new challenge. When you heard that FC Barcelona were looking for a new physio, you didn’t hesitate to apply. It was hard, but by some miracle, you got the job. The managers didn’t tell you that the job was for the women’s team, but it suited you even better.

A month after you arrived at your post, Alexia began to follow her treatment after her operation. You’ve been assigned as Miss Putellas' special physiotherapist, probably a bit of a probation. You’ve been warned that she might be difficult to handle, her injury having affected her otherwise than physically.

And it was true, in the first few sessions, she barely spoke. She was polite, said hello, thank you, and goodbye. For your part, you remained calm while being empathetic. As you were told, she seemed even more troubled psychologically than physically and you could feel her pain. So you searched about her favorite songs and you made a playlist for her during your massages or during her exercises.

Over time your relationships relaxed and you found yourself eagerly waiting for the time of day when you would have to take care of Alexia. You obviously noticed her beauty and the aura that reigned around her. A friendship and mutual trust was quickly created between you two and she gradually confided to you. On trivial things at first, before your discussions become deeper.

She told you about her father, her family, her fear of not being able to play again and the difficulties she was experiencing with the Spanish Federation. You were shocked to learn what was happening and immediately felt angry. And the first feeling you had was a vital desire to protect Alexia from all this. And the other girls you’re playing with at FC Barcelona as well of course, since you’re the one who plays nurses on the bench at all their matches. But Alexia was coming first.

The first time Alexia could start running on a machine now, you could have cried of joy and relief. She was recovering well, even faster than the best prognosis. And seeing such a sincere smile come back on her face was something really comforting for you. The embrace you exchanged that day gave you chills you still remember.

The day she returned to the team for her first training on the pitch, you were there too, but in the back. Her friends/teammates welcomed her with big smiles and hugs, but at the end of the training she came to you. She once again took you in her arms and whispered a thank you in your ear. No need for long speeches, you knew perfectly well how much this word meant to her.

While you expected this to signal a new distance between the two of you, Alexia surprised you by asking if you were free the same evening to go for a drink. It surprised you, Alexia having the habit of not changing her schedule meal, back to school or bedtime. But when she stuttered "For like, you know, a d- a date?" you couldn't say no.

The rest is history and here you are years later in an healthy, loving et happy relationship. You even got engaged last Christmas.

Alexia always wanted to start a family and your heart melt every time she was interacting with a baby or child. On your second date, she asked you if you wanted children, testifying to the importance she already attached to a future family life between you two. You answered positively, because yes, you wanted to have children and with Alexia would be amazing.

So, a month ago, you welcomed into your lives Santana Eli Putellas. A perfect photocopy of Alexia, even if you were the one pregnant. Thanks to modern methods, you were able to transfer her egg into your body. It was much easier for Alexia’s career, even though she was more attentive to you than ever.

The same eyes, the same mouth, the same hair, the same face, the same look. Even Eli couldn’t figure out which of the two photos was Alexia and Santana when faced with this plot. It’s almost disturbing, but the idea of having created a second perfection in this world suits you perfectly.

Except that even perfection has its difficulties and you realize it more than ever today. For some reason, Santana hasn’t stopped crying since her afternoon nap. Despite her clean diaper, her full stomach, her usual afternoon stroll or her favorite nursery rhymes, you were unable to calm her down. So much so that you couldn’t even answer Alexia’s messages, who went to training camps for the national team.

Even if this camp is held in Barcelona, the team lives in a hotel for a few days, before flying to Canada for their first match. Your lack of answer probably explains why you find yourself having to answer a call from your fiancée after 9pm. You hesitate before answering, your physical state must be scary and Santana is always sobbing on your shoulder. But knowing Alexia’s protective lioness instinct, you’d rather not worry her any longer.

"Hola mi Amor" you try a smile when a frowning Alexia appears on the screen.

"What happened? Why didn't you answer to my text? I was beginning to believe that something serious had happened to you"

"Don't worry, we are fine"

You were still rocking Santana on your shoulder, putting your phone on the counter of your kitchen. After bathing her, you put on her pajamas in the colors of FC Barcelona and she is currently digesting her second bottle of the evening. Whereas normally she takes only one before falling asleep to wake up at midnight and then around 6 am. This baby is really perfect. Except that today something seems wrong.

"Are you sure? You look exausted mi vida"

The concern on Alexia's face is deep and you don't want to worry her. You don't want her to believe that you can't take care of your daughter for a day either. Alexia only left this morning after all.

"We are fine Ale, I pr-"

"Does the best goddaughter in the world make her Mama miserable?"

Mapi’s face suddenly sticks to Alexia's, certainly so that she can also have a glimpse of Santana. Choosing Mapi as godmother was the best idea, the tattooed one being the most adorable with Santana. A chaotic godmother certainly, but you know perfectly well that she too would be ready to take out her claws to defend Santana if necessary.

"Kind of, but everything is under control" you laugh, before realizing that she wasn't listening to you at all, cooing sweat words to Santana. "Did I suddenly become invisible?"

"Not for me" Alexia answer with tenderness in her voice. "I miss you both of you so much, I don't know how I will survive two weeks so far away"

"You will be perfect, as always mi Amor"

She smiles at you, Mapi having a side conversation with your daughter, and you see the concern coming back.

"Can you promise me that you are fine?"

You bite your lip and sight. It was not fair of her to play the sincerity card. She knows that you can't lie to her, even when you want to make her surprise, you have to ask the help of someone.

"Look, she's just having a bad day that's all. Tomorrow will be better."

Alexia opened her mouth to speak and most certainly contradict you, but noise next to her announces the arrival of other people. You smile when you see Ona and Ingrid appear on the screen, Mapi pulling the sleeve of the Norwegian to almost stick her face to the screen ("Look at her, how is she so cute?").

You greet them friendly and discuss with them a few more moments before feeling that Santana starts to agitate again. Before Alexia can see how bad, you tell them you’re going to put her to bed. After promising Alexia to write to her as soon as Santana sleeps, you hang up and gently lift your daughter to put her face up to yours.

"Now that you’ve heard Mama and your Godmother, maybe we can get some rest yeah?"

After a final diaper check, you enter your daughter’s room and sit on her rocking chair. His blanket between you two, a little melody and a lull, it should go well and quickly.

An hour and a half later, you must realize you’re not. Santana continues to struggle with sleep and has begun to cry again. Seeing her like this ended up making you cry. After walking around your house trying to put her to sleep, you went back to her room. You don’t know what to do anymore.

You were thinking about calling Eli or your mother for help when you hear noise on the ground floor. Which shouldn’t happen, since you’re alone in the house with Santana. You listen despite the cries of your daughter and your hear footsteps, making you shiver. Holding your daughter close to your heart, you rush to the kitchen to grab a knife. Putting Santana safely in her crib might have been smarter, but you can’t bring yourself to leave her alone while a danger lurks in the house. The baby stopped crying, like if she understood that something bad is happening.

The noises of footsteps approach the kitchen and panic fades to give way to a cold determination. You have to protect your daughter no matter what. Sticking your back in the fridge, you raise the knife you hold in your hand, ready to hit the figure that enters the room. But...

"Wow! It’s me Baby! It’s me!"

With both hands in the air, Alexia looks at you with wide eyes less than a meter from you.

"Alexia? Wha- what are you doing here?"

"You weren't answering my text again and I... Can you put this knife down please?"

"Oh... Yes, sorry."

You were shaking. The sound of metal that the knife makes when you put it on the marble of the worktop resonates in the room.

"I was too concerned to leave you both alone."

Alexia confesses with almost shyness, certainly fearing that you would take this information badly. You could have, a few hours before. Exhausted from this day, you carefully avoid your girlfriend’s gaze.

"I’m so sorry I scared you. Can I have her?"

Santana started to squirm in your arms and cry again and you gently reach her to Alexia. With a natural ability, the blonde forms a small nest with her arms to accommodate the little body of your daughter. She calms down almost instantly and only then do you realize you have tears in your eyes. After admiring Santana for a few moments, Alexia looks up at you and notices it too.

"Come here" she says, extending her free arm to you.

You cuddle against her, hiding your face in her neck. Her arm squeeze you thigh against her. Her smell helps you to relax and you mumble against her skin.

"I don’t understand what I did wrong today"

"Probably nothing mi Vida. Just like you said, she's just having a bad day. Let me take care of her and go take a hot shower and put on comfortable pajamas, alright?"

You hesitate for a few moments, but Alexia kisses you tenderly before gently pushing you towards your bathroom. You end up obeying, enjoying feeling your muscles relax under the hot water. When you get out, the condensation masked the mirror above the sink. After putting on Alexia’s shorts and t-shirt, you go looking for her in the calm of your home.

She delicately closes the door of Santana’s room when you appear in the corridor.

"Is she asleep?" you ask, incredulous.

Alexia answers with a simple smile and a nod, before taking you into the living room.

"How did you do it?"

"As usual"

Alexia shrugs while smiling and you sighs. That’s what you did, but you are still convinced that Santana simply miss Alexia. You’d rather not say it out loud, though, fearing it would prevent Alexia from focusing on her professional obligations.

"When do you have to go back?"

You try not to pout by asking her the question. It was the deal anyway, you knew very well what could happen when you decided to have a child.

"Not tonight, I informed the coach. I have to be in training tomorrow morning anyway."

The information makes you much too happy, you who promised not to prevent Alexia from following her professional ambitions. But you cannot hide your smile and you stick against her again, in search of affection and tenderness. Accepting your request, Alexia tightens her two arms around you, allowing you to feel perfectly safe.

You stay here for a while, simply taking advantage of the other’s presence. Alexia’s hands play with the tip of your hair while yours fondle her lower back tenderly.

"Did you eat?" you ask her after a few moments.

"No. What about you?"

You pout and Alexia doesn’t need any other words to answer. You just haven’t had time to swallow anything since your breakfast shared with the pretty blonde.

"Let me cook you something. It’s your turn to go put on your pajamas"

You let go of her arms and put a tender kiss on her lips, happy to have her with you when it was absolutely not planned. A few minutes later, you find yourself cooking a fideua, Alexia’s favorite.

Lost in your thoughts, still exhausted from this day, you don't hear Alexia’s steps coming in your direction. You’re too tired to jump when you feel her arms go around your waist, her lips kiss behind your ear making you smile.

"It smells very good mi Vida"

"That’s good because it’s ready"

You tiptoed to grab two plates, paying particular attention not to make too much noise to avoid waking Santana.

"Why don’t we sit on the couch and watch the television?"

Alexia’s proposal surprises you, but you willingly accept. You sit on the couch, letting Alexia settle against you this time. After all, she too is probably tired from her training. Seeing her eat your dish with enthusiasm makes you happy and you find yourself admiring it rather than feeding yourself.

"You're starring"

Alexia smiles and glances at you, making you smile back.

"Perhaps, but it's certainly by admiring you as soon as I have the opportunity that I was able to clone you" you joke softly.

Alexia laughs and puts her plate and cutlery on the coffee table, as you did a few minutes before her. She turns around abruptly before throwing herself into your arms, making you fall over on the couch. Seeing her so spontaneous with you while she tends to constantly master her image makes you melt. And when she puts dozens of kisses all over your face, you can’t help but giggle.

"I guess today’s not the day to tell you I want a big family?"

Her mischievous smile makes you roll your eyes.

"We’ll talk about it in like two years, if you don’t mind."

#woso x reader #woso imagine #alexia putellas imagine #alexia putellas x reader #alexia putellas

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ranhaitanisgf · 5 months

Note

Hi!! Could u do headcannons for chifuyu, kazutora and baji with a gf who has a older brother in their gang? (Toman and valhalla)

you'll be friends, right!?

synopsis: how will they act when your older brother is in their gang?

