can you PLEASE make a second part of the "who did this to you" fic? maybe some smut if its okay like she's frustrated that he treats her too gently now?? only if ur okay with smut requests
Breaking Point
Kylo Ren x Fem!reader
Word Count: 10.79k
Warnings: SMUT! Talks of being hurt in the past, oral (male and female receiving), unprotected sex, rough sex, possesive!kylo, dirty talk, slow burn teasing, sexual frustration, kinda sorta bratty reader, some angst in there too.
Authors note: Alright, I didn't mean for this to be so long. I love this request, though. The reader might come off as desperate at first, but, personally, I think the pay off is worth it.
Continuation from this request, but can be read as a one shot!
Next Part
You were healed for almost a full week now. The last bruise had faded, the cuts were just small scars now. It had been over a month since your face was bruised and bloodied at the hands of some men who couldn’t stomach your rank. It had been over a month since you and Kylo realized what you had was more than just a surface level, physical relationship—and now you got to walk with him without being careful of the stares, or think of a way to explain away your time spent together.
But it had also been a month since he last touched you the way you needed him to. Not the way he used to.
With the kind of desperation that made it hard to breathe, the weight of the secrecy and adrenaline. Since that night that he saw you littered in bruises, he hadn’t laid a hand on you without care and caution. He hadn’t kissed you without pulling back. He hadn’t taken you, not even once, even when your mouth found him in the dark, hands pressed under his shirt, trying to coax something deeper out of him. You tried, you really did. Let your fingers act impolitely, soft moans into his mouth, shifting into his lap, whispering things that used to break him. He would only tell you that you needed to get some rest. Kissed you too gently, touched you like a feather.
You were going insane.
At first, it made sense. The bruises were fresh, you flinched so easily at every touch or when he shifted the wrong way. You couldn’t even sleep without sharp pains in your side.
But you were healed. Medical cleared you ten days ago and it didn’t hurt anymore. You wash your face with careless hands, stretch and eat without biting down on your teeth, you had been back in drills for weeks at this point. You never felt stronger. You were fine.
And he still wouldn't touch you .
Today was a big day for you. Busy with meetings, briefings, prep sessions. The halls were buzzing and boots were moving, orders barked faster than they could be acknowledged. You barely had time to breathe…
But you were leading your first mission team. Not just observing another officer, but leading. An official extraction op, leading troopers to retrieve an informant in the outer rim of a disputed system. Of course, Kylo was leading the entire mission, but you were in charge of your own unit. Your name was on the tactile file. Your orders would be followed. They didn’t hand this stuff out lightly. You worked hard for this and proved yourself.
But there was something else you wanted today. Something you hadn’t had since before the bruises and rumors. Before your relationship was something open for comment.
You had plans to meet Kylo before deployment, a short break in his quarters, just enough time to eat, check gear, maybe go over squad information for the last time… But you remembered what it used to be like before his missions. He used to grab you roughly, like the impending violence lit something in him, pushed you into a shadowy hallway and into a dark utility room. He’d take you like the galaxy was ending and he wanted to taste every inch of it before it did. He used to need you, remind you what all that power in his was good for, feral and focused. And you wanted that again.
It felt like a good place to get it, here in his quarters. A familiar ground you hoped he remembered.
Kylo walked in and he looked like a man. His cloak was slung low on his shoulders, sleeves unfastened, sweat still drying at the collar of his black undershirt from drills this morning. No helmet or gloves, hair pushed back into uneven curls, loose in his movements. You have to grip the edge of your chair to keep from standing too fast.
You watched his back rise and fall, staring down at a datapad. His discipline wasn’t present in his shoulders. And then he looked at you, like he just remembered you were there. Like he just realized what you were wearing. Your new uniform, layered and professional, but it hugged your waist tightly, the top four buttons undone to give you room to relax. The way you were already looking at him like you needed something…
God’s, you wanted him so bad.
And if he wouldn’t come to you, you’d go to him. You stood up quick and crossed the room with strides.
He raised a brow when you got close. “You’re early.” He noted.
“So are you.” You murmured.
He never had time to respond before your hands gripped his face and you kissed him. You tilted your head and pressed your mouth to his with hunger. Not too messy yet, but enough to show him what you meant. His mouth parted in surprise, hands lifting halfway, one hand just resting on your hips, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to.
You pulled back an inch and looked up at him. “You don’t wanna..?”
He blinked hard, “I never said that.”
You reached up and slid your fingers into the collar of his shirt, tugging at him a little. “So prove it.”
You kissed him again, deeper, tongue brushing his lip and pulling a breath from his throat. You let your body press to his chest, and he set down the datapad, finding your hips and gripping. His other hand curled at the nape of your neck with pressure. His kiss turned greedy as he stepped forward, walking you backward toward the table with forward pressure. He kissed you like he meant it. Hard and breathless and messy, like he hadn't tasted you in weeks. Because he hadn’t.
You missed this.
But right when your spine hit the table edge and you made a sound in your throat, needy and aching. He broke the kiss quickly, his hands falling away from your body.
“Shit,” he muttered, stepping back like he had just remembered something important.
“Ky?”
He looked at your waist and ribs, wherever the worst of your bruises used to be. “I didn’t mean to—”
“Kylo, I’m fine.” You reach for him, grazing his wrist. “You didn’t hurt me.”
He hesitated when he looked at your mouth, the flush of your chest and the desperation in your eyes. He swallowed hard and looked away.
“We should eat before the mission.” His voice was so controlled now.
You stared at the back of his head when he turned. “Is that what you’re thinking about right now?” You asked quietly.
He shuffled around the drawers, pulling out two ration packs. “You need to be prepared for your first mission.” He handed it to you, performatively casual as his eyes didn’t reach up to your face, and you took it, pretending his answer was reasonable. Like you didn’t feel rejected, even if it really was just restraint. But your body was left hot, untouched, your mind spinning with things you didn’t have time to say right now.
Your uniform clung in too many places, sweat dried beneath your collar, lungs working through adrenaline when you took your seat at the round table. You had scanned for heat signatures, finding cloaked transmitters in the rocky canyons successfully. It was a dry and steep region, much more difficult to navigate than you expected, the comms interference was worse than you had been warned about. But you did it. No missed signals, no casualties, just an efficient extraction.
It was over, and now came the official recount for the sake of formality. An Admiral had given you a clipped nod of approval on your way into the debrief, and that meant something, even if no one else had caught it. The briefing room flickered red and blue display monitors and lines of intel updated data that scrolled against glass. Kylo sat near you, just in your line of sight.
You felt him staring when he looked away. You always felt it, even through his black mask.
You answered questions, reviewed your squads movements. You had clearly done better than most officers expected. But you were so warm underneath your uniform. The adrenaline hadn’t cooled, your collar sweaty against the collar of your shirt.
From across the room, Kylo’s eyes carved into you unapologetically. He tracked every inch of visible skin, gaze lingering at the stretch of your neck where your collar had dipped, sweeping down the line of your jaw as you spoke. He was cataloging you in hunger, like he was remembering the feel of your body. The exact weight of you beneath his hands and is trying to burn the memory back into his mind. You licked your bottom lip, and for a second, his lips parted under his helmet, jaw flexing and forcing his eyes away, like he had to physically rip himself away from the thought of you before he crossed the room and did something about it.
When the briefing cleared, officers filtered out until no one was left except you and him. Kylo didn’t move from his seat, legs wide as he leaned back a little. The tension in his shoulders gave him away. You didn’t say anything at first. Just looked at him. Let him look at you.
The air between you two thickened as the silence went on. He wasn’t pretending not to stare, he wasn’t even trying to be subtle anymore. You couldn’t pretend not to like it.
You stood slowly, knees brushing the edge of the table, arms loose at your sides, a heat crawling under your skin that had nothing to do with the afterglow of a mission.
His gaze followed you like a gravity field.
You tilted your head slightly as you approached him, leaning back slightly on the table in front of him, slotting just between his legs. His chest was riding slightly faster than it should have. His hands rested loosely on his thighs, fingers flexing now and then under the gloves, like he was fighting the urge to do something with them.
“Your sweep formation,” he said suddenly, low voice, “It was clean. You handled the canyon coverage better than most officers would have.”
“Wow,” a grin tugging at your mouth. “Thank you, Commander.” Light and airy.
You let the air thicken between you before you leaned in just a touch more, reaching for the sides of his helmet and took it off. It was almost ceremonial the way your movements slowed, fingers finding the release points like muscle memory, practiced, deliberate. You watched his face appear. A tense jaw, a parted mouth, a ridge between his eyebrows, endearing helmet hair. You set it down beside you.
His eyes were dark, still burning, absolutely lost in whatever was going on behind them.
You leaned in, voice like velvet and low. “It’s so hot in here.” You murmured. “My uniform’s clinging everywhere.” He blinked once. His throat bobbed with a swallow. You let the words drip from your lips like lava. “I’m dying to take it off.” You watched his eyes flicker everywhere. Down your throat, tracking the line of your collar. “Might need a hand.”
You stood from where you leaned, bracing your arms on the back of his chair. He fell back in his chair, face so close you could feel how ragged his breath was.
