vampzv

[vampzv]

Kinktober Day 13 🎃

Tom Riddle x Blood (630 words)

A/N: let's be real, out of all the potential kinks the HP universe men could have, this one feels the most character accurate LOL. Please ffs read the warnings on this one and feel free to skip if this is not your thing. Warnings: || NSFW || MDNI || 18+ Characters || P in V || Peri0d bl00d || yup you read that right || Tom Riddle being Tom Riddle I feel like that needs a warning in itself ||

You gently locked the Restriction Section gate as quietly as you had unlocked it, leaving your disillusionment charm set until you descended down to its lower level. Your eyes found Tom right away as he paced around the shelves impatiently. He hated tardiness, but you had a valid reason. Your period had just started hours beforehand, almost making you cancel your encounter tonight. But you didn’t want to disappoint him, fully aware of how obsessed with you he was. And quite frankly, you wanted to see him too, even though you knew you couldn’t really do much tonight. 

“I’m so sorry I’m…”

Your words were silenced immediately as he crashed his lips into yours, uninterested in your excuses tonight. The force at which he crashed into you sent you stumbling into a nearby table, a muffled squeal sounding against Tom’s lips. 

Despite the stumble, Tom’s lips remained connected to yours as if you were his source of oxygen. It was animalistic the way he grabbed at your clothes, eager to tear them off your body. Part of you was frightened by his intensity, but another, more prevalent part of you was desperate for him, heat rising in your body as he discarded your blouse to the floor, hands shooting to your hips to work off the rest of your clothes. As much as it pained you to do it, you reached for his hands, stopping his movements. An annoyed look graced his face.

“Tom, we can’t…I’m menstruating.” 

A loud cackle left his lips, leaving you confused. His hands resumed their work, maneuvering your skirt down your body. 

“Do you really think I care about that?” He sneered through gritted teeth. Quite frankly, the thought of being covered in your blood, your pure and sacred magical blood, sounded like the closest he'd ever get to heaven. The blood being from your cunt was merely an added bonus. 

Curiosity replaced your nervousness as you sat back on the table you had just bumped into and spread your legs. He was the first guy to ever be so eager to fuck you in this state, and you didn’t know what to expect. 

Tom slid into you instantly, and immediately began his assault on your body, his thrusts hard and unforgiving. As your eyes moved to meet his, you noticed that his gaze was locked on the spot where your bodies met, seemingly fascinated by the bloody mess. Although you refused to look down, still feeling slightly embarrassed, you could certainly feel the mess you were making. But watching Tom gaze down hungrily at you, completely unbothered by your blood, released any remaining inhibitions you still had. You gave into the pleasure, loud moans leaving your lips with each snap of his hips. 

You came with a shudder and a scream of Tom’s name, Tom never once stopping his movements as you orgasmed around him. He followed you off the edge moments later with a groan, releasing deep within you. Curiosity got the better of you finally, your eyes trailing down to watch him slowly pull out of you, his cock smeared with blood. Embarrassment overcame you again as your body throbbed from his absence, a combination of blood and semen beginning to drip out of you. But your embarrassment was snuffed out once more as you watched Tom’s eyes widen at the sight of you, a wicked smile forming on his face. All the while, his fingers were wrapped around his cock, further smearing your blood up and down his length. 

You couldn’t help yourself, apologizing for the mess twice while you got yourself cleaned up and dressed. Both apologies went ignored as Tom stared off into the distance, fantasizing about more opportunities where he could be covered in your pure, magical blood. 

[vampzv]

The Girl who Shattered Time.

Tom Riddle x Reader-long slow burn fic-requested

Warnings; Tom Riddle, single mention of suicidal thoughts/implication, shit ton of Fluff, angst. Happy ending. Rivals to lovers, no smut.

77 pages. 26,278 words. i am...very happy with how this turned out. enjoy!!!

=

Wind whipped in her hair, tossing her about as the broken time turner flew from her grasp-sending her off somewhere in time, she screamed as she twisted and turned, feeling herself being pushed and pulled through the very fabric of time.

It had been May 2, 1998, the battle of Hogwarts had been in full swing-fire and destruction everywhere, death eaters and dark creatures invading the once pristine grounds of the school.

She’d been fighting some snatchers, and had been blasted back into the DADA classroom-hitting the old desk and it fell with her weight, sending everything clattering to the floor.

“Nowhere to run mudblood.” The main snatcher of the group sneered, the others laughing cruelly, the one in front raising his wand. “Avada-“

Her hand moved and something turned and cracked under her weight, and then it was a whirlwind of magic and-everything in the room. She was lifted off her feet, screaming as everything went to madness, the snatchers disappearing from her sight like ink smearing as she was tossed and turned. She looked at her hand-seeing a cracked time turner, but it soon flew from her grip from how out of balance she was.

She screamed again and then she hit the floor, groaning as her body flared with pain from where she landed on her side and back. Her vision swam as she opened her eyes, her brows furrowed as she took in the thankfully familiar sight of the DADA classroom but it…looked different. It wasn’t…decorated how it was supposed to be. Things of course were strewn everywhere due to the chaos that just happened.

It took her only a moment to realize she’d been flung through time, the broken time turner sending her…somewhere in the past or future, she didn’t know yet. She still lay on the floor, her ears still ringing as her head pulsed with pain, her vision still swimming as she tried to regain her bearings.

Her eyes flicked to the office door as it clicked open and she saw an unfamiliar face-obscured by light and her motion sickness, rushing towards her. Unconsciousness took her before she could even see who the professor was.

-

She woke up in the familiar bright natural light of the hospital wing, whenever she was-the hospital wing sure didn’t change. She blinked and slowly sat up, the itchy fabric of the blanket falling from her shoulders she looked around, her blurry vision clearing as she rubbed her eyes.

“Finally awake I see,” she heard a friendly voice of an older witch and she turned, seeing, definitely not Madame Pomfrey, walking around the medical bed. The older witch, maybe in her late 50s, was in the same uniform (y/n) had gotten used to, but her hair was in that v-line bun style the working women of the late 40s wore during World War 2.

“Yeah-sorry for crashing in,” (y/n) said, her voice croaky as she was handed a glass of water and she greedily gulped it down. The older witch hummed, waving her wand in front of (y/n)’s eyes to check for any brain injuries and found nothing. Another wave confirmed no other bodily harm-though there was a cut on (y/n)’s hand that was already healed up and scarred over.

Magic was awesome.

“Well, miss…” the medical witch gave (y/n) a glance and (y/n) said her first and last name. “(y/n), now how exactly did you end up in the defense room? Out of thin air?”

“I crashed into the desk, time turner broke under my hand,” (y/n) explained simply and the medical witch nodded, that was a very simple explanation, and the witch was thankful for it, this would be hopefully easy to remedy.

“I see, if I can ask what year you were in before you were sent to this time?” the medical witch asked and (y/n) told her 1998, the medical witches eyes widening slightly, though she took a second look at (y/n)’s clothes, hairstyle, and realized that made sense.

“I see, well, welcome to 1943 miss (y/n).”

…1943?!?!

-

(y/n) flattened the skirt of the 1940s-era Hogwarts uniform she’d been given, curling her lip to the side a bit as she looked at the grey-toned blazer and skirt, far different from the black/deep charcoal color of the modern uniform she’d been used to. This uniform was heavy and almost a bit-itchy-being made of heavy cotton and linen, probably due to the war so more comfortable fabrics were less available.

(y/n) looked at herself in the mirror, fixing her hair to cover her left eye a bit more, as she preferred it to be covered due to a gnarly scar there, and usually she got way too many questions about it when it was uncovered so she kept it covered just to avoid all the drama.

She looked down at her skirt again, sighing-she’d begged the headmaster of his era, headmaster Dippet, to wear the pants since that’s what she was more comfortable with, but this era of the school was a bit more… conservative, though the current deputy headmaster, Dumbledore-which it felt so odd to see him so young and alive again-winked at her in that familiar way and she had a feeling she might get an exception from the dress code.

She grabbed the familiar black robe of the Hogwarts uniform and slipped it on, looking at the Hogwarts crest on the left side of the chest area, from what she was gathering, in this era, there was less obvious colors on the uniform, something about ‘encouraging cross house unity’ so instead of the house crest on the robe-it was just the Hogwarts crest, the house colors were instead just on the tie and vest.

Which right now, she was about to be resorted so she could blend in with the other students, as currently-Dumbledore nor Dippet knew exactly how to send her back to her time yet, as the time-turner that sent her here had been broken and lost during her accidental trip.

In the meantime, she’d join the students of this era and try not to cause trouble or change anything that could harm her future.

(y/n) turned as the door of the room she’d changed in was knocked on and after she confirmed she was decent, Dumbledore stuck his head through, his auburn hair a slightly weird sight since she’d gotten so used to his old wizard features.

“All ready?” Dumbledore asked and (y/n) nodded, stepping out of the room and towards the familiar headmaster's desk that had the sorting hat on top of it. She watched as Dumbledore took the sorting hat and put it on her head, the old leather hat coming to life once again.

“Curious, very curious-misplaced through time I see. Hmmm, well, what house were you before?” The hat muttered in its gravelly voice and (y/n) didn’t answer, knowing the hat could read her thoughts anyway. She’d been a Ravenclaw before, which had been fun-she’d made friends with Luna Lovegood her first year as they were both seen as ‘weird’, (y/n) being the roughhousing tomboy and Luna being…Luna.

She hoped Luna was okay back in the 90s, during that war-she hoped Potter would win.

“Mmm, let’s see let’s see, cunning, thinks outside the box, plenty of courage I see, not bad not bad, passionate, kind but not weak-willed, mmmm not one to let others change you, how interesting…I know where to put you-Slytherin!”

(y/n) swallowed a bit harshly, feeling the hat being pulled from her head.

Slytherin.

Well fuck.

-

As Professor Dumbledore walked her to the great hall, he told her some more information about when exactly she was.

It was early in the school year thankfully, just barely into November, which meant she hadn’t missed too much of their curriculum-she supposed she should be thankful for that-she didn’t have months to catch up on and most likely their basic lesson plans followed the same as her worlds-though much less dark arts and more defense against it since there were no death eaters teaching any classes and no Voldemort pulling the strings.

She shuddered, remembering the class that had been earlier that day-the DA professor, one of those Carrow twins, had made them use the torture curse on first years-thankfully she had never been picked to cast it as some other 6th year had outright said no, resulting in punishment for him and the rest of the class had to watch.

She shook her head to rid herself of that memory, it was no use thinking of it now, even though it made her feel more…resolved, to get back to her time so she could help fight the death eaters probably still invading Hogwarts and destroying it.

She hoped she’d get back home one day.

Dumbledore led her into the great hall, and it was just barely beginning to be filled up with students for dinner, the familiar sight of all the tables and the lights and the enchanted ceiling made her body ease up-it felt like coming home again after being in such a terrifying version of Hogwarts.

“Now, Slytherin table is just over there, and I’ll have one of the prefects guide you around, to make sure you know your way. Perhaps tutor you, if need be,” Dumbledore said and (y/n) nodded, fixing the bang over her left eye as she looked towards the Slytherin dining table, seeing groups of them all sitting down together-no doubt most of them purebloods and half-bloods.

Dumbledore gently gave her a little tap on her shoulder, and she sighed, walking towards the Slytherin table, making her way towards the end where no one was sitting yet and all eyes drew to her.

She knew why-she was a new face, unfamiliar, with hair different than theirs(she’d refused to let anyone touch it to make it more ‘40s’. She liked her hair very much and liked how it was styled to hide her eye.), and probably held herself very differently than how they were used to.

New sudden students always drew attention.

She sat down, crossing her arms on the table-elbows and all, staring up and around the ceiling of the great hall, admiring the night sky above. More students filed in as dinner time grew closer, and she could feel eyes on her as Slytherin students came and sat down. A few sat around her, but she still kept her gaze to herself.

She felt a sudden shiver run up her spine and she turned her head-peeking out from her bangs to see a tall pale boy with dark wavy hair that was styled to perfection, with dark deep eyes and lips in a slight pout. He had a prefect badge on his uniform robe and walked with a purpose, heading straight for a group of boys that sat in the middle of the table, boys she swore she had seen before-or well, maybe their grandchildren that went to school with her for the last 6ish years.

She could pick out a few, like maybe the one with brown hair and beauty marks was Theodore Nott’s grandfather, and she thinks she can see Goyle and Crabb’s grandfathers sitting a few seats down-not really a part of the group of boys but also clearly interested in being a part of it.

The group of boys seem to watch the tall perfect one with high interest, almost looking to him like a leader-none of them take their eyes off him, watching his every move and when he speaks-cockney she hears-they hang onto every word.

She frowns a bit, it almost reminded her of how Draco Malfoy acted with his own group of goons/friends, like Blaise, Theodore Nott, Pansy, Crabbe, and Goyle-they all followed him around like some sort of leader, even though he was pretty pathetic. She smirked a bit to herself remembering the ferret incident a few years back-that was a super funny day, even though it had been a death eater turning the blonde prat into one.

…yeah no, still funny, honestly even funnier when one considers the connection between the Malfoys and other death eaters.

She felt eyes on her again and she looked up, seeing that tall pale boy looking at her now-his gaze seemingly looking right through her and she felt a slight pressure in the back of her mind and she instantly pulled her occlumency walls up-having learned that just before the school year started to protect herself-and the pressure stopped-the pale boys brows furrowing ever so slightly, so slightly it was nearly impossible to see if one wasn’t watching for the micro-expression.

(y/n)’s gaze turned away from him as the dinner feast appeared on the table and she let the few students around her grab their food first before she began to eat.

She looks around at the many plates that decorate the table and has a short realization that the house elves really just-didn’t change the menu at all, she wonders if they ever had.

Whatever, at least she knows what she’s eating.

She feels someone sit right next to her and she looks, seeing a girl-obviously from Slytherin-staring at her with a smile. She looks nice enough. “Hi, are you new?” the girl asks and (y/n) nods, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand.

“Uh, yeah,” (y/n) mutters, setting down her fork. The girl smiles, holding out her hand.

“I’m Lucy, Lucy Flint, and you are?” (y/n) smiles back, shaking Lucy’s hand.

“I’m (y/n), (y/n) (l/n),” (y/n) says, hoping Lucy wouldn’t clock her muggle last name, since her father had been muggleborn, her mother half-blood-and she recognized Lucy’s last name, Marcus Flint from her era-a mean, and bit ugly, Slytherin boy who had been quidditch captain until he graduated a few years back.

But Lucy seemed nice, with short bobbed hair that curled at the ends, pretty brown eyes, and a very sweet smile. Marcus couldn’t have been descended from her, must’ve been his great aunt maybe.

“I don’t recognize that last name? im pretty familiar with all wizard families.” Lucy asked and (y/n) lightly hissed through her teeth, giving a shrug.

“Uh, my great grandad was muggleborn, my grandma married into a pureblood family-I forget which one though since my granddad took my mom's name, thought it was-cooler, or something.” (y/n) said/lied, fumbling a bit, hoping that her explanation didn’t sound stupid.

Lucy laughed a bit, shaking her head. “How curious, you say you don’t remember which pureblood family your grandmother married into?” Lucy asked and (y/n) shook her head. Oh she knew exactly which pureblood family her ‘grandma’ had married into, except that was all bullshit and her actual pureblood granddad was probably in the school right now and it would be really stupid of her to try and pass herself off as some distant relative of his when he probably knew every crook and cranny of his family line.

Lucy only hummed and nodded. “All right then-oh, may I ask which school you transferred from? Especially with it nearly being the end of the first term.” Lucy asked and (y/n) came up with another lie.

“Oh uh, I was being homeschooled,” she said plainly, picking at her thumb under the table. She was talking herself into a corner here-she really wished she could just start talking truth soon instead of trying to lie about her family and her background. “My granddad, on the pureblood side, wasn’t a big fan of Hogwarts, something about the-muggleborns, n stuff.” (y/n) said, only half lying now since one of her family members had tried to convince her parents not to let her go to Hogwarts and be homeschooled by him so he could teach her the dark arts.

(y/n) swallowed at the memory of that family member, brushing her bangs over her eye again.

“Ah, my grandfather was the same way, but my father insisted my brother and I attend Hogwarts, social development and connections as he said.” Lucy said with a dismissive wave of her hand, and the casual way she said it made the tightness in (y/n)’s chest ease up and she took a breath, straightening her shoulders out as Lucy continued to talk.

“I’m sure you’ll love it here anyways, while the classes can be quite boring-especially history of magic-Hogwarts has much to offer and the Hogsmeade weekends can be very entertaining.” Lucy rambled on, the tension (y/n) felt since sitting down at the table eased up and she nodded, feeling hopeful for her first friend of the past.

It was sort’ve funny to act like as if she’d never stepped foot in Hogwarts before as Lucy prattled on about the school and everything about it, including the enchanted ceiling, but (y/n) just smiled and nodded, nibbling at a buttered roll as Lucy pointed out the professors and which class they taught.

Dumbledore was the transfiguration professor and head of Gryffindor house, Slughorn was the potions professor and head of Slytherin house, Diggory was the herbology professor and Head of Hufflepuff house, and Vassy was the charms professor(as well as the flying teacher) and head of Ravenclaw hours, and so on and so forth.

(y/n) only knew two of them, Professor Dumbledore and Professor Slughorn, though Dumbledore had passed the year before and Slughorn was once again head of Slytherin house with Snape now being headmaster-well, in her time. Now everything was…normal, the halls weren’t dark, the magic of the castle wasn’t suffocating anymore, and the professors all looked bright and proper.

Hogwarts felt like home again, and (y/n) had a feeling she wasn’t going to mind being in the past all that much.

-

(y/n) let Lucy begin to drag her up from the table and towards the doors of the great hall, glad to already have a friend who seemed nice, when the voice of Professor Dumbledore caught her attention. “Miss (l/n),” she turned, Lucy turning as well as Dumbledore summoned her forth and (y/n) let out a low sigh, letting go of Lucy’s hand-or well tried, Lucy was now holding her arm-walking up to Dumbledore.

“Yes sir?” (y/n) asked, looking up at the old wizard(though he didn’t look as old as she was used to.) Dumbledore glanced between her and Lucy.

“I see you’ve made a friend already, wonderful. I assume now you won’t need someone to show you around?” Dumbledore asked and (y/n) nodded, Lucy clinging tighter to her arm, as if to claim the ‘honor’ of showing her around.

“No sir, I think Lucy has taken on the job for herself,” (y/n) said, seeing Lucy smiling out of the corner of her eye. Dumbledore nodded.

“Very well, I’ll leave you in her hands. Goodnight you two, sleep well.” Dumbledore said with a nod of his head and (y/n) and Lucy nodded, bidding the professor goodnight as well, Lucy tugging (y/n) out of the great hall, giving a short tour on the way to the Slytherin common room. It was in the lower levels of the castle, near the dungeons and the potions classroom. (y/n) held Lucy’s hand as they walked amongst the crowd to the common room.

Everyone walked up to a solid brick wall, and the prefect at the front-leading the first years-said the password and a snake that had been carved into the floor slid up and formed into an arch that revealed the door to the common room. (y/n) whistled under her breath, blinking a bit, well-that was impressive.

Lucy laughed at her reaction and pulled her into the common room. It was very green, and silver and opulent, with large windows that viewed into the black lake…and had multiple rooms-wow.

“Wow,” (y/n) said under her breath as Lucy pulled her around, showing her every nook and cranny of the common room, eventually pulling her towards the grand set of stairs that led to the door rooms-tugging her up the right staircase and into the halls with all the dorms.

“let's see if we can find yours,” Lucy said, trailing her fingers under the silver plaque on each door-each one having the name of its occupants on it. They passed Lucy’s dorm that she shared with four other girls, until they reached a door that had only one name on it. “(y/n) (l/n), oh how lucky! you get a private room!” Lucy gasped, (y/n) opening the door to step inside.

Wow, she really did get her own room, considering there was only one bed and everything else was pretty standard room décor. Lucy admired the room, looking around-frowning when she didn’t see (y/n)’s trunk for the rest of her clothes.

“Where's your trunk?” Lucy asked, peeking under (y/n)’s bed to look for it. (y/n) shrugged a bit, she didn’t have one-considering she’d come to this time with nothing but her wand and the clothes she had on during the battle.

“Don’t have one…don’t have extra clothes now that I think about it,” (y/n) mumbled, jumping as Lucy gasped and jumped up-grabbing her arms.

“You know what that calls for right?” Lucy asked, her eyes wide as (y/n) blinked, before shaking her head. Lucy grinned, almost crazily. “Shopping spree~”

“Oh-I don’t have any money-“ (y/n) said weakly, her mouth being covered by Lucy as she shushed her.

“Don’t worry about it~ I’ll handle it, besides-I’ve been dying to go shopping at the new store at Hogsmeade.” Lucy said enthusiastically, squeezing (y/n)’s shoulders after releasing her mouth. (y/n) sighed, but nodded with a grateful smile.

“Thanks, Lucy,” (y/n) said softly and Lucy grinned brightly.

“You’re very welcome (y/n)~ oh! Let me introduce you to my friends-and roommates-c’mon!” Lucy said, taking (y/n)’s hand and dragging her back out of her dorm and to Lucy’s dorm, there she met the four girls that made up Lucy’s roommates: Bella Lars, Iridessa Hawthorn, Alice Macnair, and Julia Nettleskip

By curfew, (y/n) had a whole new group of friends, all of them much nicer than she had ever expected.

-

That night, after learning she didn’t have any roommates and she’d been ‘homeschooled’ before transferring to Hogwarts-all her new friends brought their pillows and blankets into her room and they had a sleepover-Alice, one of her new friends and Lucy’s roommates, letting her borrow some sleepwear since they were the same size and (y/n) didn’t have any sleepwear to begin with.

“Have you ever had voice-changing chocolates before (y/n)?” Bella asked (y/n) as she held out the box to (y/n) who was sitting on the footboard bench at the end of her bed. She nodded, taking one and popping it into her mouth-the chocolate melting on her tongue and her voice changed to make bird noises as the other girls all giggled.

Iridessa was the one who brought all the snacks, (y/n) being told she hoarded candy every Hogsmeade trip ‘just in case’, which meant there were several piles of sweets and snacks to choose from.

(y/n) was having a blast, she couldn’t remember the last time she had this much fun at a sleepover, much less with a group of Slytherins.(especially within the last year)

After a few hours, (y/n) fell into an exhausted but happy sleep, arms clutching her pillow as she relished in the cold of her room-the perfect sleeping temperature. Spread out on the floor, on top of pillows transfigured into mattresses, were her new friends, all sleeping soundly-the night well spent.

-

The next morning was a slight rush-they’d all slept in since they’d all stayed up late and so-when the clock struck for half past 7-half past breakfast more like it-the group of girls scrambled to wake up and get ready for the day, (y/n) being left in her room alone as she washed her face and put on a fresh uniform, adored in the emerald green of Slytherin instead of the sapphire blue of Ravenclaw. It was a bit odd to see herself in that color, but it didn’t look too bad.

She did her hair-making sure her bangs were over her left eye-hiding the scar, and quickly grabbed her bag and books and rushed out of her room-her arm interlocking with Lucy’s as she and her new friends rushed to the great hall to make the last 20 minutes of breakfast.

They got there with 13 to spare and ate what was left of the breakfast feast, (y/n) wiping syrup from her chin as Lucy grabbed her hand again to drag her to the first class of the day-which was Charms. Lucy quickly led (y/n) to sit next to her, knocking into the tall brooding boy who had been staring at (y/n) the night before at dinner.

“Sorry!” (y/n) rushed out as he stumbled, his dark eyes landing on her again as she stumbled into the seat next to Lucy, taking a breath since they’d made it just in time before the professor strolled in. The boy with dark eyes sat down as well-directly across from (y/n), but (y/n) paid no mind to him, taking out her grade 6 ‘standard book of spells’ from her bag, along with her wand and her notebook.

The professor, Tryphena Vassy, taught charms differently than Professor Flitwick did but it was refreshing to learn charms differently, it helped that she had already learned most of the charms of her 6th year curriculum-well, before she got blasted into the past by a snatcher and a broken time turner.

Still, (y/n) listened and wrote down notes, simply enjoying a calm and proper class after so long. After a bit she looked up from her notes, locking eyes with the dark-eyed boy from earlier-and he was staring back at her, his wand between his thin fingers, slowly spinning his wand around his knuckles-his other hand serving as a chin rest.

(y/n) blinked, glancing away at the professor and then back at the boy, he was still staring at her.

She ignored him the best she could and went back to listening to the professor and taking notes. While she and Lucy left class, she grabbed Lucy’s wrist to pull her close and spoke quietly to her. “Hey Lucy, who’s that?” (y/n) asked, pointing to the dark-eyed boy who had been staring at her in class, who was once again surrounded by a group of pureblood boys.

“Hmm?” Lucy hummed, looking to where (y/n) was pointing, gasping with a dreamy smile. “Oh, that’s Tom Riddle~ one of the Slytherin prefects, rumor is that he’s actually a pureblood, despite being an orphan.” (y/n) frowned a bit, mulling over the name Tom Riddle in her head.

She felt like she should know that name-it was on the tip of her brain-she swore she’d heard that name before, but from where? “Okay?” (y/n) mumbled and Lucy giggled, wrapping her arms around (y/n)’s arm and leading her through the hall to their next shared class.

“He’s a dreamboat, isn't he?” Lucy sighed as they passed by the group of boys, Tom, as she learned the dark-eyed boy’s name was, glanced at the two as they walked past-his eyes locked onto (y/n) before returning his attention to his friends.

“He’s, pleasing to the eye I guess?” (y/n) mumbled, shrugging a bit as Lucy gasped as if those words offended her. “What? I said he’s pleasing to the eye! I didn’t call him ugly!” (y/n) said, defending her lack of attraction to Tom as Lucy huffed, and then laughed, the two continuing down the hall as Tom’s eyes drifted back over to (y/n), keeping his gaze locked on her as she and Lucy walked away.

-

(y/n) decided she hated Tom Riddle. No-better word-she LOATHED Tom Riddle. He was just such-an asshat!! Ever since she’d caught his eye in charms class, he was constantly one upping her in all their shared classes, especially in potions and defense against eh dark arts, if she tried to answer a question or-even do anything! He had to be mr-correctal and either speak over her or correct what she was doing.

It reminded her of Hermione Granger, who was very well known for being high strung about all her classes and could be quite annoying about anything to do with academics-she remembered Hermione even correcting her once about her wand movements back when she was in 2nd year.

Hermione, however, did all that to at least try to be helpful, even if it was annoying. Tom? Oh, she knew he was doing all this on purpose-doing it just to annoy her, because she swore he wasn’t doing it with anyone else!!

It had only been a week since landing back in 1943 and she loathed Tom Riddle, she needed to kick him down several pegs or she swore to Merlin she was going to implode.

She got the first chance to do it in potions class, they’d all been tasked with making the draught of living death-and lucky for (y/n), she’d already done this class with professor Slughorn in her time, so with the knowledge from that, and having some extra knowledge from a potions ingredient book she bought before her original 6th year started-she got to work.

The class was only an hour long-some of that being spent with Slughorn talking at the start, but now (y/n) and the rest of the students had less than an hour to make a decent attempt at the potion, to which Slughorn had said he expected no one to get a perfect potion.

She glanced up, seeing Tom following the instructions in the advanced potion-making book, trying to cut into the Sopophorous, his lip curling as the bean just bounced around instead of obeying his whims.

(y/n) turned her knife to use the flat side of it, crushing the bean as everyone else struggled to even nick it. Tom must’ve heard her do so because his head snapped up, eyes locked onto her as she crushed the bean and put the juice of it into a small glass bowl to use for later in the potion-getting all her ingredients ready before beginning.

(y/n) looked up, smirking as she caught Tom’s eye, and then continued on with making the potion. Tom’s nose twitched, as did his lip, and he looked back down-turning his knife to crush the bean.

Within the hour, (y/n) would glance up every once in a while, seeing how disastrous everyone else’s potion-making was going. She could see Lucy-whose hair was frizzing at the ends as she stressfully stirred the potion, trying to stop it from boiling over the lip of the cauldron, and Tom-oh Tom.

His hair was a curly mess, and if (y/n) didn’t usually seethe at the sight of him, she would dare say it was cute, because clearly he tried to hide those curls more often than not-with all that hair gel he used.

(y/n) looked back down at her potion as Tom’s eyes flashed up, and he huffed a bit, gritting his teeth as he looked at his potion-and while it wasn’t a bad attempt, it was clear (y/n)’s potion wasn’t fighting her as much as his was.

Tom wiped his nose with his wrist and went back to work.

Soon Slughorn called for everyone to step back from their potions so he could review them, starting with Tom’s of course-(y/n) had quickly learned Tom was practically a golden child in Slughorn’s eyes, with all the praise he gave him, even calling Tom ‘my boy’ a lot, in pretty much every sentence.

“let's see, let's see, ah-of course, Tom my boy, practically perfect.” Slughorn praised and Tom smirked, his head tilting up a bit with pride-his hair now back into its slicked style after he got a moment to do so. Slughorn continued around the room, encouraging those who hadn’t exactly done well with the potion-as it was extremely difficult.

Finally, he reached (y/n)’s worktable and examined the potion, nodding. “Color is correct, and thickness is just right. But let's see,” Slughorn hummed, dropping a leaf into the cauldron and it burned into nothingness almost instantly, making Slughorn gasp-not even Tom’s had made the leaf disappear that quickly! “Merlin’s beard, it's perfect! So perfect I say a drop would kill us all!” Slughorn said, looking back at (y/n) with wide eyes as she smiled with pride.

Her eyes locked with Tom’s, his dark eyes full of shock and almost fury at being upstaged, and (y/n) only smirked back, rolling her head away from him.

Take that sucker. She thought, soon reuniting with Lucy as they walked out of the potions classroom to enjoy their double class for defense against the dark arts. “Flint.” They both paused, turning to see Tom walking towards them, hands behind his back as his robe billowed behind them. “May I take a moment of Ms. (l/n)’s time?” Tom asked and Lucy seemed a little hesitant but when Tom gave her a little smirk she folded like laundry and let (y/n)’s arm go.

(y/n) tried to grab Lucy again but Tom was already grabbing her wrist and dragging her off. “Let go of me-you git!” (y/n) hissed, Tom rolling his eyes, pulling her into an alcove.

“Oh stop, I’m not going to hex you,” Tom huffed, blocking her from leaving by standing in front of her-his arms crossed. (y/n) glared back, rubbing her wrist. “How did you do it?” Tom asked, his expression intense but very curious, leaning towards her. She put her hand on his face-pushing him back-which left him stunned because no one had ever done that before.

“Do what? Oh-show you up? Maybe you’re just not the best at everything as you think you are.” (y/n) said with a huff, putting her hands on her hips as Tom scoffed.

“Please. I’m the top student Hogwarts has seen in decades-not even bloody Dumbledore got where I am in all the classes-now tell me-where did you learn potions like that? You must’ve been cheating-no one else was crushing the beans.” Tom said, pushing her shoulder to make her look at him and she glared.

“I didn’t cheat! how dare you! Just because someone Is better at you at something doesn’t mean they’re unfair at it, I just happened to have gotten a potions textbook about ingredients and the best way to utilize them-it’s not my fault no one else knew to crush the beans instead of cutting them!” (y/n) hissed back, pushing Tom’s shoulder in retaliation.

Tom’s nostrils flared and his jaw clicked. “Perhaps you’re getting too ahead of yourself Ms. (l/n).” Tom hissed, getting in her face, his teeth nearly bared. “I would watch your mouth if I were you.”

“And if I were you-perhaps, I’d stop being a know-it-all cunt!” (y/n) snapped back, Tom gasping and then being shoved back, stumbling into the wall as (y/n) stormed away from the alcove, turning around to flip him off before catching up with Lucy-who had waited for her.

“Oh, it is game on little girl.” Tom growled beneath his breath; his hands clenched at his sides.

Game on indeed.

-

Tom had never felt so-invigorated before. This feeling, he’d felt it before, but not this strongly, not even towards Dumbledore, who had always made Tom feel on edge the moment he’d come to see Tom at the orphanage before Tom’s first year at Hogwarts.

But this? Oh, this was a breath of fresh air, a thrilling race to his heart-a skip in his step when he battled wits with one (y/n) (l/n). This-loathing-was almost…fun.

“How do you deal with her Tom?” Nott asked as they left transfiguration class-where he and (y/n) had fought for a good seat upon arrival, Tom having lost it because (y/n) had some better muscles on her. She’d boxed him right off the seat, smirking down at him as he fell to the floor-looking up at her shocked, and a bit impressed.

“What he said, she’s a terror!” Avery said, glaring back at (y/n) as she and Lucy walked the other way down the corridor. Tom only hummed with a small shrug, a smirk on his lips.

“Well, such things are sent to try us, make us try to break, to show weakness.  I won't allow such things, soon she’ll know her place.” Tom said, his ‘friends’ all nodding to his wise words.

Their rivalry continued, especially during dueling class-the two usually trying to get paired up so they could hex and curse each other to high heaven without getting in trouble. Usually-Tom would take the win since he was quite adept in dueling-but (y/n) soon learned his tricks, how he would slightly show what spell he was about to cast with a step, or a look in his eyes.

That’s when she started winning, blasting him off his feet right when he was about to cast a hex at her-mid word and everything. “Oh my,” Professor Merrythought mumbled under her breath as Tom tumbled off the dueling mat, (y/n) grinning with victory as Tom flipped over himself, his robe fluttering over his head.

“And that’s-10 to 7 now,” (y/n) hummed, bowing to Tom as he flung his robe end back over his head, glaring at (y/n), though he was impressed how she’d learned his tells, before her-no one had beat him in dueling since 3rd year.