☆ a/n ˎˊ˗ first req of the new season new year new me :3 srsly tho its sooo nice to b taking new reqs after finishing up my old ones ! thank you so so much for requesting anon, and i hope everyone enjoys !! xoxo

☆ characters ˎˊ˗ chifuyu matsuno, baji keisuke, kazutora hanemiya x gn!reader

☆ wc ˎˊ˗ 2.5k+

masterlist

chifuyu matsuno:

❥ the fact that your brother is in toman is something that you’re surprisingly able to hide from him for a good while; chifuyu is kind of easy to lie to, (one of his only faults). well, it wasn’t that you exactly lied to him per say, you just…didn’t mention it. that’s not a crime, right?

❥ okay, maybe it’s a bit of an exaggeration. chifuyu is strangely perceptive and maybe has noticed that you’re keeping something from him, but it was easy to hide the fact for so long because he trusts you. he trusts that you wouldn’t keep anything important from him that concerns safety and he trusts your judgment. he doesn’t want to be the kind of boyfriend that is controlling and needs to know everything about your life, so he makes sure to tell you that you can come to him with anything and leaves it at that.

❥ you actually find your brother to suddenly be a useful source of information for once! at first he didn’t want to tell you anything about toman, but with your incessant nagging you finally broke him, earning useful information about things that were going on. it wasn’t really like you understood any of it, but you wanted to have an idea of what was going on with chifuyu, (because he definitely wouldn’t be telling you anything about it).

❥ your brother isn’t sure why he shouldn’t talk to chifuyu at all, but he only avoids him so that he doesn’t hear any more nagging from you, (it’s easy for him to avoid him anyways since they aren’t in the same division).

❥ there are times when you accidentally let it slip that you know more about toman that you’re supposed to, which makes chifuyu feel a bit skeptical, but he usually writes it off as you overhearing him chatting with his friends about it.

❥ when chifuyu finally finds out that your older brother is in toman, you aren’t even there. it happens after a meeting when he overhears your brother with his friends complaining about you, talking about how you had eaten all the snacks in the house and had left the empty bags in the cupboards just to piss him off.

❥ normally, chifuyu would have ignored it and assumed it was someone with your same name, but it caught his attention because you had told him about that specific thing. you’d laughed to him about how funny it would be to see your brother so pissed off, promising him that you would record it and show him, (he had to admit, it was pretty funny). and now that he’s looking at the guy…the dude looks exactly like your brother.

“oi…c’mere a second…” “ah shit…”

❥ now that chifuyu has figured it out, your brother wasn’t really in any sort of mood to try and make some sort of half-baked explanation. he just admitted that he was your brother straight-up, saying that you had told him to avoid chifuyu while at toman meetings.

❥ imagine your surprise when you opened up your window for your brother to sneak back home and saw chifuyu right behind him.

“oh wow, chifuyu! haha, what’re you doin’-?” “(y/n), i know.” “well!”

❥ he isn’t mad at you; he just doesn’t understand why you hid it from him. in his eyes, it doesn’t really seem like a huge deal and he doesn’t think that he’s done anything to make you think that he would be mad, so he’s really more confused than anything.

❥ when you explain to him that you just wanted to be able to know when he’s going through a hard time in toman, he feels like you’ve literally taken his heart hostage. of course, his love for you before was absolutely endless, but the fact that you went through that much trouble because you wanted to know what was going on with him…it did something to him, (he ended up staying the night that day because he didn’t want you to leave his arms).

❥ after that, it’s surprisingly chill. your brother and chifuyu are friendly now, and it also eases your worries more. despite the fact that they both consistently assure you that nothing will happen to them, you feel better knowing that they can look out for each other and have each other’s backs, (more like chifuyu can have your brother’s back, since you’re sure your brother is useless).

❥ it also means that you get to see chifuyu more! he’ll sometimes come home with your brother after a toman meeting, coming in to see you and have some quality time with you that the two of you didn’t get to have during the day, (it was hard to consider the time you see him in school as quality time).

❥ he sometimes ends up falling asleep in your room, so it’s a mad rush when one of you wakes up in the morning and realizes what happened, (neither of you regret it though).

❥ you don’t tell him this, but sometimes you wake up in the middle of the night and realize that the both of you have fallen asleep. you just don’t have the heart to wake him up when he’s sleeping so peacefully, so you decide that the two of you will just deal with it in the morning, (what? you’re not doing that because you like to hear his morning voice! what a wild accusation!).

baji keisuke:

❥ literally already knows.

❥ it’s a bit of stretch for him to know every single member in toman, (he might be able to do it if he really put his brain to work) but your brother is in first division, so it’s kind of hard for him not to know. he takes pride in having a good relationship with all the members of his division, so it wasn’t hard for him to put two and two together when he saw the resemblance and the same last names.

“(y/n), your brother is in toman.” “well, yes. you have a good eye, kei.” “haha, sarcasm, very funny. why didn’t you say anythin’?” “i dunno, i didn’t really see any point.”

❥ he gives up on trying to see your point, instead deciding to just agree with you.

❥ of course, baji would go to a lot of lengths to protect the guys in his division, but he makes sure to keep an extra eye on your brother. it isn’t because he doesn’t trust your brother to handle himself, but more so because he knows that if anything did happen to him, you would be devastated, (as much as you say you don’t give a shit about your brother, keisuke knows you care).

❥ baji would do damn near anything to keep you safe and happy, so he makes sure to tell chifuyu and ryusei to also keep an eye on your brother. he keeps it on the down low though, not wanting your brother to know that he was paying more attention to him.

❥ because baji knew your brother before he knew he was your brother, they are pretty chill with each other, hanging out with the rest of first division after meetings sometimes.

❥ this also means that whenever baji is over to your place, you and your brother are lowkey (highkey) fighting over who gets to hang out with him.

“well he’s my friend; i’ve known him for longer!!” “okay, well he’s my boyfriend!! that automatically trumps friend, so he’s mine!” “uh, do i get a say in this-?” “no!”

❥ it’s quite entertaining.

❥ in all seriousness though, you didn’t know how nice it would be for baji to be so chill with your brother and the rest of your family until it actually happened. you’re not sure why, but it gives you a sense of comfort and happiness seeing him interacting with them all, especially when he gets along so well with your brother, (it’s not because you give a shit about your brother, okay?!).

❥ adding on to this, ryoko has basically accepted you as her second child, accepting you into the family immediately and treating you as if you were her own blood. you would say that she treats you like she treats keisuke, but given the fact that she physically tries to fight him makes you retract that statement.

❥ she also will regularly invite you and your brother over for dinner, saying that she needs to get to know her future family, (it makes baji let out a giant sigh and makes you blush a bit, but neither of you say anything refuting it).

❥ both your brother and baji have made an agreement to never tell you about anything that goes on in toman. you’ve tried to go against it and ask them to explain more to you, but neither of them will ever share more than very basic information about anything that’s going on, (even when you constantly pester them about it). it pisses you off that they claim it’s for your safety; how would knowing simple stuff about what’s going on put you in danger?

❥ they will never budge.

❥ the three of you regularly play mario kart with each other; of course, you always come out on top, which makes the both of them accuse you of cheating, (how would you have even done that?!). sometimes baji will invite chifuyu as well, which you think makes it even more fun.

❥ despite the fact that you always bag on the both of them for doing dumb stuff and being in a gang, you suppose that you get why they do it. it isn’t because they want to make trouble and be violent with other dudes, but it’s for something more, and you can appreciate that, (it’s practically the only reason you stopped pushing to know everything that was going on with them).

❥ baji and your brother are the official (y/n) protection squad, mean mugging anybody who looks at you sideways at school. you’ve been wondering why they have been following you around everyone, but you immediately shooed them away when your friends told you what they’d been doing.

“you guys can’t just be doing that to everyone who looks at me!! have some faith in people, will you?!” “no.” “absolutely not.”

❥ it’s okay, they’re just doing it because they love you.

kazutora hanemiya:

❥ when kazutora and your brother first met, you swore that you could see the hostility swimming in both of their eyes, the both of them becoming extremely stiff and staring at you.

“this is the guy you’re dating?! you can’t be serious!!” “(y/n), this is your brother? jeez, i feel bad for you being related to him…”

❥ neither of them had been willing to give up why there was such bad blood between the two of them, so you had to threaten kazutora with not talking to him for a whole month before he confessed.

“i kinda…beat him up… “what?!”

❥ you weren’t sure who to be more angry at, so you decided to wait to hear the full story and then decide.

❥ it took a lot of threats and pushing, but you finally got it out of kazutora. apparently, your brother had been sent on some kind of side work mission of picking up some money from another gang when he’d been ambushed, essentially getting robbed for all the money and leaving him with nothing.

“how much was it?” “...10 million yen…” “WHAT?!”

❥ you decided to drop the matter, finding kazutora completely innocent; hell, he was a better person than you. if you had 10 million yen and the person who was supposed to pick it up let it get stolen…you definitely would have killed him, (not seriously, but still, 10 million?! how does some random gang even get that much money?! how is that possible?!)

❥ now that you were aware of the bad blood between kazutora and your brother, you found it rather funny to watch their interactions whenever you had kazutora over, the awkwardness between them unmatchable. neither of them wanted to incur your wrath, but they also both had their pride to uphold, so they just flatly would greet each other and would shuffle around each other, (you were always shaking from holding your laughter in).

❥ in all seriousness though, you don’t like the fact that they are both in a gang. even though neither of them would tell you anything, you had somewhat of an idea of things that were going on due to a friend of yours whose boyfriend was in toman. of course, you know next to nothing of the gang dynamics in tokyo, but you weren’t entirely sure that the gang they were in was…good…wouldn’t toman be better?

❥ they immediately rejected your idea when you pitched it to them.

❥ you have no way to know this, but kazutora very very subtly will keep an eye on your brother, although it’s completely for your sake. he isn’t really sure if you care too much about him, but even kazutora knows that losing a family member is devastating, so he will do whatever he can to keep you from having that burden placed on you.

❥ your brother consistently grills you whenever you go out with kazutora, acting all high and mighty as if he’s ever actually done anything useful for you. he gets real quiet though when kazutora actually shows up, suddenly becoming quiet and shuffling to his room.

❥ there’s a part of you that wants to have them make up so that it isn’t so damn awkward, but you’re not sure how to go around that, (you also think it would be funny if this keeps going on). they both have the kind of personality that wouldn’t let them apologize nor forget about the incident, so it was a bit of a stalemate.

❥ you think the only time you’ve ever seen them actually team up to work together was when you started complaining about having some girls in your class teasing and making fun of you for your style. it seriously wasn’t anything crazy, and certainly wasn’t anything like bullying, but they seemed to take it very seriously.

“hey…are you haruta?” “huh? yeah, who’re you?” “stop bothering (y/n).” “what???”

❥ they stopped teasing you after that, but it came at the cost of some of your reputation; there is now a rumor that you have two delinquents at your beck and call who do your dirty business for you. great.

❥ when you confronted the two of them, they pretended like they had no idea what you were talking about.

“you two punks did this, huh!?” “sounds like you’re makin’ things up. i didn’t do anything like that.” “dunno anything ‘bout that, on my momma.” “we have the same mom you dumb fucking idiot.”

❥ maybe there is hope for a friendship between them after all.