“I’m impatient, Ky. I’d let you take all this off. Right here.” You added, letting your fingertips trace the edge of his tunic. “Right now.” He looked like he might say something, but it was stuck in his throat. His lips parted again, but closed with another gulp. When the silence stretched so tightly it nearly snapped, you leaned in, brushing your mouth over his ear with an exhale. “You gonna do something about it?”
Finally, he did. He stood suddenly, so fast the table behind you rattled. He loomed, tall and sharp right in front of you, heat rolling off of him with intensity. His chest pressed against yours, hand finding your waist, flexing, but still all too gentle. You could tell though, he was close to snapping.
His eyes dropped again to your lips, huffing through his nose, completely in your space, nose brushing as you balanced yourself with a hand on the back of his neck. You saw the moment he caved into the thought of it, saw the hunger flash across his face.
His mouth opened—
Then a sharp blare of a comm echoes down the hallway.
He flinched, taking half a step back, but it felt like a mile of space opened up between you.
He cleared his throat, still where his hands hovered where they were about to grab you. His eyes flickered toward the door.
“I should go check that.” He finally spoke, voice annoyed at the interruption. He knew it could be nothing, but he couldn’t ignore his work duties. But still, he didn’t move. Not for a few seconds. His body remains right in front of yours, breathing slow and deep. He hadn’t quite pulled back his restraint. You could see the battle in his blown out eyes, the sheer effort it took to choose the door over you. “You can’t…” He started, then stopped. “You can’t just look at me like that before I have to leave.”
You just smirked, feeling like you had just won a small battle. “I’m not doing anything.”
His eyes dropped to your lips again as you bit them.
“I’ll see you later.” He muttered, grabbing his helmet off the table and tearing himself away from your space, turning before he couldn’t help himself again.
You didn’t see him later. He got caught up, pulled away into a meeting that went on too late.
But the training room was empty the next day, just like you’d both planned. Tucked away in a soundproof chamber near the edge of the starboard wing. Quiet, reserved for higher ranking officers, meant for privacy.
There he was. Waiting on a mat, turned slightly away from you. No cloak, no helmet, not even his tunic. Just a fitted black sparring shirt that clung so tightly on his shoulders, low slung combat pants, the kind he only wore in these rare, pared-down moments. He was adjusting the wraps around his wrists with focused precision. It made his arms flex just enough to make your breath catch in your throat.
You stopped just short of the mat, eyes dragging down the line of his back, the way his shoulders tapered to his waist. You swallowed, and he turned to you. There was no smile, no softness, just an expression that told you he was trying very very hard not to look at you.
“So,” you stepped on the mat, dropping your bag somewhere to the side, “you said you’d help me with my defensive stance.”
He nodded once. Brisk. “Your pivot leaves your back open. You’re relying on predictability. It works against most people, but you need to be ready when it doesn’t.”
You hummed. “Teach me.”
And he did for a while. He was all business, methodical and precise. He corrected your stance with a brush of his fingers at your elbow, adjusting your arms by lifting one and guiding the other, demonstrating a step, a dodge, a pivot with sharpness that told you he wasn’t thinking about your body the way you were thinking about his.
You tried to focus. You really did. You told yourself to remember his instruction, watch the movements of his feet and the lines of his hips… but the more committed he became to instruction, the worse it got. Because all you could think about was how his palm fit flat between your shoulderblades when he nudged your posture straighter. How the heat of his body was radiating every time he stepped behind you to guide your feet. How his voice was low, toneless, professional. It only made you remember the way he groaned into your neck when he wasn’t holding back.
A memory rushes to you mid-pivot. Just how many times he’s had you here before. He wouldn’t talk during those moments, just grunted against your throat, cursed low and deep as your fingernails clung to his back. It was ruthless then. Hungry. Rough. The kind of rough that made your thighs quake after. You used to walk out of this room hiding smirks and fresh marks under your collar.
He fucked you against this mat once. A fast, brutal thing where your hands fumbled for leverage and his grip never gave you the chance. You would be dripping in sweat and whispering his name. He would be growling into your ear like he was trying to keep it to himself.
He never used to hold back.
“You’re not grounded.” His voice behind you, too close.
You jolt slightly. “What?”
He circled, face tugged in a serious expression. “You’re distracted.”
“No, I’m—”
“If your weight’s uneven, you’ll fall.”
You simmered in frustration at the way he moved around you again without touching you. His eyes were only focused on your stance, his hands careful, his touch clinical, you wonder where that other version of him went. You hated it.
You want it back. You need it back.
You wanted to show him that you weren’t broken, and you were going to.
“Fight me, then.” You spoke.
He stared, almost like he didn't believe you. “Are you serious?”
“Very.” Your socked feet barely made a sound as you shifted out of position, putting your hands on your hips. “You want my full attention? Earn it.”
His mouth almost curled up… barely. But you saw it. He stepped forward. “This isn’t what this session was for. I’m not here to spar you.”
You toed closer, shrugging off your jacket in one smooth motion, letting it fall to the floor like it meant nothing. Your fingers skimmed lightly across your own hips, a casual flirtation disguised as a thoughtless movement. “I’m a hands-on learner.”
He gave you a sharp breath. “Don’t test me.”
“Why not?” You smiled. “Afraid I’ll win?”
He turned fully to face you, stepping into a position opposite of you. “No. Just don’t want you to get comfortable losing.” He nodded his head in guidance. “Get into position.”
You obeyed, walking back to the other end of the mat. When you looked over your shoulder, he was watching how your hips moved.
The air between you hummed. The heat was rising. You shook your wrists as you dropped into stance.
He lunged first, just to test you. You dodged left, ducked, turned your hips and caught his side with the flat of your hand.
“You’re slow.” You taunted.
His brow ticked up. “You’re cocky.”
Another sweep, this one higher. You ducked under it, letting your hand graze his thigh as you passed, maybe a touch longer than necessary. He noticed, you knew he did.
You smiled and kept yourself moving. His footwork was sharp and aggressive, but not dangerous. He was still holding back and you were done with all of that.
You pivoted, dropped low and tried to take his legs.
He stepped over you easily. “You’re too predictable.”
“And you’re too restrained.” You snapped back, using your momentum to pop back up. “Aren’t you supposed to make me work for it?”
He just circled you, eyes narrowing. You jabbed at his side, more of a test than a hit. He caught your wrist mid-swing and twisted. He used your arm as momentum to spin you into his chest. You hit him with a grunt, bracing your palms against the flat of his stomach, feeling tension ripple in his muscles.
For a moment, you both just stayed there, looking into each other. His eyes were darker now, jaw locked. You could feel his heartbeat in between your bodies.
And just like that, he pushed you back. Not hard, just enough to reset.
But you stepped in again immediately, forceful, and threw a real punch that he blocked easily. He caught your wrist again but you twisted out faster this time, countering with a jab to his ribs that he didn’t see coming.
A smirk pulled at his mouth, sharp and dark. Promising. “You’re really trying to get me to snap, aren't you?” His voice showed he was slightly impressed.
“It’s working.”
You circled and he moved with you. One step, two, then faster. Arms sweeping low, trying to catch your legs. You hopped, rolled, came up behind him. He turned and your eyes locked.
He grabbed your wrist again, spinning you and you swept his leg, foot hooking around his in a blur. He let it happen, yanking you down with him.
You yelped as the world tipped, body tumbling on to his with a startled squeal. You landed clumsily, limbs tangled, chest to chest, palms planted on the mat, breath caught between a laugh and a gasp.
He let out a low grunt like he hadn’t expected you to come down on top of him, but he was smiling. “That’s an illegal move.” His voice said, amused, the wrinkles in his eyes squeezing together.
“No such thing,” You grinned, shifting your weight to try and pin his hips. “Besides, you started it.”
He huffed, almost a laugh before suddenly rolling, twisting his torso and sending you both into another tumble.
This time, you landed on your side and he wrestled your wrist into his grip again, pushing you onto your back. You wiggled, giggling, trying to get out of his grip, but he dragged you right back under him by your hips.
“Asshole!” You accuse breathlessly.
“You’re terrible at sweeps,” he points out, grabbing both your hands with just one of his, “you always overcommit.”
He smirks, bracing both your wrists above your head, pinning you by your hip with the weight of his thigh. You bucked your hips, but he didn’t move an inch. You tried to squirm free, but all it did was shift the friction between your bodies until you stilled. Breathing deep, a flush rising in his neck to match yours.
You stared up at him, his body heavy on yours, arms bracketing either side of your head, breath ghosting hot across your face. The playfulness lingered in the grin on his lips, but his eyes told you something different.
“I win.” He declared.
Your mouth parted, voice dropping to a murmur. “Time to claim your prize, then.”
His breath stutters, his eyes dilate and flicker over your face, throat, any part he could land on. Everywhere he’s been looking even when you don’t notice. Even when you do. He feels your pulse in your wrists, keeping you beneath him, helpless and ready to be taken. You swear he’s about to devour you right there on the mat. Like you’re a reward he’s been denied for too long.
You arch into him, letting your body deliberately move against his. And for a moment, it works. He stays hovering, wanting to do something.