“Rotten luck,” Tom grumbled under his breath, accepting her handshake-hissing under his breath as she gripped his hand a little too tight, shaking it a bit as she released it and turned around, heading back into the line of students watching the duels going on in the classroom.

“How's that-making her learn her place-thing going?” Nott asked Tom as they met up in the corridor, Tom staring at (y/n)’s back as she walked the opposite way with her head held high, clearly running off the high of beating him at a duel.

“I’m working on it.” Tom huffed, stuffing his hands in his pockets as he crossed through the garden courtyard, his breath coming out as a slight fog since it was getting colder as winter reared its head. “Unfortunately, she’s stubborn as a mule and resilient as an ox, hard-headed and foolish-nothing I could do could take her down a peg.” Tom grumbled, mostly to himself.

Nott hummed from beside Tom, looking back at (y/n), her friends walking with her, his eyes zeroing in on Alice-someone he knew very well. He glanced back at Tom, smirking to himself. Maybe all the girl needed was a little-push.

-

(y/n) had never noticed that Alice and Nott knew each other-but she supposed all, or most, purebloods knew each other. But they’d been hanging around each other more often, and that gave (y/n) a weird queasy feeling in her stomach, she did her best to brush it off, since the other girls didn’t seem all too weirded out with Alice hanging out with one of Tom’s friends.

But still, it made her feel like something was off, like she should watch her back-a feeling she hated.

The feeling reached its peak when she and her friends were hanging out in the main courtyard at the front of the castle, sitting at the fountain, waiting for the Hogsmeade carriages to be ready so they could head out for the afternoon. Nott was with them, Alice hugging his arm as he smirked down at her. (y/n) glanced at him every so often, not really trusting his closeness to her-but she wasn’t going to ruin Alice’s fun by asking her to make him go away.

(y/n) turned as the other students hanging out in the courtyard began to head out to the carriages, gasping as she was suddenly shoved and went right into the fountain that had just started to freeze over from the recent cold weather.

Her friends all gasped her name-Alice shoving Nott away to step forward, (y/n) shoving her hand away as she sat up out of the fountain, soaking wet and freezing. She glared at Nott, slicking her hair out of her eyes. There was laughter from the other students, quiet and snickering, Nott the loudest of them all-Alice turned to glare at him, before everyone went quiet as Tom emerged from the school-having seen Nott push Audrey into the fountain, his gaze locked onto her as she pulled her legs in from the fountain edge to stand up.

Nott grinned, expecting some sort of acknowledgment from Tom but Tom paid him no mind-heading right for (y/n), holding out his hand. She looked up at him-he kept his hand out, staring right at her.

He didn’t know why, but he didn’t like seeing her like this.

(y/n) clicked her jaw, taking his hand and he helped her out of the fountain, taking his coat off to set it around her shoulders to keep her warm. “Tom-“ Nott protested-not expecting this move from Tom, so clearly denouncing Nott’s humiliating move against (y/n). Tom gave him a silencing glance, and took (y/n) from around the shoulders, leading her back inside the warm castle.

“Why?” (y/n) asked as soon as they entered the castle, her friends following not too far behind.

“I would prefer to humble you, not humiliate you.” Tom said, so quietly as if he didn’t believe it. He walked her to the Slytherin common room, quietly staring ahead of him-calculating everything in his head.

He’d seen Nott get too close to (y/n), it had made him angry-he didn’t understand why-but he saw him touch her, that’s when he began to move-but then Nott had pushed (y/n) into the fountain and that’s what made him shove through students to get to her.

He didn’t know why he hated seeing (y/n) so…pathetic. He was so used to seeing her so-prideful, strong, unrelenting, so…similar to him, but in her own way.

He hated seeing her look so…hurt.

Tom sighed, catching (y/n)’s attention as she went to hand him his coat back. “It wasn’t my idea, what Nott did.” Tom said, quietly, avoiding her gaze. “Despite our…rivalry, I do not wish to see you harmed, or…humiliated. I…” he swallowed the lump in his throat-a new feeling. “Apologize, for his behavior, I’ll keep him, and any others, in line.” Tom said, looking at (y/n).

She looked, surprised, her eyes widened-then her expression softened in a curious thought.

“Huh.” She mumbled, watching him intently. “Maybe you’re not as bad as I thought,” she said to herself, and then handed over his coat, nodding-his eyes drifting to the scar that went from her forehead down to her cheekbone on the left side of her face. He didn’t mention it, because usually (y/n) had her hair covering that side of her face, a scar she probably didn’t want pointed out.

“Thanks…Tom.” (y/n) said, heading up to her dorm room, her friends all close behind as they entered the common room after letting Tom and (y/n) have their conversation.

Tom took a deep long breath, clutching his coat in his hands, staring down at it.

Maybe this feeling, wasn’t loathing after all.

-

Of course (y/n) had ended up sick, when one gets pushed into a freezing fountain in the open air, they were bound to get sick. In the morning, Lucy had come to check up on her-as did Alice, with an apology gift for letting Nott get so close-when (y/n) hadn’t woken up for breakfast, finding (y/n) in her bed, sounding congested and miserable.

“Oh (y/n),” Lucy said, walking up to her bedside, seeing (y/n)’s flushed face, putting her hand on her forehead-feeling her high temperature. “c’mon, let's get to you madam Tegner,” Lucy said, her and Alice helping (y/n) out of her bed, putting a fluffy robe around her, before helping (y/n) out of the dorms and up the many stairs to the hospital wing-where the head healer, Madam Tegner, took (y/n) in and got her set up in one of the many medical beds.

“Here you go dear,” Madam Tegner said, giving (y/n) a few potions to help fight the nasty cold she’d gotten. (y/n) let out a small grumble, hardly feeling up to even speak, but she swallowed down the potions and went right back to sleep, her friends bringing down a comfy blanket and one of her fluffy pillows from her room.

She woke up every now and then, vision blurry and throat hurting like hell, coughing up her lungs with every raspy breath. This was probably the sickest she’d been in a long time, enough to where she missed a whole week of classes.

When she regained her senses, long enough to actually look around her little area-she saw get-well cards from her friends and a few gifts on the end of the bed table-one of them from...Nott?? she sat up, moving to sit on her knees as she leaned forward to grab the wrapped gift, looking at the tag.

‘sorry-C.Nott.’ the tag said, (y/n) quirked her lip, Tom must’ve made him apologize properly, merlin knows Nott would’ve never done this out of his own free will. Either way, she unwrapped the gift, finding a pair of well-made winter gloves, white in color.

“Soft,” she murmured under her breath, trying them on. A perfect fit. She took them off, putting them back in the box, reading the get-well cards from her friends and opening the other gifts. One was from Lucy who got her a new winter coat after the original one from lucy-from their shopping spree-had been ruined by the fountain, getting all gross from the ice and mud. The others were from her friends, Alice had gotten her warming chocolates, Bella had gotten her a few sugar quills, Iridessa of course had gotten her crystalized flowers, and Julia had gotten her a cute snowflake necklace that changed shape every minute.

(y/n) smiled, putting on the necklace and eating a warming chocolate, which felt like sipping on a mug of coco by the fire, and turned to lay down again, realizing there was one more thing on her bedside table.

Notes? She tilted her head, sitting up again to grab the stack of papers-they were all in Tom’s handwriting, each meticulously written and sorted, and even double proofread, with small notes in the corners of the pages for which books she’d need for all the classes she’d missed over the week.

(y/n) smiled, she’d said it before, but maybe Tom wasn’t so bad after all.

Madam Tegner soon cleared (y/n) to leave the hospital wing since she was feeling better, and (y/n) took all her things back to her dorm room, tossing her blanket and pillow onto her bed as she dumped her presents and cards onto the lounge chair by the space heater.

She checked the clock, glad to see it was lunch time, so she changed into some fresh clothes, put on a cozy jumper, and headed up to the great hall, unable to help her smile as her friends jumped up to greet her. “(y/n)!” “How are you feeling?” “Are you okay?” “Do you need any water?” “Did you get enough sleep?”

(y/n) laughed gently, sitting down between Lucy and Julia, Lucy clinging to her arm-which (y/n) allowed, since her dominant hand was still available to use. “I'm okay, I feel much better, I had plenty of water, and yes, I had plenty of sleep. Thank you for the cards and bringing my blanket and pillow-it helped.” (y/n) said with a smile and her friends smiled back, Alice apologizing again for letting Nott get so close.

“It's okay Alice, I know you didn’t know his plan; besides, Tom actually made him apologize too, got me a nice pair of gloves.” (y/n) said, sipping at some pumpkin juice as Alice sighed with relief, glad she didn’t lose her friend.

“Really? Tom Riddle made Nott apologize?” Iridessa asked, her brow raised-she was probably the only one other than (y/n) not to ‘fall’ for the glamour of the dark-eyed boy, seeing him as just a fellow student who happened to be good-looking.

“Yeah, he left a whole stack of notes for me too,” (y/n) said, digging into a sandwich from the lunch feast set out on all the house tables. “From every class we share-it was like 10 pounds, very detailed too.” Her friends all glanced at each other, and then back at (y/n). “…what?” (y/n) asked, not knowing why they were staring, looking so...shocked.

“Tom Riddle…wrote notes…for someone other than himself??” Julia said slowly, her brow raising, her voice full of near awe and disbelief.

“…yeah?” (y/n) said, sipping at her pumpkin juice again. Iridessa looked at the other girls and they looked back. “With how you’re all looking at me, I'm going to guess he’s never done that before and I'm somehow special because he did it for me?” (y/n) drawls and her friends nod, Lucy shrugging a bit.

“Well, yeah, he hates letting anyone borrow his notes, usually only offers it for a price, like for a few Sickles.” Bella said, having actually asked Tom for a copy of his notes from a shared class they had-one she’d missed one day, and she knew Tom had the best notes in the class, so she’d asked him, but he only let her have a copy for a few coins. “So, him writing a week’s worth of notes, from multiple classes, for nothing? Is a bit…new.” Bella finished, (y/n) shrugging.

 “Perhaps it was his way of apologizing,” (y/n) muttered, not thinking too deeply into it. Her friends all shared a glance-thinking it was much more than a simple ‘apology’ for what Nott had done. But they left it at that, just happy (y/n) was feeling better.

-

Tom’s notes helped (y/n) a lot more than she thought they would, they practically saved her ass as end of term tests came around, (y/n) flipping through page after page of perfectly written notes to study for hours on end to catch up so she didn’t fail any tests.

So as the week before holiday break came around, and (y/n)’s results came in, she slumped in relief, she passed each and every one of them, all of them having either Exceeds expectations(since, she had been sick for a week and missed a bunch of classes) or outstandings. (y/n) bit her lip in thought, glancing down the table at Tom, who smirked at his test results and slipped them back into the envelope, continuing to eat his dinner.

Ever since she’d gotten better, her and Tom hadn’t…been at each other’s throat as much-in fact, he almost seemed to…try to be pleasant with her. He stopped correcting her in class and didn’t interrupt her when she raised her hand. It was sort’ve…nice.

Even then-it came as quite the shock when-

“Accompany me To Slughorn’s Christmas party?” Tom asked (y/n) as they left potions class, just after Slughorn had announced his yearly Slugclub Christmas party. (y/n) blinked, staring at Tom as he stared back at her, looking calm as ever-but if one looked closer, they would see the twitch of his fingers. He was nervous.

“Uh…” (y/n) mumbled, furrowing her brows in thought. The last time she had gone to a Slugclub party was her 5th year, back in her original time, and it hadn’t really been…good. “I dunno, last couple Christmas parties I went to weren’t really…fun.” (y/n) said awkwardly. Tom cleared his throat, shifting his bookbag as he thought quickly.

“Slughorn’s parties can be dull, but I believe the right company can make anything entertaining.” Tom said smoothly, looking right at her and she felt like she was in some sort of fever dream-because if she didn’t know better, she’d say Tom was flirting with her.

But Tom Riddle didn’t flirt-at least not for real.

But, honestly, Tom wouldn’t be the worst to accompany to a party, perhaps he’d be able to sneak some good drinks while there-since he was Slughorn’s golden boy and all.

“Okay, I’ll go with you. Uh-should we match?” (y/n) asked, tilting her head and Tom nodded.

“Yes. Green, black, and silver; the Slytherin colors. I’ll escort you from the Slytherin common room-ten to.” Tom said, and then he walked off, looking like he was on a mission. (y/n) blinked at his back and licked her teeth, turning as Lucy exited the classroom-giggling about how she’d been asked to Slughorn’s Christmas party by Albertson.

“Tom just asked me to accompany him to it.” (y/n) said, apparently too casually from how Lucy’s jaw dropped. “What?”

“Tom Riddle just asked you out?! How are you not freaking out! Oh, my morgan! we have to get you a dress-c’mon let’s get the girls!” Lucy said rapidly, grabbing (y/n)’s hand and quickly dragging her down the hall-finding her friends and they all freaked out like Lucy did.

“I don’t get why this is such a big deal?” (y/n) said after a while after she’d been pulled into the girl’s dorm, sitting in front of Lucy’s vanity as Juila put different sets of earrings into her ears to match the dresses Bella and Lucy were pulling from Alice’s wardrobe since she and (y/n) were the same size.

“Are you joking? It’s Tom. Riddle. He never asks ANYONE out! Never! Especially to a Slug club party, much less the Christmas party!” Lucy exclaimed, pulling one of the several green dresses from Alice’s wardrobe, some of them in the current muggle fashion of the 1940s, the rest being witch dress robes-all of course the ‘modern’ fashion for young witches.

“To be clear, he asked me to accompany him to the party, not to go with him as a date.” (y/n) said with a sigh, closing her eyes as Iridessa began doing her makeup to see what look would suit her best.

“Oh, come on (y/n), that’s so Tom Riddle talk for ‘please please please go out with me-I’m so in love with you it hurts and if you reject me I couldn’t bare it~!” Lucy acted dramatically, hand on her head and chest and everything, flopping dramatically back onto the nearest bed as (y/n) snorted, the other girls all laughing.

“yeah, I don’t think he was thinking that,” (y/n) chuckled, shaking her head, staying still as Iridessa began to style her hair, putting in hairpins and décor to match which every dress was pulled from Alice’s wardrobe, Lucy and Bella holding them up to (y/n) for her to pick, but none of them really caught (y/n)’s eye. “I don’t think we have to do all this now, the party isn’t for another week and a half, holiday break doesn’t start till next week too.” (y/n) said and Lucy huffed, she and Bella hung the dresses back up-none of them really hit the mark for the Christmas party with Tom anyway.

“(y/n), seriously. Tom Riddle has never shown interest in anyone. Ever. Not for real, but here he is-asking you to ‘accompany him’ to Slughorn’s Christmas party. Slughorn has been gunning for Tom to be with a girl-he hounds him every time he’s seen slightly near anyone of the opposite sex-I mean, why do you think you’ve been partnered together for the last few potion assignments?” Lucy said, putting her hands on her hips. (y/n) rose her brow.

“Because I’m competent and Tom and I work well together, regardless of the rivalry we had for the last two months?” (y/n) said and Lucy huffed, shaking her head.

“No! Because Slughorn’s trying to set you and Tom up! Slughorn loves doing that, I mean-I’m not kidding- it's how my cousin got with her husband because Slughorn kept putting them together for partnered potions.” (y/n) sighed, lifting her hands in surrender.

“Okay okay, I can believe that, it’s…Slughorn, but still! That doesn’t mean Tom likes me, I mean it’s…Tom.” (y/n) said, though now she really wasn’t believing her own argument. Her friends all sighed, glancing at each other.

“Whatever you say (y/n).” Alice chuckled, Iridessa wiping her face free of makeup again. “Whatever you say.” (y/n) rolled her eyes fondly at her friends, even if they could be pushy about the Tom thing, she was glad they were her friends.

“Yeah, yeah-shopping time!” Lucy cheered-grabbing the witch weekly magazine from her pile on her bedside desk-it had been delivered by owl only the day before-so it was the most recent issue with all the recently released dress robes for witches.

(y/n) was crowded by her friends after moving to one of the beds, Lucy laying between her legs with her elbows on (y/n)’s knees, flipping through the pages as the others all crowded around-pointing at all the articles and pictures in the issue.

“Oh! That one! That one would look so good on you (y/n)!” Iridessa said with a gasp, pointing at the dress that was featured on the page. It was a very gorgeous emerald dress robe. There were technically two necklines-one was on the neck which was made of sheer shimmering fabric that went down into flowing sleeves that bunched at the wrists, the 2nd neckline was straight across at the upper chest, with a corset style bodice and a flowing soft tulle skirt with a silver décor separating the hem of the bodice and skirt.

“It would,” (y/n) agreed with Iridessa, taking the magazine to look at the dress closer. It looked amazing-but-wow, expensive. “But I can’t afford it, I barely get a pound of galleons from the school fund for school supplies-how in the hell could I afford this dress?” (y/n) sighed, handing the magazine back to Lucy, she and Alice looked at the price and smiled at each other.

That weekend, the girls went out to Hogsmeade like they did every weekend, going Christmas shopping and-eventually-(y/n) was tugged into the dress shop by Alice and Lucy, her eyes widening as she spotted the dress on display, the girls already asking for one in (y/n)’s size. “Guys-no-c’mon-you don’t have to,” (y/n) tried to decline their far too generous offer but Alice nor Lucy would take no for an answer; Iridessa and Bella pushed (y/n) into a changing room with the dress and Julia handed her some cute black heels.

(y/n) sighed, looking at the dress, it was very gorgeous, that was true-but it was so expensive, and such a high fashion dress-she felt like she would look out of place in it.

She sighed again, undressing from her winter coat and clothes to put the dress and heels on, pulling back the curtain to show it to her friends-who all gasped and squealed.

“Oh, my, merlin! (y/n)!!! you look so good!” Lucy gasped, jumping on her toes, Alice clapping excitedly as Bella’s jaw dropped, Iridessa and Julia fake fainting from the sheer beauty of (y/n).

(y/n) blushed, doing a little twirl as Lucy gestured for it, the girls squealing again. (y/n) looked into the mirror, moving the skirt around and making sure the sleeves fit right. It did look really good on her, she had to admit.

She let Lucy and Alice buy the dress for her-but she did try to stop Julia from buying her jewelry and the shoes-but Iridessa and Bella held her back from stopping her, (y/n) sighing as she accepted her fate of being her friend’s sugar baby.

“You guys are the best, I wish I could pay it back.” (y/n) mumbled, her cheeks flushed as her friends giggled, Lucy kissing her cheek.

“Don’t worry about it (y/n), just give us all the details after your date with Tom and we’ll call it even.” Lucy said and (y/n) sighed, refraining from saying it wasn’t a date.

-

Holiday break started only a few days later and Christmas was the upcoming Friday. (y/n) had always loved Christmas at Hogwarts, at least before it stopped being celebrated once the death eaters took over, but now she could enjoy it again-admiring all the décor and grandeur Hogwarts and its professors could offer.

Soon-it was the night of Slughorn’s Christmas party, December 20th, the Sunday before Christmas day. (y/n) got ready in her friend's dorm, letting them doll her up and everything. Lucy was getting ready herself, also having a date to the party, while after Iridessa got ready-she did (y/n)’s hair and makeup while (y/n) waited to put on her necklace and earrings, not wanting to mess Iridessa’s work up.

“Wow,” (y/n) muttered to herself, looking at the soft yet elegant makeup and hair style Iridessa had chosen for her. She looked like a storybook princess or something. “I look…”

“Beautiful,” Iridessa said, holding (y/n)’s shoulders as she smiled at her in the mirror. “Riddle won’t know what hit him, I bet he’ll be on his knees by the end of the night.” Iridessa teased, Alice gasping at her double meaning.

“Dessa!” Alice laughed as Iridessa chuckled, waving her fake scolding off.

“Oh, shush were all thinking it,” Iridessa laughed, helping (y/n) to her feet, (y/n) walking to the nearest full body mirror. She looked…for a lack of better word, amazing. The skirt ended at her ankles, allowing for her black heels to be shown along with the silver snake anklet she wore to compliment the silver accent that was around the waist of her dress.

She smiled at herself, turning to grab the clutch bag that Lucy had paired with the dress and she was the first to leave the dorm room-heading down the curving hallway to head back to the main common room, her free hand gently trailing on the metal rail. She entered the sitting room of the common room that was connected to the 1st-6th year dorm rooms, seeing Tom on the other side of the room outside the boy’s dorms.

She stepped into the light and Tom’s eyes locked onto her-ever so slightly widening. He seemed frozen for a moment, his lips parting as she stepped closer to him. It took until she was only a few feet away from him for him to snap out of his stupor, looking at her with his usual expression.

“Well, I believe there will be no competition for best dressed.” Tom said with a smirk, holding out his arm to her like a gentleman would. (y/n) felt her cheeks flush and she rolled her eyes, taking his elbow.

“Alice and Lucy insisted I wear it,” (y/n) said, walking with him through the common room, catching many the eye of Slytherins who had stayed for Christmas, and up the curving stairs to exit. Tom hummed, glancing at her appreciatively again. He was wearing a handsome black dress robe with green accents, complimented with silver rings-probably borrowed from his friends since she’d never seen him wear rings before.

“They have a good eye; I assume you’re keeping that dress?” Tom asked, and (y/n) nodded, she hoped she’d get her friend's money’s worth out of this dress, it was too beautiful not to wear multiple times. “Good. It suits you.” Tom said and (y/n) glanced at him out of the corner of her eye-wondering where this… soft-spoken Tom had come from.

They traveled through Hogwarts till they reached the room where Slughorn was hosting his party in-his actual room being far too small to host a full-fledged Christmas party.

Tom and (y/n) entered, Tom now holding her hand as they opened the door, it was a bit tacky-Slughorn’s taste meshed with Christmas décor. There were plenty of guests already, a mesh of Hogwarts students and adults-who were most likely a part of the Slugclub once upon a time.

“Ah-Tom, my boy!” Tom closed his eyes for a moment before turning to Slughorn with a charming smile.

“Professor Slughorn,” Tom greeted, tensing up only slightly as Slughorn pulled Tom forward for a weird hug, making (y/n) snicker-her hand still being held by Tom which he was squeezing tightly-probably to ground himself.

“Glad you see you make it my boy.” Slughorn said with a beaming grin, his round face already flushed red from champagne. He turned to (y/n), his smile widening. “And I see Ms. (l/n) is accompanying you?”

(y/n) nodded, Tom stepping back next to her, still holding her hand. “Yes sir,” Tom said, and (y/n) thought she could hear…pride in his voice? She gave him a side glance but couldn’t think on it longer because Slughorn was ushering them on either side of him so he could take a picture with them both.

“Perfect, now-go on-enjoy-I’ll be around.” Slughorn said, waving his hands in a general direction before he went to greet more guests as they arrived. (y/n) took a breath, smoothing out her skirt-feeling Tom’s hand wrap around hers again as he guided her towards a server with drinks, taking one for each of them.

“Thanks,” (y/n) murmured, taking a sip of the champagne, looking around the party. She recognized some fellow students, but hardly anyone else other than the professors who had most likely only come out of politeness to Slughorn.

(y/n) looked around again, but found nothing particularly interesting, much like the Slughorn party she’d gone to in her 5th year in her original time.

Tom seemed to share the sentiment that the party was lackluster, his dark eyes gleaming boredly as he looked over the crowd. Barely anything was happening, there were some conversations here and there, some high-class guests were being schmoozed by some opportunistic students and Slughorn, and students-who hadn’t made the Slugclub invite-were acting as waiters, holding trays of horderves and drinks.

Tom sighed softly, sipping at his champagne before setting the glass aside on the window sill behind him, looking over at (y/n), once again admiring the way she’d been dolled up for the party-most likely by her friends since before now, he’d never seen her wear makeup before, or seen her with her hair styled.

He knew (y/n) was what some called a ‘Tomboy’, a girl who acted more like a boy than a girl, but that didn’t take away from her natural beauty and charm. Tom had to admit, even back when they were at each other's throats, he thought she was pretty. The fact that she was able to keep up with him academically-and then surpass him-only made her more attractive.

His gaze turned back to the party as someone turned a gramophone on, soft Christmas music playing through the crowd, encouraging many to begin dancing as it-really was the only thing to do. Tom turned to (y/n), holding out his hand to her as she watched the other guests begin to slow dance. She glanced at him, her brow raising as Tom smirked.

“Shall we?” Tom murmurs, and (y/n) huffs, holding back a smile as she takes his hand, setting down her drink as he leads her out to the dance floor-Slughorn smiling as he watches his two top students begin to dance, Tom’s hand on her waist while she rests her hand on his shoulder.

“Boring so far, isn’t it?” Tom murmured halfway through a song and (y/n) huffed, nodding. “I suppose I’ll have to admit to you, that you were right.” Tom said with a soft chuckle that had (y/n) smirking.

“Right about what?” (y/n) inquired and Tom tilted his head down at her, his eyes gleaming under the slowly moving lights that illuminated the dance floor.

“About Christmas parties not being fun,” Tom chuckled, slowly turning them to follow the music, (y/n) snorted to herself, letting him lead her in the dance.

“Then I guess I’ll have to admit that you were right too,” (y/n) mumbled, Tom tilting his head at her curiously. “That the right company can make anything entertaining.” (y/n) said and Tom smirked, though it seemed more like a bashful smile that he attempted to hide as they continued to dance.

Slughorn attempted to have some games be played but by the time that was happening, many guests had left and Tom and (y/n) were quite bored. “Have a good evening professor, we’ll be turning in.” Tom told Slughorn, who was quite drunk by now, and bid Tom and (y/n) goodnight before bumbling off somewhere else as Tom took (y/n)’s waist to lead her from the party.

It was quiet between the two of them as they walked the corridors back to the Slytherin dorm. They hadn’t spent much time at the party, maybe only two hours, no more than two and a half, and the night was still early since the party started around 6 pm. “I apologize for the lack luster night,” Tom said as they passed by the kitchens, which was quiet now that the house elves had retired for the night.

“Oh, it was fine, not exciting, but fine.” (y/n) said with a shrug, not minding that the party wasn’t some adrenaline pumping bash, besides-somethings had to be boring once in a while to find excitement in other things.

“Will you be staying at Hogwarts for the holiday?” Tom asked next, his eyes locked straight ahead, hiding the twitch of his finger as nerves bubbled in his throat.

“I will be, I don’t exactly have anywhere to go for Christmas.” (y/n) murmured and that made Tom pause, looking at her with a curious gleam in his dark eyes.

“Are you an orphan (y/n)?” Tom asked, his voice softer than it had ever been and (y/n) pursed her lips, unsure of how to answer that. She wasn’t, not really, but she wasn’t in her time anymore and her parents had yet to be even born-her grandfather currently her age.

“In a way yes,” (y/n) murmured, playing with the clasp of her clutch. “My parents aren’t exactly available, even if I wanted to contact them, and I have no other family around I can reach, so in a way I’m an orphan.” (y/n) said softly, unsure if she explained her thought process correctly.

Tom hummed again, walking next to her with his hands behind his back, his gaze locked onto her in deep thought. “So, you have no one to spend Christmas with, correct?” Tom asked and (y/n) gave a slow nod, as she didn’t think any of her friends were staying for the holiday. “…we could…spend it together, as most of the Slytherins are going home for Christmas, I wouldn’t mind the company.”

(y/n) blinked, not expecting the invitation to spend Christmas with him…alone. “Do you not have anyone to spend Christmas with?” (y/n) asked and Tom nodded, looking to the side, his eyes catching onto the painting of a wizarding family.

“I am an orphan as well, my mother died giving birth to me. My father…is a muggle who has no clue I exist.” Tom said quietly, (y/n) knowing this was very…momentous information Tom was telling her. Perhaps information he’d never told anyone else before. She stepped closer to him, this time, she took his hand-squeezing gently.

“I suppose I wouldn’t mind the company either,” (y/n) said softly and Tom looked at her, a quirk at the corner of his lips.

-

The next day holiday break officially started, with Christmas in only 4 days. Her friends all bid her a happy Christmas and that their gifts would be under the common room tree Christmas morning. “But you’ve guys have already bought me so many things! How can you even think of anything else?” (y/n) laughed, being squeezed by Lucy as the girls prepared to board the Hogwarts express to head back to London for Christmas.

“Because we love you and one can never have enough stuff.” Iridessa said, pinching (y/n)’s cheek and she snorted, smacking her hand away, waving to her friends as they got on the train. “Have a good Christmas (y/n)!”

“Have fun with Tom~!” Alice teased, the girls settling back into their seats as the train moved away from Hogwarts, heading back to Kings Cross Station. (y/n) playfully rolled her eyes, heading back to the school on the carriages and getting back into the castle as quickly as she could, since it was freezing cold outside with a fresh sheet of snow drifting from the sky.

There were younger students, first through third years, all in the courtyards-of all houses-playing in the snow, making forts and throwing snowballs at each other, two little Ravenclaws making snow angles by the tree.

(y/n) stepped into the warmth of the corridors of Hogwarts, heading down towards the Slytherin common room. Christmas was in only four days, and she was going to be spending it with Tom Riddle, a thought that was almost daunting as the day approached.

Should she try to get him a gift? She didn’t know if she had time or even money to do so, with no Hogsmeade trips planned until the weekend. Perhaps she could convince one of the remaining professors to take her.

What would Tom even want for Christmas? He did seem to like material things-from what she noticed. He had a nice quill-probably a Christmas present from past years, and his eyes seemed particularly fixated on shiny things when they were in view, like a fancy pocket watch or a shiny signet ring.

She couldn’t afford things like that, but perhaps she could find something-with only four days to Christmas.

Then again. With what money? She was broke. She sighed, heading up to her dorm room-blinking when she saw a small brown leather bag on her bed, she walked over to it and picked it up-it was heavy. She opened it, jaw dropping. Money. A note accompanied the galleons, knuts, and sickles, it was from Alice.

‘Happy Christmas (y/n)! Don’t go spending it all in one place! Or on one person!’ the note said and (y/n) sighed with a chuckle. How lovely were her friends? She set the note on her bedside table and pocketed the leather bag into her winter coat, heading back out to find a professor that would be willing to take her to Hogsmeade to get a last-minute gift.

Perhaps Slughorn would be easy to convince-considering who her gift was for.

-

Slughorn had happily taken her down to Hogsmeade, which was always so pretty at this time of year-everything, from the streetlamps to the doorways were all decorated for Christmas.

(y/n) wandered from store to store, looking for a gift for Tom. She didn’t want to get something too extravagant, that would be too weird, but she didn’t want to get something basic-that would be too…insensitive??

Oh, she didn’t know, but she needed to get something that would be worthy of a Christmas gift of two…acquaintances??? Rivals that were also friends now?? She didn’t even know what their relationship was now, but for the last few weeks-ever since the fountain incident, Tom had been…nice.

She sighed, rubbing her face. Think think think, there had to be something good to get Tom. She ventured into a magical antiques store, it almost seemed like a muggle thrift store with how everything was set up in sections.

She wandered the store, going through every aisle and section, making sure to look at everything to make sure she didn’t pass up something perfect.

“Are you looking for anything in particular deary?” the old shop keep asked, she was an old witch; probably in her 100s, with a kind grandma-type demeanor.

(y/n) shrugged a bit, messing with the scarf around her neck. “Not really sure, late Christmas shopping. He’s a fan of antiques I think, I don’t know him super well but we’re spending Christmas together.” (y/n) said and the shopkeeper nodded, pointing towards the back.

“There will be some more valuable antiques in the back, perhaps you may find something appropriate there.” The old witch said and (y/n) thanked her, heading towards the back in hopes of finding a gift for Tom.

There were necklaces, rings, vases, books, knives, quills, glass ink pens, all sorts of things. But (y/n)’s eyes landed on a small box that looked like a treasure chest. It was beautiful, with a curled snake as its latch and more snakes lining the rim and hinges, and a snakeskin pattern carved into the wood.

(y/n) smiled, picking up the small chest and bringing it to the front to buy it.

“10 galleons,” the shop keep said and (y/n) nodded, handing over the galleons and the shopkeeper put the chest into a large brown bag wrapped in brown paper and (y/n) took it, going to find Slughorn, who had spent his time at the three broomsticks, and he accompanied her back to Hogwarts.

(y/n) knew her friends had some wrapping paper in their dorm room so she went in there, knowing they wouldn’t mind, and grabbed Iridessa’s wrapping paper and ribbon from under her bed, borrowing Alice’s scissors and Bella’s Sellotape, getting to work on wrapping the chest.

It was a bit of a bitch to wrap a chest, but she didn’t want to try and find a box to put it in nor did she just want to leave it in the bag, but eventually she got the box wrapped, tied with a ribbon, and tagged-ready for Christmas morning.

(y/n) smiled to herself, proud of what she got for Tom and left the gift in her room for the house elves to take on Christmas eve night to put in the common room under the tree.

-

Christmas Eve was fun, the professors had a party in the great hall for all the remaining students-and it included games and a whole feast(which wasn’t new, considering there was a feast for every meal of the day). The younger students loaded up on sugar, laughing joyfully as they pulled poppers apart and wore the little paper crowns that came with them, eating pudding and looking for the coin in each bite they took-Dumbledore ended up finding the coin at the teacher's table, while a young Weasley Gryffindor found the coin at the house tables.

(y/n) greatly enjoyed herself too, happily watching the younger years have fun on Christmas Eve, playing games and eating sugar to their heart's content. She sipped at some warm cider as she sat at one of the tables, wearing a green paper crown and a plate of mostly eaten Christmas pudding in front of her.

“Better than Slughorn’s party,” Tom commented as he sat next to her, also holding a mug of cider. He was also wearing a paper crown, red in color-which she thought was funny-but his was probably forced onto him by Slughorn, the professor insisting on Tom showing some Christmas spirit.

“It is,” (y/n) chuckled, finishing off her pudding and pushing the plate away-the plate disappearing a moment later, thanks to house-elf magic. “Thankfully we won’t have to deal with their sugar crashes, eh?” (y/n) joked, nodding towards the 1st and 2nd years that were eating sugared plums and apples to their hearts content.