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nariism · 11 months

Text

did we just kiss?!

pair. itoshi sae x gn!reader

content: fluff, idiots in love, not proofread

wc. 0.7k

a/n: based loosely off of the "we accidentally kissed goodbye before they left for work" trope because it's funny and cute

itoshi sae is not an easy man to fluster.

in fact, you’re not sure you’ve ever seen him get any further than slightly pink in the face. and even then he didn’t gratify you with any change in his expression, instead stubbornly staring at you with a deadpan. always so serious, that guy.

it’s not like he didn’t have people over. he actually had a lot of people over, but never the same one twice.

“being a celebrity sounds exhausting,” you told him one time. he just grunted at you in lieu of a proper response and slammed his bedroom door behind him. even famous people who live in the lap of luxury need to blow off steam once in a while, and it’s fine, you guess.

you only wish that they were quieter. maybe that was just sae’s type.

you’re not sure how you fell into the role of his roommate in the first place; you definitely did not keep up with the rent as dutifully as you should but for some reason he never minded covering the rest of the insane cost. you were just a friend from his youth— not his childhood by any means, in which the sentiment would hold up much better.

no, you met sae when you were seventeen years old. and since then he’s always spoiled you more than words could describe. in return, he comes home from gruelling practices to see your smiling face and the soft way you ask him “how was your day?”

he used to come home to an empty apartment, to a silence so loud that his ears would hurt. he would fill the air with white noise; leaving his tv running or boiling a kettle of tea, just to keep his sanity going a little longer.

he likes you. enough to allow you to be his white noise. it’s more pleasant than having to drink three cups of green tea every night, at least.

you’d like to think that you know everything about sae after living with him for almost two years. how he looks so tired in the morning and the way he doesn’t bother combing his hair, just slicking it back with some water and calling it a day. how he prefers to brush his teeth before eating in the morning, and then rinsing once with mouthwash after breakfast. how he comes home midday and flops onto the couch wordlessly to take his one hour nap at exactly 3 in the afternoon, and how he always falls asleep looking in your direction as you work at the desk on the other side of the room.

you’d like to think you know everything about sae. you don’t, but one thing is for sure: he really, really, really is not easy to fluster.

but one day, he finds you waiting at the door for him to say goodbye. you’re packing a little lunch into his gym bag because the night before he was complaining about always having to eat out during his breaks and that he was getting tired of bland food. there’s even a little sticky note attached to it with a smiley face and a heart with letters too small for him to read from this distance. and crap, it’s so domestic that he almost gets down on one knee right then and there.

(not that he has a crush on you or whatever, that would be so lame.)

“have a good day, sae,” you tell him with that smile on your face that makes him uncomfortably mushy inside.

“yeah, bye.”

and he’s not sure what kind of demon overtakes him, but he leans in to kiss you. a small peck right on the lips. it lasts maybe half a second before he stands up straight, eyes wide at his own actions, and pushes past you to rush out the door. as always, it slams behind him.

you’re left standing there in the entrance, staring at the door with a mixture of amusement and horror because itoshi sae, your roommate, might have just kissed you entirely on reflex.

he’s totally flustered, too, because in that half-second that his lips were on yours he swears you kissed him back.

when he gets into the backseat of the car waiting for him downstairs, his manager looks at him like he’s seen a ghost.

“are you… blushing?”

sae does not have a very good day after that.

#— whispers in the wind ✧#and they were roommates #THEY WERE ROOMMATES #writing sae is just so fun #blue lock #bllk #itoshi sae #itoshi sae x reader #itoshi sae x you #itoshi sae x y/n #sae itoshi x reader #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #blue lock drabbles #bllk fluff #q'd

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dnd-writes · 1 year

Text

Way of Water

AO3

Tags: Power bottom!Eunbi, back-up dancer!reader, watersports, deepthroating, BFH

Warning: Watersports. I mean come on, waterbomb, watersports, I had to plus I couldn't think of anything else and I just really wanted to write Eunbi after seeing those clips

A/N: Never did I think I would write Eunbi so soon nor did I think that I would *not* write subby Eunbi. She's just that great. So... yeah, enjoy!

Also I used the "Door" performance as inspiration. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9CBUzWUSVSM I don't know if this works honestly, I don't really Tumblr. I'll fix it when I wake up... maybe

“🎶 Just stay right by my side. Woo woo woo woo woo woo yeah 🎶”

‘Ok, next part is coming up. Just go up to her then go back to the side. Easy. Simple.’ You don’t know why you’re reassuring yourself so much or why you’re even hesitating in the first place. You’ve done this song, this dance, this particular move dozens of times on stage, at least hundreds in practice. Yet here you are, acting like a complete newbie doing his first performance ever.

Eunbi runs back up the catwalk towards the main stage after finishing the second chorus of the song. Her wet, bikini-clad chest bounces around and it feels like time is slowing down, water falls from the sky so gently it feels like you could count every droplet in your vicinity. Eunbi’s breasts bounce hypnotically underneath the near-nonexistent top hugging her body, you’ve seen them jiggle and shake a thousand times before and not once have you thought about Eunbi sexually in any way but something about this current moment makes it different. Maybe it’s the fact that you’re seeing her cleavage in full or maybe it’s all the water being sprayed on her that’s awakening something you never knew you had in you.

And just like that time zooms forward and you’re back to the present. Eunbi runs back up the catwalk towards the main stage after finishing the second chorus of the song. She hurries over to a dancer then clings onto his nape as she starts singing her next line.

“🎶 Neowa 🎶 na sai 🎶 “

That’s your cue to move over. ‘Easy, simple,’ you repeat to yourself. ‘Just let her guide me, just flow with the music.’ It really isn’t that hard, just one step, one simple step that you’ve practiced for hours.

“🎶 aseulhan seoneul balbeun jigeum 🎶”

You let Eunbi pull you in close to her then her leg wraps around you. At that moment you feel the world just completely stop, not even slowing down like you felt earlier but rather completely still. Your face is an inch from her chest, it’s a position you’re completely familiar with but given the circumstances it feels so brand new. Though your face is looking away, your eyes aren’t. You peek over and standing there is Eunbi’s soft, massive chest in all its glory. Seeing it glistening with all the water turned you on instantly and gave your brain ideas you never thought it would make.

And how could you forget her leg, your eyes focused so much on her tits that you forgot the leg wrapped around you. To say your brain went into overdrive is an understatement because the moment it realizes Eunbi wrapped around you, the amount of nasty perverted thoughts more than just doubled. Your brain explodes then just like that you’re out of that fever dream.

Eunbi kicks the leg wrapped around you and in unison you drop to the ground. Your professionalism went back in gear but half your brain focuses on the choreography and the other incessantly sexualizes Eunbi causing you to slip up your dancing here and there, thankfully, as a backup dancer no one really pays much attention to you. And besides, it’s a water festival, you can always blame mishaps on the slippery stage.

For the rest of the song and the rest of Eunbi’s set at Waterbomb, you never had any moment as visceral or powerful as the ones during “Door,” there was a close call during “Glitch” but you held your cool.

You and the other dancers exit as Eunbi bids goodbye to the audience. All your friends look so jolly and hyper, bouncing and jumping around after performing multiple stages, meanwhile your face is blank. With your mind no longer half-occupied with dancing perfectly, lewd thoughts about Eunbi start to rot your head.

“That was so fun!”

“Can’t wait to do it again!” “I wish every stage was like this now…”

Several cheers erupt from the group as you all head over to the green room. “Hey, man, you doing good?” It takes a while for your brain to register that you are the one being talked to, you raise your head to see your friends stop in their tracks, all worriedly looking at you. You give them a soft smile and a passable excuse, “Oh, yeah, I’m fine. Just… a little more tired than usual. I think I’ll just stay here for a bit.”

One of them pats you on the back, “What a bummer. Just rest, we all worked so hard today. Well if you need us we’ll just be outside watching the other performances, ‘kay?” You give a quick nod and wave them off as they disappear from view.

You enter the room and the cold air blasts your face, despite how cold it is inside your body feels the opposite. You try to stand right in front of the A/C, your ears start to hurt but inside you still can’t feel the chill. An idea pops into your head and you sprint for the mini-fridge on the other side of the room. The thing is packed with cold water bottles. You take a sip and sigh in relief as you feel the cool travel down your throat, but it still isn’t enough. You sip, you gulp, you down a full bottle, then a second, then a third, then a fourth. Endless stream of chill flows in your body but you still feel the heat, the problem isn’t with your face, in your throat, or in your stomach, no, it’s much deeper down and it doesn’t need acquisition to be cooled.

“Hey, there you are,” shouts a familiar voice. You quickly turn around and see the root of your problem, Eunbi. Standing there dripping wet, cardigan completely drenched, tits fully exposed, you don’t know whether to call yourself lucky or unlucky to be in this situation right now.

You’re not sure if it’s your mind messing with you or you’re actually looking at reality but with every step that Eunbi takes towards you, you swear you could see her chest bounce. “The others said you weren’t feeling well so I came to check on you.”

“T-That’s sweet of you. I-I mean, yeah I’m fine.” Eunbi finally gets right in front of you, even though you’re taller than her your eyes are looking way lower than where they normally would be at. You try to maintain eye contact but it’s like your pupils are too heavy for your own good, always falling and resting in Eunbi’s cleavage, just up and down and up and down. Similarly, Eunbi looks down, you follow her gaze towards the prominent bulge at your crotch.

“I-I’m sorry, it’s just… the outfit and, and, and the water and–” You try to turn away and apologize but Eunbi plants her hands firmly on your shoulders and makes you face her, she looks you dead in the eyes and… flashes you a smile? “Look, it’s ok. You don’t have to apologize. You know what? The others are upstairs having fun. Why don’t we… have some fun… of our own?”

You’re at a loss for words. Is this really happening? Is Eunbi really asking you to fuck her or did you somehow pass out and start imagining that Eunbi is asking you to fuck her. Whether it’s a dream or reality you happily nod and oblige.

Eunbi takes your hand and pulls you into the small bathroom nearby. You don’t even take the time to look around, instead you quickly get on the toilet seat while Eunbi kneels in front of you.

Eunbi palms your crotch through your jeans and you squirm at the action, not because you almost came but rather something else is begging to be released. You notice Eunbi give off a devilish smirk at your movement and you nervously chuckle at what she might have planned for you.

“Well we won’t be needing these anymore.” Eunbi takes off her near see through top then shortly after her bikini, not wasting a single second on foreplay. Her tits bounce out now that they’re freely in the open air, looking bigger than in any outfit you’ve ever seen her wear. Well you’re certain what to call your situation right now – lucky – Men and women alike would kill to be anywhere close to your position.

“Or these.” She quickly unzips your pants and tugs both it and your underwear down. You help her out by lifting your butt and pulling down with her. Your cock springs free and Eunbi doesn’t hesitate and begins jerking you off slowly. Her other hand, meanwhile, goes above your dick and presses lightly on it. You squirm just like earlier, finally confirming her suspicions.

“You look so full, baby. All that water you drank is already making its way down, isn’t it? Don’t you just want to let go? I heard peeing feels just as refreshing as cumming, why don’t we test that? C’mon, baby, just give it all to me. Let me feel that hot piss on me, baby.”

Pissing during sex hasn’t ever occurred to you before in your life, you’d think it’d turn you off but you’re harder than you’ve ever been your whole life. Despite your dick clearly wanting this to happen, your brain is still in denial over such a taboo. Eunbi’s basically begging for you to pee on her and yet you somehow won’t.

Eunbi presses down on your bladder but not too much, she wants you to pee but she doesn’t want to force it out of you. Perhaps there’s a middle ground. “Come on, baby. Don’t you want to see me covered in your piss? Soak my hair, coat my perfect tits and face. I just know you want to do it, maybe you just need some convincing?”