But…
Here we go again.
His fingers twitch. There’s a shift. A memory of your limp gait the week after, your hands trembling when you tried to hold up your form. The sound you made when he would help you lower yourself to the bed. It was locked into his brain. Rewired him into thinking of you as a frail bird that he needed to touch delicately.
His eyes shut, clenches his teeth together hard, lets out an agonizing breath. Then he peels himself away from you. The weight of him disappears inch by inch.
You reach for him, almost whining with frustration. “Wait—”
“We need to worry about your counterbalance.” He mutters, now crossing the mat swiftly, like the movement is the only way to keep himself controlled. His hands are in fists and he doesn’t look at you. “That’s where you’re losing your footing.”
You don’t answer. Just stare up at the ceiling before you push yourself up, breathing in the tension that was left hanging in the air. You don’t look at him. You don’t say anything. You just return to position, arms raised in form, feet squared.
Fine.
If he wants you to train, you’ll train.
He’s already touched you and pulled away. He won’t even look at you now, you won’t either. You bury it, swallow it. Let your stance harden.
His quarters were always cold. But it was warmer tonight. Not uncomfortably, but you felt it on your skin after the fresher. You’d leaned your forehead against the cool wall once you shut the water off, hoping the steam would wash off more than just sweat.
You wished he had followed you in there. There was tension when you walked away, disappearing behind the door, ready to wash up before bed. He insisted you stay over tonight, and maybe agreeing wasn’t going to do you any good.
You emerged from the fresher dripping, wrapped in a towel. And he only walked past you with his eyes on the floor, stripped down to his pants as he disappeared into the fresher. Not even a fucking glance.
You’re done making the first move. You weren’t gonna pout, or joke, or give him a cheeky touch across his back the way you sometimes did when he passed. If he wanted to keep you at arms length, fine. You weren’t going to beg him. Not to anymore.
That didn’t mean you didn’t pick that shirt deliberately, the one that hung off the back of his chair, sleeves worn at the edges, collar stretched from how often he tugged it over his head after he got back here. The one he put on after missions when he was tired, limbs loose and sluggish. You remembered the way he looked at you the first time you wore it, like you were some sort of dream… So, no. You didn’t put it on without thought. You let it hang loose over your bare skin. No pants, just bare legs stretched across his sheets, one bent at the knee, hips tilted just enough to tease, some book rested lazily in your hand, words only skimmed more than understood.
You heard him come out of the fresher, emerging with soaked hair and black pants that hung low on his hips. He moved around like he hadn’t had enough time to decompress, a tension living in his body, between every vertebra. That was all just from a glance, because you didn’t want to stare. You just turned the page, shifted slightly so your leg arched lighter against the bed, letting the shirt slide up your thigh with the movement.
If this didn’t work… if he didn’t do something about this… you were out of luck.
Kylo froze. You saw it in your peripheral. But you felt how his eyes dragged across your legs, helplessly, from the exposed bend of your knee, to the flash of your thigh, all the way up to where his shirt bunched around your hip. His gaze crawled higher, tracking your bare collarbone and the slope of your neck.
He didn't mean to let go of the small sound from his throat, one that sounded almost like he was scolding himself. He turned his head, trying to regain control, but it was already too late. His eyes snapped back to you.
“Think your humidifier’s broken.” You mentioned, flipping the page and not bothering to look up. “You should call maintenance tomorrow.” All too casual.
He didn’t speak, he just stared.
You stretch, arms overhead, pretending not to notice the way his eyes followed the movement. The hem of the shirt rose a little higher and you rolled to your back, continuing to ‘read’ whatever book this is.
Then, you heard him move in measure footsteps, each one closer and closer. You finally moved the book away from your face a little as he approached the bed, and you looked up at him. His chest rose and fell, eyes blown wide.
Kylo plucked the book from your grasp, tossing it on the nightstand. He didn’t say anything, just knelt on the bed, leaning down, and kissing you.
It was so deliberate. Gentle. Intentional. It felt like an apology, but you could taste the hunger beneath it. His hands found your waist, fingers brushing warm through the thick fabric around your ribs. Careful like always.
You kissed him back, tilting into it, adding pressure, hoping he’d match it.
He did, but only just. Still soft.
So, you slid your hand up the back of his neck, tangling in the damp hair at his nape, pulling him closer with a breathy murmur against his mouth. He let himself sink into the kiss, but his hands were still just hovering. Still, not enough.
You tried to lead him there, let your body arch against his, your leg curling behind his back, your mouth parted and pulled, desperate for something without restraint. He held his weight too high on top of you. He didn’t want to crush you, but you wanted him to let go of his inhibitions.
Your hands flattened against his sternum, and with one swift, practiced motion—one he taught you months ago—you flipped him. He grunted in surprise, back hitting the mattress like you’d punched the breath out of him.
You straddle him, the hem of the shirt now high over your hips, baring your thigh against his waist. You settled your weight over him, pressed your palms to the skin on his chest, harder, feeling the ripple of his muscles under your touch. And when you kissed him, you kissed him good. Desperate. Letting every sharp-edged ache in your chest pour into him.
His hands flew to your legs, gripping tight and sliding up slowly, but when they reached your waist, they slowed. Floated again. Ghosted like he didn’t trust the pressure. His thumbs only brushed your ribs like they were still bruised.
You took his wrist and dragged them down, over your hips until they landed on your ass, pressing them into the soft curve with permission. But his grip stayed light.
“Come on, Ky…” You spoke into the kiss.
He still hesitated. You broke the kiss and leaned back slowly, looking down at him, bare chest rising under yours.
That’s it.
All the frustration you’ve been feeling burned under your skin. You’d been set on fire. He looked up at you, flushed and stunned, blinking like he didn’t understand what had just happened.
“Okay—Is this how you fuck someone you want?” You breathed, voice horse. “It never used to be like this.”
His brows pull together. “What? I just—I didn’t want to do something wrong—”
“Wrong?” You echoed, a threat of a bitter laugh being held back. “You think touching me like you actually want me would be wrong?”
He sat up on his elbows and you were still straddling him.
“I’m trying to be careful.”
You gave him a huff and shook your head. “Yeah. I noticed.”
“I don’t want to hurt you.” He repeated, firmer in his voice now.
“You’re not going to hurt me, Kylo. I’m fine.”
“You say that but last time I stopped thinking, you ended up in the medbay."
“You didn’t do that.”
He looked away and that was worse. The silence, the swallowed guilt.
You climbed off of him, feet slapping the cold floor before he could even try to reach for you. You stood with your arms crossed, pacing a small line by the edge of the room. Your face was flushed for all the wrong reasons; in shame, anger, embarrassment.
“Yes, I was scared. I was hurt, I was injured. But I’m fine now.” You turned on your heel. “I’m here—I’ve been here. I’ve been trying, begging you to show me you don’t see me differently now… but all you do is look. Like you still want me, just not enough.”
He was sitting on the bed still, back hunched forward, elbows on his knees, eyes on the floor. He shook his head.
You weren’t done.
“You treat me like my bones are gonna shatter if you breathe too hard around me. I want you, Kylo. I want you so bad, I’m going crazy. I’m fantasizing about how it used to be.” You scoff at yourself, not at all amused. “Do you know how pathetic that feels? Laying on your bed, wearing your shirt like some damn signal flare, hoping I don’t have to beg you to fuck me? I don’t want to feel like I’m chasing someone who doesn’t want me back.” He looked up, finally, his face contorted in a way that told you he wanted to interject, to call bullshit. “It’s like the second you saw me with a black eye, you couldn’t unsee it. Now… Now, I don’t know if it's pity or fear or guilt or what, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like you want me.”
His jaw was locked so tight you swear you could see a pulse in his temple.
“You think I don’t want you?” His voice was quiet, but he was holding back. His eyes were dark as they looked at you. “You think I’m holding back because I stopped seeing you?” And he stood, his frame feeling larger, more brooding than you remember. “I’ve spent the last couple weeks trying not to tear you apart. I get to wake up next to you now and it’s so hard. I don’t let myself touch you. I wasn’t the one who hurt you, but if I let myself loose control like I wanted to, I could’ve been.” He stepped closer, just one step at a time. “I carried you, sat there watching you try not to scream when you lifted a fork, and the whole time, I wanted to kill something. Anything. Do you know what it took not to drag those men to the center of the ship and kill them in front of everyone? Do you know how close I came?
You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.
His voice grew darker, his shadow engulfed you entirely. “I never stopped wanting to touch you. Not for one second.” His voice dipped along with his eyes. Lower than a whisper. “You want honesty? Hm? After that mission yesterday, I wanted to bend you over the command desk. I wanted to rip off your new uniform. I wanted you to have to tell them why you needed another one so quickly.”
You blinked, feeling yourself shrinking and your pulse going crazy. You could smell the soap off of him, feel his minty breath fan over your face with every word he spoke.
“When I had you pinned today, Gods, I almost fucking lost it. I could’ve done whatever I wanted to you. They would’ve been able to hear you two floors down.” He sucked in a breath. “I had to walk away. If I didn’t, you wouldn’t have been able to walk back to my quarters.”