Tom snorted, hiding his smile behind his mug of cider. “Thankful indeed,” he mumbled, raising his brows as the professors, the tipsy ones, began to sing carols while Dumbledore turned up the volume on the gramophone, directing the professors with his wand, (y/n) giggling from beside him as Tom watched, almost bewildered.

He'd never actually attended the Hogwarts Christmas Eve party, not since first year, so seeing his professors act like this was quite a shock. Well, minus Slughorn.

The party went on for a little while longer before all the students were sent up to bed, the younger students who still believed in Father Christmas nearly running over each other to get to bed before Father Christmas arrived at the castle.

“I remember believing in that,” (y/n) said softly, setting down her empty mug and standing up. Tom humming a bit. “Did you ever believe in Father Christmas?” (y/n) asks and Tom shook his head, standing with her.

“Never had a reason to,” Tom said and (y/n) hummed, tilting her head, but unsure how to respond to that-so she didn’t. They walked back together to the Slytherin common room. It was nearly empty-as most of the Slytherin students had gone home for Christmas, maybe only her, Tom, and three others had stayed for the holidays, and those three were already up in their dorms.

“Night Tom, sleep well.” (y/n) said and Tom nodded, returning her words, watching her disappear down the girl's dorm corridor, before turning to head down the corridor towards his dorm.

-

Christmas morning felt like a childhood Christmas morning. Presents appearing under the three-courtesy of the house elves, warm treats on the coffee table in front of the fire, stockings full of treats and small gifts, and soft music playing from somewhere as (y/n) quietly walked into the main part the Slytherin common, tying her warm robe tightly around her waist, her slippers soft against her feet as she walked towards the fireplace.

It was early, barely 630 am, but early Christmas mornings were the best thing.

(y/n) settled down on one of the loveseats near the fireplace, taking one of the mugs of hot coco that the elves had set out and letting it warm her up, the liquid filling her chest with warmth as she sipped at it, the light of the fire and the Christmas tree gently illuminating the space.

Eventually, the few younger Slytherins who had stayed for Christmas came rushing in, eagerly opening their stockings and presents, and were out by the time Tom came wandering it, wearing his own warm robe, but he wasn’t wearing slippers-just his bare feet padding against the floor as he made his way into the main common room where (y/n) was.

“Happy Christmas,” (y/n) said quietly as not to break the comfortable quiet that had settled in the common room once the younger Slytherins had left to go get dressed and play with their new Christmas gifts.

“Mmm, morning,” Tom mumbled, sitting down on the couch, grabbing a mug of still steaming tea from the coffee table, (y/n) noticing he put quite a bit of sugar and cream in it, (y/n) didn’t mention it, sipping at her hot coco.

Tom settled back into the couch, eyes on the fireplace. He seemed tired still-it reminded her of how her parents would be Christmas morning, when she and her siblings got up way too early for Christmas and her parents would be exhausted from wrapping gifts only a few hours before.

(y/n) decided to take the initiative, getting up from the love seat to grab the still full stockings, the younger Slytherins had already grabbed theirs, but there were still two stockings left-and she handed one to Tom-who seemed surprised.

“I got a stocking?” Tom asked, his brows pinched together as he held the black and green stripped stocking in his hands-it was bulging, he could feel the small treats and gifts within the fabric. (y/n) shrugged, not commenting on the fact that he was surprised he got a stocking.

The two opened their stockings, (y/n) got the usual stocking stuffers she got almost every year-but just a 1940s version of them. Hair ties, a tooth brush, candy canes, chocolates, wand polish, and many other small items suited for a stocking gift.

She looked up, seeing Tom had poured out his stocking onto the couch beside him. She saw chocolates, candy canes, wand polish, a glass pen, a small carving knife, hair gel, a toothbrush, and a small wooden snake that was bendable.

Tom stared at his stocking gifts for a moment, picking up the small wooden snake and moving it between his fingers, fixated on the small toy.

(y/n) got up, grabbing for the first present under the tree. She frowned lightly, noticing the only gift for Tom was from her, so she picked it up and handed it to him. “Happy Christmas Tom,” she said softly, feeling her heart ache just a bit by the way Tom looked at the gift-as if it was the very first time he’d gotten a Christmas gift.

“For me?” Tom asked her, his brows pinched in what seemed like confusion. (y/n) nodded, and Tom took the wrapped gift from her gently, setting it in his lap with a look of confusion, shock, and a bit of awe.

(y/n) grabbed one of her gifts from her friends, the tag saying it was from lucy, sitting back down on the loveseat, undoing the ribbon as Tom quietly opened his gift from her. He gently set the ribbon at his side, and then began to open the wrapping paper-almost trying not to rip it as he turned the gift over in his hands.

He took off the wrapping paper, holding the small chest in his hands, admiring the snake carvings that lined the curves of the chest. His thumb smoothed over the metal snake latch, glancing back at (y/n) as she opened her gift from Alice-a pair of heeled boots; sturdy and fashionable.

“Thank you,” Tom murmured under his breath, and (y/n) turned to smile at him, Tom’s heart feeling as if it was beating out of his chest at the sight of it. He held the chest tightly through the rest of the morning, watching (y/n) open her gifts from her friends-feeling bad he hadn’t gotten her anything.

He wasn’t used to feeling bad for not doing something-unless it was schoolwork.

“I didn’t get you anything, I apologize,” Tom said as (y/n) began to throw out wrapping paper, and she shook her head with a smile.

“I don’t mind, besides-I got plenty of gifts from the girls, one less gift doesn’t disappoint me. I don’t think you expected me to get you a gift anyway, so I wasn’t expecting one in return.” (y/n) said, rambling a bit as she trashed the wrapping paper and sorted her gifts into a pile, smiling back at Tom-which made his ears turn hot.

Reactions like this, for Tom, had been happening for a bit-feeling things he never felt before. Nervous, sometimes anxious, even flustered-all because of her. He’d never really show it, of course not-he was still a very controlled person and hated having his emotions show.

But right now, he was sure he looked like a unicorn in headlights.

-

After Christmas breakfast in the great hall, with all the professors drinking Christmas punch and wearing funny hats, (y/n) finds a new gift under the tree after getting back to the common room. It’s addressed to her and as she picks it up-she feels the magic interwoven into every part of the wrapping-including the ribbon.

She looks at the tag, it’s from Tom, and she smiles, sitting down by the tree and opening the gift gently. It was a simple black box, and when she opened it, she found a silver snake bracelet inside, with small protection runes carved into the metal on the inside. The metal was interwoven with magic-it was a transfigured gift-not rushed but quickly made with perfection since it was such a last-minute gift.

(y/n) smiled, slipping the snake bracelet onto her left wrist and it magically tightened to fit snugly, and then easily became loose when she went to take it off just to see if she could.

She smiled warmly, getting up from the floor and cleaning up the wrapping paper and ribbon, admiring her new bracelet as she headed back to her dorm.

-

“Thank you for the bracelet, it’s lovely.” (y/n) said to Tom as she passed by him in the common room, Tom coming in from the library while (y/n) was heading out to go to the Christmas dinner feast. Tom blinked at her and nodded.

“Of course, I’m glad you like it.” Tom said calmly, giving her a small smile in return as (y/n) beamed at him. Something from above caught her attention and Tom looked up as well-the two freezing as mistletoe began to appear. “House elves.” Tom murmured under his breath, preparing to step back to not make anything awkward but he felt a warmth on his cheek-his ears heating up as (y/n) stepped away from him, still smiling, her cheeks warm.

“Happy Christmas Tom,” she said softly, turning on her heel and heading out the common room door to go to Christmas dinner.

“…Happy Christmas (y/n),” Tom murmured after a few solid moments of him standing completely still in shock, his breath still caught in his chest, books held in his arms.

He just got kissed on the cheek…

-

“That’s so pretty (y/n)!” Julia gasps the night everyone came back to Hogwarts after break ended, just about a week after Christmas day. (y/n) smiled, looking down at the silver snake bracelet on her wrist.

“Thank you, Tom gave it to me,” (y/n) said and her friends’ jaw’s dropped, their eyes wide. “Always the look of surprise when I mention Tom doing something nice.” (y/n) joked, chuckling a bit as Lucy scoots as close as she can-her friends asking for every little detail about anything that happened between her and Tom during Christmas break.

“Not much, we had a nice quiet Christmas morning together, I gave him his gift-he said he was sorry he didn’t have one for me, and then after I came back to the common room after breakfast there was a gift for me under the tree from him. It was a last-minute thing girls, probably a pen or a ring he had transfigured to make it the bracelet. It’s a sweet gift nonetheless I will admit.” (y/n) said, pushing Lucy’s face away from her gently as Lucy squealed in her ear.

(y/n) then remembers the mistletoe. “Oh yeah, I kissed his cheek.” (y/n) says offhandedly and Lucy nearly squeals her ear off. “Ow!”

“Sorry-oh my merlin you kissed his cheek?! How-why? When-how did he react?” Lucy gasped, the other girls leaning in to devour each word (y/n) was about to say, but she only lifted her hands in surrender.

“It was just a kiss on the cheek! There was mistletoe-I think he was even going to step away to not make it awkward but I went for it because-you know, bad luck n stuff.” (y/n) said in her and Tom’s defense so her friends didn’t go ballistic and Lucy groaned, shaking (y/n)’s shoulders.

“(yyyy/nnn) c’moooon! There's so much tension between you two it’s gonna make me pop!” Lucy dramatically said and (y/n) snorted, rolling her eyes.

“What tension?” (y/n) asked and her friends just looked at each other and back at (y/n) with clear expressions of ‘seriously??’ (y/n) shrugged, sighing softly. “There's nothing going on between Tom and I girls, seriously. Just a few weeks ago we were at each other’s throats and now that we’re not you all think there's something there?”

Lucy snorted and Bella smirked. “C’mon (y/n), you know rivalries are just crushes you’re mad about having.” Bella laughed and (y/n) rolled her eyes again.

“He started it to be fair, and no-I don’t have a crush on him. He’s pleasant now but at most-he’s an acquaintance.” (y/n) said firmly and Alice giggled lightly.

“Whatever you say (y/n), but he’s the one who asked you to Slughorn’s party and asked you to have Christmas with him, and he never asks anyone to hang out with him-not even his friends. He prefers being alone.” Alice said and (y/n), again, rolled her eyes.

“Fine fine. Whatever, it doesn’t mean anything’s going to happen.” (y/n) sighed and her friends laughed, but left the topic alone, for now.

-

January had come and gone and soon it was February, and Valentine’s décor was popping up all over the place. It was much better than the way that one professor-Lockhart she thinks his name was; the DADA professor from her first year-did decorations at the castle. Back then everything was puke pink and hearts everywhere with those dwarfs running around giving sung Valentine’s to everyone.

But the way the professors did it in this era-was nice. The great hall was enchanted to have snow falling from the ceiling with the ceiling looking like a perfect pink sunset sky and there were floating hearts on the window tops. But otherwise Hogwarts was normal, minus all the guys running around as Valentine's day drew closer.

(y/n) wandered through Hogsmeade, only a few days to valentine’s day, watching guys running around buying flowers and chocolates and cards for their girlfriends, or hopefully girlfriends. Her friends were with her, giggling at the way boys were shoving each other to get into honey dukes and trying to get reservations at Madam Puddifoot's Tea Shop.

“Oh, I’d love to go there,” Iridessa sighs, the other girls humming in agreement as (y/n) fake gags, making them laugh. “(y/n)! you don’t like Madam Puddifoot's?” Iridessa asks and (y/n) shakes her head.

“Not my style,” (y/n) chuckles and Alice giggles in agreement, tugging at the winter trousers (y/n) was wearing.

“Can’t argue with you there (y/n), c’mon-let’s see if the boys will let us into Honeydukes,” Alice says, intertwining her arms with (y/n) and Bella as the group of friends walks towards the crowded candy shop.

-

It’s a week later, only the day before Valentine’s day and (y/n)’s friends are all in the library, studying for upcoming exams when (y/n) storms up to them, looking flushed in the face and nervous. “There you all are-I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” (y/n) gasps, quieting herself as the librarian shushes her.

“What’s wrong?” Bella asks quietly and (y/n) huffs, planting her hands on the table, her cheeks hot.

“Tom just-“ (y/n) takes a huffing breath, glancing back towards the doors of the library where she had just entered. “-just asked me out on a date.” She looks back at her friends and they’re all staring at her wide-eyed, as if they couldn’t believe her.

“No. way.” Lucy gasps, grabbing (y/n)’s hand to tug her down to sit. “How? When?” Lucy prods and (y/n) swallows, her whole face hot and it felt like her heart was in her throat.

“He just-walked up to me a few minutes ago-and-and asked me to go out with him-well he said ‘accompany him tomorrow’. But tomorrow’s Valentine’s day! Theres no way he didn’t mean what I thought he meant.” (y/n) stutters, her friends all scooting close to listen in.

“He definitely asked you out on a date.” Iridessa said, rubbing her hand on (y/n)’s back as she breathed heavily. “If he didn’t, then he’s oblivious as a mountain troll.” (y/n) snorted a bit, rubbing her face.

“What am I even going to wear, I don’t even know where he’s taking me.” (y/n) muttered and her friends gasped, realizing she’d said yes to Tom asking her out.

“I have-just the dress for you.” Alice squealed, taking (y/n)’s hands in her own to pull her up and drag her from the library, her other friends close behind.

-

What Alice had picked out for (y/n) for her date with Tom was an evening dress, very 1940’s, with long sleeves and the skirt went just below her knees and flared out just a bit-a good dancing dress as well, was what Alice said as (y/n) tried it on.

Now if (y/n) was in her own time again, the 90s, she would’ve worn pants or something, and a nice blouse, but it was the 1940s and there were expectations. And her friends wouldn’t take no for an answer. (y/n) sighed, flattening down the skirt, looking at herself in the mirror. She did look very pretty, with the light makeup Iridessa had put on her and the simple silver jewelry she wore, borrowed from Julia.

She spun the silver snake bracelet around her wrist and left her friends’ dorm room, giving them a smile as they all grinned back-Alice and Lucy giving her two thumbs up each.

(y/n) walked down the girls dorm corridor, entering the common room, seeing Tom waiting on the other side of the room, a jacket over his arm, dressed in dark trousers, a buttoned dark green cardigan, and a button up with a black tie; his hair styled as it usually was, though it looked just a bit messy-like he’d run his hand through it nervously.

He also had flowers, and a small box of chocolates.

He hears her approach and looks up, and she can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows-his gaze drawing up and down her figure and she fidgets with her bracelet as she steps in front of him.

 “You look-“ Tom murmurs, his gaze still examining her, his pupils growing larger against the darkness of his eyes. He clears his throat and hands her the flowers and chocolates, the tips of his ears pink. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” (y/n) murmured, taking the flowers, and admiring them. They…they were her favorite; she didn’t remember mentioning her favorite flowers to him? She’d told her friends a week back when they’d been talking about what flowers they’d like to get from a date.

Tom must’ve overheard, since they hadn’t been in private when discussing their favorite flowers.

The fact that he remembered what was possibly a second of overheard conversation made her chest feel warm and her cheeks flush. “I like the flowers, thank you.” (y/n) says, hugging the flowers and Tom’s lip quirks at the corner, it seems real and (y/n) smiles back.

She looks at the chocolates and notices they were all marshmallow caramels, her absolute favorite chocolates. “How did you find a box with only the Scotchmallows?” (y/n) asks Tom, since she herself had never been able to find a box with just that type of chocolate. Tom only smirked and (y/n) shook her head. He had his ways. “Thank you, I will be devouring these.” (y/n) said with a full grin, heading back into her dorm just to leave the flowers and chocolates there and then going back out to Tom, curling her arm around his as he offered it.

Before they left the castle Tom gave her his jacket that he’d been holding and then took her to the Hogsmeade carriages, opening the door for her and holding out his hand to help her inside. “Why thank you,” (y/n) chuckled and Tom smirked, climbing in after her and closing the door.

(y/n) watched the scenery go by as Hogsmeade came closer and she turned to Tom, jolting a bit as she met his eyes-he’d been staring at her. “Hi,” she murmured and Tom chuckled, deep and low and…real that it made her blush a bit.

“Hi,” Tom murmured, smirking, his head resting against his fist-his elbow against the ledge of the carriage window.

(y/n) sighed, pushing down the fluttering in her chest. “So, question,” she began, turning her knees towards Tom, her foot brushing against his-his leg crossed over his knee. His eyes flicked to her foot and then back up to her eyes, his tongue brushing against his bottom lip quickly. “Is this a…date?”

Tom’s eyes widened and he lifted his head from his fist for a moment, staring at her. “You…thought it wasn’t?” he asked, awkwardly-looking almost…scared now. “Are you not interested?” he nearly began to ramble if (y/n) didn’t put her hands over his mouth, silencing him in a way he’d never been before.

“No! I mean-yes, I am-I just…only a few months ago we were at each other’s throats and now you’ve asked me out on a date? I mean-it just feels…sudden to me I suppose.” (y/n) muttered awkwardly, pulling her hands away from Tom’s mouth as he raises his brow at her.

“…I assume this means you did not take us going to Slughorn’s party together as a date either, correct?” Tom drawls and (y/n) feels her cheeks grow hot.

“You meant that to be a date?” (y/n) murmurs and Tom lets out a low chuckle, nodding. “I’m so oblivious.” (y/n) groans, burying her face in her hands.

“I believe I wasn’t obvious enough, I apologize, but, I…did mean that, and this, to be date, if you’re willing.” Tom said, his hand brushing against hers and she pulls her face away from her palms, her cheeks flushed as she looks at him-his eyes were soft, though his expression was calm as ever.

(y/n) swallows, taking his hand.

“I’m willing,”

-

She heads back down the girl’s dorms corridor, her face flushed and she feels light on her feet as she heads to her room. Her friends are all waiting for her as she enters, Lucy putting the flowers in a vase while Bella and Iridessa were sitting on (y/n)’s bed with popcorn and fizzy drinks, Alice ready with makeup remover and a hairbrush.

“How’d it go?!” Alice was the first to speak, jumping up from her seat on the floor to rush over to (y/n), taking out hair pins and allowing (y/n) to scratch at her slightly sore scalp.

“It went…good, really good.” (y/n) said softly, her cheeks still hot. “He took me to that cozy restaurant just past honeydukes, I forgot the name-“ Lucy’s voice teasingly interrupted just then.

“So, he didn’t take you to madam Puddifoots?” Lucy cooed and (y/n) scrunched her nose in disgust, making her friends burst into laughter.

“No no, thank merlin-I think he has a habit of listening into my conversations because he didn’t even suggest it, just took me right to-uhm-oh! The Pheonix tear, it was really nice-not fancy, but cozy-like a slightly fancier version of the three broomsticks-they had this cheesy artichoke dip that was served in a bread bowl seriously it was so good I’d go back alone just for that,” (y/n) rambled and her friends laughed again, Alice wiping the makeup from (y/n)’s face.

“Back to the date (y/n),” Iridessa teased, handing her one of the chocolates Tom had gifted her earlier. (y/n) nodded, biting into the chocolate-humming at the taste of marshmallow and caramel.

“Okay okay, well-he was a gentleman, he pulled out my chair and everything and opened every door for me,” (y/n) said, beginning to tell her friends about her date with Tom, which was possibly to be the first of many with how well it had gone.

“So, what happened to him being a know-it-all prat?” Julia teased, resting her head on (y/n) shoulder and (y/n) rolled her eyes with a smile.

“Haha, he’s still a know it all, he’s just less of a prat.” (y/n) chuckled, standing up from her bed to take off her dress, changing into some comfy PJ’s and then settling back onto her bed as her friends surrounded her, ready to hear the rest of what happened on the date.

“A handsome prat~?” Lucy cooed and (y/n) shoved her face away, grabbing a handful of popcorn to toss it at her, making Lucy laugh. “Admit it! You think he’s attractive now!”

“Fine fine, I take back ‘he’s aesthetically pleasing’ comment, he is very pretty.” (y/n) dramatically admitted, giggling as Lucy flopped on top of her to shove her back onto her bed, her other friends all laughing as well.

“Go on (y/n)! what happened at the restaurant?” Iridessa asked as Bella opened a fizzy drink, handing it to (y/n).

“Okay okay, so,” (y/n)’s friends huddled close as she began to tell them how the date went, from when Tom had met her just outside the dorms to when he had kissed her hand dropping her back off only a few minutes ago.

-

He waits for her the next morning, standing at the doorway of the girl’s dorms corridor and (y/n) can’t help her shy smile, brushing her fingers through her hair, making sure her scar is covered. “Good morning,” (y/n) said softly at Tom smiles at her, a warm look she didn’t know he was capable of.

“Good morning, (y/n).” Tom said softly in return, offering his arm and she takes it, looking over her shoulder at her friends who all give her big grins and thumbs up as Tom walks her out of the common room and to the great hall, and she can see him smugly grinning to himself as many stare at the new couple.

Tom makes her sit with him at the table, his friends looking at her with barely hidden…relief? “Finally!” Nott groans, his head hitting the table as the rest bury their faces in their hands or look up to the ceiling as if to thank god.

“Finally?” (y/n) questions Tom, smirking when she saw him look away from her, his ears turning red. “I see I’ve been a discussion in this group.” (y/n) chuckles, resting her elbows on the table as Nott nods, Lestrange groans.

“Non-stop really, I swear-“ Lestrange seemed about to go on a rant about how much Tom talked about her but a swift glare and a toss of a grape right at Lestrange’s forehead quiets him, but not without a snicker from (y/n).

“Cute.” (y/n) murmurs, smirking at Tom as he seems to sink into his seat, his fist hiding his pout. She taps his thigh and his dark eyes flicker to her, she smiles at him.

And he smiles back.

-

Dating a highly respected prefects comes with its perks, Tom takes her on his patrols through Hogwarts, usually sneaking her into the library and he shows her the restricted section books-books she had only glanced at in all her years at Hogwarts, even after death eaters invaded the school.

Their first kiss is in the restricted section, hiding from the caretaker. Tom pulls her below the table edges of the bookshelves, his long legs stretched out to the other side-feet just barely against the other bookcase.

“Your spider ass legs are gonna get us caught,” (y/n) whispered to him, snickering and he covers her mouth with his cold hand, making her narrow her eyes at him as he shushes her gently.

“We won't if you stop talking.” Tom whispers back, looking over his shoulder to see Mr. Canker-the caretaker of this era-just about to walk by with his lamp, his old grouchy face illuminated by the oil lamp.

(y/n) huffs, smirking. “But where’s the fun in that?” (y/n) whispers back and then Tom looks at her, his eyes narrowed and his jaw clicked. His legs hunch in towards them and her hands land on his knees, guiding his legs around her so they can fit together under the table edge.

(y/n) snickers as Mr. Canker passes by and then Tom’s lips are on hers, silencing her as she breathes in the scent of his cologne, hair gel, and toothpaste-her eyes fluttering shut as his soft lips move against hers.

His knees brush against her sides as his hands hold her face-cupping her jaw gently, fingers just barely in her hair. He pulls away-breathing quickly-she follows him, nearly landing on top of him as her lips chase his.

She likes kissing Tom, he tastes cold and feels warm, his touch lights her skin on fire and makes her feel like she’s taken an ice bath at the same time.

It’s intoxicating.

He feels the same way about her, their lips pressing together like teenagers on firewhiskey-which they are teenagers, but they aren’t drunk, this is something that’s conscious, feverish, real.

His tongue goes against her lip and she lets him in, letting out a soft sound as his tongue invades her mouth-pushing against her tongue and she pushes back, finding herself completely on top of him under the table edge of the bookcase as his thigh slots between hers, bumping her up higher as his hands find her waist.

Her head hits the leg of the table and she bursts into giggles, breaking the kiss and flopping sideways as Tom’s hands grab her tightly, his head snapping up to glare at the table leg that hid them from view. “Shush,” he tells her, his hand covering her mouth as she giggles, tears in her eyes as the top of her head aches momentarily. “(y/n) quiet,” he tells her, though she can hear the amusement in his voice.

He sighs as she continues to giggle and grabs his wand. “Silencio.” Tom commands, his wand pointed at her and she goes silent, still giggling. He tugs her up onto his chest again, legs on either side of his hips and scoots them out from under the bookcase table. He glances around for Mr. Canker and when he finds it clear-tugs her up and out of the restricted section, booking it out of the library without a moment to lose and back to the Slytherin common room.

As soon as they’re inside he lifts the charm and (y/n)’s laughter fills the room and Tom’s senses, and he shakes his head. “Remind me to never make out with you in small spaces,” Tom huffs, leading her over to one of the couches, the fire still roaring, sitting her In his lap.

“So there’s plans to make out with me again eh?” (y/n) teases and Tom rolls his eyes, his head falling back onto the couch, leaving the perfect opportunity for (y/n) to kiss his jaw. Tom lets out a huff, his hands gripping her waist as he pulls her up and closer to him. “Cheeky.” He mutters, their lips connecting again, softer this time-as if to savor the kiss.

The clock chimes from the corner of the room and they pull apart, Tom huffing quietly as he looks at the clock. 2am. “I’m going to bed,” (y/n) says with a yawn and Tom grips her hips for a moment before allowing her to climb off him, taking her hand as she offered it. “Goodnight, Tom.” (y/n) said and he squeezed her hand as she left his side to go to her dorm, his gaze locked onto her until she disappeared into the darkness.

“Goodnight, (y/n).” he murmured, turning on his heel to head down the boy’s dorms corridor till he reached his room, running a hand down his face as he closed his door behind him. “Merlin.” He huffed under his breath, toeing off his uniform shoes and sitting down on his bed, his thumb rubbing hard against his other hands knuckle.

He never expected to feel like this, to feel so-electrified and…alive with someone. To feel giddy when he saw her, or hell-bashful when she teased him. He sighed, flopping back on his bed, his eyes closing as he remembered the feeling of her lips on his less than 30 minutes before.

“Fuck,” he chuckled breathlessly, turning over on his bed to hide his smile in his bedding. He was utterly gone for this girl, plans and ambitions gone with the wind the moment she’d caught his eye so many months ago.

He remembered spotting her at the Slytherin table, all alone-a sudden new student caught many eyes but him? She felt so odd, so different, so…interesting. He’d tried to go into her mind, using his legilimens skill to look into her memories but she so quickly blocked him out that he nearly fell out of his chair, feeling the doors of her occlumency slam in his face.

From then, she’d really captured his interest. He’d watch her during classes-wanting her attention so he’d interrupt her and correct her, quite a childish reaction he would admit. Then began their rivalry and it had been exhilarating, having her full attention, she snap and spit and snarl at him and all he felt like was grinning with victory.

Yes. Pay attention to me, see me, ignore everyone else; he would think, even though he would get angry sometimes, especially that first time she showed him up in potions. He’d been impressed, perhaps smitten, but still he was academic to his core-he wanted her secrets, he wanted to know how she ticked.

So, he’d cornered her and asked her how she’d known how to brew that potion, better than even Slughorn-she just shoved him away, calling him a ‘know it all cunt’. He’d been angry then, but later, he just recalled the way her hands felt against him, how good she smelled, how feisty she really was.

And now, she was his, he’d tasted her lips and felt her against him, had his hands on her waist and her ass against his thighs. He sighed with a smirk. Today had been a good day.

-

Tom stared at her face with a soft gaze, watching her from his desk as she rested on his bed, her hair pulled out of her face-even her bangs-as she did some Charms homework, using a book to write on. His gaze went to the scar that went from her forehead down to her cheekbone on the left side of her face.

He'd always been curious about it, wondering what happened-if it was an accident or if someone had given her that scar. He stood up from his desk, sitting beside her on the bed, his arm reaching around her to take her quill from her hand.

“Tom?” She mumbled, her eyes blinking away the focus she’d been deep in. “What’re doin’?” She asked, and Tom took her homework, setting it aside with the book she’d been using.

“May I ask a possibly personal question?” Tom asked and (y/n) furrowed her brows at him and then huffed, turning to face him, curling her legs onto the bed.

“Only if I can ask you one back.” She said and Tom huffed with a nod, and then his fingers gently ghosted over her scar, making her freeze up a bit.

“What happened?” he asked, quietly, holding her gaze. (y/n) swallowed harshly, letting out a soft breath, letting him trail the long thin scar with his thumb.

“My…my uncle did it, when I was a little kid, I hardly remember it-i mean, I do but at the same time I don’t…you get what I mean?” (y/n) said, looking up at Tom, with an almost shy gaze and Tom nodded. He understood. “Well, when I was young, my uncle-who is a very…proud blood purist, didn’t like the fact that my grandfather, a pure-blood, had fallen in love with my grandmother, a muggle-born.” (y/n) paused, searching Toms’ gaze for a reaction, he didn’t give her one and she continued.

“He hated my mother for being a half-blood-he hated my grandmother for being muggle-born and he hated my grandfather for being a blood traitor, he and his mother-my grandfathers ex-wife-separated themselves from my family and shunned my grandfather for being a blood traitor and having a ‘half-blood daughter’ when he already had a pureblood son.” (y/n) swallowed, getting to the difficult part of the story.

“My mom fell in love with my dad when she was in school, around my age, he’s a muggle-born, they had me, so I’m half-blood. My uncle returned around this time because my grandfather had died from dragon pox, saw that my mother had married a muggle-born, and had me-he got…angry, enough to kidnap me to try and blackmail my mother, to make her more ‘pureblood’. He was mad-from what I was told-demanding my mother leave my father and marry back into the pureblood family-he was holding me, he had a knife and…he cut me-“

(y/n) mimicked the blade going up her face, she remembered feeling very scared and feeling her face burst into white-hot pain-she remembered screaming. Tom held her face gently yet tightly, his hand tight around hers. “My dad saved me, I don’t remember much after that.” (y/n) said, she remembered waking up in a hospital with her vision half dark because of the bandages. “My uncle got sent off to Azkaban for multiple reasons, but kidnapping me got him arrested finally.”

Tom stared at her for a very long moment, his nostrils flaring with anger at her uncle. She gave him a weak smile, reaching up with her free hand to pat his hand that held her face. “I’m okay now, really, it was a long time ago-he’s dead, died in Azkaban a few years after being sentenced.”

Tom slowly nodded; his eyes dark as he stared at her scar-as if he was trying to erase it from existence so she couldn’t be burdened with that memory anymore.

“your turn,” (y/n) said softly and Tom’s eyes met hers, confused for a moment. “You tell me something personal,” she said and he remembered their deal, having forgotten about it in such a short time with her traumatic story.

Tom sighed, looking up at the ceiling of his bedposts, biting his inner lip. “I…don’t know what love feels like,” he said quietly, looking down at his lap. “I didn’t grow up with it. The caretakers at the orphanage…despise me, I was an odd child, I’ll admit, but apparently, I was too odd for them. Too…creepy, too…intense, I scared the other children-I used my magic, which I didn’t know was magic at the time-to hurt them, to keep them away from me. To keep myself safe. I didn’t have any friends, or anybody to tell me I would be okay during thunderstorms, or someone to put a Band-Aid on my scraped knee.”

Her hand wrapped around his and he squeezed back, taking a short breath. “I never knew what love felt like, so I thought it was a waste of time, something I shouldn’t bother myself with. Because if I knew I was never going to get it, why try wanting it? But…” he looked up at her know, his dark eyes open and vulnerable. “you…you make me want it, to…try feeling it. And its terrifying.”

He whispered and (y/n) squeezed his hand again, scooting closer to him, his other hand brushing against her scar again. “it is…” she agreed, resting her head on his shoulder-his arm wrapping around her, his head on top of hers. “it really is…but…its really exciting, feeling it, with you.” she admitted and she felt him smile against her hair, and he kissed the top of her scar.

“Thank you for not being scared of me,” he whispered and (y/n) snorted, rubbing her head against him.

“I could never be, you’re too nerdy.”

“Okay, low blow.”

(y/n) burst into laughter at his dry reply and he smirked, turning to press her to the bed and attack her jaw and scar with kisses.

-

“Now that’s just stupid,” (y/n) chortled, Tom huffing from beneath her, his arms around her waist-gripping her sweater vest.

“Is it?” Tom murmured against her shoulder, looking quite content from his spot beneath her on the couch, both being warmed by the common room fireplace.

“It is! No person with any brain cells would use a bloody troll snot in a potion! It’s like corn starch it’d ruin the whole thing.” (y/n) said while Tom snorted, hiding his smile in the back of her neck, hands pressing into her stomach. “Why would you even suggest it? Mr. 2nd in potions grades?” (y/n) asked, poking fun at the fact that she’d topped him in potion ranks for a while now.

Tom only smiled-he’d said it to rile her up, he liked it when she was passionate. (y/n) rolled her eyes, poking his nose, snickering as he scrunched it and shook his head lightly, pulling his head away from her neck. “Cheeky.” He muttered and (y/n) stuck her tongue out at him, laying back as Tom’s friends entered the common room, one giving Tom a meaningful look that (y/n) had barely caught.

Tom sighed, kissing her neck and sitting them up. “I'll be back,” he said and (y/n) raised her brow as he pulled his legs out from either side of her and kissed her hand before leaving with his friends, some already starting to whisper to Tom.

What in the heck was that? (y/n) thought to herself, a weird pit of anxiety dropping into her chest.

She recalled that some of Tom’s friends, or well their sons or daughters really-were death eaters, like Lestrange, Nott, Rosier-all famous death eaters.

She didn’t know why this memory came up now, when it felt unnecessary, but something told her to follow them, to see what the boys were going to talk about.

She did so, quietly following the group of boys-blending in with the other students footsteps that roamed the halls until the boys had gone into an empty classroom-a muffling charm placed so no one could overhear them but (y/n) was within the bubble without noticed, carefully standing just outside the door-cracking it ever so slightly to hear them.