Then what is possible the hottest thing you never knew you needed happens – Eunbi starts pissing all over the floor. She moans as she empties her bladder, you feel a pool forming beneath you as the hot liquid surrounds your feet.. “You hear that, baby? I wanna hear that from you too. Come on, give it to me. I know you want to.” The sound echoes around the tiny area and it’s just the trick to send you over the edge.

As soon as the first trail of yellow comes out of your tip, Eunbi aims your dick at herself, treating it like a hose and showering herself in every place. First, she coats her tits in light sheen, just the sight you needed to see ever since that close-up view you had of her chest; Second, she aims it at her face, letting pee get into her hair and having it drip down her chin and neck; Lastly, Eunbi opens her mouth and takes your cock inside while it’s still gushing.

Eunbi bobbing her head up and down, sucking on your dick while gulping every single drop as fast as you give it to her. You feel like you’re in heaven. Just moments ago you were hesitant, not even entertaining the thought of pissing while having sex but here you are relishing at the sight of Eunbi drinking the contents of your bladder while also deepthroating you. Who knew that the modest Eunbi would ever be this skillful at something like this?

Your bladder finally empties the remaining urine into Eunbi’s mouth and not once did a single drop escape her lips. erent liquid is begging for its release.

Eunbi stops sucking and replaces her mouth with her hands after no longer receiving any piss. “Give it to me, baby. You wanna coat these tits, don’t you? You wanna cum on me and smear it all over my perfect face?” This time you don’t hold back, you let your cum fly as if it was just like piss. Your vision goes white and so does Eunbi, ropes shoot out and cover just about everything it could reach – Eunbi’s hair, her face, her chin, her neck, her tits. You slowly descend from heaven and the sight before you makes it seem like you haven’t. Eunbi uses the tip of your cock like a brush and spreads the cum all over her skin. She’s mixing a combo of piss, sweat, water, spit, and cum all over herself and the concoction coating her tits makes you hard and ready to cum again.

Eunbi stands up and her own piss is dripping from her skirt. “Ready for round 2, baby?”

#kpop #kpop smut #izone #izone smut #kwon eunbi #eunbi smut

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darkficsyouneveraskedfor · 5 days

Text

The Man 11

Warnings: non/dubcon, and other dark elements. My username actually says you never asked for any of this.

My warnings are not exhaustive but be aware this is a dark fic and may include potentially triggering topics. Please use your common sense when consuming content. I am not responsible for your decisions.

Character: mob!Lloyd Hansen

Summary: a demanding customer complicates more than your work life.

As usual, I would appreciate any and all feedback. I’m happy to once more go on this adventure with all of you! Thank you in advance for your comments and for reblogging ❤️

You half smile and half cringe. Oh boy. He wants you to do that. With him there. Well, you never really did it with an audience. You’re more of a loner when it comes to... cumming.

You let out a brittle chuckle, “sir, that’s... you know, I think I’m pretty good. I got lots of action today--”

“I’m not asking,” his voice is dusky and makes your chest thump. Wow. Okay, you can see for a split second how he might be attractive. If you just photoshop the caterpillar off his lip with your mind Adobe.

“I understand but what if I just focused on you, sir. You seem to enjoy that--”

“Don’t make me repeat myself. It’s getting old. Fast.”

“Sure, that’s fair, I hate a broken record,” you gulp and look down then back up, squinting as you smile with a strain in your cheeks. “So, like down here or... it’s a bit tight...” you sheepishly show your teeth then laugh for real as the joke bubbles in your mind. You can’t help but let it free, “that’s what she said.”

He blinks and looks at the ceiling then down again. He sits back in his chair, legs wide, hands on his thighs.

“Get on the desk,” he orders.

You inhale and steel yourself. This is a lot. You think you’ve been handling things well. One thing in particular but you don’t know how much more you can take. Today has been intense. What time is it?

You move forward, once more face to face with his crotch before you manage to plant a foot and stand. His eyes flick down and he hums. You turn slowly and try to see the corner of his screen. Holy, it’s not even three o’clock.

“What the hell are you looking at?” He snarls.

“Nothing, sir, promise--”

“Turn it off.”

You should say the same thing about his dick. You keep your mouth closed and press the button to black the monitor. You put your hands on the desk and carefully slide his delicate keyboard and mouse aside. They’re so light you nearly toss them. You shake your head.

“What?” He sneers.

“It’s just, sir, Apple products are made to break. This keyboard feels like a wafer.”

“This isn’t what we’re doing right now. Focus.”

“I’m focused,” you whine and consider the desk. This glass better be sturdy.

You lift one knee, then the other. You don’t like this. It's like crossing ice; tenuous and just as cold. He clicks his tongue.

“You know, you don’t got a bad ass considering,” he mutters.

You should thank him. It’s a real compliment. All those squats you do when the shop slows down are paying off. You’re too frazzled to do much more than turn over and sit facing him. As hot as this might seem in his head, the logistics are not easy. Or safe.

You glance around and frown, “sir, what if I break--”

“You keep talking, and I’ll break something on you,” he swivels the chair slightly as his hand crawls up his pantleg.

“Got it, okay, so...” you bend your legs, putting your feet on the glass and wiggles your toes.

You slowly pull your thighs apart. You tremble as the cool air slips between them and grazes your cunt. Your ears are burning and your skull is pounding. You’re dizzy. This desk is really high up. You could fall and crack your head open.

“Take your fucking time,” he growls.

“Sir, I got a bit of stage fright here,” you squeak, “I never really... you know, in front of someone.”

“No use being shy when you had me down your throat twice today,” he reprimands.

“Fair,” you tilts your head, “that’s a good point.” You look down at your body and reach down between your legs. You blow out between your lips, almost whistling as some of the tension seeps out. “That’s helpful advice, actually.”

He sighs and you seal your lips. You nod and close your eyes. You can do this. How many times have you done this? Well, maybe you shouldn’t be proud of that.

You feel down your tummy and along your pelvis. Goosebumps rise and you shiver, leaning back on your other hands as your feet arch against the edge of the desk. You feel along your coily hair and delve between your tender folds. You’re wet but that’s better than the alternative. You’d rather this not last forever.

You press down on your clit and take a deep breath. You let it out slow as you trace the sensitive bud and hum. Alright, gotta get the rhythm. You’re thinking too much. Stop that.

Wait, no. You need to think. You need to picture something. This is too much pressure. Knowing he’s watching you, you have to think of anything else. Of someone. Someone sexy. You gotta get the motor going.

You ease back onto your elbow as the heat begins to flow. You picture this burly guy you saw down at the sandwich shop. You don’t quite have the clear picture of him but he was tall and thick and he had some nice eyes. He also looks pretty grumpy but he could probably channel that energy into some good hip action.

Okay, back to the point. You put together the fantasy; thick arms, hairy chest, throaty grunts, and a big... yeah. That’s it. Your fingers swirl faster, slippery as your excitement builds. You moan and tilt your head back. You’re almost there.

You flick your fingers up and down, your thighs quivering. You gotta give this guy a name. Something sexy. Gene? No, ew, that’s not it. Hm. Oh, yes, Adam? The first man. The epitome of maleness.

You squeak as your breath hitches and your lashes flutter. Your toes curl and you put your head forward as the tension winds tight and all at once, unleashes. You quake and drone out madly, head lolling as you fight to keep your fingers moving. You feel your orgasm flowing from you, wetting your cunt and the creases of your thighs. Fuck...

Suddenly, your land on your back. The glass braces and you wait for a crack. Lloyd pins you by your neck. He swats your hand away from your cunt and frames your entrance with two long fingers. He drags them up, rubbing your buzzing clit as you squirm.

“Oh, Adam,” you burst out and your eyes snap open in horror. You didn’t mean to let that out.

“Adam?” He growls as he stops, squeezing your throat tighter, “who the fuck is Adam?”

You touch his wrist, “I meant... Floyd?”

#lloyd hansen #dark lloyd hansen #dark!lloyd hansen #lloyd hansen x reader #drabble #series #au #mob au #the man #the gray man

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sunlightmurdock · 1 month

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this is your psa to just be a kind person and respect other people tysm

okay so after being subposted about a lot, I just wanted to clear some things up on my end because this was not random and I literally refuse to be made the villain here.

About a month ago, I was sent an anon about some similarities between my fic Blow by Blow and another creator’s series of drabbles. I messaged this creator calmly and we had a really nice conversation where we both agreed that lines get blurred sometimes and it’s easy to forget if you were potentially inspired by another fic you had read a while ago.

So, they had read Blow by Blow and still followed me at this point. But, they acknowledged the similarities and apologised. I was more than happy to continue with my life bc who cares.

Then, I received another anon about the same creator but about similarities between another of their series of drabbles and my fic Trouble in Paradise. I took a look for myself, and it was astounding. Upset, I blocked them. After a really upsetting day yesterday, I published that anon. I have since taken it down because exposing their name didn’t feel like the right thing to do at that point…

But, after they made a series of subposts last night claiming to have never heard of me or read any of my works, I’ve had enough to be honest. I have screenshots of this person in the likes of that fic. Even if they haven’t read the whole thing, they posted two chapters to their drabble Masterlist that were strikingly similar to chapter 1 of Trouble in Paradise, which they have liked and read. One of those chapters has since been deleted (I can only imagine why).

I reached out to them this morning explaining the situation and giving them an opportunity to talk to me, but they decided to block me instead, so here are:

similarities from the not stolen fic from a creator who has never heard of me or this work, theirs highlighted in purple while the original work (mine) is highlighted in pink. If you’ve read trouble in paradise, you may also spot some more underlying similarities. sorry in advance for the long post 🙄

so the premise of their drabble plays out exactly like the second half of Trouble in Paradise 0.1. reader is wearing the exact same thing. male mc is a stranger to the island, who on his first day has found someone exciting, happy and much younger. description of the bedroom is also looking eerily similar… they are both bartenders, who after a shift drive the male mc back to their place.

So in this realm, we can see that the dialogue is not only the exact same but once again, the reader is wearing the exact same thing and performing the same actions.

and here we have their Drabble ending the exact same way my chapter does, with the dialogue being nearly word for word the same.

I am not claiming to own the silly girl on an island trope, but after specifically speaking to this creator before about another one of my fics which had wayyyy too many similarities of theirs to be a coincidence, and them apologising, I thought we were beyond this. This creator then claimed to have never heard of me or my work.

I have screenshots of them in the likes of this fic, I know that they read at least the beginning, which is where the similarities start and end as far as I’m aware. Up until I blocked them, they had followed me for 11 months. This is the second time I have had an issue with them, after handling the first privately.

It’s really upsetting 1. not only to have had the premise of my stories rewritten by someone else but 2. for them to pretend that they have never heard of me when we have had conversations, and when I have screenshots of them interacting with my fics.

@devinedoll not really cool

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urhoneycombwitch · 1 month

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hands of love

foreword: omg been so long since I wrote for greenwitch!reader she’s baaaack. thx for reading if u do <3

cw: greenwitch!reader, R dresses very femme, referred to as ‘girlfriend’ once

wc: 1.5k

___

It’s the first sunny spring day in Hawkins, so when Eddie’s cursory call goes straight to your answering machine, he’s not worried. Wherever there’s sun, you’re sure to be found- dozing on his front porch like a cat in the sun, making daisy chains with rings sparkling on your pretty fingers, anywhere but indoors.

He hums along mindlessly to the radio on his way over, plucking at the neck of his cut-off tank for airflow. Metalhead fashion is a killer during warm months; he’s already regretting the choice of black ripped jeans over more weather-appropriate shorts.