Your back hit the wall before you even noticed you had been taking steps. He was still just inches away.
“I’ve been trying,” He said, teeth clenched, voice almost growling. “Trying to be patient. Trying to give you time. Trying to be what you need.” His eyes dropped down your body. “But you keep looking at me like that. Moving like that. Wearing that.”
Your breath was hitched. His eyes dragged down your body like he was already inside you, like the shirt you wore was just a formality. It was like he was trying to decide where to start. You felt the heat in your neck, the tips of your ears, your cheeks. He was caving. You can tell.
And you got him there. You had him. The restraint was gone. You should've thanked him for his honesty, he just told you exactly what you’d been dying to hear.
But instead, you tilted your head, raked your own eyes up and down his body with a slightly quirked brow.
“Go ahead, then.” Your voice like syrup, sultry, dropped to a whisper. You tutted your frame forward as much as you could without touching. “Keep pretending you're so composed if you want to. Like you don’t want me screaming your name. On my knees. Like you don’t want to mark me yourself, pin me down and fuck me until I forget my name. Keep pretending you don’t want me to fall apart under you.” You brushed your mouth against his cheek, biting back a grin in victory. “Unless…” You let it hang there, smug, lips brushing his earlobe just slightly, “you really don’t think you can do that anymore…”
In one movement, you were against the wall. Hard. His hands are already under your thighs, hoisting you up so fast the air punched out of your lungs. Your hands barely got around his neck before he crushed his mouth to yours, kissing you like he hated how much he needed you. His hips slammed against yours, caging you there, his breath already ragged. You yelped into his mouth from the force of it all, head thudding back against the wall, hands scrambling at his shoulders as he grinded against you.
“Say that shit again.” He growled, voice shredded. “See what happens.”
You couldn’t. You were too busy gasping as his mouth dropped to your jaw, your neck, biting, dragging teeth along skin like he’s gone blind with it. Your legs locked tighter around his waist and he groaned at how your middles pressed together. He gripped your ass like he meant to leave prints, slamming you against the wall with every roll of his hips. The shirt you wore—his shirt— rode up fast, bunched between your bodies. He shoved it up higher, exposing your hips, stomach, everything he wanted.
“You want to be ruined?” He snarled into your neck. “Then quit squirming and take it.”
His hands were everywhere now, possessive, grabbing fistfuls of your thighs, your waist. When you writhed against him, he fucking laughed, sharp and wicked against your mouth. The kind of sound that warned you.
“I can’t fucking stand you.” He panted and shoved his hips forward again.
You moaned, louder than you meant to, feeling the outline of his member against your core, hard and telling. And that was it. He dragged you off the wall, never letting your feet touch the ground before he tossed you back into the bed. You bounced, hair messy wherever you landed.
He was already over you before you could blink, tearing off your shirt in one rough pull. You felt it stretch at the collar, the sound of seams popping, but his eyes were devouring every inch of skin.
Your nipples pebbled, you were covered in goosebumps as he pressed you down. His mouth found your chest, worshiping a breast with his mouth while the other one was squeezed in his hand. He nipped, groaned into it before moving lower. He left his own marks on your stomach, sucking bruises just below your ribs. You were gasping, twisting beneath him, clenching the sheets around you as your eyes rolled back, arching into him.
He gripped your thighs hard, spreading them apart with a low growl in his chest. He settles between them like it was his rightful place, one hand sliding down under your panties, long fingers sinking into your clit with no politeness at all.
“Fuck…” Your eyes roll back and squeeze shut, fingernails digging deep into his biceps.
He let out a breath through his nose, lower lip completely taken between his teeth as he rubbed a harsh circle, dipping down and up.
He bit your jaw, sucking in a breath as he continued to listen to the little whimpers you gave him. “You think I don’t want this?” And he ripped his hand away. You take in a sharp breath at the loss, bucking your hips up. But he sat up on his knees, tearing off your underwear so fast you didn’t have time to complain. His palms slid under your knees, pushing until they bent wide open, fully on display. He locked in on you, breath ragged. “Look at you.”
His hands squeezed once and he was dragging you down the bed with a rough tug until your hips met his tented ones. You gasped, arms scrambling for the sheets.
“I’ve been dying to taste you.” He grumbled. “Dying.”
And he lowered, mouth on your inner thigh first. Kissing and biting. You yelped when he sunk his teeth in just enough to sting, then soothed it with his tongue. He didn’t pause or hesitate, just mouthed up your thigh, trailing heat as he went.
When his mouth reached the center of you, you choked on a breath, leg twitching. His hand pinned it back open, unforgiving.
“Keep them open.” He demanded, hot breath glossing over you. “I meant it.”
And then… Oh…
He buried his face in you. Not slowly, not gentle licks. Absolute desperation. His tongue slid against you with force, like he needed to make up for every second he’s denied himself. Every moment he left you aching.
You cursed, moaned loudly, wrecked, hips trying to buck, but his arms looped over your thighs to pin you down.
“Don’t you fucking move.” His voice low, mouth still on you. “You wanted this. Take it.”
And you did.
Your hands flew to his hair, clutching damp strands as he devoured you, tongue relentless, lips dragging, sucking and licking like he’d been starving for you.
You were already so close, and he knew. He heard it in the way you stumbled through his name, how your breath stuttered, how the valley of your breasts moved quicker and quicker. His grip tightened on your thighs, angling his mouth just right until your entire body locked up.
“Yeah…” He whispered into you. “That’s it… fall apart for me…”
You gasped his name as you shattered. A moan louder than you could register heaved out of your chest and you trembled in his grip, thighs quaking, vision white hot behind your eyes.
But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even slow down. Not even after you came and tugged at the roots of his hair. Your thighs forcefully kept on the mattress as he continued with closed eyes and low moans, seemingly lost in the moment he had been denying himself. Lapping up everything you gave him, fingers and palms leaving indents on your skin. You were so sensitive, wrecked as he spread you wider, locked you down as your hips tried to twist away.
And he liked it. A deep rumble vibrated straight through your core. “Don’t pull away from me.” Words muddled in your clit. “Don’t act all shy now.” He taunted, dragging his tongue through your slick with deliberate pressure.
His fingers, two of them, thick and rough, sliding in like he owned you with no warning. Your whole body bucked, but his free hand pressed down hard on your hip to keep you in place.”
You cried out as his fingers curled.
A grin brushed your skin as his fingers moved deeper, harder, pumping in rhythm with his tongue. “Can’t even think now, can you?” He taunted.
You hands scrambled for his shoulders, his hair, the sheets—anything to ground yourself for a second. But you were gone, completely undone, stretched wide and full and throbbing as he did whatever he wanted like a man possessed.
He wasn’t letting up. He even groaned when you clenched around his fingers, even when he tried to twist away again. “Oh, no,” he tutted. “You’re not going anywhere.”
You legs began to tremble again, a knot in your stomach building. Your whole body burned. “Kylo—”
“You’ll cum again.” He demanded, mixing his thumb in with his tongue until you cried out. “And you’ll thank me for it.” He slowed just a little, pulling back an inch. “Beg.”
You gasped. “Please.”
“Louder.”
He pressed his thumb into you, putting his mouth back on you.
“Oh—fuck—please. Kylo, please!”
“Mhm,” He murmured, fingers curling just right, mouth locking on the spot that made your spine arch off the bed. “That’s more like it.”
You were gone, you couldn’t stop it as he pushed you over the edge again, this time harder. So hard that your thighs clamped around his head and your whole body convulsed beneath him. You came with a scream, messy, helpless, trembling with the weight of it all, sobbing his name into the air of his room.
Only then did he lift his head, lips slick, eyes dark, chest rising like he hadn’t breathed that whole time. And he smiled. Wicked. Victorious.
“You’re not going anywhere tonight.”
You twitched as his fingers dragged mindlessly over your core one more time, a grunt of overstimulation coming from your mouth. You’re too sensitive now, your hips jolting off the mattress.
“Fuck—Kylo…”
He grunted in satisfaction, watching you squirm. His lips curled up sadistically as you panted, completely ruined beneath him, legs still spread for him. Your body was limp, but his eyes never left yours.
He saw the flicker in your expression. The heat hadn’t dimmed, not even after everything he just pulled from you. His thumb traced the curve of your lips, slow now, like he was savoring the sight of what he’s done to you. You caught his thumb in your mouth, letting your teeth graze it just enough before releasing it with a little pop.
“You’re still not done?” He asked with a darkly amused tone. “After all that?”
You smirked despite yourself. “I thought you wanted me begging. You think you earned it yet?”
His entire presence shifted, stiffening like a cord as his jaw twitched.
“Get on your knees.” He growled, threaded with heat. “Now.”
You didn’t move. Just blinked up at him through heavy lashes, dragging your palms slowly down your own stomach. “You sure?” You teased, breathy, eyes flickering down to the tent he has been sporting in his pants. “You look like you might finish just watching me.”
His nostrils flared. And then, he was on you again. In one rough movement, he grabbed your jaw in one hand and hauled you upright with the other, dragging you to the edge of the bed before your feet could really find the floor. You yelped at the sudden movement as you found your balance before he spun you and pressed you down.