They were whispering still-which was odd because especially with a muffling charm people didn’t whisper unless whatever they were talking about was not…good.

“And the mudbloods?” Tom spoke louder and (y/n)’s chest froze at how he sounded, so cold and…dark.

“Those pesky first years? Boiled and lock-legged, deserved it for spilling that porridge on you.” Rosier snickered, a nasty look on his face and (y/n) felt the anxiety in her chest grow into dread. Tom looked satisfied and (y/n) felt like she was going to throw up.

She’d been sitting with Tom when a first year-a shy boy with big square glasses-had accidentally spilled porridge on Tom when trying to get to his friends. Tom hadn’t reacted but now (y/n) knew it wasn’t something that was brushed off, he’d gotten his friends to pull a mean ‘prank’ on the poor 11-year-old just for accidentally spilling porridge on Tom, something (y/n) had cleaned up in seconds!

“Good. Did anyone see you hex them?” Tom asked and Rosier shook his head, smirking.

“Of course not, I’m a master of stealth.” Rosier snickered, giving a small bow of his head to Tom. “Anything else, Voldemort?”

(y/n)’s entire heart stopped beating, what did-what did he just call Tom? She peeked through the crack, seeing Tom’s eyes gleaming with satisfaction being called that.

‘Once there was a young man, who, like you, sat in this very hall, walked this castle’s corridors, slept under its roof. He seemed to the world a student like any other. His name? Tom Riddle. Today of course, he’s known all over the world by another name.’

Dumbledore’s words echoed in her head on repeat-she remembered the opening feast speech from her 5th year, how Dumbledore had told them about Voldemort and who he used to be.

That’s where she’d thought she’d heart Tom’s name before…Tom Riddle was Voldemort.

She took a shuddering gasp and slipped away from the empty classroom-rushing back to the Slytherin common room-vision blurring with tears as it felt so hard to breathe suddenly, she tripped down the stairs and spoke the common room password in a single breath-shoving open the doors and racing up the steps and-after only a moment of hesitation-booked it down the boy's dorm corridor.

She opened Tom’s door-he’d given her a key to it a bit ago-breathing heavily as she looked around.

Her eyes landed on his diary, something he’d gotten for himself as an early birthday gift from a muggle bookstore. She snatched it up, opening it with a sense of dread she’d been feeling since hearing Tom say the words ‘mudblood’.

Instantly, she felt sick.

She found pages and pages of the truth-of who Tom really was, his name written out and rewritten till he landed on the name Voldemort, scribbles of what would eventually become the dark mark, a whole chunk of pages dedicated to whatever the hell horcruxes were-including a plan to use the chamber of secrets to create his first one out of the very diary she held.

She remembered her first year-when the chamber of secrets had been opened and Ginny Weasley had been taken into it, rumors went around about how Voldemort had possessed her to open the chamber.

Tom Riddle was Voldemort, her boyfriend was the dark lord.

She snapped the book shut-letting it drop back onto his desk and left the room, slamming the door behind her and rushing across the hall to the girls dorms. She stumbled through her door, closing it and locking it.

There, she let it all crash down on her, she sank to the floor under the weight of it all. Her boyfriend, Tom Marvolo Riddle, was the same terrifying snake like dark lord that had terrorized the wizarding and muggle world for nearly two decades, the man who had killed thousands, destroyed hundreds of homes and families-killed Cedric Diggory in her 3rd year.

Her charming, nerdy, handsome Tom Riddle…was the very man who ruined her life, who had caused her uncle to become so-mad with blood purity-to be so bold to take her and give her a scar.

Her boyfriend was the dark lord.

Her head dropped between her shoulders and she sobbed, letting out a hoarse scream as she remembered everything with him over the last six months, their rivalry, their first dates, their first kiss, her telling him how she got her scar and him telling her about how he was afraid of love but was willing to brave it for her.

Was it all a lie? A manipulation? A long con?

Did he even want her? Was this just a ploy to hook his dark roots into more and more people until he had his army of death eaters?

She sobbed so hard she felt she might throw up-she did, racing to the bathroom to puke her lunch, bile burning her throat as she continued to sob. She ripped off her snake bracelet and chucked it at the bathroom mirror-it shattered and (y/n) screams again, slumping back against the wall as glass clatters to the counter and floor, (y/n)’s hands getting cut up as she slides down to the floor, the mirror shards cutting into her skin.

She doesn’t care, she doesn’t move.

The boy she’d fallen in love with was lord fucking Voldemort.

She has to go home.

-

“Please sir.” (y/n) begs Dumbledore, who was the only one besides Dippet who knew that she wasn’t from this era, who knew she had to get back to her time. “I have to go home, I can’t stay here anymore.” (y/n) said-her voice aching from crying as Dumbledore looks at her from behind his half-moon glasses.

“I understand miss (l/n),” Dumbledore says softly, standing from his desk in the transfiguration classroom, rounding it to stand close to her. “Weeks ago I finally received word back from the ministry about acquiring a time tuner to send a time-misplaced student back to their time, they’ve finally got one ready for you. only took weeks of convincing them I wasn’t joking.”

(y/n) lets out a shuddering breath, wondering why he hadn’t told her that when originally getting the letter. “I didn’t tell you because you seemed…happy here, with your friends and Mr. Riddle.” The mention of Tom nearly sends her into a fit and her hands shake as she breathes heavily. “Oh,” Dumbledore mutters with surprise as she begins to sob, taking her hands that she hadn’t healed and were shaking. “Has something happened (y/n)?”

He says her name like a grandfather, tugging her close for a hug as she ugly cries, her face hot and tears streaming down her cheeks as her eyes ache.

She can't tell Dumbledore what she’s discovered-she knows she’s probably screwed up enough just by existing in this era, but she so badly wants to tell him about Voldemort, about the horrors that await the world.

She can't. It could do something disastrous to the future, to her time.

“We broke up,” she says instead, even though that’s not true-at least not officially, she’d been avoiding Tom since overhearing the conversation between him and his frien…followers. Avoiding him since finding his diary and looking through it.

He always looked so confused when she’d run from him, his hand reaching out towards her as she turned tail and ran from him like he was dangerous.

He was, he was Voldemort.

“There there young one, it’ll be okay, affairs of the heart can always be confusing,” Dumbledore said softly as she sobbed her heart out for the 5th time that day. “One day, it won't hurt so much.” She sniffled and pulled back to look up at him, swallowing harshly.

“When will I’ll be able to go back?” she asked and Dumbledore stroked his beard in thought before remembering.

“On the weekend, so you can have time to say goodbye to the friends you’ve made in this era.” Dumbledore said, a twinkle in his eye as (y/n) sighed, three days. Only three days left before she could go home and forget this time travel mishap ever happened.

Three days before she’d disappear from Tom Riddle’s….Voldemort’s life for good. She just hoped this didn’t cause some sort of obsession with the dark lord when she was back with her time-she didn’t want to deal with all that.

If it did, she’d probably kill herself.

Dumbledore sent her back to her common room as it was late-she’d waited until nearly curfew to see him so no one would interrupt. She walked through the torch-lit corridors slowly, sniffling quietly as she wiped her face of tears. Three days, she just had to avoid Tom for three more days and then she’d be home, away from him.

“(y/n).” She hears his voice from behind her and she runs. “(y/n)-wait! Stop!” He yells after her, his footsteps following her quickly as she runs through the halls-racing back to the common room to try and get to her dorm before he can catch her.

“(y/n) please!” he cries out-she ignores the hurt in his voice, the desperate tone. It was fake, it was all fake-he was just trying to trick her. “(y/n)! love! Please! Talk to me! What did I do wrong?!”

She can only thank the gods as someone entered the common room right before her-leaving the doors wide open. She shoves past the 4th year and races up the stairs, Tom at her heels.

He just barely grabs her robes and she yanks them off before escaping down the girl's dorm corridor-protected by the barrier. She barely looks to see him slam into the barrier-his dark eyes heartbroken, confused, sad. “(y/n)…” he says softly, sinking to his knees as she disappears into her dorm room.

His eyes haunt her in her sleep-flashing between those dark sad eyes and the horrifying snake-like ones of Voldemort. Tom Riddle and Voldemort-one in the same.

Morning comes and Lucy gently knocks at her door, opening it when she receives no response. “(y/n)?” Lucy asked softly, her other friends all just behind her. They see (y/n) curled up in her bed, the curtains drawn and lights off. “(y/n)?” Lucy said again, the girls filing in and Julia closed the door behind her as they all gathered around (y/n)’s bed, Lucy and Alice climbing into it.

“(y/n) what happened? Tom’s been asking for you?” Iridessa asks and they all freeze as (y/n) sobs, the girls going into instant comfort mode as they huddle up to hug (y/n) as she sat up and curled into Lucy’s arms, her face flushed and puffy. “Oh, (y/n),” Iridessa sighs, brushing her hand down (y/n)’s back.

Her friends lay with her and hold her as she cries, but shakes her head each time they ask her what happened between her and Tom. All she offers is that they broke up, and that she doesn’t want to talk about it.

“I have to tell you guys something,” she says, gaining control of her sobbing after a half hour. Her friends all nod, gathering closer to her, Alice and Bella holding her tight from behind as Lucy holds her hand. “This weekend, im leaving.” She says and her friends gasp.

“What-why?” Julia asks, grabbing her free hand and (y/n) struggles to explain, but eventually does.

“I’m not from this era. I’m from the 90s,” she reveals, and her friends hang onto every word she says. “I fell on a time turner and it broke-sending me here with no way to get back, Dumbledore finally heard back from the ministry and this weekend, I’ll be sent back home.”

Her friends take this with surprising grace but not without disappointment. “we’ll miss you, so much.” Lucy said softly, her cheek squished against (y/n)’s as they all hug her. “Let’s do something before you go, one last hurrah,” Julia suggests and (y/n) smiles weakly, nodding. “Yeah, that sounds fun,” she said softly as her friends hug her again, determined to make her last three days better than just hiding from Tom and crying about the reality of it all.

-

Her friends keep Tom away from her, though the confusion and heartbreak in his eyes haunt her every step. He tries to approach her nearly every hour, in the common room, at breakfast, between classes, in their shared classes, at lunch-he tries and tries and tries but she doesn’t let him get close-always just out of his reach.

He doesn’t understand-one minute they were happy, blissful-Tom hadn’t even known the meaning of the word till he was with her, but now…now she looks afraid of him, like he’s dangerous, venomous.

She wasn’t supposed to be afraid of him-she was supposed to be the only one not afraid of him. He can't even get close to her, her friends keep him away and she runs away when her friends can't guard her.

Was this what heartbreak felt like? So achingly and painfully deep it felt like you might die? He waited for her every morning outside the girl’s dorms, making himself small as he sat in front of the doorway-hoping she’d stop, let him talk to her, to try and figure out what he did wrong to make her like this.

She never stopped, she took one look and ran-her friends stopping him from following even as he begged for her to just talk for a minute. He never begged, but he would, for her.

He’d never seen her scared of him, even when they were rivals, even when he’d raise his wand at her during dueling practice. But to see her so frightened, of him…he felt sick.

‘id never be, you’re too nerdy’

Her words echoed in his head and he feels like crying-he never felt like crying, not since he was very young and still had hope of being cared for. What happened? What did he do to make her scared of him? Did someone tell her something? Did one of his followers fuck up? Had she overheard something?

She was a good person, spunky and snarky and perfect, she had a soft good heart-opposite of his. He was cruel and mean and vile-he planned to be the most powerful dark wizard in the world-he planned to make the world fear his chosen name.

But no one but himself and his followers knew of this-to everyone else he was a golden boy, maybe a bit weird sometimes, but he was smart and charming and powerful-respected.

What happened to make (y/n) so scared of him?

He had to find out-he just had to-he had to he had to he had to.

-

He cornered her, getting her right after potions ended and he wrapped his arm around her waist, tugging her backwards. She tried to scream but he quickly silenced her with the silencing charm. “Please-I just want to talk to you-(y/n) please-don’t be scared of me-please!” he begged, he never begged-she continued to try and get out of his grip, even hitting him-shaking her head. “You’re not supposed to be scared of me!” he yelled, and she glared at him-tears in her eyes and he grabbed her hand, forcing himself into her memories.

He sees it all-her heartbreak, begging Dumbledore to send her back home, finding his diary, overhearing him with his friends-her heartbreak when he says mudblood, their soft kisses and whispers, hanging out after curfew, cuddling by the fire, their first date, Christmas, the party, her friends, the broken time-turner, the snatchers, Hogwarts bathed in darkness, death eaters, Dumbledore dying.

…Voldemort.

He pulls back from her-choking as she slams her elbow into his gut-she’s crying, he can't breathe-eyes wide as her memories flash through his mind again and again.

She knows everything and more-because she’d lived through the nightmare he planned to bring to the world, she knew it all-she knew his plans, she knew his name, she knew the darkness he hid from everyone but his followers. She knew because she lived through it, suffered under his rule.

He looks up at her, she’s terrified-sobbing.

He reaches out and she runs, his heart shatters.

“(y/n),” he breathes out pathetically, tears burn in his eyes as he sits on the cold floor.

He caused her scar.

-

She’s leaving tomorrow, going back to her time where Voldemort controlled Hogwarts, Dumbledore was dead, and Harry Potter was nowhere to be found-rumored to be out hunting something to kill the dark lord.

Her friends had taken her out to Hogsmeade with special permission from Dumbledore, treated her with pints of butterbeer and lamb, let her have a run of honeydukes and get whatever sweets she liked, she tried on suits and dresses at the clothing store next to madam Puddifoots, and Julia got her a new bracelet to replace the one from Tom-one she’d buried somewhere in her room, next to the dying flowers; also from Tom.

It had been a good day, a long good day, Tom hadn’t bothered her, she hadn’t even seen him once-and that left her a bit unnerved-wondering if he was plotting something.

Knowing who he was going to be, he probably was.

She got ready for bed soon after returning from Hogsmeade, taking a long shower and cutting her hair back into the style and length it had been May 2nd 1998. She found her old uniform and got it ready for tomorrow, ready to go back home-ready to re-enter the war.

A knock sounded at her door, she opened it to find a nervous first-year girl, looking up at her. “The-the prefect wants to talk to you.” the girl said, handing (y/n) a bouquet of flowers, her favorite flowers. (y/n) slowly took them, the first year rushing off as (y/n) turned the bouquet in her hands, finding a tag with Tom’s handwriting on it.

“Please. Just one talk.”

She stood there for a long time, maybe 8 minutes, staring at the flowers and the note. Should she? Maybe he’d hex her, or love potion her, or curse her, kill her, feed her to the basilisk.

She wouldn’t know unless she found out.

She sighed, summoning all her bravery and stepping out into the corridor, walking down the hall until she reached the doorway out of the dorms, spotting Tom sitting at the fireplace-alone, no one else in the room.

In his hands was his diary. He seemed nervous, visibly nervous; his leg was bouncing, his hair a mess-wild and curled up, no product in it. She stepped out, walking towards him, he saw her and sat up straight, swallowing harshly and he said her name-so breathlessly and hopeful that it made her stop.

He quickly averted her eyes. “Sorry,” he whispered, the diary clutched at his side, his hand gripping it so tight it bent.

She stared at him, his eyes were on the diary. There was no sound other than the fire and their breathing for a very long minute. Finally-Tom looked at her and he looked tired, so exhausted and heartbroken and defeated. “Please stay,” he said, achingly, pleadingly, his jaw clenching horribly as he stepped towards her-she stepped back-he stopped.

“What?” she asked, and she watched as the sound of her voice made his eyes flutter and he took a deep breath, holding the diary with both hands.

“Stay. Please.” He said again, begging. “Don’t go back to your time-don’t go back to…that war. Don’t go where I can’t follow.” He whispered, looking up at her.

“How can you ask that?” she whispered, clenching her jaw, fists tight at her sides. “You saw it all, you know why I can't stay, you know why I’ve been avoiding you-why I want to go back.”

Tom’s eyes were hard yet sad-anger, not at her, filling his face.

“I won't stay with someone who becomes…him.” (y/n) said, not even daring to say the name and Tom nearly flinches, his eyes going back down to his diary, trembling.

He throws it into the fire and her eyes go wide. “What the hell are you doing?” she asks and then Tom is on his knees in front of her, holding the length of her robe-tears are in his eyes-his voice cracks as he speaks.

“Stay with me, please.” He begs, his hair a mess-looking so different from the nightmare in her dreams-seeing him with red eyes and a cruel smirk. “Please, please stay. I don’t want that anymore, I don’t want to be him anymore-I only want you. You have brought me joy and sorrow and pain and love and I don’t know if I can function without you-please. Please. Stay. Don’t leave me.”

Tom begs, burying his face into the fabric of her robe, his shoulders jumping with a sob. Her eyes turn to the fire, watching as the drawings of the dark mark burn up with the rest of the book.

Voldemort burning to death right before her eyes.

“I love you (y/n), please don’t go.” He begs again, tears soaking her robe and she doesn’t know what to do.

She’s supposed to leave for the ministry at sunrise with Dumbledore, she supposed to go home tomorrow morning, she’s supposed to fight against Voldemort's forces.

She looks down at Tom, he’s crying, ugly crying-not caring who saw him on his knees for her. “I’ll disband the knights, I’ll burn all the books I have of dark magic, I won’t hurt anyone ever again, just please. Stay.” He begs again, looking up at her, eyes shining with tears-his eyes completely brown, lit amber by the fire.

She doesn’t know what to do.

Tom sounds terribly dependent on her right now, giving her a strange ultimatum.

Stay with him, and Voldemort never happens. Go back to her time, and Voldemort happens, possibly even worse with the ache of teenage first love heartbreak.

She needs to think about this.

Stay and leave behind her time, her home, her family, her friends; all of it-for the possibility of Tom keeping his promise. Or go home, and risk Tom becoming even worse, possibly making herself a target for Voldemort. But also leave behind her friends here, and a version of Hogwarts that hadn’t been touched by Voldemort yet.

She looks down at Tom 

Stay with Tom, Voldemort dies. Go back home, Voldemort gets worse, and she becomes a personal target.

“i…I can’t,” she whispers, and Tom looks utterly lost, like she’d pulled his heart out and ripped it in front of him, or split apart his soul and stomped on it. “i-I,” she can’t finish her sentence, she needs to think about it.

It’s a big decision, she can’t make it right now-she needs to clear her head. She pries his clammy hands off her robes and goes back to her room. Tom curls in on himself, holding himself as tears trail down his face-gasping for breath as his diary burns in the fireplace behind him.

“(y/n),” he says so quietly, heartbroken.

-

Her fingers rub over the silver metal of the snake bracelet, the one from Julia is snug on her wrist now, the one from Tom held in her hands tightly as she waits for Dumbledore to come back from the ministry with the time turner-she had to be in the exact place she’d left, the DADA classroom. She’d be leaving within the hour, going back to her time.

To her home, her family, her friends, to war…to Voldemort. She knows things are going to be different, teachers will suddenly remember a version of her from decades ago, especially Slughorn. Voldemort might come after her personally, he might try to force her to be with him, might try to carve out her heart to keep it, might love potion her to stay with him.

She swallows again, looking up as Dumbledore emerges from the fireplace along with a ministry officer, who holds the time turner. and offers a smile. “it’s all ready,” he says, leading her and the officer to the DADA classroom. The officer hands her the time turner, it’s set for May 2nd, 1998.

So, she was going 55 years into the future, back to her time, back home. To war. To Voldemort.

“It’s all ready, just put it on and twist the rings back together, and then when you’re back in your time, leave it in a safe space and it’ll come back to us within an hour.” The ministry officer said, his arms crossed as (y/n) reached out and put on the time-turner, her hands shaking as she takes each end between her fingers.

Stay or go home.

….

Stay or go home.

-

Tom felt like he was dying. He sat in front of the common room fire, where he’d tossed his diary-his diary filled with all his plans and ambitions. The dark mark, his chosen name; and all the diary entries about (y/n).

About when she first arrived, about how he felt about her, about how nervous he was to ask her to accompany him to the Christmas party, how gorgeous he thought she looked, how wonderful it had been to dance with her. He wrote it all down, the pages overtaking every single one of his plans, to the point where he nearly forgot it all, only thinking about it when his followers had brought it up.

And now…now he’d never see her again. Not until he was already old, he’d bee in his 50s when she would be born, 1981. 40 something years from now. He swallowed hard, closing his eyes, willing back the tears in his eyes.

Maybe he should’ve offered to go with her instead, he’d truly leave it all behind-he’d go to her Hogwarts with her, learn her time, leave the knights behind, leave dark magic behind.

But she left him. It was past sunrise now, he heard her leave the common room a bit ago-he hadn’t slept, sitting by the fireplace the whole night, watching her go.

Maybe he should’ve tried to convince her one last time, maybe tried to get a goodbye kiss.

He’d never kiss her again he realized just then, never hold her hand or hug her, or even see her smile.

Tom’s lip wobbled and he shoved down his emotions, or well he tried to. It was no use, he was going to miss her so damn much that he felt like dying, was this what heartbreak felt like? The feeling of his heart aching so hard that he wanted to rip it out? The feeling of being unable to breathe and his eyes aching so badly he wanted to fall asleep forever?

If this is what heartbreak is like-he never wanted to feel it again.

He stands up, jaw clenched with anger now. She didn’t want to stay, she didn’t want to love him anymore-too scared of him, too scared of what he could be.

He still had his books for horcruxes-perhaps he’d make one early, get rid of this painful feeling in his whole body-remove his soul to remove her from his heart.

He turns, heading back to his dorm but before he can even leave the main room of the common room-arms wrap around him-stopping him in his tracks.

A head rests on his back, they take a shaky breath, he looks down at the hands on his stomach-his heart skipping a beat at the familiar silver snake bracelet around their wrist.

He turns, there she is.

“You-“ he breathes out, about to cry again and she takes a shaky breath, looking up at him.

“I’m staying.” She whispered and he can’t help his smile-big and watery and full of relief-his heart beats rapidly in his chest it might explode with happiness and he takes her into his arms, spinning her around as she gasps-which turns into shaken laughter as he holds her impossibly close.

He collapses back onto the couch-having not eaten or slept the last day and she gasps, landing right on top of him-where she should be. “Thank you, thank you thank you,” Tom whispers out shakily into her ear and she swallows, wrapping her arms around him and resting her head against his-he squeezes her like he’s trying to melt into her body.

“Don’t make me regret this?” She whispers, and he nods against her, already planning their life together. They’d graduate together, get a home together, marry one day, have kids-he’d become the DADA professor, perhaps the minister, she’d boss him around and he’d smile; he’d dote on her and she’d roll her eyes.

“You won’t, I promise.” He whispered back.

-14 years later-

The sun rose on a countryside home, dew drops gently reflecting the sunlight as morning came upon the family of four, soon to become five. A 31-year-old Tom Riddle, and his wife (y/n) Riddle, were still asleep in their comfy bed, buried under quilts and a soft blanket, (y/n) snoring softly as Tom slowly awoke with the morning sun, tightening his grip around his wife, his bleary vision still able to appreciate the view.

He smiled softly looking at her, her face half buried in the fluffy pillow, drool dried on her chin since her mouth had opened during sleep, her hands curled up under her chin and neck, her body stretched out with one leg hiked up towards him-her knee against his hip.

Tom quickly closed his eyes, hiding his smirk as the patter of feet came bolting down the hallway and the bedroom door opened-a bright eyed boy who seemed to be an exact copy of his father bounding onto the bed. “Dad-dad! Dad dad dad! It’s today!” 10-year-old Mattheo Julius Riddle tried to shake his dad awake, bouncing on his knees as Tom hid his smile in his pillow-pretending to be asleep. “Daaaaad c’mon! it’s the first!”

September 1st 1958, Mattheo would be going to Hogwarts today-a day he’d waited for the last 9 years since learning about the school-he’d gotten his Hogwarts letter at the start of July, he’d proudly shown it off to anyone that would listen, and (y/n) had pinned it to the bulletin board that was in the kitchen that held many drawings and report cards from the last 10 years.

 Tom faked a sleepy hum, flinging his arms up-covered with the blankets-and drawing his son into the blankets, holding him close. “Daaaaaad!” Mattheo laughed, wiggling in his dad’s arms as Tom fake snored, (y/n) waking up from all the ruckus. “Mooom! It’s the first!” Mattheo said-spotting his mother sitting up from the small peek in the blankets.

“It is?” (y/n) hummed, only half awake, holding her rounded belly as she hobbled out of bed, heading right for the bathroom. Mattheo let out a whine; his parents were not taking this day seriously! Tom turned a bit and looked at the clock.

“Matt it’s six am, the train doesn’t leave till eleven.” Tom groaned, his voice rough with sleep, releasing Mattheo as he continued to wiggle. Tom’s body bounced slightly as Mattheo began to jump on the bed.

“And!?! It’s too important to miss! Get up get up get up! Mom make waffles please!?” Mattheo said, spinning while jumping on the bed, and (y/n) made a noise between a yawn and a groan, muffled by the bathroom door.

“Is your sister even up?” Tom asked as Mattheo jumped off the bed and began to tug Tom out of the bed, Tom groaned as he allowed his son to pull him out of the warmth of the bed.

“I’m up daddy,” A squeaky sweet voice came from the open doorway, Tom’s 6-year-old daughter, Aurora-named after (y/n)’s favorite Disney movie from her time(which was about to release next year if (y/n) recalled correctly, she was very excited.)-standing in the doorway with her stuffed pink bunny held in her arms, looking adorably sleepy with her hair that matched her mother’s all a mess from sleep.

“Good morning my sweet, did your brother wake you up with his chaos?” Tom asked Aurora and she nodded, reaching her arms up and Tom scooped her up happily, kissing her chubby rosy cheek. “I’m sorry princess, are you hungry?” Aurora nodded again and Tom walked to the kitchen that was just down the hall from the bedroom-Mattheo already getting out what his mother needed to make waffles.

“Eggs, flour, sour cream,” Mattheo muttered, reading off the recipe card that was on the fridge. Tom set up the table and helping Mattheo get out the waffle maker, Aurora sitting in her chair at the breakfast nook table, drinking some water to start the day while Tom poured her a cup of pumpkin juice.

“Mom! Waffles!” Mattheo yelled down the hall and Tom pinched his ear for yelling at his pregnant mother. “Sorry!” Mattheo yelled again as he dodged another ear pinch and Tom huffed with a smile, shaking his head as he cracked eggs into a bowl and waved his wand-bacon lining up onto a pan and sliding into the preheating oven.

(y/n) soon emerged from the bedroom, her hair brushed and looking a bit more awake, putting on Tom’s jumper, a sight Tom adored since it hardly hid her baby bump. “Good morning my bride,” Tom hummed with a flirtatious smirk and (y/n) rolled her eyes, kissing him as she passed by him.

“Good morning babe,” she murmured, grabbing the metal bowl Mattheo had gotten out and she began to make the waffle mix, plugging in the waffle maker as Tom got the skillet ready to make scrambled eggs.

The two worked like a well-oiled machine to make breakfast for themselves and their children, and soon they were all sat at the breakfast nook table, Mattheo eagerly digging into his favorite breakfast while Aurora carefully cut apart her waffle-only butter no syrup- Tom putting a strip of bacon on her plastic plate. “Thank you mum!” Mattheo said with his mouth full and (y/n) snorted while Tom tapped his chin.

“No talking with your mouth full Mattheo, it’s not see food.” Tom scolded and Mattheo struggled to swallow before apologizing. Tom nodded and Aurora nibbled on her bacon, scooping eggs onto her waffle before stuffing it into her mouth.

When breakfast was finished Tom waved his wand and all the dishes began to wash themselves. “No running while dishes are flying!” Tom yelled after Mattheo as he jumped from his chair and raced back to his room, Aurora sleepily rubbing her eyes as she carefully got down from her chair.

“C’mon sweetie lets go pick an outfit for you for today,” (y/n) told Aurora and she nodded, walking beside her mom as they went to Auroras room at the end of the hall, across from the nursery.  Tom smiled at his little family, looking around his home with a sense of peace and comforting purpose.

After dishes were done and the breakfast mess was cleaned up-Tom picked up toys and blankets that were scattered about in the living room, putting everything away and heading into his and (y/n)’s bedroom, making the bed and cleaning up the bathroom before getting dressed and setting out an outfit for (y/n), knocking on Mattheo’s door to check on him.

“Ready!” Mattheo said excitedly, opening the door to reveal him wearing his Hogwarts uniform, though it was without his house color as he had yet to be sorted.

Tom chuckled, shaking his head. “You don’t need to wear your uniform right away, you’ll have time to change on the train as it’s an eight hour ride. Get dressed casually, you’ll get restless wearing your uniform.” Tom said and Mattheo huffed, closing his door again to change.

He checked on his daughter and wife and Aurora was sitting still on her bed as (y/n) styled their daughter’s hair, making sure to put Aurora’s favorite hairpin into her hair. “There you go,” (y/n) said with a smile, Aurora turning to Tom to show off her hair and outfit; Tom smiled, crouching to kiss his daughter's rosy cheek.

“Beautiful my princess,” Tom murmured and Aurora kissed his cheek in return, Tom scooping her up as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Ready my dear?” Tom asked (y/n) and she nodded, heading past him to go into their bedroom to change.

She closed the door behind her, sighing softly as she passed by her dresser, the light catching onto the wedding photo that sat on her vanity.

12 years ago, she married Tom, 13 years ago her memories began to fade and change. She brushed her fingers over the faded scar on her face-so faded she sometimes forgot she even had it. Staying with Tom had changed the future, meaning the reason she even ended up in the ‘past’ changed-it was an accident now, she’d been sneaking around on a dare and knocked the time turner over.

Voldemort was now a forgotten name, a memory that only Tom knew now, her scar had changed-faded so much that it was nearly gone, the memory and knowledge of how it happened disappearing 6 years ago.

So many things had changed over the years in her memory, there was no boy who lived, or wizarding war, or dark lord. Now there was just her and her husband, who’d been working as the Defense against the dark arts professor for the last 9 years after briefly working as an auror.

(y/n) sighed, it was strange, to no longer remember who she once was-from the old timeline, she still remembered bits and pieces, but now it was all fractured, dreamlike-faded.

She didn’t mind, she was happy where she was now, a mother of 2 and pregnant with their third, wife of Tom Riddle who kept his promise.

She didn’t regret a thing.

-end! Thank you for reading!!-

[vampzv]

⊹ ࣪ ִֶָ☾. ࣪ ˖ blood lust.

ᴠᴀᴍᴘɪʀᴇ ᴀᴜ. ʜᴇᴀᴅᴄᴀɴᴏɴꜱ. 18+ ᴄᴏɴᴛᴇɴᴛ.

SFW.

Vampire!Tom who has finally beaten death.

Vampire!Tom who knew he had to have you the moment he first caught your unmistakably sweet scent.

Vampire!Tom who was obsessed with you, leaving presents in your dorm, sending you bouquets of your favourite flowers—until he revealed himself to you.

Vampire!Tom who had to use all of his self restraint when you accidentally cut yourself in class, blood dripping onto the desk where you two were working.

Vampire!Tom who loved how your eyes widened, heart thumping in your chest when he first took on his vampire form.

Vampire!Tom who couldn’t wait until you finally let him taste you, a low groan falling over his lips when your blood stained his lips crimson for the first time.

Vampire!Tom who didn’t know when to stop at first, only realising he had drained too much of your vital fluid when you went limp under him.

Vampire!Tom who now loves to test your limits on how much blood your body is willing to give to him before your consciousness slowly slips away.

Vampire!Tom who praises you on how sweet you taste for him.

Vampire!Tom who refuses to turn you into a vampire, even if you beg him to. After all, he wants to be able to drink his favourite blood—yours—forever.

Vampire!Tom who doesn’t let you leave the house during full moons—because he just needs you so bad.

Vampire!Tom who has a blood replenishing potion on him in case he hasn’t gotten enough of you.

Vampire!Tom who makes you taste your own blood, capturing you in a heated kiss after he is satiated, a silent thank-you for your sacrifice.

Vampire!Tom who spoils you with food and drinks afterwards, insisting you have to stay strong for him.

Vampire!Tom who knows that one sweet spot on your neck, shamelessly using it against you as he drags his sharp teeth over it, knowing you secretly enjoy the thrill of it.

Vampire!Tom who wouldn’t normally have to kill, your blood enough to keep him healthy. Though, always when another man looks at you the wrong way, you can be sure Tom will return with a blood stained chin and neck that evening, clothes soaked in the red liquid. You’re his, and his only.

Vampire!Tom who always has an eye on you, no matter where you go.

Vampire!Tom who doesn’t sleep. Instead, he uses the time to read or watch over your innocent, sleeping form next to him.

Vampire!Tom who loves when you make him fight for your blood—because he knows you have no chance of winning.

NSFW.

Vampire!Tom who is a changed person when it’s full moon. Not only extremely needy for your blood but also in other ways.

Vampire!Tom who enjoys the flavour of your blood most when you are ovulating.

Vampire!Tom who loves leaving bite marks all over your thighs.

Vampire!Tom who lets you know just how excited the taste of your blood on his tongue gets him, pressing his growing erection against you as he feeds on you.

Vampire!Tom who gets absolutely thrilled when you make him chase you for your blood.

Vampire!Tom who loves more of your bodily fluids than just your most vital one, knowing exactly what buttons to press; only satisfied when your juices have made a mess on both him and the sheets.

Vampire!Tom who enjoys fucking you after he’s fed on you, your mind still hazy, arms weakly holding onto him as his hips snap into yours at a relentless pace.

Vampire!Tom who loves to gently bite down on your most sensitive spots, drawing small gasps from you in response.

Vampire!Tom who reminds you who you belong to by leaving bite marks on your tender neck, visible to everyone as he empties himself inside of you with a low, muffled groan.

A/N: Full fic coming soon. Check out the moodboard in the meanwhile! <3

[vampzv]

BOMSHAKALAKA YES GAWD !