Your dad’s house is just off Cornwallis, nestled in a forested area, gravel service road for a driveway that’s easy to miss. Eddie swings his van with a practiced wheel-flex, tires crunching down the lane when something catches his eye and he hits the brakes, hard.

Just off the gravel, sittin’ pretty in the dirt, is you- deep green tank top hugging your chest, bare feet poking out of a long patchwork skirt, gold and silver jewelry dripping from your ears, sliding around your neck and wrists, glinting in the sun.

You’re a fucking vision. Eddie swears, softly, then throws the gear shift to park and pockets his keys.

At the sound of the van door closing, you look up from your spot sat on the ground, the little crinkle of focus between your brows smoothing out into a devastatingly radiant smile- for Eddie. All for him.

”Hey! Was just thinkin’ about you!”

Eddie’s careful not to disturb the gardening tools spread out in haphazard array when he walks over, bending to his haunches for a kiss.

You taste like fragrant oil and sunshine. He gives you another for good measure, then pulls back, bracketing your face between his palms- “You were thinkin’ about little ol’ me?”

“Always.” An honest grin for an honest answer. “I was making you a present and then wishing you’d show up, so it’s kind of like I manifested you. With my mind.”

“Freaky,” he replies, indulgent, giving you a forehead kiss then dropping to sit at your side. “Good thing I have a witch for a girlfriend, hm?”

“Uh-huh. Good thing.”

He’s already lost your attention to the trowel you’re plunging in the dirt, churning up the earth, loamy smell filling the air. Used to chasing after your trains of thought, Eddie asks, “Whatcha doing?

“In a minute.” The reply is kind but distracted, a sort of coded rhythm that Eddie’s good at breaking- I want to tell you but if I try to find the words, my focus will slip.

Your focus is a precious thing- especially when it comes to your craft. Unintentionally, you’ve taught Eddie more about the virtues of shutting up and taking the world in these past few months than he’s ever cared to learn before.

After reaching past him for an open mason jar, you carefully shovel in about an inch of dirt, hold it up to the light for inspection, then repeat the same motion for the other nearby jar.

Eddie waits patiently, leaning back into his hands, watching you work. It’s soothing, seeing you interact with the nature that runs through your veins; having been on the receiving end of many of your gifts, he wonders if it’s a spell jar. Or a planter. Or-

“Terrarium.” As if responding to Eddie’s internal questions, your full attention envelops him, suffocatingly, wonderfully close as you lean in. “Was gonna make it for you as a surprise, but now that you’re here… wanna make it with me?”

Eddie’s still reeling from the steadiness of your eyes on his, the soft slip of bare arm pressing against his own. With a slow, dazed head shake- “Hold on. Give me a second.”

Your turn to be patient, jar of soil held at the space where your bodies are joined, paused, lashes sweeping with each curious blink.

Eddie blows out a breath, only half-joking as he says, “Goddamn. Really unfair. Thought you promised not to get prettier?”

Compliments only land with you half the time, so when a bashful smile pulls at the edges of your pretty mouth Eddie mentally fist pumps.

“I made no such promise.” The jar is thrust into his waiting hand, and you turn to pick up your own. “This one can be for your windowsill, maybe in the kitchen? It’s gotta have some light, but not too much. If Wayne likes it, maybe you can share-”

“Not sharing shit with that man,” Eddie says, grand in his petulance. “Wayne can get his own jar of dirt.”

Your squint straightens him out. Eddie folds easy for you, always has.

“Gotta find some moss,” you say, eyes still unerringly on Eddie’s, “That’s the substrate layer. And then little plants, maybe some grass, whatever we can forage that’s small enough to fit. Oh, and isopods, if we can find ‘em.”

“Iso-what?” Eddie asked, alarmed, but you’re already standing, moving past the edge of the forest in search of terrarium treasures while he scrambles to catch up.

There’s an easy, graceful lilt to your movements when you’re outdoors, as if you’re meant to be there- moss reveals itself to you faster than Eddie would’ve thought possible. One overturned rock later and your gleeful exclamation rings bright through the woods.

“Sheet moss!”

“Oh, sheet,” he jokes, lamely, but you laugh anyways.

A circular patch of moss gets pushed into the jars. Eddie’s fingers feel bulky and clumsy in comparison to your dexterous ones, but the praise you give him once the layer is settled makes it worth it.

He happily trails after you in search of more small greenery, listening to your lengthy explanations of each new addition, huffing in amazement when you come up with the scientific name for crabgrass.

“Christ, sweetheart.” He whistles low as soon as you’re done, reaching over to brush some sticky pine needles off your hip. “So fuckin’ smart. Would’ve killed to have you as my teacher back in the day, might’ve actually graduated on time.”

“I don’t think Hawkins High has a botany program.” Your reply comes distracted, but this time it’s because Eddie’s hand has found a home on the strip of skin between your skirt and top.

He rubs a thumb into your bare hip, moss jar hanging loose from his other hand as he pulls you towards him. “Yeah. Probably for the best. I think they frown on students who sleep with teachers. Couldn’t keep my hands off’a you.”

Chin tilted to meet him halfway, you give him a real good kiss, lips soft and smooth over his, parted slightly until the thrill of your wet tongue presses into his eager one.

“Gotta show you the best part.” When you pull back, sounding a little out of breath, you slip your hand into Eddie’s and lead the way to your original spot.

Two flat metal disks are procured from your pile of things; you hold one out for Eddie in your palm, explaining as he takes it- “Made this one special for you. It goes on top, like this-” you rotate the other disk until it slides into place over your jar. “Like a lid. But I had to make my own from scrap pieces ‘cuz the original mason lids didn’t take the markings.”

Eddie flips the homemade lid over in his hands to find a five-pointed star hugged by a circle, raised and tamped by hand into the metal. He blinks up at you, in awe. “You did this?”

“Yeah, it’s-” you must misread his wonder because the words spill out like you’re nervous, fiddling with the sides of your jar like you don’t want to see his expression anymore. “It’s a pentacle. Like from your Judas Priest poster? But this one’s not upside-down like his, so I meant it more for protection and prosperity. Y’know. To help keep your little world safe. And make it grow.”

Gently, a little unsure, you clink your jar against his in the sweetest cheers he’s ever seen.

Eddie swears again, achingly in love, then spins the lid tight over his new terrarium and grins at you. “I’m gonna marry you one day.”

There’s no room for a buffer as a smile nearly splits your face in two, giggling, delighted with his affection. “Over a jar of dirt? Man, can’t wait to see what you promise me when I give you an even better gift.”

“I’ve got some ideas.” His voice pitches low, taking the jar from your hand to join his on the ground so he can wrap you up in his arms, properly. “Gonna have to come over a lot more and make sure I’m keeping it alive. Think of all those tiny ocelots depending on you.”

“Isopods,” you correct in a whisper, letting Eddie nuzzle into the crown of your hair, warm and smelling faintly of your bergamot shampoo. “And it only needs to be watered like, once a month, but I’ll come over way more than that.”

“You better.” Eddie puts on his best threatening tone. “I get crazier every hour we’re apart. Swear.”

He feels the curl of your smile against his sternum, and you let him hold you and sway in the afternoon sun.

#eddie munson #eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x greenwitch!reader #greenwitch!reader #greenwitch #eddie munson x you

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charliemwrites · 7 months

Note

Can we pretty please get little drabbles on the first kiss moments between the keepers and their pets??

Hey bean!!! That’s super cute!! Let’s see if I can make this not completely awkward 😬

Feral-

You’re wrestling with Simon in the living room. He’s always so careful with you, even when you toss yourself at him full force. It used to scare you how easily he can handle you - but lately it’s just been fun.

He never fusses that you’re too rough, too excited. Just lets you maul him and gently bats you around to keep it fun, pretending that he’s going to pin you just for you to miraculously wiggle out at the last second to continue attacking.

Today he goes down with a dramatic oof and you land on his chest, laughing because he went too easy and nearly sent you over with the momentum. And when you open your eyes to stick your tongue out and declare victory, he’s giving you that look again. That ridiculous, love-sick, half lidded, melted caramel look that you’ve slowly but thoroughly come to believe is authentic.

Not sure what comes over you, but the gentle smile curving his mouth is just too tempting this time. You dip down and kiss him - once, quick. Like he’s going to realize what you’re doing and push you away and this is your only chance.

When you pull away, he’s staring at you with stars in his eyes and you could absolutely strangle him for it.

“Shut up,” you snap instantly.

“I didn’t say anything,” he coos.

You thump in the chest. “I’ll kick your ass again.”

“You’re welcome to if that’s what I get in the end.”

“Shut up.” And you lean down to do it again - to be sure he shuts up.

—

Shy Thing-

Movie nights have become something of a tradition. Once a week, you and him pick movies with a theme back and forth until one of you knocks out for the evening. Usually it’s you - but once or twice he’s seen a movie so much that it lulls him to sleep.

You’ve even started scooting closer. It’s easier to share snacks that way, that’s all!! Tonight the theme is whodunnits. You started with a strong opening of Clue, which Johnny laughed he hadn’t seen in forever. His choice was Scream, which you admit is a great classic, even if it spooks you.

It’s been long enough that you don’t remember all the jump scares, which has resulted in you nearly climbing in his lap at this point. Of course he’s having a great time, teasing that the next theme should be “scariest movies ever made”. As the credits finally roll, and he chuckles that your heart is still racing, you frown up at him.

“You’re being mean,” you huff, trying not to sound whiny even though you know it’s a lost cause.

He hums and tilts his head, eyes sparkling with warmth.

“I’m sorry, bonnie. I’ll pick something less scary next.”

It’s sweet and you know he means it. Even when he’s pushy and a little rude, he’s gotten so much better about minding your boundaries and feelings.

And well… it’s just more than you ever expected. Ever dared to hope for.

You tilt your head and press a slow, soft kiss to the center of his mouth. Perfectly chaste, but tender and sincere.

“I’m having a really good time, Johnny,” you whisper against his mouth.

“Let me kiss you again and you’ll have an even better time.”

—

Good Girl-

You’ve been in a weird mood all day. Not… bad. But John will be going away on a mission that he admitted will be dangerous. That he might not be back when he said he would, but that it doesn’t necessarily mean something is wrong. Still, you’re nervous. You know he has a demanding and dangerous job at baseline, so for him to make a point of saying this trip is going to be especially perilous….

You’ve been trying to get the anxiety out by helping. Granted, from his fondly exasperated expression, you’ve been being more of a nuisance than anything. Still, he’s humoring you. Letting you triple check that he has his things packed - clothes, MREs, med kit…

When you’re not “helping” with packing, you’re fussing around the house. Almost burning food, leaving the sink running, deciding that the bookshelf needs rearranging again…

John finally snags you as you’re babbling about laundry. Just plucks you right up from the tread you’re pacing in the living room rug and plops you on his lap. You start to fuss - about there being so many chores to do, that he needs more socks; and does he have his hat…?

You cut off with a startled noise his mouth slots over yours, deceptively soft. It’s the first time he’s kissed you like this. It takes a moment for your brain to process - and then you’re pressing closer, leaning into him. His hand spans along your jaw and guides you how he wants you, tongue tracing your bottom lip.

“Atta girl,” he murmurs when you sigh and melt. “It’s time to settle. I want to spend some time together before I leave.”

You hum. “M’kay. Can… we do more of that?”

He chuckles. “Yeah, love, c’mere.”

#asks #thoughts™️#cod #my writing #keeper/kept au #fanfiction #keeper ghost #kept pet ghost #reader fic #keeper johnny #keeper price

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lunalockley · 1 year

Text

The Limo Driver (part two)

Jake Lockley x Fem!Reader

Warnings: SMUT. Like, a lot. Can Jake on his knees count as a warning?