“Knees,” He repeated. “Don’t make me tell you again.”
This time you obeyed, letting your hands trail over the planes of his stomach, his hips, as you dropped to the floor in front of him. Your knees hit the cold floor, legs already shaking but steady as you looked up at him.
His eyes were hooded, half lidded as he breathed through an open mouth. His jaw tensed as you reached for his waistband.
“Show me, baby.” He said. “Show me how much you missed me.” He watches your every move.
Your fingers hooked under the fabric, dragging it down until his cock sprung free, slapping his stomach. It was flushed, heavy, tip wet from how badly he’d been wanting this. How long he’s waited.
You tilted your chin up, expression so smug, even from this angle. “You like giving orders, don’t you?” You whispered, licking your lips. “You like making me listen.”
He wrapped a hand in your hair, far from gentle. His eyes were molten.
“You don’t listen,” He dragged you closer. “That’s the fucking problem.”
You gripped his bare thighs, biting your lip with a teasing expression meant to get under his skin.
“Open.” The word dropped like a command. You did, but his grip in your hair twisted slightly. “Wider.” And you even stuck out your tongue a little for him.
He dragged his tip across it, slow at first, just for the sake of savoring the sight of you… your lips parted, your breath hot. His hand was wrapped around the base of his cock, guiding himself inside your offering hole deeper, inch by inch, until your lips stretched around him and your throat constricted with the depth.
He muttered a curse you couldn't quite make out, your fingernails curling around the back of his thighs. His head tilted back for just a second before his eyes dropped back down to you. “...so good…”
He didn’t let you set the rhythm, he just started to move. Firmly fucking into your mouth like it was his right to. And it was. You choked once and he hissed, but didn’t pull back.
“Too much?” His voice mocking. “Didn’t think so.”
You whimpered around him, tears already lining your eyes with how deep he pressed. You prayed he didn’t stop. Not when he sounded like that. Not when he finally gave in.
“You missed this, didn’t you?” He grunted, pulling back just enough for you to breathe, then shoving forward again, deeper. “Missed the way I use you. Mouth open. Just taking it.”
You moaned around him, trying to get some leverage on his legs, your knees scuffing the floor as he guided your head back and forth, using your mouth like it was his. His hand had never loosened in your hair, not even a little.
“Should’ve been doing this for weeks.” He picked up the pace, grunting between sentences. “Should’ve kept you on your knees so you didn’t forget who you belong to.”
You gagged as he thrusts deeper, rougher now, groaning low as your throat tightens.
“Can’t answer me, huh?” His voice was breathless, wrecked, lips parted as he watched his cock disappear into your mouth. “Nothing smart to say now, huh, baby?” He laughed at you. “Fucking perfect like this.”
Your eyes had fallen shut, jaw beginning to sore from how you stretched around him, throat working to take him all the way in. Every groan, every thrust, every stutter of his breath drove you deeper into a haze.
His grip in your hair suddenly tightened and he pulled you off of him with a wet gasp.
“Hey,” he called, leaning down to your level. “Look at me.” His voice was sharp, commanding.
You blinked your eyes open, tears at the corner, lips swollen, chin wet. You looked up… and the moment your eyes met his, something snapped again.
“Fuck,” he breathed and yanked you up by your jaw, fast and hard. You stumbled up onto shaky legs only to feel his hands catch your ass and lift, hoisting you up effortlessly. Your legs wrapped around him instinctively as he pushed forward.
You gasp as your back is slammed against the wall. The frame rattled. His mouth crushed into yours, so sloppy and hungry and breathless. One hand gripped the back on your thigh tightly while the other roamed freely on your tits. His cock just pressed against your center, hard and leaking, rutting desperately through the soaked mess between your thighs.
“You’re fucking mine.” He growled into your mouth, biting your bottom lip before devouring it again. “Say it.” You only moaned, too dazed to speak. He rolled his hips again, dragging a filthy sound from your throat. “Need you to say it.” He barked, biting down on your shoulder, rutting against you like he couldn't take it anymore. “Tell me.”
You barley managed a gasp, but you did it. “I’m yours, Kylo.”
“Good girl.”
You didn’t even feel him reach down until the drag of his cock prodded at your entrance. He slammed into you. He buried himself in one hard and brutal thrust. It was so deep and sudden it knocked a breath clean out of your lungs. Your head hit the wall again, a cry from your throat that he swallowed instantly with his mouth on yours, hips already dragging back only to drive in harder. It all echoed through your body.
You whimpered against his lips, clinging to him with your arms wrapped around his neck, fingernails digging into his back so harshly you’re sure to leave marks. He never slowed down or hesitated. His rhythm was relentless, frenzied, filthy.
You moaned out something that sounded like his name, but you were so out of it he couldn’t be sure.
“Yeah?” He mocked, growling, biting down on your jaw as your head tipped back against th cool metal. “This is what you wanted? This is what you’ve been begging for?”
You couldn’t make out a coherent sentence. Just gasps and moans, your legs shaking where they were locked together behind him.
He rolled his hips harder, deeper, your whole body felt it.
“That shut you up quick.” He sneered against your neck, every work vibrating across your skin. “Can’t even talk now, huh?”
You let out a wrecked noise, your forehead pressed to his as he fucked you against the wall, as you clawed at his shoulder and held on for dear life. You didn't notice how loud you were being anymore. He was slamming into you like he wanted the whole ship to know.
“Touch yourself.” He snarled suddenly. “Right now.”
It took you a second to process, but you reached between your sweaty bodies with a shaking hand, fingers sliding into your own soaked heat just to feel where he stretched you open, where he was ruining you. He looked down and groaned at the sight of it—at the feel of your hand brushing his cock with every circle you made on your clit.
“Oh, fuck,” he bit out, then cooed. “That’s it. Fuck, that’s it. You gonna cum on my cock like this, baby? Squeezing me so tight I can’t fucking think?”
You lazily nodded, a tear spilling as you gasped against his cheek, thighs trembling. You were so close again, and he could feel it.
He slammed into you harder, faster, moaning and grunting as his hand wrapped around the back of your neck, holding you still and forcing eye contact.
“Don’t look away.” He kissed you sloppily. “I want to see it.”
It was right there. Your brows pinched, a whiny moan exploding slowly from your mouth before the knot snapped. You came hard around him with a strangled dry, your whole body shaking. He groaned, the tight wet clench of you nearly dragging him under too.
But he didn’t finish.
He groaned deep in his chest, and when your fingers stilled he pulled out. It was too sudden for your liking, but your mind was so cloudy with the after shocks. He let you collapse back against the wall, legs trembling too hard to hold your own weight, but he caught you before you could fall.
He turned, still holding you, dragging you back to the bed with a look in his eyes that told you he wasn’t done with you just yet. He dropped you onto the bed very unceremoniously—face down, limp, gasping to catch your breath. Your body was slick with sweat and barely able to move. You felt boneless as you shook, but, fuck, you could care less.
You felt the weight of his body climb over you, and he nudged your knees apart with his own.
“Stay just like that.” He murmured, voice rough from strain, pleasure, command. “Don’t move.”
You would've laughed if you had it in you. You couldn't move if you tried.
His hand gripped your hip, pulling you back against him. He didn’t waste a moment.
The sound he made when he slid back inside of you was nothing short of guttural. You gasped at the stretch, the angle, the ache. It was almost too much.
Almost.
He didn’t give you time to adjust.
He was slow at first, for his own sake. Just deep, dragging thrusts that pushed you forward on the bed… Then faster. More urgent. Bordering brutal. He leaned over you, chest pressed to your back, his weight caging you there as your fingers curled into the sheets and your eyes squeezed shut.
“Fuck,” he breathed, lips near your ear. “You’re still so tight, sweetheart. After everything I’ve done to you…” He pressed a kiss against your damp temple.
You whine. It’s all you could manage.
He laughed, low and hoarse, fucking into you like he couldn’t help it anymore.
“You look so fucking good like this.” He mentioned, thrusts unrelenting, moaning before he continued. “Face down on my bed. You’re fucking brainless. You’re just taking what I give you. You were made for this, weren't you?”
You let out a sob into the sheet, too far gone to care how desperate you sounded.
“Shh,” He soothed, a hand brushing your hair back from your face so he could kiss your cheekbone. “I know. I know, you’re tired, baby. But you can give me one more.”
You shook your head, or tried to, your breath stuttering broken moans to the rhythm of his hips.
“Oh, but you can.” He crooned, pressing his hands over yours, threading your fingers together as he drove into you. “You’re gonna give me one more. You’re gonna let me have that. Just like this.”
Your body jolted with every thrust now, legs shaking, thighs clenching as your whole body fought to hold onto something.
“You’re doing so good for me,” he murmured against your shoulder. “Taking it so well. Almost there, aren't you? I can feel it.”
You were. Gods, you were.
He let go of your hands and reached between you and the mattress, between your legs again. He found your clit quickly and you gasped, the sound ragged and broken. His hips stuttered for a second at how your body clenched down around him.