New perfume? -Tom Riddle x Reader-oneshot

-summary; Tom’s girl wears perfume everyday, scents Tom enjoys enough to usually enjoy burying his face in her neck every night to calm down. Today somethings different, her perfume is…dear merlin Tom cant hold himself back.

Warning; smut fic, oral sex(Fem receiving), unprotected PinV sex(wrap it before you tap it!), obsessive feral Tom, Amortentia use(not on purpose.) sliiightly pathetic Tom, slightly sub! Tom.

=

Tom had a sensitive nose, which helped a lot in potions class and got him many Outstandings from Slughorn over the ears. This sensitive nose meant his girlfriend (y/n) had to be careful with what perfumes she got, she herself had a sensitive nose so she never got anything intense, her favorite being a vanilla honey-based scent, it was comforting yet light, blending in with the scent of her shampoo and bodywash that Tom enjoyed.

His favorite thing to do at the end of a long patrol was to pull her into his lap in front of the common room fire and inhale her gentle scent, enjoying the sweet soft smell of honey and vanilla, never too strong, never too faint-just right.

Just like her.

Currently, Tom hadn’t seen his girl all day, they’d been busy with classes which were all separate considering their different career paths, (y/n) planning on being a healer and Tom not having any particular thing set(as far as anyone was aware other than his knights), so he hadn’t seen her since breakfast-and breakfast was when Tom usually kept his head low, trying to cover up the barrage of smells with a cup of sugar and milk heavy coffee.

So, until right now-as he passed by (y/n) for a split moment as they both went to their next class, he hadn’t gotten a whiff of her usual perfume that made him feel at ease.

Because this time-her perfume assaulted his senses, not to make him scrunch his nose and tell her to take a shower or something-but instead he stumbled, heat zipping down his spine as her scent overwhelmed him so suddenly.

Vanilla and honey, caramel and roses, and a heady mix of his cologne and her usual perfume. He twisted on his heel, going right after her-his friend called after him-they had to get to class but for once, Tom really didn’t give a shit.

He caught up to his girl and grabbed her arm, she squeaked and looked up at him-her perfume invading his senses, and he swore he felt light on his feet-and pants too tight. “I need to talk to you.” Tom said, demanding, not asking.

“Shit you scared me Tom-“ (y/n) breathed out, stumbling after him as he dragged her down the hall, out of the crowd of students and into an unused room that hadn’t been used since their first year.

(y/n) gasped as she was shoved against the door, shivering as Tom’s face pressed into her neck, hands tight against her sides. “You changed your perfume.” Tom nearly growled into her neck, teeth grazing her throat and she groaned, her head tipping back against the wall.

“What-no I d-didn’t?” (y/n) said, she hadn’t, she put on the usual vanilla honey perfume she put on every day? Tom groaned, inhaling her scent-he felt feral, like a male dog smelling a bitch in heat.

“You did.” He insisted, licking his bottom lip-he felt drunk, or like someone had slipped an aphrodisiac into his system somehow.

“I didn’t-I used the same perfume I use every day.” (y/n), pulling out the perfume bottle from her bag to show it to him. He recognized the bottle, he’d helped her pick it out a few months back. He grabbed it, pulling off the cap and inhaling from the sprayer. It smelled like she did-intense and overwhelming, heat zinging down his spine again.

Beneath it all, he recognized it, Amortentia. “Someone spiked your perfume with Amortentia.” He muttered, his eyes half-lidded as he capped the bottle and put it in his pocket, grabbing (y/n)’s wrist as she tried to take it back.

“Who in the heck would do that?” (y/n) asked, her brow furrowed, gasping as Tom’s hips bucked against her and backed her against the wall, his lips on her neck, licking a wide stripe up to her jaw. “Tom!”

“You smell so fucking good, I can’t help myself,” Tom groaned, feeling completely out of control for the first time in his life, he’d felt this way before, always with (y/n), but never this intense. “Fuck-(y/n).” he groaned again, hands going down her sides and up her skirt, pulling at her tights.

“Tom-we have class,” (y/n) protested weakly, her cheeks flushing as he continued to tug at her tights. He nipped at her earlobe, making her shudder as his tongue traced the shell of her ear.

“Fuck class.” He groaned, a sentence never heard from him before and (y/n) swallowed, biting her inner lip as she looked at him, his face was flushed, pupils almost overtaking his whole eye. Whoever had tampered with her perfume had made it like a Tom magnet, making him crazy for her.

She didn’t get to see him like this often, and he seemed sound of mind otherwise.

They only had one more class today, and it probably already started.

Fuck it.

She turned her head, pressing her lips against his hard, teeth clashing as hands yanked at clothes and Tom’s tie was pulled off-his eyes snapping open as he felt his tie get yanked around his wrists and pulled behind his back, (y/n) tying it and yanking it tight.

“Fuck. (y/n).” Tom groaned, his brows pinched as he pulled at the binding, panting as (y/n) smirked to herself. “Where’d you learn this?”

“From you.” (y/n) said, taking her wand from her bag and locking the door before dropping it back in her bag and throwing her bag to the floor, yanking Tom’s vest and shirt up, unbuckling his belt.

Tom groaned, his forehead pressed against the top of her head as he leaned over her, panting heavily as her fingers brushed against his skin, trailing the patch of hair that disappeared into his boxers. “(y/n).” he snapped, cheeks flushed with impatience and desire, huffing as he felt her hands on his shoulders and he was forced to his knees.

He looked up at her, his eyes fluttering as he smelled her intensely now, closer to her pretty cunt that he loved so much. “(y/n).” he groaned again, mouth watering as she pushed down her tights and underwear, fingers curling into his hair to bring him between her thighs, face disappearing under her skirt.

She smelled so fucking good; he felt drunk just off her scent. His mouth opened as she pushed him against her cunt and he began to lick and suck at her ravenously, like a man starved-her moans and sighs music to his ears as his hips bucked in response.

He’d never felt so starved for this, so-needy-for this. He’d never let her tie his wrists up or force him to his knees-but her damn perfume, whatever tampered with it, was making him weak for her, pussy drunk as he licked into her cunt, swallowing down her sweet taste.

His nose brushed against her clit and (y/n) jolted, forcing his face closer and he groaned, moving his face up to suck her clit, swirling his tongue around the sensitive thing, fists clenching and unclenching behind his back.

“You’re gonna kill me you she-devil.” Tom groaned as he pulled back for breath, brows pinched as he licked his lips-sweet with the taste of her. (y/n) laughed gently, nails scratching his scalp that sent shivers down his spine.

“What’ta way to go huh?” (y/n) teased, her eyes fluttering as he licked a wide stripe up her cunt from her hole to her clit, sucking on her clit-grazing his teeth on it to make her jump.

“Best way to go.” He murmured-his eyes closing as he took her cunt into his mouth again, licking and sucking like he couldn’t get enough. This was the way to die, between her thighs and tasting her, and nothing else.

(y/n) moaned, mouth opened as she listened to the obscene noise of his tongue and mouth against her, the smooth texture of his tongue making her go mad. “Tom-Tom,” she moaned out, feeling him smirk against her and she hooked a leg over his shoulder, bringing him even closer somehow. “oooh fuck-Tom.”

She yanked at his hair and he let out a long guttural moan, sending shivers up her spine as it made everything vibrate and she moaned with him, yanking his hair again as he ate her out like it was the last thing he’d do. “Oh fuck-oh shit-oh shit oh shiiit.” (y/n) groaned, her body arching forward, that peaking feeling in her cunt growing stronger, tightening in her gut.

“Shit shit shit-I’m gonna-Tom fuck!” (y/n) moaned, grinding her hips to push against his face, her hands in his hair to pull him against her and he went slack jawed, letting her use his tongue to finish on as the rest of him went tight, his eyes fluttering as he felt her cum on his face.

She kept him against her as she rode out her high, moaning softly as her hips bucked against him, pulling his head away as he kept licking at her clit-sending her into overdrive. Her mouth dropped open slightly, looking at him; his face was flushed, lips open and slick with her cum, tongue slightly out and hair a mess-her fingers still tangled.

“you look good on your knees,” she muttered and Tom swallowed, panting hard, twisting his hips to try and relieve tension.

“(y/n),” he said, voice raspy and almost needy, his eyes locked onto her cunt still, watching it drip with arousal. She let out a soft sigh and slid down on the wall in front of him, pushing him back-his thighs burning as she pushed him to lay on his back with his legs and arms beneath him. He said her name again, groaning as she shoved his shirt up, putting the hem into his mouth.

“Bite.” She commanded softly and he took it between his teeth, already breathing hard as she undid his trousers and pushed them down with his boxers, his eyes fluttering as her hand wrapped around his aching cock, her other hand brushing against his pubes and then going up his chest to his throat, pushing lightly.

“Be good.” She said and Tom groaned, his back arching as she swung her leg over him and sank his cock into her, (y/n) moaning as she felt him fill her up perfectly. She began to rock back and forth as Tom writhed his head around, her hand still on his throat-shirt still in his mouth as she began to ride him-her ass snapping down on his thighs as he writhed and bucked against her.

(y/n) rocked her hips, bouncing lightly every once in a while to make him groan, drool soaking his shirt as he thrust up against her, skin against skin and the heady smell of sex filling their senses as she pressed against his throat a bit more, leaning down to press soft kisses on his brow and cheeks.

He strained against his tie, wanting to touch her but also not wanting to go against her-that damned perfume had ruined him, made him weak to her whims. He groaned out her name, muffled by the shirt in his mouth as his face flushed hotter, his hips snapping faster as he felt his orgasm approach, his cock deep in her tight wet warmth.

He opened his eyes to look at her-a near begging look in his eyes, pleasure from her cunt and her hand on his throat nearly overwhelming him. “Cum for me,” (y/n) moaned, clenching around him and his eyes rolled back, body stilling as his hips snapped once, twice, and then stopped, (y/n) groaning as she felt him twitch inside her, cumming.

She released his throat, tugging the shirt from his mouth and Tom took greedy gasps of breath, his eyes unfocused as he let his head turn to the side, his cheek against the cold stone. (y/n) got off him, his cock slipping out of her and she shivered, helping him sit up and rubbing his legs as he felt pins and needles from below the knee.

“I should thank whoever tampered with my perfume,” (y/n) teased as she untied his wrists and grabbed her wand from her bag, cleaning them both up and retying his tie.

“I’ll find the bastard and buy them a butterbeer.” Tom muttered and (y/n) grinned, happy to know he hadn’t minded her being in control for once. He kissed her cheek and got up on wobbly legs, pulling her up by the hand. “Once.” Tom said sternly, looking down at her with his flushed face and messy hair, his eyes still distant.

(y/n) grinned. “Sure.”

It was not the last time.

-end-

[vampzv]

.. TOM RIDDLE .

aka the king of orgasm denial.

Tom will have you squirming as he has you pressed atop a desk in some random empty classroom—after hours. He's supposed to do his prefect duties of patroling the empty halls—yet here he is lazily swirling and flicking his tongue around your clit, two of his fingers delved deep in your slick walls, setting a slow but steady rhythm—curling his fingers to hit that spongy spot that makes you call out his name from time to time. He relishes the fact that he has the ultimate control over your body, the way you wispher his name like it's the only thing you know. The way he can feel you clench even tighter, knowing the coil in your lower stomach is about snap. The way you let out a sob when he suddenly pulls his mouth and fingers away from where you need him most "Ssh.. I know, but–" . The way your eyes light up when you see him get up and undo his belt slowly, "I want you coming on my cock instead, little dove." He relishes in it all.

[vampzv]

Is there any Tom Riddle fic out there in which the reader/oc just completely encourages his ideas and helps him in achieving his goals? You know.. both of them have a screw loose, basically.

[vampzv]

What is this feeling?

Tom Riddle x Reader

chapter ii (read chapter one on my account)

Wherein you and Tom cross paths in the halls unexpectedly.

a/n: I'm completely appalled by the sudden audience I got from the first chapter, thank you 😭

The week passed in a blur, and before you knew it, Friday arrived – a much-needed reprieve, granting you the rare pleasure of visiting Hogsmeade.

You wandered the cobbled streets with Zelda Zabini, the two of you caught in the carefree hum of freedom that only existed beyond the castle gates. There was something intoxicating about it, as if the weight of the ancient walls had loosened its grip the moment you stepped past them.

But Hogsmeade was small, and Hogwarts' reach was long.

It wasn’t surprising when you saw him.

Tom Riddle stood near the entrance to Honeydukes, his head tilted slightly toward Abraxas Malfoy. The two conversed quietly, though “conversed” might’ve been too generous a word — Malfoy’s role in their dynamic felt closer to that of an audience than an equal participant. You watched as he lingered a step behind Tom, hanging onto his every word like scripture.

It was almost amusing how they clung to him — Malfoy, Rosier, Lestrange, Nott, Dolohov — a circle of pure-blooded sons orbiting Riddle as if bound by an unspoken loyalty. Even Malfoy, with his old family name and aristocratic arrogance, never stood taller than Riddle.

“Doesn’t it exhaust them?” Zelda mused beside you, her gaze trailing after the boys. “All that devotion.”

You smirked, tucking a lock of hair behind your ear. “They like to pretend he cares.”

The two of you stayed until the sun bled into the horizon, drowning Hogsmeade in a molten glow. It was easy to lose track of time. Too easy.

The two of you wandered until the sun dipped beneath the mountains, casting long shadows over the village. Only when the clock at the Three Broomsticks struck half-past nine did you notice how much time had slipped away. By the time you apparated back to the castle gates, curfew had long since passed.

Zelda bid you farewell near the staircases, her Gryffindor dormitory calling her in the opposite direction. You veered toward the dungeons, the familiar path silent save for the soft rustling of house elves preparing for the next day.

It wasn’t until you rounded the last corner that you saw the light.

Bright. Unyielding. A thin beam slicing through the shadows ahead.

You stopped.

“Come out.”

The voice was calm, but there was an edge to it – silk over steel.

You recognized it instantly.

Of course. Tom.

You cursed silently, leaning against the cold wall as if you could will yourself invisible. How could you forget? He’s patrolling tonight. His newly polished prefect’s badge practically gleamed whenever he walked the halls, as if eager to remind everyone of the power it granted him.

Resigned, you stepped forward, the glow of his wand trailing over your face as you emerged from the dark.

Tom approached, the tip of his wand still lit, though now directed at you.

“Point that at me again and I’ll snap it in half,” you said coolly, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

There was the faintest flicker of amusement in his expression, though he masked it well. Tom’s gaze swept over you, the sharp angles of his face bathed in pale light. His wand lowered, though his eyes remained fixed on yours, unreadable in their scrutiny.

“You’re out past curfew,” he observed, his voice devoid of accusation — just fact, as if he were making note of the weather.

"I'm aware."

His eyes narrowed. “Are you also aware that students caught wandering the corridors without reason are reported to their Head of House?” His tone was clipped, like reciting from the handbook itself.

You shrugged, unbothered. “What’s your plan then, Riddle? Drag me to Slughorn so he can scold me?”

Tom’s gaze didn’t waver, but something shifted behind his eyes, as if he were gauging the weight of your words. His hair, you noticed, remained annoyingly perfect despite the late hour. It was unfair. How can someone look that put-together at this time of night?

“I could put you in detention,” he remarked, though the threat felt hollow.

“No, you couldn’t.”

A slow smile ghosted across your lips. “Only professors can give detention. Don’t waste your breath threatening me.”

His expression remained impassive, but the tension in his jaw betrayed him.

“I lost track of time.”

The truth hung between you like mist, curling in the spaces left untouched by words.

Tom studied you for a long moment, his gaze dipping lower, as if searching for cracks beneath the surface.

“It won’t happen again,” you added, though you weren’t sure if it was a promise or a lie.

“It better not,” Tom murmured, though the warning felt distant, like something he’d rehearsed without meaning.

Silence stretched out between you, heavy and unbroken.

“Well?” you asked, the slightest arch to your brow. “Are you turning me in or letting me go?”

Tom’s lips parted, but he hesitated. The brief pause almost startled you.

“No.”

You blinked. “No?”

“I’m letting you go.”

His words, plain and simple, felt almost disarming.

“Why?”

“I’m giving you a chance,” Tom replied, and for a brief moment, hesitation laced his words. It almost didn’t seem like him.

“Why?”

His lips twitched, but the smirk never quite surfaced. “Do you always question acts of mercy?”

“I question anything from you,” you shot back, crossing your arms. “You’re not exactly known for your generosity, Riddle.”

Tom hummed thoughtfully, his eyes trailing over you in that way that always made you feel like he was dissecting something far deeper than your appearance.

“Don’t forget our arrangement,” he added, stepping back into the corridor’s shadows. “We begin next week.”

You rolled your eyes, but the truth lingered in the back of your mind — you hadn’t forgotten.

And despite your reluctance to admit it, you were almost looking forward to it.

Tom’s gaze followed you, that much you could feel. His attention was weighty, trailing like fingertips against bare skin.

“Good night,” you called over your shoulder as you walked toward the common room.

Just as you reached the entrance to the common room, his voice drifted after you — low, smooth, almost too quiet to catch.

“Dream of me, will you?”

You didn’t turn around.

But the smirk tugging at your lips betrayed you.

Deena speaks .ᐟ

I duly apologize if there are spelling mistakes !! English is my third language.

Furthermore, I'd like to thank everyone who enjoyed the first chapter of this story ^^ I appreciate all the hearts. This is more of a filler chapter since I wanted Tom to interact more with the reader.

Chapter three might be released tomorrow.

[vampzv]

I think I just caught a glimpse of Paradies.

i've been reading sm tom stuff...

thinkin bout tom, dark and domineering, kneeling before you. his eyes are sunless, and he looks angry. angry that he's here, kneeling, something he said he'd never do. angry because you look so, so impossibly beautiful above him that he'd sink lower if he could. and angry because he wants this. you. so bad. he wants you to mark him, make him yours. put him in his place. no one else has. no one else will. its a privilege for you, the goddess he worships, in the temple of his room. he starts like he's groveling, weight on his palms as he bows low to kiss your ankles. working his way up slow enough you shiver, his lips cold enough to chill. the contrast of you both, him frozen, you all too hot, is enough to send both of you dizzy. he finally comes to meet your thighs, and its then that you have to ask if this is some dream. because all the annoyance he pretended to feel has dissipated, dissolved into his usually obsidian eyes into shining, soft pools of an unspoken plea. let him have this? please? is it okay if he loses control? and when you say yes, agree to the conditions of the contract sure to take your soul, is when you see him again. tom riddle. dark, unrelenting ambition. he's on a mission. it'd be almost pious if he wasn't panting so loud.

[vampzv]

When it's time for summer break.

Ominis : Where are we going?

MC : I'm taking you home.

Ominis : This is not the way to my house, MC!

MC : Oh, not your home. My home! :)

[vampzv]

something wretched about this, something so precious about this

Pairing: Ominis Gaunt x f!MC

Word Count: 3k

Rating: E

Warnings: 18+, aged-up characters, explicit sexual content, oral sex (f receiving), PIV sex, language kink, parseltongue kink

Summary: request: "mc finds herself absolutely taken with Ominis and his parselmouth." aka mc is absolutely taken with ominis' mouth in every sense of the word

“But you don’t even understand what I’m saying,” he counters, curious. “N-no,” you whine. « I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it, sweetheart? » he hisses. « You’re a troublesome little thing, you hardly listen to me when you can understand. »

The first time you heard Ominis speak Parseltongue, you’d found it to be almost antithetical. It had sounded so bizarre coming out of his mouth, so different from the gentlemanly manner in which he most often spoke. Yet the strength of his snakelike voice sounded somehow familiar, and the way his sighing, hissing words wrapped around you felt like sinking into a warm bath.

“It worked!” you’d exclaimed, hoping your voice wasn’t trembling. “Ominis, you possess a rare ability indeed.”

Minutes later you’d writhed on the floor in unimaginable pain and all thoughts of Ominis’ potentially disreputable talent had flown from your mind. In fact, you’d been so rattled from being on the receiving end of the Cruciatus curse that it took several days for you to recall that you were no longer the sole member of your little trio with a rare gift.

A month later you’d asked Sebastian about it while you were studying for Charms, lazily levitating stacks of books while he had been pouring over Salazar Slytherin’s spellbook.

“What does being a Parselmouth mean?” you asked him curiously.

“Means you can talk to snakes,” he replied, half listening. “Understand them, too.”

You rolled your eyes. “I know that, thanks.”

Sebastian looked up from his book with a skeptical expression on his face. “Then what exactly are you asking?”

You shrug, avoiding his eyes. “I don’t know, I just… Ominis made it sound like it was a bad thing, to be known as a Parselmouth. Like it’s given him a bad reputation. Why is that?”

Carefully closing his spellbook, Sebastian sits back and considers his words carefully before continuing.

“Well, the answer to that is right in front of you,” he says, gesturing to the tattered book on the table before him. “As Ominis said, most Parselmouths are direct descendants of Salazar Slytherin, and whether it’s warranted or not, he’s a controversial figure.”

“Sure,” you agree. “But… does Ominis speak Parseltongue much? How would anyone even know?”

“I think most people just assume,” Sebastian replies with a shrug. “His brothers spoke it, and he’s told me that they speak it more regularly at his home. Many Gaunts have chosen to keep a snake rather than an owl or any sort of conventional animal.”

You nod slowly. “Have you heard him speak it before that night in the Scriptorium?”

“A handful of times,” he admits. “Sometimes he’ll slip up if he’s especially angry or frustrated. I’ve also heard him speaking it in his sleep on occasion.”

Eventually, the conversation shifts to the spellbook and you once again forget about Ominis’ rare skill – this time for nearly two years.

By your seventh year, Ominis has learned about your ancient magic abilities, and your friendship has grown from one of rueful kinship to genuine affection. Nevertheless, he still seems to keep so much of himself guarded, even as you’ve shared so many of your worries and insecurities as you’ve grown into your role as the only living Keeper of your ability.

(It doesn’t help that you’ve fallen achingly in love with him along the way.)

These days you spend most nights studying with him and Sebastian. Usually, you’re eager to soak up the years of knowledge they’d accrued before you’d started school at Hogwarts, but tonight you find yourself distracted.

“Are you listening to me?” Ominis suddenly snaps, and you glance up from where you’d been reading the same paragraph over and over.

Ominis looks annoyed, and to his point, you certainly hadn’t been listening. You’ve both been sprawled out on the floor of the Undercroft for hours now revising for Potions. Sebastian had called it a night shortly before dinner, leaving the two of you to continue pouring over theory textbooks in preparation for Professor Sharp’s famously lethal end-of-term exams.

“Y-yes, sorry,” you stutter. “What were you saying?”

In your defense, winter has arrived in the Highlands and the stone floor of Ominis’ hideaway has cooled you to the bone. The weak flame flickering beneath your shared cauldron isn’t enough to pull you out of your daydreams about a nice warm bed, some cozy blankets, and perhaps someone to share it with…

(Someone who can whisper secret serpentine words against your skin, chasing your goosebumps lower and lower beneath the covers…)

“Again?” Ominis asks, more disappointed than angry this time. “You can’t focus on my words for a full minute before slipping into some reverie?”

Merlin, if only he knew that focusing on his words wasn’t the problem at all.

“I’m sorry, Ominis,” you whine. “But it’s getting late, it’s freezing down here, and we missed dinner…”

“You said you’d help me,” he reminds you, perhaps a bit vulnerably. “The exam is tomorrow afternoon, and my Draught of Living Death is still curdling.”

You groan pathetically and rub your eyes. “Ominis, you’re a dear friend, and I simply adore you, but you’re bloody rubbish at Potions. Perhaps we should take a break for the night.”

Ominis’ jaw clenches while he stirs his (admittedly lumpy-looking) brew.

“Ominis?” you ask hesitantly. “...I apologize if I was harsh, but–”

“Don’t,” he interjects. “Just… stop talking. Clearly, you’re no longer interested in helping me, so you might as well go back to your common room for the night.”

Sighing, you shift closer to where he sits cross-legged on the stone floor and gently rest a hand on top of his knee. You know how challenging Potions has been for him, especially lately; N.E.W.T.-level draughts are challenging enough when one can confirm that the brew they’ve already spent hours preparing has progressed to the appropriate color.

“I think you need to take a break,” you say softly. “You’re making yourself too frustrated, Ominis.”

You watch as a bit of the tension he’d been carrying in his shoulders seeps away as his head hangs gently. As his fingers nervously twitch in his lap, he takes a slow, measured breath and lets his eyes fall closed.

« I need to do this correctly, even just once, » he says. « Then I’ll be able to sleep. »

You suspect he doesn’t even realize he hadn’t spoken English until you sharply pull your hand back with a gasp.

“Wh-what… did I, um,” he stammers. “I didn’t… say that the proper way, did I?”

“Well, er – you hissed it,” you say carefully. “That… that was Parseltongue again, wasn’t it?”

Ominis carefully nods. Your stomach clenches when you notice him hunch in on himself as if he’s ashamed of what he’s done.

“It’s okay!” you quickly tell him. “I, um. I haven’t heard you speak Parseltongue since fifth year, and – and I don’t understand it, obviously, b-but it’s alright if you want to use it.”

You trail off lamely and try to rest your hand on his knee once more, but he nudges it away.

“I apologize,” he says hollowly. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

A wave of nausea rolls over you as you watch him duck his face and turn away from you – not so that he can’t see you, mind, but that you won’t see him.

“Omins,” you sigh. “Please, you – you haven’t scared me, I promise you.”

“You don’t have to lie to me,” he counters in a deceptively soft voice. “I can tell, you know. Your heart is racing, you’ve gone warm all over… You want to run away. It’s only natural, when one is frightened. I would know.”

You swallow audibly and once more attempt to rest your hand on his thigh, and this time he allows you.

“I’m not scared,” you insist, and as true as your words are, you almost wish you were lying to him.

You think it’s probably less shameful than the truth, which is that Ominis’ brief Parseltongue outburst has your heart racing with desire, not fear.

“Then why…?” he asks before eventually trailing off.

“I find it fascinating,” you tell him softly as you trace your fingertips along the seam of his trousers. “It’s… compelling, Ominis. Perhaps a bit enticing.”

“Enticing?” he repeats softly. “You feel, er.. compelled by my Parseltongue?”

You shyly shrug before remembering a non-verbal answer won’t suffice. “I suppose I do.”

The both of you are silent for several long moments. The only sound that can be heard in the Undercroft is Ominis’ sickly bubbling potion, until he finally asks you, “May I kiss you?”

You hesitate for merely a beat, just to let your mind catch up, but before you can answer Ominis repeats himself in Parseltongue: « May I kiss you? »

This time, your non-verbal answer of crawling astride his lap and kissing him yourself is entirely sufficient.

Ominis moans into your mouth while you grab the lapels of his uniform shirt, brazenly rocking against his lap like one of those wanton witches in Sebastian’s rather foul romance novels. His hands settle on your hips and he helps you grind down onto him until you can feel for yourself where he’s grown hard.

“Wh-what are we doing?” he asks against your lips.

He doesn’t sound scandalized, or even hesitant – rather, he sounds like he’s asking how much you’re going to let him get away with.

“Whatever we want,” you answer him breathlessly. “Ominis, I – I’ve wanted this for so long, we’ll do whatever you want.”

« Whatever I want? » he hisses, and you shiver in his lap. « What I want is to get you on your back for me, sweet girl. »

Carefully, Ominis tips you from his lap back onto the freezing tile, but just as quickly he gently pushes your shoulders back until you’re sprawled out on some abandoned Potions notes. Your skirt falls halfway up your legs and Ominis traces his fingertips along your skin until he finds the hem.

« Spread your legs for me, my love, » he hisses, sliding his hands up the insides of your thighs. « Do you have any idea how long I’ve wanted to touch you here? »

His unseeing eyes flutter closed as his fingertips brush against the hem of your undergarments. You’re wet – you have been since he’d first slipped into those low, hissing tones of his – but now he knows it. He can feel it.

“Gods,” he groans. “You.. you really like to hear my Parseltongue this much?”

“It’s your voice,” you whimper, grinding your hips toward his teasing fingertips. “You… you sound different.”

“Tell me,” he demands. “How do I sound?”

Realizing that he likely sounds the same to his own ears even when speaking the ancient snake language, you bite your lip and force yourself to focus.

“You – you sound powerful,” you admit. “Like your voice is stronger, or… it’s like I can hear it in my whole body, not just my ears.”

Ominis wordlessly rewards you by firmly dragging his thumb down the length of your core through your panties. You melt into his touch; your skin feels as if it’s on fire now, and the very same icy stone floors you’d complained about not long ago now feel like a soothing balm against your skin.

“But you don’t even understand what I’m saying,” he counters, curious.

“N-no,” you whine.

« I suppose it doesn’t matter, does it, sweetheart? » he hisses. « You’re a troublesome little thing, you hardly listen to me when you can understand. »

You whimper and arch your back. “I m-might not understand Parseltongue, but I can tell when you’re teasing me.”

“Darling, I’ve barely begun to tease you,” he murmurs before leaning down and licking up the length of your body from your navel to the dip between your collarbones.

“Please, Ominis,” you beg.

« You’ve been distracting me all evening, » he continues. « I fully intend to have just as much fun playing with you, since you seem to enjoy driving me mad. »

While he kisses what’s sure to be an impressive bruise onto the side of your neck, Ominis slides your panties down your legs.

“I want you inside me,” you confess.

« You want the first time I take you to be on this dirty stone floor? » he asks lazily. « Are you that desperate to be fucked, sweetheart, or have I made you wait too long and driven you mad? »

You groan frustratedly as he starts to kiss his way down your body, pointedly ignoring your canting hips. “Ominis, I’m begging, please say you’ll touch me.”

Ominis presses a wet, open-mouthed kiss against your hipbone. « Don’t fret, my love. How could I refuse such a tempting offer from such a beautiful, albeit slightly mad woman? »

By the time he traces the tip of his tongue along the crease of your hip, you realize where he’s headed. An irreverent array of babble spills from your lips while you attempt to grind impossibly closer to his face, but he places his hands over your hips and keeps you firmly planted against the stone floor before he presses his tongue flat against your cunt.

If he were still speaking Parseltongue into your skin, you’d never know. Any words of praise or kindly teasing that spilled from his lips were drowned out by a litany of curses you’d never utter in front of a man like Ominis in any other setting.

“That’s it, my lovely girl,” he whispers against the inside of your thigh. « Your cunt is so wet for my tongue, and it’s even sweeter than you are. »

He’s switching between English and Parseltongue so easily that you can’t be sure he’s even doing it on purpose anymore, and you couldn’t possibly say which you prefer more. Being fully aware of every filthy word he says is a dream, but is it as delicious as not knowing what he’s saying as he utters secret confessions inches from your skin?

You don’t bother spending much time considering it while you lie back and let him lick you open. All you can think about is his tongue on your skin, pushing inside you, savoring every inch of your body while he learns you by touch and by taste.

That’s what he’s doing, after all – learning you. He’ll get you off, of course he will, but that’s not why he’s bent over between your legs with your calves thrown over his shoulder.

“Ominis,” you groan. “I need you in me, I… I need you.”

He presses a deceptively sweet kiss to your sensitive clit before he asks, “Is that so? I thought you liked my Tongue, and now it’s not enough for you?”

“Don’t tease me,” you plead. “I know you want me just as badly.”

While Ominis had been coming up for air between burying his face between his thighs, you’d been able to see just how affected he is – you aren’t alone in your eagerness, you can be sure of it.

« Right as always, you are, » he hisses. « Perhaps you don’t understand my words, but you can sense my desire, can’t you? »

He grinds his hard cock against your inner thigh to punctuate his words and you whine pathetically.

“Take me, take me, take me,” you chant while he sits back to undo his trousers and push them down just enough to free himself. You realize he intends to stay fully clothed while he takes you apart, and you shiver against the cold floor.

When he finally sinks inside, you fall helplessly silent.

Every ounce of focus you have is spent on relaxing your body, opening up for him as he buries himself inside you. He’s almost ruthless in his endeavor to fully seat himself in you despite his intimidating length. Save a few breathless not-quite-whines, you’re quiet beneath him.

« Nothing to say, darling? » he hisses at first, and then in a softer voice he asks, “Are you alright? Am I hurting you?”

“N-no, it’s good,” you moan. “Please… keep talking to me.”

“You want me to talk to you, hm?” he asks, grinding in until the flat part of his pelvis brushes against yours. « Do you need a distraction? You’re taking me so well, my angel. »

He starts to fuck you in earnest with a slow, careful rhythm to keep your bare skin from catching along the worn stones beneath your back. As he thrusts inside you, he keeps talking in that low, hissing tone. Soon you realize even his words match the rhythm of his body, rising and falling with his motions.

« Feels so good… Waited so long… I can’t stop, please don’t ask me to stop… »

His back feels feverishly warm to the touch while you drag your hands down from his shoulder blades to the back of his hips. In the years since you’d first heard the snakeline sound of Parseltongue fall from his lips, he’s grown taller and his musculature has changed into that of a lithe, well-built man. Now the strength of that voice suits the body from which it emanates, and both have combined to keep you firmly pinned to the floor beneath their might.

You cling to him as he fucks you harder. You feel so close already, tumbling toward the edge of pleasure beneath him as his serpentine words glide across your skin.

When you come around him, you hear him whisper your name in Parseltongue – it’s the same, you think, but softer, and sweeter.

« When I come inside you, » he hisses just above a whisper. « I want you to keep every last drop inside for me. Will you, my darling? »

“Ominis!” you wail.

“Fuck – fuck,” he gasps, and seconds later you feel the mess he's made inside you threaten to spill out with every slow, greedy thrust in his post-orgasmic haze.

“N-no, stop,” you whimper, and he immediately goes still.

“What is it?” he asks, his English crisp and clear.