Summary: It's night, it's raining and reader just wants to sleep, until she doesn't anymore.

Words: 7700+

Notes: Sooooo, I'm sorry, it took me a little longer than planned but here it is, I really hope you like it. And thank you all so much for your comments, always brighten my day.

Specially dedicated to my dearest moon emoji anon who made me feel really good about this one <3

Masterlist

gif credit

So… you’ve been thinking about it. Well, you can’t stop. Of course you can’t. He kissed you once and you spent six months half in lov—Ok, no. Wait, what? No. Half hooked up on him you mean. Three-quarters stupid. Completely insane. But not half in that. No.

Uh, whatever. It’s only been a day, a couple of hours. It’s way too recent. So it’s normal for your mind to keep on spinning the matter. And the eyes, and the voice, and the fingers. It’s driving you crazy, to be honest. The feel of them on your throat, on your hips, on your mouth… inside of you. You barely slept last night, your mind keeps taking you back through every fucking second of it without even trying. And then you can almost hear his voice calling you preciosa in that way he does and everything starts to heat up. That good, nice heat that’s so easy to get lost on.

But there’s also the bad one. The focalized heat that sets upon your chest like a weight is pressing down on you, making breathing a little bit harder. That’s the one you felt when you walked out last night. And you’ve been feeling it every time you think about what you said, and what he didn’t. That’s the part you’re trying to avoid. Yet it comes to mind anyways. It’s pretty fucking unfair.

And it’s pretty fucking ridiculous too because how come that after all that has happened, all the time you two have shared, all the things he has done you still can’t… figure him out? It doesn’t make any sense. How does someone that’s so incredibly hermetic make you feel you can read him just by looking him in the eyes when you actually don’t know anything about him at all? Does he do it on purpose? Is it a calculated move or is he somehow unable to—

—And you’re doing it again. Thinking about it non-stop. You called in sick needing a night away from the restaurant, from Jake’s stupid chair and that stupid bathroom that has been giving you palpitations just by the thought of going in and this is how you spend it. You had planned to cook a nice dinner, watch a movie, water your barely-alive plants, do a beginner's yoga class on Youtube, and maybe even finish reading that book that has been dusting on your nightstand. But no, here you are. Already in pajamas, all you’ve done (besides eating yesterday’s leftovers) is sit on the couch contemplating how time passes with the rain and Viejita’s soft meowing in the background. Is procrastination the root of all your problems? Maybe it is.

Or maybe it’s just time to get up and do what you do best: sleep. Give your body the rest your mind refuses to get. You impulse yourself out of the couch to go and take Viejita with you. Cuddling with her makes it all better. No more stupid Jake thinking. You let your ear guide you, she’s right next to the window. She had never complained about the rain before and as she feels you getting closer she even starts scratching the glass.

“Hey, baby, It’s just a little rain,” you mutter, petting her and trying to calm her down until you rest your eyes on what she is staring at down the street.

What the f—He can’t just—There’s no fucking way.

You’re not sure. You just live on the third floor but it’s dark outside. The street light barely lights anything at all. And the rain makes it even harder to see. Yet the outline of the limousine is clearly visible, and so is the figure leaning against it. But it can’t be. You’ve always thought Jake is unusual in every little thing he does but this? He wouldn’t be crazy enough to be waiting under the rain without a fucking umbrella and without even ringing the bell to your apartment, just expecting somehow you knew he would be there, right? That would be insane. It must be a weird coincidence. Some other limo driver who's waiting for someone else here… in this neighborhood? Weird, yet not impossible.

But then he looks up straight at your window and your heart jumps inside your chest as you instinctively hurry back into the shadows, where he can’t see you.

Fuck, it is him.

What the fuck? He knows your apartment is on the third floor, you’ve told him. You’ve told him the number. You’ve told him everything, for fuck’s sake. It's not like you want him to come up to your house knocking on the door in the middle of the night but what is he doing? At this point, you’re sure he purposefully finds the way to do the least expected, most incomprehensible thing in every fucking little thing he does. It must be his life’s motto: “No matter what, always find a way to stress the shit out of the people in my life”.

He’s an idiot, there’s no doubt of it. The thing is: are you an idiot? Well, yeah. You just saw him outside your place and your heart is already a beat away from a fucking heart attack. But you should try not to be an idiot anymore. You shouldn't go down. Make it clear you said it’s over for good. He definitely saw you, he would get it, and then… and then he would leave. Forever. Yeah, that’s what you should do.

But… goodbyes are a good thing too, right?

Closure and all that stuff. Talk things out, even if it sounds unlikely with someone like Jake. You can give it a chance. A… friendly goodbye. Ok, yeah. Sounds good. And it is the right thing in this type of situation, grown-up shit. A goodbye, that’s all.

You take one last look at the street just in case you’ve lost your mind and you’ve imagined the whole thing, but he’s still right there. Arms crossed, leaning against the limo and probably soaking fuking wet.

“Your dad’s an idiot, Viejita,” you say to the little black beast before taking her in your arms to leave her on her favorite cushion on the sofa. She settles down, pleased and exhausted as if she's accomplished a hard job.

You grab your keys next to the mirror at the entrance.

Just a goodbye.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

The bone-chilling air hits you as soon as you step out of the building but seeing him is what makes you stop dead in your tracks for a second. You couldn’t see it up from your floor but he’s wearing his usual type of clothes, not the casual ones that somehow felt so out of place on him yesterday. Now the familiarity of the white shirt, the jacket, and the hat gives you a naive sense of comfort you try to dismiss away. As if this one were more of your Jake than it was yesterday. Stupid, he’s not more of anything and it’s just clothes.

A white shirt, a jacket, and a hat that are drenched, by the way. Which reminds you—

“What the fuck are you doing in the rain? Are you insane?”

Instead of answering he just looks at you and opens the limo’s door. Silently asking you to get in.

Ok, well…. you didn't think this through. You only thought about coming down, not actually getting into his car. But, you guess… there’s no other option. You came here to say your friendly goodbye, after all. Can’t do it in the rain, just like that. And a veil of water drops is already setting in your clothes, you can feel some of the fabric clanging into your body. Another thing you didn’t think through is the worn-out sweatpants you came out with, the old shirt that has somehow become a pajama shirt, and your lack of a bra underneath.

Fuck it.

When you slide into the car you notice how spacious the limousine is yet it surprises you how it does not seem to be room for many people. There are only two rows of red leather seats facing each other. So much space for so few passengers. In order to be more private and luxurious, you guess. It makes you think about the people he drives for. Might he be just as serious and inaccessible as you’ve seen him be with basically everyone else? Or might he show his weird uncharismatic charisma as he has done with you? The latter doesn’t sound so good, for some reason.

You stop nosing around when you feel him sitting next to you a little bit closer than the spacious seat needs. You were right. He's drenched and most likely ruining the luxurious leather of the luxurious car, but he doesn't seem to care as he turns his whole body and attention towards you.

“Is it every day or once every six months with you? No in-betweens?” You blurt out, cornered by the closeness of his body.

Fuck, friendly goodbye. Friendly.

“Sorry. I take that back,” you mumble, thinking your next words before you pronounce them this time. “Why didn’t you ring the bell to my apartment?”

“It’s late. I saw the lights on but thought you might have fallen asleep. Didn’t want to disturb you. You work too much, preciosa,” he answers calmly, his voice softer than you ever heard before. Not in a submissive way but in a disarmingly appeasing tone as if he had come here disarmed, without any shields. Exactly the opposite of how you feel right now. You move back in the seat trying to get as far as you can get in the restricted space. Soft raspy melting voices shouldn’t cause claustrophobia.

“And if I had been sleeping what would you have done? Wait till I wake up tomorrow?” You throw it out half as a joke, but immediately you realize—

He doesn’t even have to answer to know that’s the truth. He had come here to see you and wouldn’t have left until he did.

“Do you always get what you want? Is that how things work for you?”

“If things worked out for me this wouldn’t be the first time I see you outside work,” he says replies, lifting his hat and running a hand through his hair. And to your disbelief, he puts it back with a sigh like he didn't even realize the damn thing is soaking fucking wet just like the rest of his clothes are. He should take it all off before he catches a cold. Ha, go on. Keep thinking of him without his clothes on. Good idea. “Speaking of which, you know what am I thinking?”

“Are you kidding me?” You snort, turning towards him, as shocked by your train of thought as by the audacity of his question. “I never know what you’re thinking,” you whisper, taken aback by the fact that he still doesn’t understand how little you understand him. At all. That’s the whole point here.

“That’s weird, I’ve always felt you can see right through me,” he mutters, frowning at you as if you had any fault in that absurd idea. Stupid Jake. His voice sounds sincere but you chose not to even give it a second thought, can’t allow yourself that right now. Not with the purpose you came here for.

So you cross your arms and frown back at him, refusing to answer anything at all. But he mirrors you, crossing his arms and resting his back against the seat.

God, this is so stupid. You’re so mad at him but can’t help smiling when the stare competition last a little too long. It’s infuriating. And so ridiculous. You came here to say goodbye, why are you smiling?

“What are you thinking?” You ask, defeated.

A crooked smile forms on his lips in victory, but he quickly brushes away with his thumb.

“I’m thinking you look pretty fucking good here like this,” he says taking a look at your body, his eyes somehow soft and dark on equal parts. You try to ignore the effect his tone produces under your skin.

“In pajamas on your limousine?”

“Yeah, it’s a sight,” he breathes lowly, uncrossing his arms and getting a little bit closer. You can’t take it.

“Stop—don't do that, please.”

He waits for you to continue.

“That thing you do,” you explain reluctantly. “You make it sound like you’re joking but it feels like you are telling the truth. It’s confusing. Tell me what you are really thinking for once.”

“I’m telling you in every way I know.”

The words are out of his mouth like a caress and the way he’s—No, no, no. Focus. He’s flirting his way out. Get to the point.

“So? Did you come here to say goodbye?”

“Why would I say goodbye?” He retorts like you had asked him the most bizarre question possible.

“Because we are not seeing each other again, I told you it’s over.”

“Oh, it’s over? So what are you doing here?”

“Would you have left if I didn’t come down? I’m saving you from pneumonia. You’re welcome.”

He shakes his head, a reproachful gleam in his eyes but then he exhales and lets it go. He looks out the window for a moment and then back at you. Outside, the rain pounds harder.

“I came to say that I’m… I’m sorry”

“Oh, that’s a first. What for?”

You cross your legs and he follows the movement. Then he shifts in his seat once more, trying to find comfort.

“I’m sorry that I didn’t—That I left without saying anything—I… I just disappeared. I’m sorry. I understand why you’re angry. If it had been you I would’ve—I’m sorry.”

He’s struggling so much one would think this is the first time he apologizes for something in his life. It cracks your walls a little bit, but still—

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I just had to go and then I couldn’t come back.”

“How so?”

“I… I’m not able to control my time as I used to, just when is necessary.”

Oh. You weren’t important enough to come and let you know he was going to disappear for six fucking months.

“Yeah I get that, you didn’t need to be here,” you grunt moving to get out of the car but he moves from his seat, catching your hand before you even get to touch the handle.

“Let me go, you asshole!”

You try to push him back but in half a second he’s resting his knees on the floor as his hands take yours on a soft grip at each side of your hips. He’s caging you between his body and the seat. And even when your body keeps attempting to get out of the car, the intense heat that radiates out of his body makes you wonder how his wet clothes aren’t fucking steaming.

“Wait, wait—hey, wait, stop,” he says soothingly, his voice not a bit altered by the force with which you are trying to push him. His left-hand find that soft spot on the side of your neck, drawing your attention to his dark eyes. You lose a little bit of your strength. “Listen to me. You’re angry, I know. Take it out on me. You’ll feel better.”