His fingers didn’t let up. He pressed firm circles over your clit with the same rhythm as his thrusts, grounding you to the bed like he wanted you to melt into it. He was so deep, so close, louder now. Each breath punching out of him was with a ragged and desperate edge. His composure had shattered and all that was left was primal need.
He hissed through clenched teeth, lips dragging over your shoulder. You whimpered, mouth open, head tilted and cheek flat against the crumpled sheets.
“Come on,” he urged, rushed, gasping between thrusts. “I know that look. You’re almost there—let me have it, baby. Please, just one more.”
His hips jolted harder, but his rhythm was stumbling now like his control was starting to slip, but his fingers didn’t stop. His forehead pressed to the back of your neck, hot and damp.
“I need it. I need to feel you again.”
Your back arched despite your body trembling, and he let out the most broken sound yet. Almost a cry of the pending relief. He felt the way you clenched, the way your breath caught and your whisper pitched higher.
“Fuck, yes, just like that. That’s it. Good girl. You’re right there.” His voice cracked. “Let me have you. Please—please, just let go for me.”
It happened so fast. It rushed through you and you rambled something incoherent into the sheets just before the wire snapped. Your full body was trembling, muscles tensing and twitching against your will, only contained by the weight of his body.
He came undone with you, but you barely heard the sharp curse he groaned against your spine. The way his hands clutched you tight as he spilled into you in hot spurts, every muscle in his drawn taut as a bowstring. His hips stuttered before they slowed, grinding deep as he rode it out with a sound that could only be described as animalistic.
He stayed pressed to your back, chest heaving, one arm curled under your body, the other still tangled loosely with yours on the mattress. He didn’t move. He didn’t pull out. He didn’t say a word.
He was heavy on top of you, but it felt so comforting. Slowly, you regained some sort of consciousness of your surroundings. His breath on your back, the quiet hum of the ship, the feeling of his hand on yours.
He finally muttered against you. “...You happy now?”
It came out rough and barely coherent. As if he wasn’t sure if it was a joke or surrender, but his tone broke a quiet laugh that you muffled into the mattress, despite how your muscles trembled. He chuckled too, mouth brushing against the side of your neck. You could feel him smiling against your skin, the way his heart stammered quickly behind his ribs.
The laughter gave away to silence as your collective heaving stilled, muscles slowly unlocking. Your bodies are still stuck together, damp and shaking, still tangled in each other. But slowly, reluctantly, he slipped out of you.
The emptiness was instant. A space left behind made you whine without meaning to. He felt it too because he didn’t go far. Just enough to roll to your side and shift you gently with him until your back was curled into his chest and his arm was slung tight around your waist. His legs tangled with yours, his nose pressed behind your ear.
You were limp against him, completely spent. “Can’t move.” You whispered in a raspy voice.
He dragged a hand up your naked side, slow and possessive. “I’d be impressed if you could.”
You were defiant at heart, so you shifted. You tried to lift a leg and roll forward to prove him wrong.
But his arm tightened instantly, dragging you back into him with strength and he held you tighter.
“So fucking stubborn,” his voice thick with satisfaction. He kissed just below your ear with a hint of a smirk playing on his lips. “Brat.”
Your smile was small, but real. Relieved. You let yourself relax against him. “I win.” You sing. “I got you to break.”
“And now you can’t walk.” He said smugly, nuzzling into your shoulder. “Congratulations.”
You exhale a breathy laugh and his arms fully engulfed you.
You stayed there for a long moment, just laying with each other. Bones fusing with one another in a relaxed position that you could have laid in all night.
But he shifted.
“We should probably hit the fresher again.” He said so casually, sitting up.
You groaned into the sheets. “I already told you. I can’t move.”
“Mm.” He leaned in, brushed your messy hair back from your temple and pressed a kiss to your bare shoulder. Slow, sweet, like maybe he was letting you settle again. Your eyelids fluttered shut.
Then, without warning, his arms slid under you and yanked you straight off the bed.
You yelped. “Kylo!”
He stood, your body dangling against his chest, your back pressed to him like a harness.
“This is a rescue mission.” He grunted, staggering a bit as he adjusted his hold. “You’re my hostage.”
“Oh my god,” you laughed, breathlessly clutching his forearm. “You’re delirious.”
“I’m serious,” he said, deadpan, marching toward the fresher. “You’re being detained for… sedition. Against my self control.”
You barked out another sharp laugh. “That is the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard you say.”
“I’ll add it to your record.”
“Oh yeah? What else is on there?”
“Indecent conduct in the field. Insubordination during active sparring. Unauthorized use of my training shirt.”
He kicked the door open and carried you in. “You are unwell.”
He set you down on the cool tile of the sink counter, leaning forward, arms braced on either side of you. “And I blame you entirely.”
You stared at him with a grossly genuine smile on your face, and he stared right back.
In that moment, you saw him, really. So honest and unfiltered. The look he gave you made your heart feel like it was swelling.
Your arms lifted, curling round his neck, drawing him in a little. You tilted your chin and brushed your nose slightly along his. He closed the gap first this time, meeting you in the middle. The kiss was soft, on purpose, like you both finally agreed at the same time.
You weren't teasing, or trying to prove anything. This one was for you. For him. Gentle and lasting. When you pulled back, a small satisfied hum left you.
A thought bloomed quietly inside your chest, curling deep beneath your ribs.
You really, really liked him.
All of him.
The one who could devour you like an animal and the one who made stupid jokes afterwards and the one who took care of you with so much intention it pissed you off. No one else got these versions of him… but you did.
she was the talk of the building. having a quote, unusual relationship with the man himself, hiromi higuruma. though, not proven their looks say so that everyone seems to know.
it's not uncomfortable.
common? yes.
but being bent over the table with hiromi making you read all the typos you have done in a simple client letter— your skirt pulled up in your waist, panty hose and panties down to your knees.
his hand soothing the soft skin, soft hand-print painted skin.
making you learn of your mistakes, just so you wouldn't bury yourself into the void of disappointment.
learning to please yourself and him, rather.
their dynamics? uncommon.
but that's just the talk. who knows if it's real, he wouldn't even look at you anyway.
the office was quiet, almost concentrated on what needed to be done. her fingers rambled in her keyboard, only focusing on the text that should be written in the letter. there comes higuruma — storming through the halls with his suit and slacks flowing as he steps.
her ears can already hear he could be demanding again making her lips escape a quiet sigh.
"where's the letter that I've been requesting?" his tone was firm, standing tall; face slightly distressed from she doesn't know what he is even doing that may cause it. then her fingers stopped working.
"I prioritized the letter for Mr. Nakamichi because you needed it today." she might sound confident and calm but deep inside, she's far more than worried— to please him.
she did it in purpose.
to purposely forget it.
just then, higuruma realized he didn't follow up the letter he urgently needed today. his eyes flickered into something she can't understand. his expression wasn't easily read by anyone anyway.
"efficient. finish that off and write the letter, 5:30 pm I need it in my office." then immediately storms off like nothing happened. she didn't even have time to react knowing how serious this maybe for him.
but she's used to that.
so used.
5:25 pm sharp, her heels clicked into the hallway while her hand held the important paper. not bothering to knock, she opened the door. higuruma was reading an important paper giving no attention with her presence.
she walked into his desk already knowing he wouldn't care.
"the letter," she mentioned but no verbal replies. it was an obvious response so she placed it in his desk, grabbing an envelope from his table-
"if you place that inside the envelope with mistakes." he says without looking at her, seeing his hooked nose from the side— her breathe hitched. her fingers stopped and dropped the envelope, not a single response coming from her.
"are you sure?"
"you can proofread it, sir."
"that's a yes or no question, ms. (l/n)."
then his eyes burned a hole in hers, she blinked.
"yes, sir."
"you may leave."
it's like waiting for a bomb to tick, despite knowing the consequences she can't fucking wait— for him to ring the bell so she can bend over, feel his hands on the very curve of her body. his lips on her ears, earning malicious praises.
it's so fucking wrong, but it's making her feel right.
training her to be perfect. to be sorry for her mistakes, so the next time she will be able to please him.
and every minute is making her feel so anxious. her teeth biting into her lower lip, her pen clicking, and her stilettos hitting the table.
buzz. buzz.
"ms. (l/n)-" that voice of his immediate made her bolt, like she's been anticipating this moment.
it was no surprise that she came immediately, he's aware. too aware.
he learned quickly, the way these typos are made. the forgotten letter, how can she even forget? she might be the most organized person ever, she refused not to please him.
but, now he understands.
she's finding the satisfaction in feeling wrong and him making it right.
he then stood up from his desk, raising the paper between his fingers. seeing her eyes— he knew it. it's like a kid seeing a treat.
"6 typos, 3 wrong grammar, and 2 misuse of marks." he says making her breath heavily. then he gave it to her, standing tall like a damn post making her feel vulnerable.
"sir?"
"ms. (l/n), even a third grader wouldn't make the same mistakes. you're a qualified secretary with a degree." he sighs; disappointment? and she fucking hated that.
she couldn't bring herself to speak, shame? is that it? seeing him like this, enough to make her knees weak. the loose first two buttons of his blouse, wrinkled suit, and his loose tie.