You shift shyly beneath him and whisper, “Don’t… don’t keep going. I want to keep it inside for now, and – and when you move, it, um…”

Merlin, you don’t have the words to say you’re just as greedy as he is – you want to stay full of him, just as he’d asked in that ancient, indecipherable tongue.

Ominis presses soothing kisses to your face while you wrap your legs around his waist to hold him in place. His lips brush across your cheeks, the bridge of your nose, the curve of your jaw.

“Of course, darling,” he whispers. “I’ll stay right here.”

Then, with his lips pressed to yours, he hisses, « I’ll stay right here as long as you like. »

[vampzv]

A HOUSE OF THE DRAGON FANCOMIC

Warning: OOC (Out of Character). I don't recommend reading this if you don't enjoy watching Targtowers interacting.

This is the first time I've drawn a comic this long. I tried my best and glad that I made it. I couldn't finish this project without the help of Sylva from Aegond group chat, Kac Flextem_FK and Minh Nhật. Thank you all very much!

[vampzv]

Aemond Targaryen x Artist! Reader

Part one? Maybe a smutty part two

Synopsis: Aemond is embarrassed by Aegon. His brother laughing at him for continuing his intimacies with Sylvi. He finds comfort in a little corner of the brothel, where a girl and her drawings seem to capture his affections.

Warnings/tags: Not much to say ngl, sexual themes, suggestive, dude is naked the whole time, it's a brothel yall, Aemond is kind of a jerk at first, soft Aemond at the end tho hehehe, reader is a cutie patootie, cursing and mature language

___

Paper, much less sketchbooks, were difficult to come by through the smallfolk of Westeros. A luxury; coveted by skillful artisans and noble families emptying their pockets for masterful art to be made of their loved ones. You were unfortunately deprived of those luxuries, being born a common girl with no household to claim. Therefore you learned to steal and barter; a skill that has served you faithfully into your adulthood.

It was not an honorable hobby of yours, you could admit, stealing low quality paper from struggling vendors. But when you would return home (and by home you really meant a small room in the back of a brothel. Paid for by your labor in cleaning, cooking, and fetching for the women and mistress) and look at the beige, tawny sheets on your walls, you were proud.

The city was overpopulated, and the people that spent their time out and about at night tended to be delinquents or drunkards. Occasionally, you could swear some of the sleeping drunks were dead. Though you would never check. Lest you wanted an angry fellow to attack you for your coin and body. The moon at its fullest always seemed to cast an odd glow on the faces of these men. You had often wished to recreate it in a drawing if only you could kneel next to them and do so.

It was always easy to slip through the walls, the darkness cloaking you from the wandering eyes of people and into the shacks that held the art materials. And once you would return to the brothel you would have an abundance of not only new supplies, but new muses to illustrate.

Brothels were a goldmine for artists who, like you, enjoy drawing the human body. The anatomy of a man and woman, the way their bodies contort and the plushness of their skin, the markings and scars that often littered their body, disheveled hair and drunken smiles; it was all so beautifully human to you. You had been invited on a number of occasions to join, perhaps earn a little more than just a small space that could barely fit yourself. But you would refuse.

You had kept your maidenhood, if not for anything else but the romanticism that artists always seem to cling faithfully to.

You wanted a lover, not a visitor.

So, you would sit hidden in the corner of the brothel, watching and sketching beneath your cloak merrily. A contentment that only a poor girl in a brothel could enjoy.

"My prince," Sylvi greeted, a smile dancing across her lips as she took the young prince's hand.

Following behind the brothel owner was Aemond Targaryen, a man who by all rights demanded power and authority. Zealous in his endeavors to usurp the throne from his brother Aegon. You knew of the gossip, the smallfolk regurgitating rumors heard through the grapevine and around some.

You had always, always, wanted to draw him properly.

But Sylvi accommodated the prince's needs impartially. Reserving a grander room covered in silks and fabrics befitting the district was her way of comforting him, you had noticed. He only ever came to see the older woman, clad in darkened clothes and hidden away from the other whores, as patrons liked to call them.

Once had you caught a view of his face, proper and thorough. It was just long enough to engrave his features in your memory; though like wood, chips away as time passes. Two attempts were made to sketch him from memory, both looking rather peculiar, different and not at all how your brain wished to remember him so. You hung the sketches up as a way of keeping his face in your memory. He was beautiful, that was all you could remember properly.

You flinched at the sound of bellowing laughs erupting from the pretty room of silk, a small group of men encircling the entrance. A tuft of messy white hair was all you saw before the men obscured your vision momentarily. He seemed to cradle himself, arms crossed overtop his knees as he looked away from his elder brother, shame rising within himself.

WOOF WOOF WOOF

Was one of them... barking?

You could not hear with the sounds of men and women moaning, skin slapping and idle chatter. But suddenly the young prince revealed himself, no cloak to hide his features nor his nude body. Despite the open wound on his face, his body was barren of any imperfection. Milky skin adorning broad shoulders and a lean figure. Aemond carried himself as a ruler, his strides confident and unwilling to cower despite the situation.

"...There are plenty of other whores," was all that escaped the man's lips audibly before he turned the corner towards your little nook in the hall.

Panicked, you backed into your small room, tripping over the sheets on the floor (which was your bed if you were to be specific). Only a few candles lit your room, an easy to miss area that if you continued walking straight would almost look like a compact storage space. It was a generous space for the work you offered, and often times you found yourself rather grateful. Most smallfolk without a bloodline to care for them slept on the streets, or in the beds of men and their sexual whims. This nook of old wood and even older fabrics was entirely yours.

Unfortunately for you, however, it seems the prince might have found comfort in the small space, deciding to turn towards it; only to be met with a girl on the floor, a sketchbook in hand and jostled (h/c) hair covering her, clothed he noted, body.

You were pretty, he pondered for only a moment. Your (s/c) skin was glowing against the wax candles’ light, the flames and brown of the wood around you seeming to cast a glow atop your cheeks and shoulders. You were certainly a stark difference to the white haired and unenchantingly pale family members of the Red Keep. Your clothes were hidden beneath a tattered cloak, small as the fabric seemed to dwindle against your head from what is likely to be many years of use.

And that was when he took notice of the walls, shrouded in ornate and tawny scraps of paper. Charcoals and ink covered them beautifully. The curves and figures replicated on the pages as though he were staring at real people, if not for the lack of color confirming otherwise. His eyes scrutinized every single piece before falling upon the two stuck to the wall beside you, low enough that he could not see the intricacies.

They were of him, he was certain. The familiar scar on full display; and you had decided to depict such in your work as though it were not a foul thing. As if he were not crippled and unworthy of being made into art.

Immediately you moved onto your knees, arms stretching to cover the drawings of him. "My prince, please don't look!" You whisper-shouted, rather embarrassed.

He's gonna behead me for drawing him! He's gonna be so offended, they're such horrible depictions of him! This is the end-

Your thoughts were cut off by his movement towards you, almost saccharine despite the threatening layer he carried in his being. He plucked the pages off your wall easily, the dried sap you had used to place it leaving a residue behind. He was knelt beside you now as his breathing was ragged and heavy, yet his eye softer. It was clear he was still angry so you stayed immobile, opting to quietly allow the prince the respite of looking at your, as you believed to be, shitty drawings.

"How did a lowborn whore get access to all this?" Aemond questioned, almost accusatory though not quite as menacing.

"I'm not a whore, my prince," you corrected rather brashly, "And I bought it."

"You bought it?" He repeated, turning to you.

Gods, that face of his was truly a work of art. You had never seen something sculpted so faire and enchanting. "Yes, I work here. As a cleaner and cook. Among other things." You muttered the last bit. Perhaps being titled ‘thief’ would not sit well with the prince, or any noble for that matter.

"Do you think me stupid? The most fucked whores here could not nearly afford this much paper." He eyed you up and down, causing insecurity to slowly creep up your spine. "Yet the cook can?"

You gulped, fingers shaking as you set the sketchbook down and began kneeling entirely, head pointed downward. "Please, my prince," you begged, "It is something I enjoy."

For some strange, insignificant reason, Aemond found himself enjoying this power he held over you. He could take away this passion of yours, take his frustrations of what had occurred only moments ago out on you; the helpless little brothel servant. He and Sylvi had a certain dynamic that bordered on motherly in its own twisted way. She had taken his virginity at the age of 13, she being well and along into her adult years and well past the taking of her own maidenhood.

And his brother, politically speaking, was mightier and thus rendered Aemond helpless against him. He could saunter into the brothel and laugh at him as he pleased. Even his own mother did not truly care for him as she did his siblings, and his father's weak resolutions were only fitted towards his bastard carrying half-sister. And yet you looked up at him from your knelt position, eyes big and (e/c) and watery. Your dress was ragged but not entirely ugly, or perhaps it was your face; flushed and puffed out that compensated. There was fear present, but not entirely of Aemond himself.

Certainly not of his eye, the disgusting scar that was on full display due to his elder brother's and cousin’s cruelty had not made you avert your gaze entirely. You did not even seem to notice it, staring impartially at the prince as though the ugly thing were not present.

All you cared about was some low quality paper.

"Why did you choose me? To illustrate, I mean." This time his voice exuded authority, the white strands falling against his face as he stared idly at your sketch. "Speak now."

You had been given the opportunity to admire his features more carefully, focusing on the prominence of his nose and thinness of his lips, his working eye soft and welcoming whilst the other was pointed and jeweled. The scar that aligned his cheek, across the sapphire and ending above his eyebrow was healed enough, a wound forever carved into his features.

"You're beautiful," you mindlessly said, soft enough that Aemond almost had not heard it. You caught yourself almost immediately, straightening your back and creating a distance between you two. "I-I'm so sorry! That was rude of me!"

You weren't sure if drooling over a prince could be considered treason or criminal, and you honestly had no desire to find out.

"You find the cripple beautiful?" He laughed out.

Self deprecation was something he had never truly let anybody see, opting for an authoritative approach. All the people of Westeros saw when looking at him was a crippled boy, one unfit to rule a kingdom despite the training and studying he endured, well beyond the abilities of his brother, who did not even seem to enjoy the thought of ruling. If he pretended to be confident for long enough then surely others would believe it too. Power is power, a loss of an eye nor sleeping with a whore could take that away from him. Aemond was chosen by Vhagar, one of the largest dragons who had only recently lost its companion. He was chosen. A privilege not so easily befitted to others.

And yet here he knelt; naked, angry, and oddly frustrated with the girl in front of him.

"Do you take me for some kind of joke?" He was a looming presence, like a gargoyle. A beautiful statue bearing intricacies and underlying dread.

"I only draw things I find beautiful," your trembling hands reached for your notebook to show him, ripped papers sliding between your fingers as you turned the pages deliberately. "Mostly people, mostly those in the brothel." You admitted.

"And I?"

Aemond sounded almost defeated, like the world was weighing on him and the compliment from a pretty little brothel worker was the final push.

"Yes, and you, my prince."

A silence enveloped you both. The lewd sounds outside of your little nook in the corner of the brothel seemed to wane within your ears, the both of you rather present and yet distant at the same time. You pondered if he needed comfort, the abrupt entrance of his brother weighing heavily within you both. You would have preferred to see him again from a distance and not entangle yourself with the affairs of a highborn who could, by all accounts, harm you. You wondered what led the prince to grow up so ashamed of himself. Aemond who felt frustrated and embarrassed, weak even, and you who felt pity and shyness. A need to comfort the insecure prince overwhelming you.

"If you'd like..." You began unsurely, "I will not lay with you, um, intimately. But if I may offer you comfort?"

The sketchbook in your lap held one of the drawings of Aemond atop the pages. It sat gingerly, the ornate paper crinkled slightly from the prince's touch. You were about to remove it to allow the prince to rest his head atop your lap before he stopped you abruptly, his hand overtop yours and stilled. His thumb brushed over yours for a moment, a ghost of a feeling that you were unsure it had occurred at all.

"Leave it." He commanded.

And so you did.

You lifted your hands while Aemond shifted his body weight, laying on the sheets that were scattered against the floor with his head gingerly placed atop the sketchbook as your hands delicately traced along his hair, neck, and shoulder. His legs found themselves beneath the sheets, his arms curled forward to hold onto your thighs. The feeling of your skin against his hand only served to soothe him, fingers rubbing circles harsh enough that it almost hurt, the fat and muscle in your legs massaged into a redness.

Your fingers were soft to the touch, a chill reverberating against himself as he inhaled the mix of your scent and the paper; wood, sap, and the slight fragrance of the rose oils you bathed with. It was different to the stench of the common areas within the brothel, and the intense perfumes that the castle halls were brimming with. Your maidenhood was intact, you had not lied. His hands trailed upward, speculating your morals as he found himself reaching within your cloak and holding onto the side of your waist.

Although you made no move to stop him, the stiffness in your body and the way your breath hitched in your throat gave him an idea of your discomfort. When his hand returned to its original position atop your thighs your body relaxed and you continued kneading at his skin. He thought of you almost like a kitten; only allowing the touch that you wished to receive whilst being tucked away from the peering eyes of others.

"I will return," he spoke matter of factly, "And you will accept me."

"Yes, my prince."

"Aemond," he corrected. "When we are here, you will address me as Aemond."

"Yes, Aemond."

This was a little nook in the corner of the world, untouched by sex and politics.

Just a pretty little girl and her drawings, taking care of the insecure prince who reveled in her touch, art and soft manner of speech.

[vampzv]

DAMN ! I was kinda cooking back then.

— 𝐋𝐢𝐭𝐭𝐥𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬 𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐲 𝐝𝐨 . rindou, ran

ᝰ.ᐟ headcanons of sweet things they do

cw. sfw, reader has no gender, fluff, just sweet haitani household shenanigans

an. something to start this account out with ! this is so self-indulgent, sns ;)) also wanted to make this longer, but my brain went empty.

⤷ Ran, who has such an iron grip on you that you just need to succum to his whims and keep cuddling with him even though it's already way into the middle of the day.

⤷ Rindou, who always wakes you up with your morning drink of choice while giving you a soft kiss on the forehead.

⤷ Ran, who rests his head on top of yours when you're standing in the bathroom brushing your teeth, giving you a lazy, half lidded smile.

⤷ Ran and Rindou, who let you take up all the space on the Sofa, your legs thrown over Rans lap, while your head rests in Rindous.

⤷ Rindou, who even though you only want to go to the corner store for some sweets will accompany you because "someone needs to cary your bags".

⤷ Rindou, who creates mixes just for you and sends them to you in the middle of the night with a message reading "Thinking of you".

⤷ Rindou, who lets you fall asleep on his lap while he works on a new mix for some upcoming party at their apartment.

⤷ Ran, who loses himself in your touch whenever you ask him to brush his hair for him.

⤷ Ran, whose love language is physical touch and gift giving.

⤷ Rindou, whose love language is acts of service and quality time.

⤷ Ran, who watches you paint your nails and asks you to paint his too so you can match.

⤷ Rindou, who will intently listen to any gossip you tell him about, his gaze wandering to your lips.

⤷ Ran, who buys anything you point out that you think looks pretty.

⤷ Rindou, who has all your likes and dislikes memorised.

⤷ Ran, who always makes it clear to everyone that you're his and he's yours, by having his arm firmly around you or holding your hand.

⤷ Rindou, who lets you trace the tattoo, adorning half of his chest while he tries not to blush too much at your soft hand, gliding innocently across his abs.

⤷ Ran and Rindou, who are respected and feared by many but behind closed doors, melt into your touch, hoping they never need to leave it.

© vampzv — reblogs are appreciated !

[vampzv]

02.37 pm — Rindou Haitani.

It was getting quite stuffy in the Haitanis living room with all the people continuing to press against each other, the smell of sweat and alcohol heavy in the air. You were sure you could even detect the slight smell of weed coming from the direction of the balcony.

You had absolutely no idea where Ran suddenly slipped off to, and in all honesty, you didn't care all that much as you kept your eyes fixated on the DJ stand in the corner of the room, more importantly the person behind it.

Watching Rindou with a light chuckle on your lips as he kept swatting the hands of all the random women away who tried to get closer to him by touching his priced possession, a visible frown starting to form between his brows.

Directing his gaze up to search for yours he caught you sitting on the couch, smiling at his predicament. He shot a pleading look in your direction, hoping you'd save him before he'd yell at someone or at least say something he would regret.

Seeing as if you were getting bored just sitting there, observing the people around you. You grabbed your glass and slowly got up to make your way toward your boyfriend.

With a smooth motion and a small "excuse me" you quickly slipped past Rindous admirers and plastered yourself right next to his side.

Looking slightly down at your form, he, without a word pulled you closer to his side and captured your lips in a small but passionate Kiss, ignoring the silent gasps of the women around you two.

"You´re a live safer" he mumbled against your lips as he slowly pulled away, keeping his arm firmly around your waist.

"I can never say no to your cute frown, Rin" you chuckle as you slowly wove out of his grasp to position yourself behind him, winding your arms around his waist and nuzzling your face into his Back.

"Don´t worry, I´ll stay and fend off anyone trying to bother you" He lets out a slight hum at your words that could be felt reverberating in his chest as he rested one hand down to hold yours that squeezed his waist lightly "Thank you, I love you"

© vampzv - reblogs are appreciated

[vampzv]

Hey girl hey. Hope you are still alive and life is treating you well. Just checking in.

you're so sweet for this omg. so ive graduated from high school, have this whole summer, but I can't really enjoy it since a broke girl's got to work. got my very first job and it's sooo draining, but I've got to get that bag

Sevenmas

pairing | aemond x wife!reader

word count | 9.2k words

summary | amid the haunting ruins of harrenhal, aemond's pregnant wife senses the looming threat of alys rivers, a witch whose presence fuels her nightmares and aemond's growing distance.

determined to protect her husband and unborn child, she delves into the secrets of warding magic, reclaiming her bond with aemond as she invites him back into her bed and vows to stand against the witch’s dark influence.

tags | 18+ (MDNI), smut, p in v sex, unprotected sex, pregnancy, magic, fluff, soft aemond, hubby aemond

a/n | it's summer, the heat is evident, yet I've only been at work or home. I needdd to leave my house!

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

My Dearest Babe,

It has been a full moon since your father and I arrived at these dreary halls of Harrenhal. It is bleak here, cold and damp, and the walls seem to hold the whispers of the dead.

I have not known a single night’s rest since we set foot in this cursed place. My sleep grew all the more restless when your father saw fit to move me into a separate chamber.

Harrenhal weighs heavily upon him. It has changed him in ways I cannot yet understand. He walks the halls as if hunted, and I see the shadows of his unrest in his eyes.

Each night, his dreams twist into dark things—visions that wrench him from sleep, leaving him gasping as though clawing his way back to wakefulness. He grows ever more volatile, as if the very stones of Harrenhal press upon his mind, threatening to drive him to madness.

One night, he woke from a nightmare so violent, I feared for him. I reached out to calm him, but he struck out, not knowing it was I. I do not hold it against him—he was deep within whatever horror plagued him.

But he looked upon the bruise on my wrist with such anguish, fearing for my health and yours. It was then he resolved to put me in another room, to shield us both from his torments.

Yet, my sleep has only worsened since he made this change. This keep holds no comfort, only shadows and sighs, and I feel that something - someone - wicked watches us, waiting.

The sixth day of Sevenmas dawned in Harrenhal, a day to honor the Crone, she who carried the lantern of wisdom and foresight. How you longed for that guidance now, caught in the maze of cold stone walls and shadows that seemed to stretch into eternity.

The ancient keep, with its crumbling towers and halls seeped in ghosts of past horrors, gnawed at your spirit with every passing hour.

The days bled together, each as gray and listless as the last. Time itself felt suspended, and there was little to fill it but your prayers to the Seven and the slow, meticulous pull of thread and needle.

Embroidery was meant to calm the mind, but here it became another way for your thoughts to spiral into dark corners. How could you not let them when the halls echoed with whispers not your own and the air felt thick, laden with something unseen yet suffocating?

Your husband, Aemond, the prince with a fire in his blood and the shadow of the conqueror in his step, had become a stranger cloaked in duty.

Since Rhaenyra had laid siege to King's Landing, his days were consumed with strategy, flame-bright eyes scanning maps and murmuring with commanders until dawn kissed the horizon.

You would catch glimpses of him, his presence fierce and distant, a sword poised to strike. And still, there was one tether left—he would always return to break his fast with you, no matter the hour, as if the morning meal was a sacred pact he refused to break.

This shared ritual was a brief light in the gloom, a moment where his brow would smooth, and he would offer a small nod, as if to say, I am still here.

Yet even then, the weight of Harrenhal seemed to press upon him, creasing the corner of his eye and stealing the little warmth from his voice.

You wished for the strength of the Crone’s wisdom, to find words that could soothe whatever haunted him, whatever pulled him into those long, silent stretches where he barely met your gaze.

And so, with the sun’s first pale rays stretching over the stone battlements, you whispered a prayer to the Crone. Let me see what he cannot. Let me guard us in ways unseen.

There was another shadow cast over your time at Harrenhal, one that gnawed at your peace like a hound at a bone. Within the first week of your arrival, an attempt on Aemond’s life had been made, a sloppy affair that left more questions than answers.

Yet the mere notion of betrayal and blood sharpened Aemond’s already fierce nature into something perilously close to madness.

In his rage and paranoia, he swept through Harrenhal like a storm, burning and executing every male Strong—lords and bastards alike, sparing none.

The aftermath left the keep haunted by its own silence, populated mostly by women and children who dared not cross his path. Yet among the survivors, there was one who set your skin crawling like no other: Alys Rivers, the bastard daughter of Lionel Strong.

Her gaze, dark and knowing, seemed to pierce through you whenever it drifted your way. The keep’s old women, those who lingered in the kitchens and halls, were full of whispers, speaking in hushed tones about Alys and the tales that clung to her like a shroud.

They claimed she was a wet nurse with no babes of her own, that her cradle stayed empty because she offered her children to dark gods, drawing power from their sacrifices.

The word witch passed between toothless mouths with reverence and fear, a name that conjured images of blood and whispered spells in the dead of night.

You would catch Alys watching Aemond from the shadowed corners of the great hall, her green eyes glistening like the polished scales of a serpent.

There was something about the way she looked at him, a gaze that lingered too long, with a subtle curl to her lips that suggested she saw beyond what others did. Each time, a cold knot formed in your stomach, winding tighter with each day.

Aemond, for his part, seemed oblivious—or perhaps unwilling—to acknowledge her attention. He stalked the halls of Harrenhal like a restless dragon, his eyes always aflame with thoughts of war and vengeance.

But you, kept to the fringes and left with little to occupy your time, had learned to listen. You had overheard more than once the old wives’ tales, how the stones of Harrenhal bore witness to strange sights in the dark of night.

The morning light struggled to filter through the narrow, soot-streaked windows of Harrenhal’s great hall, casting long, somber shadows across the cold stone floor.

You sat at the grand table, an expanse of dark oak that seemed almost too vast with just the two of you seated at its head.

The hall’s emptiness swallowed the small noises of clinking silver and the rustle of fabric, leaving only the low crackle of a distant fire to break the silence.

You glanced at Aemond, his face severe and sharp as ever, eyes narrowed and distant as he picked at the bread before him. His hair, pale as moonlight, spilled over his shoulders, catching the dim glow of morning like polished silver.

You traced the line of his jaw with your gaze, noting the tautness there, the slight twitch that spoke of restless thoughts.

In truth, you did not know this man well—your husband, your prince, and yet a stranger in so many ways.

It had only been moons since you first met, and within days, the marriage vows were spoken, the ink on the alliance barely dry before you found yourself bound to him in name and in fate.

Your father’s fleet had been your dowry, a formidable power that the Greens could not afford to spurn. You understood your role, the politics and power that tethered you to Aemond, but understanding him was another matter entirely.

His silences were as deep and dark as the Blackwater, and he carried an anger that smoldered beneath his skin, an unquenchable flame that whispered of vengeance and old wounds.

But despite the cold armor of his demeanor, Aemond had never raised his voice nor his hand to you. He moved with a kind of carefulness in your presence, a restraint that bordered on gentleness.

He treated you with a respect that was rare among men of power, where wives were often little more than pawns on a board.

And though it was likely due to the child you carried beneath your heart, it kindled a small warmth within you to think that he had not left you behind when he marched to Harrenhal.

Instead, he had commanded that you come with him, a choice that puzzled you even as it comforted you.

Harrenhal was a desolate place, steeped in old, cracked stone and a history that groaned beneath every step. You despised it, with its drafty halls and the air that always seemed to taste of ashes.

Yet sitting here, across from Aemond as the thin light etched sharp lines across his face, you felt a reluctant flicker of gratitude.

The silence between you was not companionable, but it was not cruel either. It was a space where the two of you existed, tethered by duty and an unspoken understanding.

Your gaze lifted from your untouched plate to meet his. “You barely ate anything,” you ventured softly, the words almost swallowed by the great hall’s vastness.

Aemond’s eye flickered to you, just a moment of acknowledgment, before drifting back to the distant, unfocused point beyond the hall’s great hearth. “I have much on my mind,” he replied, his voice low and guarded, as always.

You lowered your gaze, the golden glint of your cup catching the flicker of the fire as you turned it in your hands. “Today is the day of the Crone,” you murmured, the soft words drifting into the vast emptiness of the hall.

Aemond’s eye settled on you again, this time with a sharper intensity, as if he were trying to read the thoughts that played behind your eyes. The violet of his gaze, stark and unyielding, seemed to see through flesh and bone.

You felt the heat rise to your cheeks but pushed on, lifting your head with a tentative, almost sheepish smile.

“I have been holding small celebratory suppers in my chambers for each of the Seven,” you said, the words trembling on the cusp of hope. “Perhaps you would join me tonight?”

Aemond’s expression remained inscrutable, carved from the same marble as the gods whose names you spoke. He was silent, his lips pressed into a thin line as he measured the request. You held your breath, bracing for the sting of rejection, but after a moment, he inclined his head with a slow, deliberate nod.

“I shall see if I am free to attend later, wife,” he replied, each syllable precise, as if spoken under a watchful eye.

A smile unfurled across your face, a small, fragile bloom that brightened the somber air. You nodded, your gratitude silent but deeply felt, and returned your attention to the meal before you.

The hall fell back into its familiar hush, but the silence seemed gentler, softened by the promise—no matter how uncertain—that he might sit with you as the evening drew near.

Throughout the day, you moved with a purpose that had been absent for some time. Excitement flickered within you, casting a rare warmth over the bleakness of Harrenhal’s cold stone walls.

You spent more time preparing yourself than you had in weeks, choosing a gown of deep violet, the color rich and regal, one you knew would match Aemond’s eye.

Your hands worked carefully as you braided your hair, fingers weaving strands with practiced precision. You wound the braids into a half-up style, securing them with thin silver pins, and threaded small pearls between the coils, their soft luster catching the waning light that seeped through the chamber’s narrow window slits.

As the sun dipped lower, you prepared the chamber for supper, eager to cast away the dreariness of Harrenhal’s stone embrace. The table, though small, was set with care.

You placed a modest arrangement of primroses at its center, their pale petals lending a touch of softness to the somber room.

Candles, thick and tapered, were placed with a meticulous eye, their wicks waiting to be lit and offer a warm glow that would banish the shadows lurking in the corners.

Tonight was meant to honor the Crone, a day of wisdom and reflection, yet you could not help but hope for something more—a chance to share a moment, however fleeting, with the man you called husband.

The hours had been long since you’d known any touch of intimacy, any whisper of companionship. The prospect of Aemond joining you, even for a brief supper, was enough to make your heart beat with anticipation.

Time stretched on, heavy and unyielding, as you sat alone at the small table in your chambers, a solitary figure in a room filled with muted light. The food before you, once steaming and fragrant, had grown cold, the sheen of oil on the meats congealing in the chill air.

The candles you had lit earlier had burned down to stubs, their light dwindling as shadows crept up the walls.

The fire in the hearth, once crackling with warmth, had reduced itself to a bed of glowing embers, the last vestiges of heat sputtering as they surrendered to the draft that snaked through the stones.

Your heart, which had quickened with hope earlier in the day, now felt leaden with disappointment. The silence pressed in around you, each passing moment a reminder that Aemond would not come. The anticipation that had kept your spirits aloft now left a hollow ache in its absence.

Pushing your untouched plate away, you rose from the table, your movements deliberate as anger stirred in your chest. It was not the hot, reckless kind, but the slow-burning indignation that came when expectation was met with silence.

You wrapped your cloak around your shoulders and slipped into the dim corridor, determined to find him, to seek an answer rather than stew in this quiet, stinging rejection.

Harrenhal’s halls were a maze of stone and shadow, empty and vast, with only the sound of your footsteps echoing softly in the cold. The castle held a thousand whispered secrets, and tonight, it seemed eager to keep its prince among them.

You turned corners and climbed staircases, the flicker of dying torches casting your shadow long against the walls, until the familiar paths grew strange and your resolve wavered.

Finally, as you entered a lesser hall that stretched toward a wing of old chambers, you spotted movement—a maidservant carrying linens, her head bent as if afraid to be seen. Relief mixed with frustration as you quickened your step.

“Excuse me,” you called out, your voice sharper than intended.

The servant started, nearly dropping her burden before bowing her head hastily, eyes fixed to the floor. It was a common sight in Harrenhal, the way they kept their gaze averted in your presence.

Word of your husband’s fierce reputation as Prince Regent and Kinslayer had traveled swiftly, and it seemed they feared that to slight you was to invite his wrath upon them.

With a lifted chin and a tone that brooked no disobedience, you asked, “Where is my husband?”

Before the maid could stammer out an answer, another voice cut through the dim hallway—a voice that chilled the blood in your veins and haunted your sleep with its whispers.

“I fear the prince is still occupied in the council chamber, my lady,” said Alys Rivers, her tone smooth and deceptively courteous, like the edge of a blade.

You turned slowly, meeting her gaze. Her eyes were dark, unreadable, but a knowing smirk pulled at her lips as she regarded you, taking in the sight of your tense shoulders, the protective way your hand drifted instinctively to your rounded stomach.

There was no warmth in her expression, only the sly amusement of a cat toying with a bird that dared to stray too far from its nest.

Your nostrils flared, and you straightened your back, eyes narrowing as you corrected her in a low, simmering murmur, “Princess.”

Alys tilted her head, feigning surprise, though her eyes betrayed nothing but a cold mirth. “Pardon me,” she said, her gaze sliding deliberately to your abdomen before flicking back up to meet yours, daring you to react.

“I am not your lady,” you hissed, “I am your princess.”

With a final, steely glare, you turned on your heel, the folds of your violet gown sweeping the floor as you made your way back through the shadowed hallways, heart pounding beneath your ribs.

The silence of Harrenhal enveloped you once more, and you did not pause until you reached the safety of your chambers, locking the door behind you and pressing your back against the cool, unyielding wood.

The echo of Alys’s smirk lingered in your mind, but you would not let her see your fear. Not tonight. Not ever.

A scream ripped from your throat, raw and primal, as the pain surged through you, tearing its way up your spine and scattering your senses. It felt as though your very body was being split apart, the agony sharper and deeper than any blade.

“Keep pushing, my princess; the babe is almost here,” urged the midwife, her voice steady but relentless.

You clenched your jaw, wanting to curse her, to scream at her to hold her tongue, but the pain stole all words from you, leaving you breathless and shaking.

It was a torment that came in relentless waves, each cresting higher than the last, only to drag you under when you thought you could surface for air. The burning, the stretching—unbearable, blinding.

“I cannot,” you sobbed, tears mingling with the sweat that drenched your brow. “Please… I can't,” you pleaded, your voice broken and desperate.

The pain surged again, stealing the air from your lungs, and then you felt it—a firm, familiar hand pressed gently to your cheek. Through the haze of pain, you turned your head, and your vision cleared just enough to see the sharp lines of Aemond’s face.

His single violet eye was intent, fierce, a rare expression of vulnerability breaking through his stoic mask. Relief, so profound it was nearly painful, swelled in your chest.

“Aemond,” you gasped, his name a lifeline, an anchor in the storm.

Husbands were not meant to be present for the birth, tradition forbade it. But he was there, and you did not care for any rule or rite that would keep him away.

“Just a few more pushes, my love,” he murmured, his voice low, a thread of steel woven through the gentleness.

You nodded weakly, mustering what remained of your strength. A deep groan escaped you as you pushed once more, the room spinning around you. The midwife’s voice rose above the roaring in your ears.

“The babe is crowning, my lady.”

But the tone was wrong. Too familiar, too cold. Alarm jolted you to consciousness, and you struggled to prop yourself on trembling elbows. Your eyes darted to the space at the foot of the birthing bed, and dread coiled tight in your gut.

There, in the dim light of the chamber, knelt Alys Rivers. Her dark hair framed eyes as green and sharp as glass, eyes that glimmered with a knowing, malevolent gleam. A smile curled at the corners of her lips as she met your gaze.

“No, no!” you screamed, panic twisting your voice. “Get away from me!”

With a surge of fear-driven strength, you tried to kick her away, your limbs thrashing wildly, but Aemond’s hands clamped down on you, firm and unyielding. “Calm yourself,” he commanded, his voice cool, steady as stone.

Alys turned her gaze up to him, a shadow of mock sympathy curving her lips. “You must choose, my prince,” she intoned, each word dripping with false solemnity. “The babe, or your wife.”

A sob wrenched from your chest as you felt your breath come in sharp, shallow gasps. “No. No!” The pain was drowned beneath the torrent of fear that flooded you.

Desperately, you looked up at Aemond, seeking the warmth, the fierce protection that once resided in his eye. But what you found was a gaze distant and unreadable, as though he stood apart, watching from some cold, unreachable place. His jaw tightened. “Save the babe.”

Time seemed to fracture around you. His words, so final, crashed over you like a wave of ice. Your eyes widened, disbelieving, as rough handmaids or shadows, you could not tell—pressed you back, holding you firm as you struggled.