What?

Your heartbeat buzzes in your ears and you feel a little lightheaded. This is the first time he’s looking up to you instead of the other way around. Maybe that's what causes that slight desperate effect in his deep brown eyes, the look that the last speaker of an extinguished language would have. Condemned to never truly communicate with anyone else. And the way he looks kneeled in front of you, surrounded, as if he would let you do anything to him right now. Take it out on me, he said. Is he expecting you to hit him or something?

“That’s not how things work, Jake. I’m not gonna turn you into my… human stress relief ball. You just told me you don’t need this. And I wanna make that call too. So, that’s it. You’re an idiot but we’re good. Now move and let me go. It’s ok, it’s over just like I–”

“No, it’s not. Stop that,” he says all frown and serious, and then a little softer. “And that’s not what I meant. But let me apologize. I wanna make you feel good, baby. Then the rest. Let me have you happy and relaxed first.”

“What?—That’s n-not—We should talk”

“Oh, so you came here to talk not to say goodbye?”

“Are you serious?”

“Sorry,” he says in an innocent tone like he regrets it but he's actually smiling, the widest smile you've ever seen on him yet. A happy smile. The desperate glimmer turned into triumph. He knows you just gave in, he knows he’s won this one. God, you hate him. Stupid Jake.

“Don’t—” take off my slipper, you try to say. But he’s already taking the other one. You really didn’t think about your outfit at all before walking out of your apartment tonight. Whatever. Focus. “What did you mean then, explain it to me. You gotta give me something here because I don’t want to do this anymore, Jake. Not like this.”

He holds your eyes for a moment and then he leans forward, resting his forehead against your knee. One hand slowly making his way up over your calve, the other rolling up the fabric to expose the skin. It takes him a minute to speak again.

“I… I don’t have control over—I don’t really have a—I just do what needs to be done. That’s the purpose of me. That’s all I do. I prevent things from happening and if they happen I resolve them. I… survive, I guess. And this is how it’s been for as long as I can remember. It’s ok—it was, it was ok. It was until one night instead of going to a shitty bar like I always do I decide for some fucking reason to go into that damn 24/7 breakfast and you happened. I didn’t like it, at first, because I knew right there that it wasn’t going to be enough. I already wanted more. I tried to stop it but I kept going and going. You were always there. Lighting things up. Of course, I kept wanting more. It’s never enough”.

While he was speaking his fingertips were gently caressing your calf, his cheek word by word tracing the side of your leg, seeking the reassurance feeling of skin against skin but as soon as the last sentence is pronounced his mouth starts giving open mouth kisses to every inch of uncovered skin it finds on its way and you’re scared your heart may stop working it all. It’s the feel of his tongue in that sensitive spot in the back of your knee, his left hand slowly exploring the length of your thigh but mostly his words and that impenetrable wall finally beginning to break down.

You weren’t expecting this. You thought he was going to come up with a half-true half-joke excuse that you were going to resist not believing in. And then get the courage to walk away just like you had planned. But this is different. You know this is different. You know he meant it. You know for the way he was so evidently struggling to find the right words, the hoarseness on every one of them as if his body were still trying to keep them locked deep inside. This is him. This is what you’ve been asking for. But still—

“The thing is you’re changing things for me, preciosa. I know I’m not made for this. I’m fucked up, I am. I’m not good. And on top of that, there’s not much I can offer you. I’ve nothing. And I can’t even take care of a damn cat without having it all fall over. I’m not even close to being good enough for you. You deserve better, you do—but I’m still here… if you want me. And even if you don’t, I would still be here, waiting.”

It’s raining properly now, hammering on the roof of the limousine. The furious rhythm of hundreds of drops almost synchronized with the rapid beat of your heart. His thumb hooked over the waistband of your pants, slowly pulling until your hip is exposed. Your breath caught in your throat.

“You deserve better but I’m selfish now. If anything is your fault, you turned me into this. I want you for my own,” he mutters, leaning in to kiss the skin of your lower stomach. You can’t help but gasp at the contact, he’s barely touched you and you already can feel the wetness dripping out of you. “Will you let me have you?”

He’s looking you straight into your eyes now, he hadn’t done it since he started speaking, and you can see how much he just gave you. You’ve learned to know him, somehow. Not in the way one learns to read deciphering signs on a page but in the way our eyes become accustomed to darkness after some time. Groping and stumbling you’ve learned some parts of him, his outline. That’s how you know he’s asking for way more than he’s letting on. You have the feeling that saying yes to him involves a lot more than saying yes to somebody else. The feeling that whatever it is he’s asking from you might consume you and leave you heartbroken afterward. But that’s not the hold-up.

The thing is, you want more, you want to see him in full light. You want him for your own too. But you need to understand him. Fully. You won't give yourself up without having him first.

“You want me to beg? I’ll beg if you want me to, but then I’ll be the one taking it out on you later,” he threats when you don’t answer for a while, all teasing voice and mischief glimmer, he’s back to the playful Jake you know so well. A little too long of silence and his defenses go up again.

You don’t think he’ll keep spilling truths voluntarily but now that you’ve heard some of them you want more. You’ve become addicted. You need more. But how?

And how are you supposed to think while he keeps playing with the waistband of your pants? Fuck, unless—He just acted on your terms, revealing himself just like you’ve asked him to. Now is your turn. You probably will get immediately caught up on it, but you can try.

You need to play it his way then.

He sees the change on your face and a spellbound gleam forms in his eyes.

“Show me how it would feel,” you whisper and you don’t need to say it twice.

As soon as the words are out of your mouth the sweatpants are out of your legs. Once he has you only in your t-shirt and your panties he leans back a little bit observing you from head to toe, lingering his eyes on yours, on the contour of your hardened nipples and the wet patch of your panties, as if he wanted to burn the image in his memory, the pervert. Well, you can’t judge, you are the same. Admiring how the white wet shirt clings to his torso, wrapping him like hard candy. You may as well lick him—fuck, focus. Focus.

When he starts to slowly take off your panties you manage to find your voice again.

“I can’t believe I’m letting you undress me on the street.”

“You’re letting me undress you in my car, it’s hot. And its got tinted glasses, and it’s dark outside and you’re with me, bonita,” he answers absently, focused on the delicate movement of the silky material as it slides down your legs. You can't mock him at the implication that you're safe with him though, you know it's true. You’ve felt it from the first day.

Once your panties reach your ankles he carefully removes them to put them in the pocket of his pants. Again, pervert. You ignore the need to clench your thighs together at the gesture and decide to tease him about it. He deserves it. And it’s what has worked the best so far. Pushing his buttons it’s what had you moaning in the fucking bathroom of your workplace anyways.

“To remember me?” You ask as innocently as you can.

But he’s done with it. He pins you with his gaze, raising a thick eyebrow at you.

“Why would I need reminding, exactly?”

“Because this is the last time.”

“What did I just say? Stop that. Don’t make me say it again. You know it’s not enough, preciosa. You know it.” His lips back to your legs, his voice still annoyed but so soft you don’t think you hear right: “Will never be.”

For the sake of your own heart, you rather believe you misheard.

He opens your legs a little bit further and then—

“Fuck, baby.” He sounds so wrecked, you feel weak. You were supposed to do something, what was it? “Voy a despertar soñándote por el resto de mi puta vida.”

“That’s not fair, you know I don’t understand. And tell me… tell me more about yourself first, please.”

“There’s not much to tell. And I’d like to do something else with my tongue right now.”

“What’s your favorite movie?”

“I mean, if I could record this right n—”

“Jake.”

“Whichever you’d like to watch with me, bonita.”

“You drive for a living?”

“That’s how I earn some money, yeah. Stop torturing me.”

“But you’re not just a driver, are you?”

“No, I’m not.”

“And is that…dangerous?”

“Not to you. I promise”

“Are you in danger?”

“I’m in danger of dying as a thirsty man here.”

“What’s your last name?”

“Lockley. Come on, baby, don't make me go crazier than I already am.”

“Lockley… Jake Lockley.” That catches his attention back to your mouth for a second. “What’s your favorite hobby?”

“This,” he says sliding you effortlessly to the edge of the seat. You feel his breath near your core and you know you’re losing it. Shit, why were you doing this? Why are you delaying it when you want it so badly? Oh, right, you—

“Jake, wait,” you breathe. “I need more. I need to understand.”

“Then pay attention, preciosa.”

His mouth finds your inner thigh and he’s so close. So close. You won’t hold back anymore. You can’t. Your hand finds his shoulder just to hold onto something but fuck. He’s still in his wet clothes. He can’t stay like this. You gather the little willpower you have left to push him back. You expect some sort of resistance but he moves back with no effort on your part. Take it out on me, is this what he meant?

The way he raises his gaze is enough to set your blood on fire. He looks at you as if he’s about to say fuck it all and push you back to have his way with you mixed with genuine curiosity about what are you going to do next. Submission hanging by a thread.

“Take off your jacket.”

He holds your gaze for a moment and then he does it. Fuck, the power trip you're feeling right now. It feels pretty fucking good having him listening to you like that. More.

“Now your shirt.”

He sighs and begins to unbutton it, somehow amused by how much you're pushing it. Did he just unblock a new kink for you?

Once the shirt is discarded somewhere on the floor of the limo you lean forward to take off his hat. Is soaking wet just like his hair is underneath. And of course, you can’t resist. You take a moment to run a hand through his curls all the way down to his nape until your hand is resting on his shoulder again. He looks so fucking hot like this. You bite the urge to confess it, instead, you lean back and open your legs a little further, an invitation.

“You can go on, now.”

The little smile he’s trying to bite back makes your stomach flutter. You decide to tease him a little bit more.

“I mean, if you don’t want to…” you concede, beginning to close your legs but you barely get to move an inch before he dives right in and—

Fucking heaven.

You loudly gasp at the feeling of the wet heat of his mouth dragging over the folds of your pussy, his groan sending shivers from your core through your whole body. Fuck, it’s too good. It’s too good. When his tongue swirls around your clit your brain short-circuits having at the same the time the urge to push him away and push him impossibly closer. As your hand finds his curls you realize your body has chosen the latter. The movement pleases him, you can feel his smile against you.

“So fucking good,” he mutters, barely pulling back as you feel the movement of his lips with each word. Your hips move forward anyway, chasing the delicious contact.

Fuck, you’re already on the edge. His mouth is giving you everything without holding anything back. Fixed on wreck you from the beginning, desire running through your abdomen.

“Oh, fuck. Jake, I–I’m gonna—”

“Eyes on me, preciosa.” Is all he says but your mind is gone, every cell in your body focused on the sweet hot pleasure that’s rushing to you core. Your head falls back against the seat as the shocks of ecstasy flow through you, your whines chanting his name, your hand holding thigh to his hair, your cunt clenching hard around nothing—his mouth not leaving you for a second, drowning in you.

When your legs twtich a little too much one hand holds your hips down hard into the seat to ensure you keep still but he’s not stopping, he’s—

He’s—

Two long, thick fingers slid in and out of you as Jake’s mouth goes up, focusing on your swollen clit, licking and sucking and his eyes—

Fuck, you can’t. You can’t. You can’t.

His gaze is so deep and strong, melting your fucking bones. You’ve never been seen like that, never.

“Keep your eyes on me or I’ll keep going until you let me see.”

You can’t help but clench at his words, a whine escaping your lips. He feels it.

“Mmm, would you like that?”

It’s too much, too intense. The free fall never stops inside of you. And you can’t even move away from it. You just have to take it the way he wants to.