"what is it that you want, (l/n). say it." he spoke firmly, definitely an order.
she feels that strange feeling crawling in her back. it's almost filthy what she's thinking about all day.
she's been so good for a week straight to keep the speculations down.
this is so filthy. her stomach was aching already.
"I'm just going to re-write it, sir." but it's too late, hiromi could already see the shame in her.
"you're never going to survive a trial, are you?" because, she couldn't even answer those questions. simple questions. before she could even turn around and leave like she always does when she's too shy to even speak up, he immediately spoke.
"just tell me."
"is it because of the filthy comments people are saying?"
"hiromi." she says as if wanting to make him keep his voice down.
"you're just going to answer me."
stubborn. individualistic too much?
she sighs, wetting her lower lips trying to keep herself calm. she steps up making their contact so much closer. not knowing how to confess the filth she's been thinking about.
"I-" she exhales, looking away for a moment then back at him— the strand of his hair falling, his hooked nose, and impatient expression. fuck.
"I purposely made the mistake, sir." she says as if confessing a sin.
"so you can punish me." she says now looking away out of shame, so far from what she thinks about earlier.
higuruma didn't respond. it was amusing that she's admitting this right now, very submissive she is. he grins lightly.
she was bent into the desk, the papers slightly crumpled because of her position and weight. her skirt was raised up, revealing her bare ass; her pooled cunt.
"higuruma," she quietly whimpers feeling another strike on her left, causing it to ripple and leave a mark.
"sir." he corrected.
"sir, fuck." she buries her face into the desk feeling the sting within her skin, but the pleasure was building a coil inside of her. feeling the void of her emptiness.
"have you heard what they're saying?" he spoke in her ear, feeling the hot hitch of his breath.
"yes, sir."
another strike.
"have you been listening?"
"no, sir."
another strike.
it didn't matter what they were saying, she learned that because it's the truth. so what if that's the truth? it's shameful but fuck, if this doesn't feel as good as it is.
she loves this, more than she ever cared to admit and hiruguma didn't expect much coming from his, well, very shy secretary.
this feeling, she can't explain it. it's like a million fireworks exploding inside of her when he's around— ever since this, ever since the first time. her body was ultimately submitting, not just sexually but how she acts towards him. that's why she never learned to listen to whoever person talks about them.
"hiromi, fuck." she sobs holding into his hair tightly, feeling the flicker and suction on his lips— devouring that bud and juice, with his fingers pumping in and out merciless.
she's so fucking perfect.
his bulge was feeling packed inside his pants, throbbing and eager to meet hers.
"is this what you want?" his nose was resting between the slit making her feel this certain ecstacy. she fucking love that nose.
"yes, sir. fuck, fuck." she cries grinding purposely, feeling his nose nudge the bud.
he felt a sense of satisfaction.
"im cumming- shit, oh my god!" she cries gripping into his arm tightly, his tongue is absolutely diabolical.
the way her eyes roll in the back of her skull, her thighs rippling as it shakes, and her filthy fucking moans calling out for who knows exist.
he felt that sense of satisfaction, the one he feels when he's winning.
the same euphoria that rushes in his blood when the judge announced his victory.
that feeling he feels when she's trying her best to make him smile every damn day with those treats from the bakery.
he felt way too satisfied.
"you're so good, doll." he whimpers in her ear watching her bounce on his shaft, her pussy swallowing him in so easily yet tightly. his hand on her hips, guiding her through it.
"mhm," she nodded feeling his other hand getting busy on her, his thumb brushing on her lower lip.
"you're smart, hm?" he says referring to the fact she's making mistakes purposely to have him.
"my smart fucking doll."
"my good doll."
" 'atta girl."
he can feel his balls tightening already, this undeniably filthy yet glorious view in front of him. the way her tits bounce, he's holding back not to cum inside her. to make her officially his. his tie on her neck. fuck.
"im cumming, higu." she says burying her face in his neck, moaning messily. he continues to thrust from under, holding her more gentle this time. feeling her vulnerability giving in, their connection getting tighter and tighter every second.
"i love you, higu-"
she sobs feeling the tight coil pop, weakening in his arms. his member throbbing as it shoots ropes of cum inside of her. he then held her tightly.
he's feeling vulnerable and he heard it.
he stroked her back, making sure she feels loved.
"i love you too," he whispers.
he doesn't care if whoever is hearing them right now, he's too individualistic to give a damn. he's making love right, not his fault. they can't speak about her when he's around, most likely not now even if she's alone.
if there's something these people dare to forget in their gossip, it's the fact that every after work, he's taking her out and treating her nicely just like how she deserves it.
that he grows an orchid in his office because hse likes it and he eats the bakery goods.
just like the last time, this author right here says hiruguma is a lover.
ෆ PIXIE'S NOTE ! : inspired by SECRETARY (2002) plus this is my second and last freakyy ahh posting ✌🏻 took me a lot of balls to write ts, not proofread bye 🤤 no more FREAKY WRITING 😡
─ REBLOGS, LIKES, AND COMMENTS ARE APPRECIATED & FEEL FREE TO JOIN MY TAGLIST!
you've been my muse for a long time, you get me through every dark night ☾
synopsis: you weren't quite a part of the resistance, but you definitely didn't agree with the order, and certainly not with the brooding, terrifying leader. since you found out the truth about your lineage, you'd been drifting through the galaxy, running away from a life you were scared to live. through it all was the insistent, haunting voice, rattling around in your skull.
warnings: smut, improper use of the force, enemies to lovers but kinda a secret third thing, speaking/touching through the force, choking, f masturbation mentioned, kinda fighting for dominance, arguing, lots of angst, pain mentioned, vague dubcon but not noncon at any point, really rough idk, spitting, violence, mentions of death, healing, breeding kink, size kink, oral both receiving
wc: 5.5k
notes: idk what possessed me to re-enter my kylo phase but sure i hope you guys don't hate this! also the plot is lowkey reylo.. oops
you were good at running. the galaxy had taught you early on that speed and distance were better shields than allegiance, and you’d worn that lesson into your bones. ships, jobs, faces; they blurred together. what stayed constant was the refusal to choose, and the refusal to give in, to let your last name and heritage dictate your life story. no resistance, no order, no destiny. you told yourself you were free, except for him. the voice had been a splinter at first, static when you tried to sleep, the impression of someone else’s breath in your lungs. you ignored it until ignoring became impossible, until it hurt. the bond punished you when you shut it out too long, a sharp ache in your chest, ribs threatening to cave, veins buzzing like they were filled with sparks. once, you’d gone nearly three days without acknowledging it, only to collapse on your ship’s floor, choking. when you gasped his name into the dark, the pain stopped instantly. he liked that.
"you can't escape me," his voice was heavy in your mind, weighing down on your sternum, threatening to crush your chest, "even when you try," you hated how your body reacted, hated that your skin heated under his attention, hated that you sometimes whispered back. nights were often worse. the bond thrummed hot, insistent. you were in your bunk, a thin blanket tangled around your legs, ship humming quiet. you tried to push him out, tried to think of nothing at all. the pain came sharp, like teeth pressing behind your ribs. "fuck," you hissed, clutching your chest. his satisfaction rolled in like a tide. "crying for me?" he mocked, echoing in your mind. "go to hell," "oh, darling, we both know you'd follow,"
you learned quickly that distance didn’t matter. planets, systems, hyperspace lanes, none of it dulled the bond. sometimes you caught him on the edge of your vision, standing on the bridge of the finalizer, surrounded by officers who didn’t dare breathe too loudly. you could feel his control, the way he injected his fury into every beat of silence. other times, he slipped into your mind when you were drinking in some seedy cantina, pretending you were ordinary. once, when you tried to block him out, the bond burned until your knees hit the durasteel floor of your ship. "stop fighting me," he growled, resonating in your thoughts, in your bones. "just leave me alone," you forced back, feeling it ripple through the bond, satisfied as you felt your anger seep into him. your paths began crossing in the flesh, too. twice in the span of a month, he cornered you at ports, eyes sharp beneath that terrifying mask. he never drew his saber, never arrested you, never killed you. just stood there, breathing like a storm, before letting you go. and every time, the bond sang louder.
one night, while you were bathing, you felt him slip in, his presence brushing your skin like phantom fingers. you gasped, covering yourself though there was no one there. "stop it," you snarled aloud. he didn’t. the bond pulsed as though he were dragging his gaze down your body, as though he could see every droplet of water clinging to you. the ache in your chest sharpened until you gave in. "fine," you spat, spreading your legs in the steaming water, "you want to watch? then watch," his answering groan made your thighs clench. you could see him in your mind, his intense eyes dark, his lips flush as he dug his teeth into the flesh. after that, it became a game. sometimes you touched yourself just to spite him, to flood the bond with sensation until his control cracked. sometimes he answered back, dragging you to the edge without a hand, forcing your body to obey his will across light years. it was sick, but it was intoxicating.