“Let me go! Let me go!” you screamed, your voice raw with betrayal and terror, limbs straining against the iron grip that pinned you.

Pain cleaved through you, and you felt the weight of the babe shift within. But your focus broke as Alys moved, no longer at the foot of the bed but gliding closer, the flicker of torchlight catching on the edge of a cruel, glinting blade.

The chamber seemed to darken around her, the faint cries of the midwives fading into an ominous silence. And all you could see were those green eyes, bearing down on you like a curse whispered in the dark.

You jolted upright, heart pounding and breath ragged, the remnants of your nightmare clinging to your skin like a shroud. A trembling hand reached up to brush the tears from your cheeks, the dampness proof of the terror that had gripped you in sleep.

Your eyes drifted down, catching the soft curve of your swollen belly under the covers, rising and falling with your shallow breaths. A shaky sigh escaped your lips, a bitter mix of relief and unease.

The babe was still safe within you—at least for now. You pressed your palm over it, as if to reassure yourself of its presence.

Beyond the thin light filtering through the shuttered window, the sky remained cloaked in the indigo of night.

The stillness told you it was not yet dawn, that liminal time when dreams and waking often blurred. But sleep would not find you again; not after that vision, nor for many nights to come, you were sure.

The memory of Aemond's cold, detached gaze as he spoke words that sealed your fate in your dream clung to you. It pierced deeper than any blade, a wound festering with fear and doubt.

Yet you forced yourself to swallow the sharp sting of betrayal, directing your thoughts toward another source of your unease—Alys Rivers.

The whispers, the eyes that followed, the dark air that seemed to shift when she was near. Your fears, your husband’s torment, the sense of something wicked gnawing at Harrenhal’s bones—it all traced back to her.

Resolve steeled your spine. You pushed back the covers and rose, the weight of your pregnancy making the motion slower, more deliberate.

Wrapping yourself in a heavy fur cloak, you reached for the candelabra on the nightstand. Its small flame sputtered in protest before catching steady, casting long shadows that danced upon the walls.

The corridors of Harrenhal, once alive with whispered conversations and the hurried footfalls of servants, now loomed around you in cold, watchful silence. The draft that crept through the ancient stones nipped at your cheeks and sent a shiver down your spine.

Clutching the fur tighter against your body, you moved forward, the warm light in your grasp flickering as it met the draft.

The silence was thick, broken only by the soft rustle of your cloak and the creak of old floorboards beneath your weight.

At last, you reached the great doors of the library, their dark wood carved with sigils long forgotten and gnarled from centuries of use. Setting the candelabra down, you pushed against one of the doors, muscles straining with the effort.

It groaned open, the sound reverberating through the stillness and sending a cold gust rushing past you. Picking up the candelabra, you stepped inside and let the heavy door drift shut behind you with a thud.

The scent of old parchment and dust surrounded you, familiar and oddly comforting. Shelves stretched high, towering sentinels filled with the stories of old and the wisdom of those long gone.

On other nights, you would have lost yourself in the tales that wove through these tomes—myths and sagas that spoke of courage and triumph. But tonight, solace was not what you sought.

You moved through the rows with purpose, eyes scanning the spines until they found those few volumes that hinted at the arcane.

The lore of witches, their dark arts, the means by which they could twist men’s dreams and cloud their minds—it all lay within reach, hidden among dusty pages that no one dared speak of.

You placed the candelabra down, its light casting a golden glow that flickered across the cracked leather and faded titles.

With trembling hands, you opened the first book, its binding stiff with age. The parchment crackled as you turned the pages, your eyes drinking in the inked words.

If there was any way to guard yourself, to protect Aemond from the shadows that had seeped into your lives, you would find it here. No longer would you be haunted by that witch’s knowing gaze or the dread that coiled tight in your belly.

With each turn of the page, the flickering glow of the candelabra cast dancing shapes upon the stone walls, warding off the chill that seeped through Harrenhal’s blackened stones.

The words spoke of charms and tokens, of age-old rituals whispered by the smallfolk who feared the unseen.

Marking doors with protective sigils or crosses to ward off malevolent forces. The purifying strength of salt, said to bar dark spirits and their ilk. Rowan wood, revered for its protective properties, best used when tied with crimson thread to seal its potency.

The hours crept by, measured by the slow guttering of candle wax. You read, forgetting the passage of time as the nightmare’s claws loosened their grip on your heart.

Knowledge was your weapon now, and you wielded it with the silent promise that neither you nor Aemond would fall victim to powers unknown.

The day’s first light spilled through the high, narrow windows, a pale and hesitant glow that bled into the room and painted the bookshelves in muted gold.

It was the day of the Stranger, seldom celebrated, yet you paid it no heed. Lost in the pages, you missed the bells that tolled the hour and forgot the warmth of your usual morning meal shared with Aemond.

When at last you closed the final volume, a resolve settled in your chest, resolute and unyielding. You would need these items—symbols of protection—and that meant venturing beyond the castle’s shadowed halls and out into the market.

The fur-lined cloak wrapped snug around you, guarding against the bitter drafts that swept through the corridors as you made your way back to your chambers.

As you reached the windows, a rare sight unfolded before your eyes—snow, soft and unrelenting, blanketing the bleak spires of Harrenhal.

Snow was a rarity in King’s Landing, seldom seen during your girlhood there. For a moment, untouched by fear or doubt, you felt the stir of childish wonder rise within you.

Three knights of the Kingsguard, their white cloaks pristine even in the snow, flanked you as you ventured to the market. The square bustled despite the cold, vendors calling out their wares with voices hoarse from the chill. Your list of protective items, hastily scrawled in the early hours, guided your every step.

Surprisingly, the rowan wood was easy to find, its branches bundled tightly with red thread as per custom.

Charms of polished crystal and talismans wrought from iron and bronze were procured with little effort, their sellers eager to part with them for a handful of silver stags.

The murmured blessings from the old crones at their stalls made the hair on the back of your neck prickle, but you pressed on, their eyes shadowed with both reverence and suspicion.

By the time the sun began its descent, casting a gilded glow over the snow-draped stones of Harrenhal, your arms were laden with your newfound protections. You returned to your chambers with purpose, setting to work immediately.

With meticulous care, you bound the red thread around the twigs of rowan wood and placed them above each entrance.

Salt, precious and fine, was spread across the thresholds, each grain catching the firelight like scattered stars.

With charcoal from your writing desk, you etched intricate symbols—wards against dark magics—onto the cold, unyielding stone walls.

But it was not just your own safety you sought to secure. For Aemond, you had combed the market for a piece both practical and protective. After much haggling, you procured a leather eyepatch, supple and black, unmarred by wear.

Returning to your chamber, you carefully stitched shards of black tourmaline into its edge, each piece glinting with a subtle, protective gleam. Your needlework was steady, each pull of the thread imbued with silent prayers.

Lost in your task, you barely noted the soft knock at your door or the maidservant who entered, setting a tray of supper on the table near the hearth.

The aroma of roasted fowl and warm bread wafted through the chamber, but your focus remained fixed.

As you worked by the fire's glow, the shadows that had haunted your waking hours seemed to lessen, replaced by the steady rhythm of thread and needle, and the quiet resolve that this time, you would be ready.

You were so absorbed in your needlework, fingers deftly stitching the dark crystals onto a supple leather patch, that the sudden clearing of a throat startled you. Your gaze snapped up, eyes wide with surprise as they met the cool, familiar face of Aemond Targaryen.

“Husband,” you said, breathless as you hastily hid the finished eye patch beneath a velvet pillow. Rising to your feet, you inclined your head, though your heart thudded with residual tension.

He stood tall and imposing in the dim glow, the silver-white of his hair catching the light like a crown. For a moment, the room felt smaller, as if the walls themselves pressed in with the weight of his presence.

“What brings you here?” you asked, voice touched with confusion and a hint of sharpness. Exhaustion dulled your sense of propriety, leaving the question more pointed than intended.

Aemond’s lone violet eye narrowed, an unreadable glimmer within its depths. “To have supper with you,” he replied, as if such a thing were the most natural answer in the realm.

Your eyes flickered to the table, where two silver plates now sat, the steam rising lazily from the dishes set by the silent servant moments before.

You pressed your lips into a thin line and sighed, murmuring, “I believe my invitation was for yesterday.”

A shadow of regret crossed his face, so brief that another might have missed it, but you saw. As you moved past him to take your seat, you caught the soft murmur that slipped from his lips, “I deserved that.”

Aemond followed and took his place across from you, the creak of the chair echoing in the quiet chamber. For a moment, silence hung between you, broken only by the faint crackle of the hearthfire. His gaze settled on you, sharp and searching.

“I have not seen you at all today,” he said at last, the words carrying a hint of something that might have been longing, tempered by pride.

Your eyes dropped to your hands, fingers fiddling absently with the edge of your gown. Remorse pricked at your heart—you had broken your shared morning ritual, the one part of the day reserved just for the two of you.

“I was very busy,” you replied softly, the excuse feeling thin on your tongue.

Aemond’s expression remained unreadable as he tilted his head slightly. “I heard. Visits to the market square,” he said.

You hesitated, holding back the details of the charms, the salt, the ancient warding sigils you had traced with trembling hands. He would only deem you foolish or worse, mad.

“I needed fresh air.”

His eye narrowed, a flicker of displeasure passing over his sharp features. “It is too dangerous for one in your condition to wander beyond these walls,” he said, the admonishment clear, though his tone held an undercurrent of concern.

You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze with defiance. “That is why I took three of your White Cloaks,” you retorted, the fire in your voice matching the spark in his eye.

For a heartbeat, the tension crackled between you, the weight of unsaid words pressing down like a heavy cloak. Then, Aemond’s lips quirked, almost imperceptibly, as if some silent battle had been waged and resolved within him.

“Good,” he said at last, a faint smirk playing at the corner of his mouth. “You are no fool, wife.”

The tautness in the room eased, and though unspoken, an accord was reached.

Aemond leaned forward, and placed a carved wooden box on the table between you. “I’ve brought you something,” he said, his voice a measured calm, yet there was an undercurrent of something softer. “An apology for last night.”

Your brows knit together, skepticism clear in your eyes. “My forgiveness cannot be bought with trinkets, husband,” you said, your tone edged with defiance. Yet even as you spoke, curiosity stirred within you.

One of his silver brows arched at your remark, and a small smile ghosted his lips. “Let us see if it is worthy,” you murmured, reluctant to give ground but unable to hide the intrigue that tugged at you.

With a careful hand, Aemond lifted the lid of the box, revealing a necklace of silver and sapphire. The deep blue stone glimmered like the sea under moonlight, capturing the room’s faint candle glow.

Your breath stilled for a moment, eyes tracing the intricate work of the silver links, each carved to mimic dragon scales.

Your fingertips brushed over the gem, the cool surface grounding you as warmth bloomed in your chest. Unbidden, a soft smile tugged at your lips, an expression so rare that even you felt its presence.

“Thank you, husband,” you whispered, your voice softened by genuine gratitude.

Aemond’s face shifted, pride flickering across his sharp features. There was something triumphant in his half-smirk that you could not allow him to savor unchallenged. You rose from your seat, skirts rustling as you moved.

“I, too, have a gift for you,” you said, your tone now light with a note of playfulness.

“Oh?” he replied, one silver eyebrow lifting in surprise, though the glint in his lone violet eye revealed his interest.

“Mm,” you hummed, stepping to the chaise where a small cushion lay. Your fingers slipped beneath it, retrieving the item hidden there. Turning back to him, a touch of shyness colored your expression, a rare sight that softened the lines of your face.

With both hands, you presented him with an eye patch, the black leather supple and embroidered with fine strands of broken tourmaline crystals, catching the dim light with a subtle shimmer.

Aemond took it, surprise giving way to careful scrutiny. His fingers traced the delicate work, the weight of the crystals and their arrangement thoughtful.

“Black tourmaline,” you said quietly, watching his gaze flick between you and the patch. “It is said to have powerful protective qualities.”

You hesitated, unwilling to speak of how it was also believed to ward against dark energies and unseen dangers—of how it might shield him from threats both known and hidden.

For a moment, silence stretched between you, thick with unspoken words. Aemond’s mouth quirked into a faint smile, rare and genuine. “Thank you, wife. 'Tis a very thoughtful gift,” he said, voice low and sincere.

A moment passed, and you froze in silent shock as Aemond reached up to remove the eye patch he wore. Of course, you had seen what lay beneath—the striking sapphire set into the hollow of his missing eye—but Aemond was never keen on showing it.

In King’s Landing, he would only take it off moments before sleep and replace it the moment he awoke.

Before he could put on the new eye patch, you placed a hand over his arm. “You know you don’t have to wear it around me, yes? I have no issue with it, and you should not either.”

Aemond stared at you for a long moment, his nostrils flaring slightly. For a heartbeat, you feared you had overstepped, but then he nodded, leaving both eye patches on the table.

A small, victorious smile touched your lips as you felt the weight of this unspoken understanding between you. “Allow me to have the maids bring us some dessert,” you said, the tension lifting.

Aemond nodded, his gaze lingering on you as you turned to the doors.

Stepping into the corridor, you quickly found a maid and requested something sweet to be brought to your chambers. When you returned, your heart faltered at the sight before you. Aemond stood at your desk, his tall frame hunched slightly as he leaned over an open book—your journal.

Panic surged within you, and you strode forward, slamming the book shut with a sharp motion. “What are you doing?” you demanded, your voice sharper than intended, eyes wide with both shock and alarm.

Aemond straightened, holding the closed journal in his hand. His expression was unreadable, though his eye bore into you with quiet intensity. “What is this?” he asked evenly, tilting the book slightly for emphasis.

“My private journal,” you answered quickly, reaching for it, but he lifted it just out of your grasp, his superior height giving him the advantage. “Give it back, husband. It is mine.”

Aemond’s voice was steady but carried an undertone of something raw, almost fragile. “Then why,” he began, his eye fixed on you, ignoring your protests, “do you write to our babe?” There was an ache in his tone, a depth of emotion he hadn’t yet voiced.

The question caught you unprepared, stealing the breath from your lungs. Your fingers tightened around the fabric of your skirts, and your shoulders sagged as you avoided his penetrating gaze. “In case,” you whispered, the words trembling as they left your lips.

“In case of what?” he pressed, his voice low and edged with a demand for understanding.

His gaze bore into you, unrelenting, as though he could uncover your secrets by sheer will. Unable to face him, you closed your eyes and let out a shaky sigh. “In case I’m not there,” you admitted at last, the words barely audible, like a confession carried on the wind.

Aemond’s brows drew together, confusion shadowing his features. “What do you mean if you’re not—” He stopped mid-sentence, his breath catching as realization dawned. The tension in his posture shifted, his shoulders falling ever so slightly. “…There.”

His sharp features softened, a rare vulnerability settling over his face. “Women do survive the childbed,” he murmured, his voice gentler now, as though he feared the weight of his words might shatter you.

“Not every time,” you countered, your tone edged with resignation. “And there’s also… that choice.” Your voice broke on the last word, and you felt the tears prick at the corners of your eyes.

The room fell into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint crackling of the fire. Then, with a tenderness that made your heart ache, Aemond reached out and cupped your cheek.

His touch was warm, his thumb brushing lightly against your skin as he tilted your face toward him, forcing your eyes to meet his.

“There can be more babes,” he said softly, his words a promise etched with fierce determination, “but there is only one you.”

His eye, a storm of violet and sapphire, held yours with such intensity that you felt as though he was laying his very soul bare. A tear escaped and traced down your cheek, but Aemond caught it with his thumb, his touch steady, grounding you in the moment.

“I would not choose otherwise,” he said firmly, the weight of his vow lingering in the air between you. “Not for all the heirs in the realm.”

Your lips trembled as you whispered, “You swear?”

“I swear it,” he replied, his voice low and resolute. “I will not lose my wife.”

The ache in your chest eased slightly, the warmth of his words wrapping around you like a shield. You placed your hand over his, pressing it gently against your cheek.

With a soft breath, you tilted your head upward, letting your lips meet his in a gentle caress. The kiss was tender at first, a quiet exchange of affection that carried the weight of your unspoken fears and his unyielding promise.

Aemond responded eagerly, his lips pressing more firmly against yours as his hand slid from your cheek to cradle the nape of your neck.

His other hand found your waist, gripping you firmly as he pulled you closer, as if the mere thought of distance was unbearable. His tongue brushed against your lips, seeking entrance, and you granted it willingly.

As his tongue met yours, the kiss deepened, a slow, fervent dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. A soft moan escaped your lips, and you felt his grip on your waist tighten in response, his fingers digging into the fabric of your gown.

Your hands moved up his chest, tracing the hard planes of muscle beneath his tunic, before curling into the fabric as if to anchor yourself.

The world around you faded, leaving only the press of his body against yours, the taste of him on your lips, and the heat that built between you like the fire crackling in the hearth.

When the kiss broke, it was with a reluctance that lingered in the air between you. Your breaths came in shallow pants as you gazed up at him through hooded lashes, the corners of your lips curving into a teasing smile.

“My love,” you purred, your voice sultry and laced with affection, “you’ve left me wanting… again.”

Aemond’s gaze darkened, the stormy hue of his violet eye smoldering with barely restrained desire. “Have I now?” he murmured, his voice low and velvety, the faintest smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Then it seems I must remedy that, wife.”

You guided his hands lower, to the swell of your belly, then further down to the hem of your nightgown. “Will you show me how much you desire me?” you asked, your voice a sultry whisper. “Make me forget everything but the feel of you inside me...”

A low growl rumbled in Aemond's throat as his hands moved beneath your gown, fingers tracing the curves of your swollen belly before dipping lower to find the damp heat of your core.

“You have no idea how often I dreamt of this,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear. “Of burying myself deep within you, feeling your walls clench around me...”

With a swift motion, he lifted the hem of your nightgown and pulled it over your head, throwing it aside, revealing your naked form.

His gaze devoured every inch of you, from the full breasts that rose and fell with each ragged breath, to the soft, rounded hips and the glistening folds of your sex.

“Tell me what you want, my queen,” he commanded, his voice husky with desire.

A shiver ran through you at Aemond's bold appraisal, your nipples hardening into tight peaks as his hungry gaze seared your skin. You reached for the fastenings of his breeches, your fingers fumbling with urgency to free his straining erection.

“I want you,” you murmured, your voice low, thick with a desire that lingered like a soft melody in the air. Your eyes never left his, the depth of your longing laid bare in the way your breath hitched.

Aemond’s violet gaze darkened, the flicker of a smirk ghosting his lips. His head tilted ever so slightly, a predator’s grace, as though savoring your words before acting upon them.

You took a step back, your movements slow and deliberate, your footsteps light against the floor as you inched toward the bed. The flicker of the firelight cast a warm glow across the room, the shadows dancing across the carved posts of the bed.

As you reached its edge, you let yourself fall gracefully onto the soft mattress, your body sinking into the luxurious furs and silks. Propping yourself up on your elbows, you gazed at him through lowered lashes, a sly smile curving your lips.

“You beckon me so boldly,” he murmured, his voice a low, velvet drawl, the faintest edge of amusement laced within it. “Have a care, wife, for I am not a man to resist such temptation.”

Aemond watched, transfixed, as you sank onto the bed, the mattress creaking under your weight. His cock throbbed in time with his racing heart, the tip already glistening with precum.

He shed his clothes the rest of the way, letting them fall carelessly to the floor as he stalked towards you, muscles rippling with each step. By the time he reached the bed, he was fully erect, his shaft jutting proudly from a nest of silver curls.

Lying beside you, he reached out to cup your breast, thumbing the sensitive peak before leaning in to capture your mouth in another searing kiss.

His free hand trailed over your round stomach, pausing to tease the edge of your slit before delving deeper, fingers probing your slick folds.

“You're so wet for me already.”

You gasped into the kiss as Aemond's fingers found your entrance, your hips bucking instinctively to meet his touch. “Please,” you whimpered, breaking away from his mouth to gaze up at him with pleading eyes. “I need you inside me. Fill me up, make me yours again.”

As if sensing your desperation, Aemond positioned himself between your thighs, the broad head of his cock nudging insistently at your opening. With a deep groan, he thrust forward, sheathing himself to the hilt in one powerful stroke.

You cried out at the sudden intrusion, your back arching off the bed as waves of pleasure-pain crashed over you. It took a moment for your body to adjust, to relax and welcome the thick length filling you so completely.

Aemond's breath hitched as he bottomed out inside you, your velvety walls gripping him like a vice. For a moment, he simply savored the exquisite sensation, reveling in the tight heat enveloping his throbbing cock.

Then, with a slow, deliberate withdrawal, he pulled almost all the way out before slamming back in, setting a relentless pace.

The bed frame creaked ominously beneath the force of his thrusts, but Aemond paid it no mind, lost in the primal rhythm of rutting his mate.

“Yes, just like that,” he growled, his hips snapping forward with increasing urgency. “Take my cock, my queen.”

You wrapped your legs around Aemond's waist, heels digging into his firm behind as he pounded into you with wild abandon.

Each brutal thrust sent shockwaves of ecstasy coursing through your veins, your inner walls fluttering wildly around his pistoning shaft.

“Aemond!” You wailed, your nails raking down his back as you met his ferocious pace.

The obscene slap of flesh against flesh filled the room, punctuated by my wanton cries and Aemond's guttural grunts. You could feel the pressure building within you, coiling tighter and tighter like a spring ready to snap.

Suddenly, you were hurtling over the edge, your orgasm crashing through you like a tidal wave. You screamed his name as your cunt clenched rhythmically around him, milking his cock for all it was worth.

Aemond's eye rolled back in his head as your velvet sheath spasmed around him, your climax triggering his own. With a hoarse groan, he buried himself to the hilt and came undone, his seed erupting in thick, pulsing jets.

He continued to thrust through the aftershocks, prolonging your shared bliss until he was spent, collapsing beside you with a grunt. For a long moment, the two of you lay entwined, chests heaving as you struggled to catch your breath.

The chamber was awash with the warmth of the firelight and the quiet hum of your contentment. As you lay entwined, your bodies barely a breath apart, your gaze lingered on Aemond’s face.

His sharp features, so often hardened by duty and war, were softened now, his violet eye fixed on you with a tenderness rarely seen.

Your noses brushed lightly, a quiet intimacy, as his hand rested possessively over your waist while yours splayed across his chest, feeling the steady rhythm of his heart.

Almost as if drawn by a spell, he leaned forward, pressing a feather-light kiss to your lips, a gesture so gentle it felt like a whispered promise. When he pulled away, he settled back onto the pillow beside you, his arm still wrapped protectively around you.

You shifted, nestling closer, your head finding solace in the crook of his neck. Your hand lay over his heart, its steady rise and fall a soothing cadence that began to lull you into slumber.

His breathing slowed, each exhale a soft brush against your hair, and soon, the quiet comfort of his presence drew you into a deep, dreamless sleep.

But the peace did not last.

You jolted awake, startled by the sudden thrashing of Aemond’s body beside you. His face, so serene moments ago, was now contorted in anguish, his brow slick with sweat.

His breaths came in sharp, uneven gasps, and his hands clenched the sheets as if warding off some unseen terror.

Your heart clenched at the sight. He had spoken little of his nightmares, but you knew they haunted him—a torment born of battles fought, losses endured, and burdens carried.

Pushing yourself up, you moved with as much haste as your swollen belly would allow, the weight of your pregnancy slowing you only slightly.

Grabbing the robe draped over the chair, you wrapped it around yourself, its soft fabric barely warding off the chill of the room as you padded toward the small table where you had placed your new goods.

Your hands rummaged through the items with purpose, your fingers finally curling around a small vial. You held it up, peering at its contents even in the dim light. The faint, familiar scent already began to calm your racing heart.

Lavender oil.

You returned to the bed, the vial clutched firmly in your grasp. As you sat beside him, Aemond's thrashing began to subside, though his breaths were still ragged, and his jaw clenched tightly.

Carefully, you uncorked the vial, the soothing aroma of lavender wafting into the room. You poured a small amount onto your hands, warming the oil between your palms before leaning over him.

With gentle, deliberate movements, you began to anoint his temples, your touch light yet firm as you traced small, calming circles.

The oil left a faint sheen on his skin, its scent filling the space between you. "Aemond," you whispered softly, your voice low and steady, a tether pulling him back from the depths of his nightmare.

His breathing began to slow, the tension in his body easing under your ministrations. You moved to his wrists, massaging the oil into his pulse points, your hands steady despite the ache blooming in your lower back.

“You are safe,” you murmured, your lips brushing against his ear. “I am here.”

You whispered a silent prayer under your breath, invoking the gods for protection and peace. Your gaze stayed fixed on him, your heart clenching as you watched his features begin to soften, the tension melting away.

You held your breath, waiting. When his form finally stilled, his breathing evening out, you let out a soft sigh of relief. The lavender and your quiet vigil had worked.

Exhaustion weighed heavily upon you, and you slid back into bed beside him, pulling the covers over the both of you. But just as you were about to lay your head against Aemond’s chest, you froze.

A chill ran down your spine, and the hairs on your arms stood on end as an inexplicable sensation swept over you.

You were being watched.

Your eyes darted to the chamber doors, which you now noticed were slightly ajar. Beyond them, barely visible in the darkness, you caught the faint glimmer of glowing green eyes.

Your heart raced, a primal fear coursing through you. The air seemed to thicken, heavy with an unseen presence.

But you steadied yourself, your breathing slowing as you reminded yourself of the protections you had set in place earlier that day.

You had taken every precaution, warding the chamber with runes and incantations, ensuring that no ill intent could cross its threshold. Alys Rivers might wield her strange gifts, but she would not claim Aemond—not without a fight.

With a courage you hadn’t known you possessed, you tightened your arms around Aemond’s sleeping form, drawing strength from the warmth of his body against yours. Lifting your chin, you stared directly into the glowing eyes, refusing to show weakness.

“I won’t let you have him,” you whispered fiercely, your voice a low, steady vow. “Not without a fight, witch.”

For a moment, the air seemed to hold its breath. The green eyes lingered for a moment longer, unblinking and cold, before retreating into the darkness.

Only when the oppressive feeling lifted did you allow yourself to exhale. A trembling sigh escaped your lips as you lowered your head, nestling into Aemond’s chest. His heartbeat, steady and strong beneath your ear, became a soothing rhythm, lulling you out of your fear.

As the night enveloped you once more, you clung to him, your resolve unshaken. Whatever forces sought to disturb your peace, you would face them.

For Aemond, for your babe, for the family you were building together—you would fight.

Hope You Enjoyed!

[vampzv]

OHHH, HE'S WIPED ! OKAY !! this was honestly so sweet had me smiling n giggling. 🤭

Tormented Spirit | 8

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 3k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, smut (piv, morning sex, come marking?, cock warming) DOWN BAD!DAEMON, DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: this chapter became 6k+ words so i had to split it T_T. at least that means i'll be updating relatively faster lol. i hope you enjoy since all the fluff is here HAHAHAH and if you do, please leave a comment/reblog to let me know <3 <3 <3. once again, the high valyrian is internet translated, so it might be wrong. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat @prettybiching

Otto nods as he passes a group of clergy members. He makes his way down the otherwise empty temple, eyes forward as he clutches a firm figurine in his hand. He grunts as he gets down on his knees in front of a fresco of the seven pointed star.

He lights three candles in front of him, saying three different names each time. He places the figurine he brought with him beside them. Of course, it wasn't a figurine but a woolen doll. He says another name, your name, then starts this prayers.

"Father, guard my family through this trying time, my son, my daughters... my daughter," he brushes the face of the doll then closes his eyes. "Stranger, put the souls of the departed Queen Aemma and Prince Baelon to rest.

"Warrior, strengthen my daughter and spare her and her unborn child from succumbing the same fate. Mother, grant her comfort and good health through her journey to motherhood. Crone, guide her and grant her good discernment, so that she may not fear the unknown. Maiden, preserve her beauty, her light."

He opens his eyes and stares at the point that represented the Smith. He grits his teeth before sighing in defeat, "Smith, fortifier... mender... I beg," he sighs, "mend her heart. Mend her body. I beseech you. Let not my prayer fall deaf on your ears any longer."

The candlelight before him glows as he waits another day for the answer to his decade old prayer.

Meanwhile, the candles in your room have long been put out, including the one you normally keep lit by your bed. You are first to rouse today, and yet you could not rise from bed, as you were pressed beneath the body of your husband. Daemon sighed contentedly on your chest, one arm and leg draped over you. You have never slept together (or so you think) so you figured that Daemon was probably moved a lot in his sleep, which is how you both ended up in this position.

You stare at the top of his head, continuing to brush through his silver hair. In truth, you did not want to rise. You wanted to stay in this peace, in this stillness. It would not last long, you knew it— you dreaded it.

Goosebumps form on your skin when you feel your husband's hand brush over your belly before hooking on to your hip. You begin to feel your heart race as you remember what your father told you the night before.

How could you tell him? How could you possibly tell Daemon that you were with child, when you knew he was so diligent in assuring you would not be? Was it even possible to carry his seed when he never finished inside you?

Against yourself, you remember the day you caught Gwayne kissing a lady behind a curtain, and how you attacked him because you thought he had gotten her pregnant. The poor girl ran away as you beat your twin, and Gwyane defended himself, saying that's not how you do it. You did not know any better, so you told him you did not believe him and nearly forced him to go to your father to announce you would be marrying the lady. He, in turn had to explain what he knew, to both your horror.

You were no fool to believe the words of your stupid twin, so you made it your mission to find out the truth. After sneaking books from the Citadel itself, you read many a book only to find out your twin was telling you the truth.

That was why dread rippled across your skin, for could there ever be a world where Daemon purposefully pulled out and is not angered by this news, where he does not accuse you of infidelity?

You go between worry and peace as you brush your fingers across the prince's skin. You try to convince yourself that all will be well, but each time you do, another part of your mind raises that nothing's ever been well with you. You decide then, even if just for this moment, you will pretend the calmness of your husband will remain.

But the world is cruel, for at this same moment, Daemon awakens.

He stirs with a groan, face rubbing against your sternum. The robe you had on was no longer covering your chest. Your heart races as he looks up at you, his violet eyes still sleepy, "sȳz ñāqes."

You do not understand, but you assume it means good morning, and so you say, "good morning."

Daemon sighs as he pushes himself up, removing his pants. You tense as he comes atop you and kisses your neck. He nudges your head to the side with his own and soon, he pushes your legs apart with his knees.

Your hands come to his hip bones, where you then dig your nails in, making him groan. You whimper when you feel him grind his groin into yours. He is half-hard.

"Sesīr isse ñuha ēdrugon, jaelan ao." Even in my sleep, I want you.

You whimper yet again when he begins to rock against you, digging your nails deeper into him.

"Gīda ilagon," he mutters as he fully parts your robe, repeating in common tongue, "calm down."

You are taken aback by how he pecks your lips once before kissing your neck again.

"Dreamt about fucking your pretty cunny," he mutters lowly between kisses, "wanna make it real."

His words make you ache and throb. In a way, you were comforted by the thought Daemon wanted you, even if it was just your body. You close your eyes and let yourself relax. You sigh against his ear, nuzzling into his shoulder, and brush your hand up his back. As your hands trail to his biceps, his skin breaks out with gooseflesh and a high pitched whimper leaves his lips.

"Fuuuuuuck," he whines out rather pathetically.

There is a languidness to his movements unlike you've ever experienced. His normally brash and pointed demeanor is soft and gentle, his kisses even more so. There is no sense of urgency whatsoever as he rolls his hips against you. If you didn't know any better, you would have believed that he wanted to savor the moment.

He did. He wanted to savor your body, as dreaming of it had him feeling some indistinguishable way. You would never know this though, for he would never tell you.

By the time, you've become shaky and your cunt was absolutely sopping wet because of Daemon's now fully hard cock rubbing up against it, he finally pushes into you, drawing out a deep groan from your throat. You tighten your legs and arms around him and your teeth sink into his shoulder.

Daemon grips your thighs as he thrusts into you. He barely pulls out, seemingly determined to go deeper and deeper each time, wanting— needing to be pressed flush into you. His hands sneak beneath you, fingers raking up your shoulder blades to your nape before tangling into your brown hair. He breathes heavily against your ear as your bodies grow hotter and hotter.

You both remain in this snug position, doing this constricted dance until your bellies begin to burn. He doesn't speed up at all or pull out any more than he already has. You feel your body begin to tense and your climax begin to build, and then, just then, a spirit overcomes Daemon.

The next moment, he has his hand on your jaw, forcing your head back. Just as you reach your peak, he pulls out and thrusts his wet cock on your slick fold, once, twice, until his hard member is soft and twitching. His load shoots out up to your chest and sputters down on your belly, garnering a surprised gasp from you. It's hot and viscous against your skin and you wonder what it would have felt like had he released in you. There's so much of it too.

"Fuck, fuck, fu-" Daemon repeats, thinking the exact same thing you were.

You expect him to roll over, because there is no way he wouldn't after soiling you, but you gasp yet again as he comes crashing down on you, skin sticking with a squelch.

He is arrested by your warmth and wants nothing but to plunge into you again. So, in his greed, he grabs his still twitching cock and pushes it into you, releasing a long and throaty groan as he does so. It makes you tremble and whimper his name. You were not expecting the intrusion, so you brush your cheek against his, hoping he understands to give you a moment of repose before going again.

After a while, though you still felt tender from your orgasm, you brush your cheek against him once more, signaling you were ready for him again.

He does the strangest thing however, and simply brushes his cheek back. He pulls his head back, looking down at you, "litse riña." Pretty girl.

You notice the softness of his violet eyes and knit your brows at it. He is so overwhelming you cannot help but kiss him. There was still remnants of morning breath in your mouths, but neither of you cared.

Daemon is loathed to have you pull away. He leans into your touch as you brush his unruly hair back. You slowly shake your head, "I do not understand, my prince."