His tongue swirls, his fingers curl and you completely lose yourself in the pleasure ripping you from the inside. Your sense of gravity changes to where his wet hot mouth keeps taking everything you have to give. His fierce brown eyes the only thing keeping you grounded.

“That’s it. Look at you, so fucking pretty baby,” Jake says in that dark rich voice you love so much, and though he keeps praising you you’re too gone to even hear anymore. All you can do is lay back against the seat of his limo until your heart stops booming in your ears and air reintegrates into your lungs again.

When feeling comes back to your numb body you find one of his hands massaging the back of your neck, the other moving from your collarbone towards that spot that keeps beating strong under his touch. He keeps his warm palm right there in your heart and fuck, he’s still kneeling in front of you, looking at you with Am I forgiven eyes and you know this is not healthy, this is not how things should be, yet all you want to do is to close your own eyes because you know they’re answering him yes, yes you are. Instead, you lower your head to brush your lips into his, an invitation that makes his body go so pliant on you when you grab him and take him up with you, maneuvering him until you’re on his lap and you can finally kiss him like you’ve wanted since the moment you met him.

That first kiss six months ago was tentative and stiff, it felt like he was trying to stop himself but his body wouldn’t respond to his rational wishes, like his mouth was moving against all his fucking will. Yesterday’s kisses were dark and possessive, every movement of his tongue deliberately planned to have you whining at his mercy.

This one is completely different. This time it’s you who’s leading the way. This time it’s you who’s showing him that the despair that’s so evident in the glimmer of his eyes is the same that’s hidden deep down in your chest. And you know, you know, that the moan that sips out of him when you cradle each side of his face and your tongue clashes into his is because he understands what your body is saying to him. He knows.

And it may be minutes or hours, all you’re conscious of is the constant pattering of the rain against the roof of the car, your own taste in his mouth, the way he pushes you closer every time you bite his lower lip, his fingers under your t-shirt caressing the small of your back, tracing your ribs and digging in your hips, the warmth of his skin, the hard muscle underneath, his damp curls when you run your nails through his head, those dark sounds that come out of his throat when you rock against the bulge inside his pants, the slow, steady bone-melting rhythm that completely intoxicates you until you need more, more, more.

And you know he does too.

He takes off your shirt in one swift motion. You feel something icy at the center of your collarbone but you don’t even have time to process it because suddenly your breast is in his hot wet mouth and his teeth are gently nipping the flesh there and then his tongue swirls against your nipple and—

You need—you’re overwhelmed by the need to have him as delirious as he has you right now.

You push him back into the seat and he’s immediately calling you preciosa and complaining but you are already kissing him, shutting him up, and undoing the zipper of his pants. He growls in your mouth when you palm the outline of his cock over his underwear, your walls clench hard in anticipation. And then he shivers when you slowly run your nails throughout his length over the fabric and you know you’re fucked. You will crave this feeling for the rest of your life. The feeling of having Jake Lockley trembling with pleasure underneath you. An instant addiction.

You take his hard cock out and you and you don't even give him time to pull his pants out or take them off before you’re rubbing your slit against his length. Utterly and unashamedly desperate.

“Fuck, baby,” he mutters in your mouth, his tight and raspy voice making you throb in need, his muscles tense under your hands. “Feels soo good, doesn’t it? This is how it will feel like, everything, every fucking time.”

He pushes back a little to look at you. You know he’s talking about what you answered when he asked to have you. Show me how it would feel. You know this is his way to push for an answer. A confirmation that you’re his. But instead of trying to find those words hidden somewhere in your chest you get lost in his deep brown eyes and you realize that all those moments when he looked at you like he wanted to crawl under your skin your eyes must have looked at him just the same way.

“Will you let me have you?” The question leaves your lips this time, yet no words come out of his mouth but a breathless choked sound as if you’ve punched him in the gut. Instead, he just grabs the side of your neck and glares at you with something profound that could be anger or devotion, or maybe both. And then he’s kissing you, his tongue fighting yours, how dare you is saying. A hand on your hip lifts you up enough so that he can line himself up at your entrance and just when you begin to feel that pressure—

“If we are doing this you’re not allowed to leave again without warning, Ok? It’s cruel,” you blurt out without thinking, your helpless heart rising to the surface, exposing itself despite your efforts.

“Ok,” he answers, his voice torn and low, as solemnly as he can with your cunt torturously dripping the length of his cock. You look down, ready to feel him inside but he grabs your chin and makes you look at him again. “And you’re not allowed to say you hate me. Ever again. I mean it. Ok?”

“Or?”

“Or I’ll fuck your pretty little brains out until I have you begging me to stop but I won’t until I’m sure you’ve completely forgotten the damn fucking word. Ok?” He pulls at your hair for emphasis and you have to fight down the moan that threatens to leave your throat with the gesture.

“Ok,” you answer out of breath, obediently.

“Good,” he praises, soothing your scalp with his fingertips. Then, cheeky again. “What am I allowed to?”

“You’re allowed to ring the bell to my apartment, for once.” You laugh but then—

He holds your hips as he slowly begins to slide his cock in, gently and steadily but fuck.

Holy fuck.

You’re so wet there’s barely any resistance bet he’s long and thick and the stretch feels like he’s gonna break you in half. The strong grip of your hands on his shoulders makes him stop before he can go any further.

“You’ll get used to me,” he gasps in your temple. “Fuck, such a tight fucking pussy, baby. But I’ll make you get used to me. All of you.”

“Shut up and just keep going, for fuck’s sake”

“Relax on me, preciosa. I don’t wanna hurt you,” he whispers in your ear, his fingers caressing every inch of skin he can find, his tongue licking the pulse in your neck. “Relax…Mmm, that’s it. Yeah, like that.”

It takes a little. The expert grip on your hips makes you sink into him so, so slowly every inch of him steals a whine out of you but you know it’s driving him fucking crazy too. He’s breathing hard, the muscles in his abdomen jump at the slightest shift of your hips, and a faint film of sweat appears on his neck. It makes you wanna lick him. But you get distracted by how good and how deep it feels and how his hands move from your hips to a playful hold on your throat, until they fall flat on the seat.

“You can go on, now,” he returns your words, a cheeky little grim forming in the corner of his lips as he leans back on the seat. Leaving you to it. Your heart swells at the wrecked and joyful gleam of his eyes.

You try to say something smart and snarky at him but his cock is buried deep inside of you and you can’t think of anything else, to be honest. You lift yourself up and down, tentatively, the burning so good it has so gasping.

“Feels good, baby? Feels so right, doesn’t it? You know why it feels so right, don’t you? You understand it.”

You pick up your pace, oblivious of his words, trying to suppress the hidden emotion behind every roll of your hips. You don’t want to hear those words, you don’t need to. Not now. But he keeps going—

“You have no idea all the times a woke up this,” he breathes, his hands finding your hips again. Unable to stay away for too long. “Preciosa lurking me with her smart mouth and her —fuck— her pretty smile. Letting me punish her for being too good for me.”

He makes you clench hard around him. You can’t help it. It’s his words, the idea.

“Mmm, you’d like that. I’d like that too. I could spank you for every time you wouldn’t leave my fucking head, for distracting me,” he growls grabbing a handful of your ass and squeezing it. “How red would your ass be then, huh?”

His hand goes up to hold your hip again. And now he’s thrusting into you. Reaching places you couldn’t reach yourself, so fucking deep.

“I could edge you to tears for doing this to me.” The pad of his thumb finds your clit and you whine his name in response. The shots of ecstasy are growing fast and intense. You’re gasping, he’s breathing hard. And to your surprise, he keeps talking. “I could have you screaming for—for—”

Before he was forcing himself to get the truth out, struggling to answer your questions with honesty. But now it’s flowing out of him, a little bit of truth with every thrust of his hips. Every word sticking deep into your heart.

“Fuck, I missed you… my whole body felt it even—even when I wasn't myself.”

God, you can’t even process each sensation. And his scent is concentrated in that soft spot on the side of his neck, it makes you dizzy. You’re so out of yourself, so overflowed with sensations and desire, that you only notice you’re running your tongue down the skin of his throat when growls and holds you impossibly closer, just like you wanted.

Is too much. Everything. This is—you’ve never felt anything like this before. Like the whole ground is disappearing under you. All you can do is hold onto Jake, one hand on his shoulder the other on his nape, your face buried in his neck. But he’s asking you something, his voice softer than before.

“Do you understand?”

But you’re too lost on it. You can’t—Your movements start to grow impatient, fast, and erratic. The hot melting pleasure is close once more. But not close enough.

“Preciosa, answer me.”

You keep clinging to him, refusing to do anything but chase the feeling. You’re almost there, almost there, you’re—

You’re suddenly on your back, his body hovering over yours, both of your hands taken behind you, arching you and maintaining you exposed. Making it impossible to hide away. His hand is on the side of your neck, his eyes piercing through you. He’s expecting the same sincerity he has given you tonight. He’s done what you’ve been asking him this whole time—broken down the wall between you two. Why are you so scared to take what was behind it? Because it’ll consume you. It already is. And you know if he disappears again—If he disappears after all this everything it would be so, so much worse. It’s too much risk. It’s all too much. You can’t—

But fuck, he looks so lost in you.

“Tell me, do you understand now?”

At this point, you couldn't lie even if you tried. Your heart is on the surface.

“Yes, yeah. I-I do. Me too, Jake.”

“Fuck, mía.” He groans between desperate kisses on your mouth, then becomes a prayer that escapes from his lips with every needier, sloppier thrust of his hips. “Mía, mía, mía…”

Your whole body tenses under him then the pleasure rips you from the inside, making you scream this time. The hard squeeze of your cunt enough to push him to the edge. He grinds his cock as deep as he can against something that makes you sob and then he’s cumming, hard. You feel his body shuddering above and you want to see every second of it but everything goes blurry.

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

Somehow, you find yourself on his lap again. Your whole body a dead weight against him. Your head tugged in the curve of his neck. His hands moving up and down along your back.

Your body is tired yet the adrenaline is still running through your veins. You can feel it buzzing somewhere inside, that’s why you are surprised when your voice comes out as a whisper.

“If you disappear again I swear that I—”

“I won’t. I can’t.”

You push back to look into his eyes in search of any sign that may tell otherwise, but you don’t find any.

“I won’t be long gone. I’ll be back soon,” he reassures, running his fingertips from your neck to your collarbone, his lips gently tracing your jawline. “Apenas pude aguantarme esta vez. No soy tan fuerte.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I’ll be back. Ok?”

Suddenly he’s looking into your eyes for some sort of final confirmation that you feel the same way he feels, even if he didn’t confess it with words. And you do. You do, you do, you do, your answer to him. Instead, your mouth says—

“Ok.”

He takes your face in both his hands. His lips brushing yours.

“Mi preciosa.”

⋆⁺₊⋆ ☾⋆⁺₊⋆

A few hours before sunrise, long after the rain has stopped, you enter your apartment. Happy and exhausted, you know you’ll fall asleep as soon as your head hits the pillow. You also know you’ll dream of brown deep eyes and a raspy voice calling you preciosa over and over again.

As you put your keys next to the mirror at the entrance your eyes catch a sparkle on your neck. It’s a silver necklace with a little moon on it. It’s beautiful.

Your head turns to the window, to the moonlight and the limousine below it that you know won't leave until it sees all your lights off.

You had never felt anything like this before, you had never been under the weight of an emotion so strong that there was no way to communicate it with words, you had never been able to understand someone just by looking into their eyes. But then Jake isn’t like anyone you have met before either. And there's nothing you'd do to change that.

You know he will be back.

———————————————

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