"iksā sīr rāpa se bāne," you are so soft and warm. He brushes your noses together, "ñuha ābrazȳrys," my wife.

A line forms between your brows at the foreign tongue. You wait for him to translate as he brings his hand to your cheek. He stares at you for a long moment, thumb brushing your skin.

He makes no attempt to decode the High Valyrian for you, and soon, a knock comes upon your door.

Daemon is instantly irritated as he glares over his shoulder, muttering, "who the fuck is that?"

"My servants. I-"

Before you could even finish, your two servant girls are waking in, and Daemon watches them as they head for your bathroom, horribly and painfully unaware of him. He waits for them to reemerge, and the moment they do, he is instantly screaming, "FUCK OFF, CUNTS! THE DOOR'S CLOSED FOR A REASON."

You hear their gasps, squeals, and apologies before scurrying off, slamming the door behind them as they did.

Instantly, yet again, Daemon relaxes and nuzzles against your neck.

"D-Daemon," you whisper, sinking your fingers into his long hair, "they normally wake me up at-"

"I don't give a fuck," he quips, tightening his hold on you, "they'll know better now."

You clench your jaw and sigh, making mental note to apologize to your girls for the prince's actions.

You begin to doze off, as does Daemon in all his gluttonous glory. The two of you stay in bed until lunch time, which is far longer than you've ever personally stayed.

Arryk, who had been stationed outside your door for a while now, is concerned by this. He raps at the entrance to your room and calls your name. When he receives no response, he peaks inside and inspects the stillness of it all. Unnerved by the idea you were sleeping in, he thinks the worse and walks in, calling your name again. His breath is forced down his throat when he sees the flash of white hair on the bed. He sees a hand rub down a toned back and he immediately reels back, quiet and as quick as he possibly can.

You wake the second time because of the growling of your stomach. It is loud and painful, so much so, it wakes your husband.

He groans, brushing his nose against you, "hungry?"

You huff, craning your neck to look at him, finding his closed eyes, "clearly, I'm starving."

A rich chuckle rumbles from his chest. He opens his eyes and they twinkle with mischief, "I could feed you something meaty."

Your face contorts, "I do not think you'd want me to bite your cock, my prince."

Daemon laughs, hard enough to fully awaken him. He wheezes, and rolls of your chest, "I did-" sigh, "not say it was-" wheeze, "my cock."

You hum, "oh, of course not. Apologies."

Your sarcasm only maddens him further into amusement.

You take this as a chance to wriggle away from him, and so you do. The semen still on your skin is tepid and pasty as it smears against your chests. Your robe is completely lose as you come to a stand. You decide not to dirty your garment with Daemon's seed by covering yourself, so you head for the bathroom with your robe open.

You gasp at the swiftness of how your are grabbed and pulled back. Your body collides into Daemon's chest. Your care for your satin robe if for naught, because it sticks on his come anyway. Daemon's is hypnotized by your scent. He is quick to brush your hair over shoulder and mumble against your nape, "you wound me with your eagerness to flee me, wife."

His hands come to squeeze your breasts and you whimper as you turn to him. You knit your brows and pout, "that is not true."

"No?" he says a little louder than he ought as his emotions slightly get ahead of him, "are you not running from me this moment?"

You frown and fully face him, having to peel your robe off his chest as you do, "I'm simply going to bathe." You stare at his chest, "you've made a mess of me."

Daemon tilts his head, "not nearly enough, in my opinion."

You find the self-satisfied grin on his face, "you should too bathe with me."

"Mmm, well then," he takes your hand, "bathe we shall."

The water that your servants had brought was now cold, but you both made do with what you had. Daemon is simultaneously unsurprised and taken aback by how you tend to him first, he does not know why. You've bathed him once before, and yet it somehow feels different. You scrub his chest with cloth and inspire him to do the same for you. You lean into his touch as he washes you off, and it makes his stomach roll.

He takes a good look at you, your skin, the marks he left on it, your nose, your knees, your hair, everything, and he cannot believe something so... so immaculate, so resplendent could be borne from a man so detestable.

"You are not your father's daughter," he says so casually.

You look up at him, freezing because of his random sentiment.

"You are the gods promise to me. A woman made to sate my fire."

Your brows knit at his words. You tilt your head and it makes him nearly goes mad. How darling you ask, "I sate your fire?"

He hums and pulls you into him, kissing your arm as he did, "stoke, perhaps, is truer."

Your breath hitches when he brings you to his lap. He sighs as he feels your flesh against his, it wont be long until he's hard all over again. He licks a stripe up your left breast, "I am, in fact, insatiable."

Your heart races and he peppers kisses up your neck. You lean your forehead against his after kissing your lips. You whisper in earnest, "I will try."

Daemon pulls back, hands coming to your neck as he looks at you.

"I will try to sate you."

Fuck. The thought should have made him laugh, but it doesn't. It makes him burn. He cannot say anything, for his mouth seeks yours. He kisses your lips and you two sequentially spend another hour or so turning the water warm as it splashes all over the floor.

You're antsy and eager to feast by the end of it all.

You help each other get dressed, and Daemon finds the way you hastily button his doublet ever-so-endearing. When it's his turn to help, he shushes you and rubs your shoulders before securing your corset from behind, "your food will not fly off the window."

You rub your aching stomach, "I pray it flies into my mouth soon."

He snickers as he finishes tying your laces.

You quickly run towards the vanity and hastily begin to brush your still damp hair.

He watches bounce your leg and the faintest of smiles graces his lips. He watches your chest begin to rise and fall rather quickly, and soon his brows furrow. He walks up behind you, "aeritta run." Restless thing.

He takes your hand and your jaw, but it is unlike most times he does so. His touch is gentle. He does not force you to do hand your brush or look forward, but you do. You look at each other from the mirror; your chest continues to heave.

"Paez ilagon," Daemon enunciates, "say it for me, won't you?"

Your brows furrow in slight confusion. You release a breath, "pez ilegon."

"Paez," he corrects.

"Paez."

"Good," he nods, "ilagon."

"Il... Ilagon."

"Rōvēgrior," Daemon leans in and mumbles against your temple, "excellent. Now..." he kisses your temple, "once more: paez ilagon."

You take a breath, doing your best to mimic his accent, "pa...ez i- ... lagon."

"Arlī," again, he motions with his pointer, "speak confidently."

"Daemon."

"You can do it," he tilts his head at your reflection, "paez ilagon."

You sigh and nod your head, "paez ilagon."

His violet eyes twinkle, "rōvēgrior," excellent, he claps his hands, "spoken like a true Valyrian."

You turn to him, breath hitching at the sight of his smile, "wha-"

Daemon takes your face and makes you turn forward.

You look at his reflection and grip your skirt, fearing you'd upset him. But then he begins to style your hair and your butterflies overcome your belly. You try to ignore the thump of your heart by clearing your throat, "what d-does it mean?"

"Paez ilagon is slow down."

"Ahhh," your jaw drops in slight embarrassment, "I see."

Daemon points, "hand me your pin."

You get the hair pin on the vanity and hand it over, "and the other one?"

"Hmm?"

"Ro... roz- rovevegregor."

Daemon tilts his head as he chuckles through his nostrils, a soft smile remaining on his face as he finishes securing your hair in a similar manner he does himself.

You witness all of this and your heart skips a beat.

"Rōvēgrior," he repeats, "try to roll your tongue."

"..."

"Go on."

"RRRRozeofoieve-"

He laughs and takes a hair tie from the table. He quickly does his own hair then takes you by the hand. He ushers you to the door as he continues to chuckle, "we should get you something to eat. You should ill."

You are hypnotized by his melodic laugh. You don't dare interrupt it, so you whisper under your breath, mostly to yourself, "but what does it mean?"

"Excellent," he says, hearing your whisper. He opens the door for you, "it means excellent, gevie."

You do not notice Arryk as you exit your chambers, "but what about that?"

Daemon does not notice him either, "what?"

"Ge- gevie?"

"Gevie?" he repeats.

You nod.

Arryk bows and greets you, "princess."

You turn to him as he bows again, "my prince."

Daemon does not spare him a glance. Beautiful, it meant, but he instead tells you, "it is a secret."

You do not respond to Daemon, but he does not mind. He is fully content to stare at you. You smile at your ward, taking a second to guess who it is, "good morn, ser. Are you... Erryk?"

Arryk examines you, finally breathing a sigh of relief to know you are unharmed. He is also glad to see you are not dressed in attire that... exposes the good works of your husband. In the same second, he notices your said husband, and how keenly is gaze is set upon your beaming form. He clenches his jaw, "nay, your grace. Neither am I my brother, nor is it morning."

"Oh," you purse your lips, "my apologies, dear Arryk."

Daemon quickly pulled out of his haze, raising a brow at dear Arryk, "you may go."

Arryk turns to him.

"I will keep my wife company today," he says, wasting no more time in idle chatter, taking you by the hand.

You both walk off and you offer Arryk a smile and nod in regard.

Arryk clenches his jaw but forces himself to smile back at you. He is uneasy by the prospect, knowing how fickle and volatile Daemon can become regarding you. He stares at your joined hands as you walk away, deciding to trust the prince for your sake.

[vampzv]

Tormented Spirit | 7

Part 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8

"Is it such a sin to stand up for yourself?" you mutter as tears blur your vision. The way he reacted was visceral, instinctive even. "You never have to stand up for yourself ever again," says Daemon, reaching a hand to you, "come."

Daemon Targaryen x Hightower!Reader | 5k+ | cw: fem!reader, reader has brown hair, wife!reader, twin!Gwayne, arranged/forced marriage, canon divergence, alternate universe, slow burn, smut (cunnilingus, piv, choking, degradation, slight sadism), DD:DNE, panic/anxiety attacks, daddy issues/child abuse/family problems, mentions/depictions of mental/physical/psychosomatic illness, ye old misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: again the high valyrian is internet translated so lol. please consider leaving comments/reblogs because they really help me with the fic. might make another poll for next chapter stay tuned. | cross posted on ao3

@arabellasleopardcoat

Taking you to the hidden stream was simultaneously the best and worst decision Erryk's ever made in his life. The look of you was holy. His intense focus on your form was to ensure your safety, but, by the gods, it felt sinful to behold your dark hair and light fabric ebbing in the water.

He had hoped a swim would lift your spirits, just as flower picking did, but he did not know it would draw such a tempest out of you. It was as though you were reborn. You plunged into the water and shed all your inhibitions. Your voice became brighter, as did your eyes. You were flooded with more than a dozen memories of you and your twin swimming in the river near your home in Oldtown, and you recounted all of them so excitedly to Erryk.

"Oh!' you exclaim, flipping in the water to get to your feet. You point to something behind your ward, making him turn around. In that split second, you hold in your laughter and grab something from the mossy rocks. Innocently, you say, "that reminds me of something."

Erryk turns back to you, brows knit in confusion. When you you make your way towards him, he clenches his jaw and averts his gaze. The shift you were swimming in was stuck flush on your body, leaving little to his imagination. He was glad to have the foresight to bring you a change of clothes and a towel, and, my, was the pattern on the said towel so very interesting.

"What is a frogs favorite game?" you ask so suddenly.

Erryk turns to you, brows furrowing, "pardon?"

"Tell me the frogs' favorite game, ser," you repeat as though it was the most obvious thing in the world.

"Frogs favored game?" he repeats slowly, realizing now that your expression was mockingly innocent. He hums, "I cannot say I-"

"HOPSCOTCH!"

A frog comes leaping into Erryk's face, nearly causing him to topple as he dodges it. He's so flabbergasted by the turn of events, he calls out your name in offence. He is doubly offended by your laughter. His eyes go wide as you hunch forward, leaning on your knees.

"Villain," your ward mutters, scoffing far too many times.

You can barely catch your breath. You fan your face, "frog-ive me."

Erryk's face only contorts further.

"I could not-" you gasp for air, "could not help it."

In truth, if it was any other who did such a childish thing, he'd have shoved them in the water. Alas, you appeared only more beauteous as you made him a fool.

"Forgive me," you repeat in more serious manner, "Gwayne used to scare me this way often. I wished only to know how it felt, and now..." you giggle, "I can't say I blame my brother for constantly pulling tricks on me."

He huffs and shakes his head, "well. I'm glad to have pleased you, my ever-so-kind princess."

You offer him a guilty smile, "apologies."

Erryk shakes his head, "no. Truly. I am glad to see you in such a state."

You fidget with your fingers as a shiver runs down your spine.

He is quick to unravel your towel. He places it on your shoulders, "perhaps we should go back. The sunset is nigh."

You nod, taking your change of clothes from him next.

He turns around offering you your privacy. It takes a while, but you manage to dress yourself. Once you had your shoes on, you dry your hair with your towel and take his arm, "would you please lace up my dress?"

He nods, avoiding your gaze as he feels his face burn. He quickly laces you up then you return to the Keep.

You both had been laughing, up until you made it past the castle gates, promptly being silenced by the loud shout, "PRINCESS!"

Arryk runs over, charging for his brother. Their steel plates collide as Arryk yanks his twin, "where in gods name did you take her?"

Erryk furrows his brows, "we visited a stream-"

"The Keep is in disarray!" Arryk grits his teeth, hissing under his breath, "everyone's looking for her. Everyone."

You watch the twins huddle close and bicker. As it escalates, you try try to come between them, "Arryk. I was the one who asked him to take me outside the keep."

Arryk does not hear you at first, dead set on arguing with his twin. When you repeat your words the second time however, he turns to you, face softening a fraction. He knits his brows turning back to this brother, whispering something that makes Erryk turn to you with wide eyes, "fuck."

"Why?" you look at them in concern, "what it is?"

Arryk opens his mouth, but Erryk grabs his arm and says, "wait."

"There's no other way to say it," Arryk snaps, ripping his arm out his grip.

"Say what?" you knit your brows.

Arryk turns back to you, then lowers his gaze, "the queen... the queen has passed."

Your jaw drops. Your eyes widen. Your hand immediately covers your mouth. The three of you do not speak for a prolonged moment.

You feel your stomach roll, "w-what happened?"

"She could not deliver the babe herself. The maesters... had to intervene."

Intervene? You could not possibly understand what that could mean, and you find that you do not want to. You shake your head, "and her babe? Is- is her babe well at least?"

Arryk clenches his jaw, "she sired a prince named Baelon... he apparently grows weaker by the hour."

You feel bile rise up your throat.

"Your father and your siblings have been looking for you since news broke."

You shake your head, and gather your skirts.

"As has the prince."

Your face twitches at the thought. You do not delay and make your way inside the Keep.

As you tread the halls, you think about what the queen told you just mere hours ago. There is a sharp twinge in your belly as simultaneously remember how Aemma told you to go cheer for Daemon at the tourney and realize you will never hear a word from her ever again. The thought washes over you like water on the beach, sobering but thankfully not overwhelming.

You hadn't realized you had your head bowed until you hear your name called. You still as you look up, the twins halt behind you.

Otto marches over, brows and jaw tight as ever, "where in gods name have you been?"

You straighten your back as he stops before you, "I-"

"Your wards are double," he turns to the kingsguards, "and doubly useless, it seems."

"Father," you step into his line of sight, "do relieve your rage on them."

Your father turns back to you, expression softening a fraction at your referral. You had not called him father since your argument in the maester's office. He looks at you— takes a good look at you and your sad eyes, your knit brows, your frowning lips. Your hair was darker than it was normally, and as he reaches out for it, he found it was, in fact, damp, "where have you been?"

"I..." you gulp and take a deep breath, "went swimming."

He releases your hair, tilting his head, "with whom? Gwayne has gone."

You pull your head back, "G-Gwayne's gone?"

"The tourney is over. The road is long. He has no reason to stay," Otto says.

Your brows tighten as you shake your head, "he... he didn't... wait for me?"

Otto watches your lips quiver. He watches your nose twitch. When your chest begins to visibly rise and fall, he shakes his head, "what did I tell you?"

You stare blankly at him.

He takes your hands, "what is it I always tell you?"

You clench your jaw and huff through your nostrils, "do not waste your tears on things you cannot change."

Otto rubs your knuckles as he shakes his head again. He gives the Cargyll brothers a look before walking off with you. They make sure to keep their distance before following after.

You turn to your father as he links your arm into his. You are certain, with how he cannot look at you, that he means to tell you something grave. You look front and mimic his demeanor— distant, cold. You are his daughter, face and temperance.

"You enjoyed your swim at least?" he starts, "you are calm?"

You gulp, mentally preparing yourself for what will surely come next. Your voice still falters though, "ye-s."

Otto nods, still not turning to you, "many has occurred since your marriage to Daemon. You admitted you did not consummate your marriage on your wedding night and I was deeply concerned you would fail your duties in producing heirs, especially if your husband was not interested in you."

Your jaw clenches.

"But with the apparent... change of heart your husband has shown, you should know I've had the maesters closely monitor your state."

You knit your brows at that, "you mean my affliction?"

He speaks your name slowly before continuing, "as of yesterday, they have confirmed to me that you are with child."

You whip your head to him and pull away.

Otto does not look at you with the same sense of urgency.

"W-what?"

He sees the fear on your features. He offers a solemn expression and takes your cheeks when your eyes water, "this is good. You should delight, not tremble."

You try to speak but nothing coherent comes out.

"The Queen is dead. Go to your husband and comfort him with this news."

Your mouth goes dry and your father wipes the tears that fall from your eyes. He your name softly. Your sad face looks the exact same it did when his wife died. My baby is having a baby. He frowns and pulls away.

You try to take his hand, but he slips away.

"See her off," the Hand instructs your wards.

Erryk is quick to go to your side, whereas Arryk stares at the back of Otto's head, his lips curling as he did.

"Princess," Erryk says, cautiously reaching your arm.

You turn to him with wide eyes before scratching your tears away, "I-"

"Perhaps you should sit down first."

You pull away from him before he can touch you. The action makes Erryk pull back, an unsavory sensation spreading in his mouth and belly.

"I want to- I—" you take a breath, "I need to find-" you shake your head and begin speeding down the hall.

You were nearly about to break into a sprint, and your wards had to jog up to your side to keep up with you. You don't really know where you're going, but you're getting there, fast.

"Princess, please, slow down," one says.

You can feel your breath and your pulse in your ears.

"Princess."

You find yourself in the halls near one of the gate of the keep. The only reason why you stop is because you hear the voice of your twin. Your breath catches as you lurch towards the window. Gwayne was laughing with one of the guards, already on his horse. Your brows furrow, he couldn't possibly be well enough to be riding on horseback.

You realize quickly this is your last opportunity to go be with your brother, to pull him into an embrace, to worry on him, to tell him your worries, to kiss him goodbye. You know you have to act now and swiftly, but you cannot seem to move.

Your mind is heavy as you think about how your brother is set to leave regardless of your desire to keep close; he said it himself, his place can never be at your side. Though he is the only person who've ever relied on, you know now— you rub your belly, that can no longer be the case. There is only one person you can rely on now... yourself.

It is painful to pull away from the window, but you do, clenching your hands into fists before walking away.

You don't really walk away however, because then, you're frozen in place at the sight of your husband standing a few paces away from you, "Daemon."

He stares at you wordlessly.

You walk towards him, careful as you drag your feet.

He tilts his head and clenches his jaw, "he's leaving any moment now."

You nod, "I know."

"Go to him," he says softly.

"I-"

"Go to him!" he snaps.

You stiffen at his expression. You were adept with anger but he did not look angry. You stop in your tracks, trying to make sense of his restless figure.

Daemon watches you fidget with your fingers.

"If it is your command, I shall obey."

He chuckles dryly, pacing around his spot. He wipes his mouth then charges over, stopping just in front of you. He scoffs when you do not flinch, in disbelief of your constitution. His nostrils flare, "you know my feelings towards your twin."

You slowly shrug, "then you'll be glad to know I came looking for you."

Daemon does not move.

"You know how I feel about my brother..." you mutter, "but..." you lower your gaze, "I'm coming to terms with the fact I can no longer rely on him... it will be better this way."

It takes a moment, but Daemon chuckles. When you look up and his smirk fades. Your beady eyes make it hard to find satisfaction. "So, you will not go to him?" he asks.

You stare.

"You do not want to go to him?"

Your lips part.

He raises his brows.

"I... I do."

Anger rises up his belly, but as if on cue, the sound of horses and carriages moving is heard. You clench your jaw and lower you gaze to prevent yourself from looking back at the window. The prince cannot seem to win, for he should be pleased you did not see your brother off, and yet your sadness leaves sour jealousy in his mouth— he was your husband.

The Cargyll twins look upon you both, appalled by the cruelty of the prince to keep you here as Gwayne leaves for good. Erryk in particular feels restless, unable to stop shifting and fidgeting with his scabbard.

"Shall... shall we go?" you mutter, slowly looking up.

Daemon watches you place a hand on his bicep. He responds only by following you after giving your wards a dismissive look.

The brothers turn to each other, each as unwilling as the other to leave you, but they do anyway.

Daemon is acutely aware of the warmth of your cheek against his arm as you tread down the halls. When, you arrive at your marriage chambers, Daemon opens the door and you notice the bandage wrapped around his hand. He struggles because of this. Once you're inside, you take his arm, eyes trained on his injury, "what happened to your hand?"

Daemon's eyes are fixed on the line between your brows.

"Did you break it?" you turn to him with furrowed eyes.

He pulls away slowly. He wants to know what you'd do next.

"Did you wrap it yourself? It's badly done."

He faintly snorts, "it's on my right hand."

"I'll do it for you," you say, walking towards the vanity.

Daemon follows, watching you procure scissors and vials and other things. You turn to him, motioning to the chair. He sits down, gaze fixed upon you as you take his arm again.

Your eyes are focused on undoing his wrap, "tell me if it hurts,"

His are fixed on your focused expression, "you should sit down."

"I'm fine."

"I want you to sit down," he uses his other hand to grab your wrist.

You stop and turn to him. You turn to the chair across the room but Daemon prevents you from doing so and simply spreads legs, pulling you between his thighs. Quickly, you are sat on his lap and tense look at him. He offers you his injured hand again as his other goes around you, clinging to your hip. He pulls you in, leaning his head against yours to say, "it's a cut, by the way."

You furrow your brows at his admission. You allow yourself a moment to relax before continuing your task. You find it is, in fact, a cut, deep and ugly, "did your lance splinter very badly?"

"No."

You furrow your brows deeper as you turn to him,

"This is glass."

"Glass?" you brow raise, "how did you hurt your hand with glass?"

Daemon licks his lips as he looks at yours. He shrugs, "I broke a bottle."

You pull your head back, "on accident?"

"On purpose," he tilts his head.

You huff and start cleaning his wound, "was the violence in the tourney insufficient?"

He chuckles through his nostrils, "I did not fucking win."

You smear balm on his wound. You do not reply.

It makes him clench his jaw, "and you..."

"..."

"You were not there."

You do not tear your gaze from his injury.

He grumbles, "did you even hear me?"

You lift your gaze then raise brow at him, "you did not want me there. Do you not recall how you cursed at me?"

Your gall makes anger rise up his throat.

You continue wrapping up his hand.

"Well, you were being a bitch," he snaps.

"Why?"

His brows furrow.

"Why was I being a bitch?"

"..."

You spare him a quick glace.

He pulls his head back, "... what?"

"Did I not do my duty?" you turn to him, face blank, "I followed you, congratulated you, inquired of your injuries. I submitted to your desires. Where did I err?" You ask in earnest, "what do you want from me?"

His face contorts. Now that he was faced with such an opportunity, he finds himself unable to speak. What did he want from you?

You wait for him to reply. You prepare yourself for preposterous requirements but you are met only his silence. In that moment, you remember he was just a man. Many a man enjoyed making women suffer. You gulp, thinking about your father.

Perhaps your father was lying. Perhaps he wants you to believe you are with child to get even. After all, Daemon never... finished in you. How then could you be with child?

You secure the binding on his hand, "it is finished."

Daemon does not bother looking at his hand.

"How do you feel?"

He feels a strong urge to shake you... to pull you close.

"My deepest sympathies for the death of your cousin."

He freezes. Right. The queen was dead. He lowers his gaze.

You frown and reach for his cheek. You second guess however and bring your palm to his shoulder instead, "I am here for you, my prince."

His eyes meet yours.

"I am here to care and comfort you."

He leans back, taken by the thought.

You drink in his demeanor, the softness in his eyes, the tension that falls of his shoulders. You release a breath, "if that is what you desire, speak plainly, and do not repel me. Do not ask me to leave if, in fact, you want me to stay."

His throat tightens. He feels like he is ensnared in a bear trap. He rips at his collar, "I... I have other injuries." He pushes you off and paces around as he undoes his top. It is a struggle for him, but he cannot stop or stay still, "cuts and bruises."

You watch as he fidgets and slowly walk over.

"I don't-"

"Daemon."

He stills.

You come in front of him and undo his top yourself. You drop it mindlessly, and once he is bare, he feels conscious under your scrutiny for some reason. You brush your fingers on his ribs, making goosebumps form on his skin. He can't say that that has ever happened to him before. You notice and rub his arms, eyes locked on his torso.

He feels himself getting hard.

"Did you tend to these yourself as well?" you brush over a cut on his hip.

Oh. You were still examining him. He only hums in response.

You frown, "did no maester come to your tent?"

"I..." he starts.

You circle around him, inspecting for other injuries.

"...wanted you to come to my tent."

You come to his side. He finds the frown on your face. You take a moment before saying, "you tended to your wounds well at least."

"I want you."

You nod, "I will tend to you—"

Daemon takes your nape, lowering his head to kiss your lips. It takes a moment for you to relax, and his belly burns at the sound you make when you do. Your hands come to his sides and your nails graze faintly into his flesh.

He pushes you back until your laid on the bed beneath him. His kisses trail down your skin as he works to get you naked. He kisses your shoulder, then your sternum. He makes sure to lick your breast and leave a mark on your rib before peppering kisses down your belly.

Your breath grows heavy when he lingers by your womb, sucking kisses on your skin. Your throat tightens think of your father's words again. It makes you tense, and Daemon feels it. Of course, he doesn't know about your conversation with Otto, and thinks your tension comes from your self-consciousness.

You lift your head, pulling a pillow beneath it, and look down at your husband. You reach for him, tangling your fingers in his silver hair, "Daemon."

He hums, nipping your flesh in response.

You try to sit up, "D-Daemon, I-"

He shushes you, pushing down on your hip bone. He looks up at you, muttering something in High Valyrian.

"Please, Daemon, wait-"

"Be still," he says, violet eyes hooded, "do I not take care of you?"

Your breath hitches as he sinks down.

"Do you not enjoy my mouth?"

"I- that's not-"

"Do you or do you not?"

"I... I do—"

You are not able to speak after he buries his face between your thighs. You are reduced to breathy cries and a twisting spine. Daemon, though he continues to hold you down, relishes every second of it and feasts more ardently. He sighs, securing your thighs on his shoulders, nudging his face deeper into you, his nose brushing against your pearl.

He relishes how quickly your wetness builds, and soon, he feels your arousal dribbling down his chin. He moans, nails biting crescent moons into your skin. Your belly rises and falls in sync with the crescendo of your mewls. At this point, both your hands are tangled into his hair, and your pulling and scratching only further inspires his tongue.

You call out his name, screwing your eyes shut as you throw your head back and arch your body. Quickly, your belly tightens and you sequentially dig your heels into his shoulder blades. He squeezes your thighs enough to make them bruise, and yet the pain is what pushes you into orgasm, garnering a lewd and loud sound from your mouth.

Daemon hums, lifting his face just enough to see yours as he brings you to peak. He moans at your expression, grinding his hips into the cushion, desperate for friction.

Your body trembles, unable to settle as his burning mouth persists on your molten mound. You begin to squeak and he catches the moment you open your eyes to look at him all teary. It drives him mad. With a deep inhale, he pulls away, wiping his chin before he undoes his breeches.

You relax and catch your breath, hands dropping to your sides.

Daemon watches you, your trembling legs glistening with the pleasure he's drawn out. He can feel himself throbbing in his pants. You watch as he hastily frees himself. Though your head was hazy and your body was tried, your belly burned at sight of the sticky liquid dripping down your husband's neck.

"Fuck, Daemon," you reach for his belly. You trace his defined muscles with your finger tips. He snatches your hands when he finally pushes his pants down.

You squeak when he pushes you to your side, one hand on your shoulder, another hiking your leg up by the knee. You whine as he folds you into the sheets just before sliding his hardened cock in your wet cunt.

He hisses, leaning down to your neck. His words are hot against your skin, but you understand nothing.

Whatever tenderness he had before was gone, now he was just fucking you like a rabid animal. Daemon could not help himself, he loved how supple and pliable you were, and twists you into a form that keeps you prone. When the bed begins to creak because of his thrusts, he holds you down where your neck and collarbone meet. He puts enough pressure to restrict your breathing, but not enough to choke out your pretty noises.

At some point, he decides your leg is getting in the way and pushes you flat on your chest. He then gathers you by the hip, hiking you up enough to fuck you nicely from behind.

His thrusts are more intense now. You scream into the cushion as you find your elbows. Before you can prop yourself up though, he's pinning you down by the shoulder, saying something in High Valyrian again.

"D-Daemon," you whine, left cheek smushed against your pillow. You could feel your next climax building quickly.

He responds by rubbing your clit, drawing tears and another scream out of you because of your sensitivity.

You feel yourself helplessly clenching and unclenching around him, absolutely boneless under his vigorous intrusion. You could feel your knees slipping but Daemon's grip on you would not see you move from your position. Your toes curl. Saliva drips out your open mouth.

"Māzigon va, riña," he snorts, "sepār mirrī angotan tolī." Come on, girl. Just a little bit more."

You do not understand, so you only whine out, "Daemon."

Daemon growls and rubs one side of your ass, "you're doing so good for me."

He spanks you, but that's not what makes your eyes open.

"Milk my cock with your tight cunny, come slut."

You begin to grit your teeth.

"I want to see my seed dripping down your thighs," he groans, mind unable to focus on anything but the hot, wet slapping of your skin.

It's unsurprising that you come first, as Daemon always assures you do to underscore his control and dominance over you. He yelps out a sharp fuck, nearly coming in your cunt because of how your body seizes up around him. Your orgasm overwhelming, yet your eyes water for more than this reason. His words make you aware your husband sees you nothing more as a vessel for pleasure, and your pleasure is regretfully cut short because of how sharply he pulls out, his load spraying on your already dripping labia and pubic hair.

He strokes himself a few times, feeling his cock twitch in his hand as he watches your mixed come trickle down your legs. He sighs, "fuck," then scoops the cream in two fingers, plunging it in and out your still spasming cunt.

You squeal when he finger fucks you, body unable to remain upright. You are grateful he loses interest rather quickly and crumble into the bed as he stands.

You watch him walk over to the drawer, where he then pours himself some wine. You gulp, remembering your dream from last night. It sobers you out your high. You clench your jaw and roll over to clean yourself up. You head to your vanity and wipe yourself down, grabbing your robe was you do.

Daemon, whose thirst was now quenched, turns back to you with a towel. He is confused to see you standing. He watches you flip your hair behind you, pulling it out of your robe, which you then secure around yourself. He knits his brows as he walks over, "what are you doing?"

You turn to him, sitting on the vanity chair, "getting ready for bed."

Daemon stares, and you take his prolonged silence as an indication to proceed with your nightly routine.

The prince squeezes the damp towel in his hand as he watches you brush your hair. You catch his stillness from the mirror and turn back to him, "oh."

You drop your brush and take the towel from him, "I'll help you clean up."

Normally, he enjoyed this, but right now, he can't. He is offended when you begin to pick up his clothes, so much that he scoffs, "the fuck are you doing?"

You halt midway picking up his trousers. You stand and turn to the closet, "ah. Did you want new clothes?"

He pulls his head back, no longer offended, but hurt, "you want me to leave?"

You are caught off guard by his question. You stare at him for a moment, unsure if he was serious. You could not identify his expression, so you did not know if you tell him the truth. You would not survive being berated after confessing you wanted to sleep with him. You dodge the answer altogether, "weren't you leaving anyway?"

Daemon's cheeks tense. He huffs, stepping forward, yanking his clothes out of your hands, "no."

You are bewildered by his actions, for to you, his actions are sudden. You are petrified in fear, which is why you instinctively begin to apologize, "f-forgive me, I-I-"

His nostrils flare and his jaw sets.

"I-" you motion with a hand, "- you always leave."

His clenches his jaw, "do you want me to leave?"

"I—" your throat tightens and soon you can no longer look at him. You want to beg him to stay, but you recall how you did that with your father, and your mother, and your brother— begging does not make people stay. You whisper, "I... I'm terrified."

When you lift your gaze, Daemon shirks and decided to dress. He gulps as he pulls his trousers up, turning back to you. He clenches his fist before reaching out for you.

Your heart races as he takes your hand.

"You've served me well. If you are terrified... I'll leave you."

You whimper when he pulls away, holding him tighter than he did before your hands part. Your lips quiver. He knits his brows. You shake your head, "I- I... I do not want you to go."

He is taken off guard by how you suddenly embrace him.

"Please," you beg, though you knew it would not serve you well, "stay."

He turned to stone. He cannot seem to move at all but your arms are determined to stay around him. You begin to weep against his skin and he can feel your breath grow ragged. Only then does he manage to return your affection.

He brushes your dark hair away from your face and cradles you against him.

"Daemon."

He leans into you, enough to be able to brush his cheek against yours, "kesan umbagon." I will stay.

You sniffle then sigh. After a while, you ask, "what does that mean?"

"I will stay."

You sigh again, pulling away to look at him. You offer him a sad smile, "thank you."

He frowns, wiping your tears.

When you go back to bed, you offer him space in case you've made him uncomfortable. He stares at you, awaiting your embrace. You are mere inches apart but it feels like yards and yards.

"Good night, husband," you say before turning over.

He chuckles dryly, staring at your dark hair. He turns to the ceiling, "good night."