the third time he cornered you in person, he spoke. no mask, just eyes black as empty space and a voice that crawled down your spine, unnerved you. "they’re weak," he said, "the resistance. they’ll break. the order is rotting from the inside out, but you and me," his hand twitched, like he wanted to touch you, to reach out, "we could be something else entirely," you laughed in his face, "me and you? i’d rather die," but your chest burned when you tried to turn away, the bond tightening like a noose. "as if i would let you die," he hissed, "as if you could get away from me that easily," in a blink, he was gone, leaving you trembling and strangely cold. that night, you started another stint of running, more than you ever had before.
the order began to notice. there were whispers on the bridge, officers exchanging glances when their commander froze, head tilted like he was listening to someone they couldn’t hear. general hux smirked openly, sneering about phantoms and ghosts. once, he muttered your name within earshot. kylo nearly cut him in half. his obsession was no longer subtle. he searched for you between missions, ordered scouts to chase rumors. he never admitted it aloud, not to them. only to you. you haunted him, late at night when he was alone, his skin burning, aching to touch you, to have you. he closed his eyes, your face playing on a loop, searing into his mind.
you tried, one last time, to shut him out completely. you'd put all of your focus into it, wishing him away. the pain was immediate. your lungs felt as if they had collapsed, your ribs screamed, your skull felt like it was cracking in two. you clawed at the floor of your ship, gasping. far away, you felt him drop too, on his knees in the middle of the bridge, officers recoiling. you both surrendered at the same time. "enough," you sobbed, shaking and afraid. "come to me," it echoed through your head, swimming in the currents of agony. you should have run, should have given it one last try. instead, you set a course.
the finalizer swallowed your ship whole. stormtroopers dragged you to him, straight to his quarters, but you were already trembling, the bond clawing like fire under your skin. he dismissed the guards with a flick of his hand. the moment the door shut, you broke. you were shouting, spitting, fury sharp on your tongue, "you ruined my life, you- you monster!" he slammed you against the wall, his breath hot, his body vibrating with restraint. "you think i want this?" he growled, "you think i asked for it? you’re in me. every second, every breath. do you think i don’t hate it too?" you glared at him, gathering all you could muster and spitting at his face, watching it land just above his lip. he snarled, and you watched with wide eyes as his gloved thumb collected the liquid, dragging it to his mouth, lips wrapping around leather. "you think fighting makes you strong," he growled, "it doesn't. it makes you pathetic and disillusioned enough to believe you could possibly hurt me,"
you opened your mouth to scream, to tell him to let you go, to threaten him, but were met with a white hot searing pain in your head, pulsing behind your eyes. "i know exactly who you are," his voice filled your mind, though his lips didn't move, "i know exactly what you're capable of, palpatine. what a shame it is, generations coming to fall beneath my hand, all because i've weakened you. tell me, when you're afraid, is it me that you picture? or do i fill your thoughts when you dream of salvation?" "you have no idea what i'm capable of," you spat through gritted teeth, "as if i could ever imagine you and salvation coexisting. you are to be my damnation, ren, and i will not allow it," you gathered up every ounce of strength you possessed, tearing away from his force hold, every thread of the bond protesting as you forced him against the wall, your hands trembling and jaw clenched tight. you held him there, nearly delighted in the way his breath quickened, but then he was laughing, loud and deep.
you startled, your grip on the force slipping, and he took his opportunity to surge towards you, eyes gleaming, "you think you could hurt me?" he snapped, "any power you hold is power i've allowed you to have, darling. you think because you have your grandfather's abilities that makes you special?" he took a step closer, boots echoing on the durasteel, "i am, and will remain, the most powerful man in any galaxy. you are strong, yes, but you are foolish. i could fix that. i plan to fix that," you started towards him, and you were flung to the far wall, your breath knocked from your lungs with a strangled gasp. "you're making me do this," he said, sounding almost regretful, "things could be easy, if you would just behave," "i will never submit to you," you snarled, "i'll die fighting if i must," "oh, darling," he tsk'd, "i have seen visions of your future, of ours. you have no idea how untrue that statement is,"
you opened your mouth to speak, only for the air to be taken from your lungs once again, a shadow of pressure tightening around your throat. "give in," he cooed, almost mocking, "let me show you what it could be like, my darling," goosebumps rose on your skin as invisible touch ghosted over you, snaking beneath your clothes, cold against your skin. he released your throat as you teetered on dizziness, blood rushing back to your head, choked coughs leaving you. "i can hear your heart beating," he said, "you're not afraid of me. you're afraid of how desperately you yearn for me," you shuddered at the pressure building between your thighs, fighting against it, "i will never want you. you're a monster, a murderer-"
"you think i have not seen what you've done?" he laughed harshly, "you have scorned people, hurt them, killed them, all to escape your fanatical destiny. it's absurd," "i did what i had to do!" you nearly screamed, the lights of his chambers flickering against the force. "yes, as have i," he seemed pleased, almost, "we are one and the same, as you would know if you would stop your incessant fighting, your needless running. i know you better than you know yourself, my star, and it thrills me," "you know nothing about me," you argued, but you knew deep down that he was right, because really, you knew him just as well, "i should kill you, right here," "darling, if you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already. you have been unbound since i released you, yet you haven't even tried, because you know you would regret it,"
you faltered, moving and realizing you'd done so freely. you opened your palm, satisfied when the cool steel of your saber met your skin, red light humming to life as your fingers clasped around it. you met kylo's eyes, but he was unmoved, seemingly unaffected. "you won't kill me," he said simply, watching as you stepped closer, "though this is quite entertaining," you didn't reply, just raised your weapon, swinging towards him. in the blink of an eye, his saber roared to life in his hand, coming to meet yours, two red lights clashing. "i don't want to fight you," he said over the buzz of light, "don't make me hurt you," "i thought it was entertaining," you mocked, jerking your saber away to swing for him again. "fine," he spat, "we'll do it your way, darling,"
the two of you fought, hand over hand, sabers clashing and boots scuffing against steel, occasional grunts leaving his flushed lips. "i hate you," you practically screamed, swinging your arm. he misstepped, faltered, and in a flurry of movement, your saber grazed his chest, tearing through his suit, tearing skin. he collapsed, and for a moment, panic seized your heart, halted your breathing. "get up," you demanded, eyeing him skeptically, "ren, get up," when he didn't reply, when you could no longer see his chest moving, you fell to your knees beside him, eyes wide, hands trembling, "kylo?" for one terrible, agonizing moment, you thought he'd died, that you'd killed him. you couldn't hear him, couldn't feel him in your veins, could only feel the bone chilling, hollowed out pain of what you assumed was your severed bond.
you felt for a pulse, and were indescribably relieved to be met with a slow heartbeat. you thought, for a moment, that you could leave him there. you could run, flee the ship, leave him bleeding for someone else to deal with. before you could entertain it any further, your hands seemed to be working on their own, palms humming with energy as you ran them along the wound on his chest, watching your life force flow into him, the skin fusing shut. "i knew you cared," his voice filled your head, and you gasped, eyes flickering to his face to be met with open, dark eyes. "i thought i killed you," you exhaled breathily. "so you were giving your life to save mine?" his gloved hand caught your wrist when you moved to turn away, "yet you insist you hate me, that you want me dead. you could not live without me, my star. we are a dyad in the force. we must remain,"
"i was doing the right thing," you hated how weak you suddenly sounded, "that's all," "i can feel your life flowing through my veins," he took a deep breath, closing his eyes as if in bliss, "it- you- feels fucking incredible," he summoned you closer, face inches from yours, "give in to this, to us. it will feel indescribable, you know it as well as i do. pleasure unrivaled by anything in this universe or any other," "this is wrong," you murmured, eyes flickering to his lips, "the bond is purely incidental, it doesn't mean anything," "lies," his voice rose, "you feel it just as much as i do. i can see it written all over you, darling. you cannot lie to me," "you're deranged," you argued, "i just nearly killed you, and you're asking me to-" "oh, my star, don't you see? that only makes me ache for you more," he almost groaned it, leather gloves settling at the nape of your neck, pulling you closer, "give in. come to me,"
you told yourself you were just worn down, tired of fighting, tired of running. a million excuses rushed through your mind, all to cover and deny your most volatile, inescapable truth. he was a part of you, and you were desperate to keep him, hungry to have more of him. after what felt like a lifetime of hiding, you finally gave in, finally revealed yourself in a way you'd spent years ashamed of. you kissed him, rough and fast, hands fisted in the collar of his suit. he groaned against your lips, surging against you, kissing you hungrily. your hair fell around the two of you in a curtain as you leaned over him, his back to the floor. "you're not in charge here, darling," his voice rang out in your mind, and you huffed in surprise as he rolled you, pinning your back to the cold steel, hot kisses peppering your jawline before his lips slotted against yours once more. you wound your arms around his neck, pulling him closer, the kiss deepening until your teeth gnashed.
the cold air of the room met your skin as the force tore your robes open, your skin pebbling with goosebumps. he pulled away from the kiss, trailing his lips down your jaw, then to your chest. "i have dreamed of this," he sounded wrecked as he pulled the remnants of your top off, leaving you fully bare, "you have no idea the things i have done to you in my mind," he nipped at the skin of your breast, "though i suppose you have fantasies of your own. i've seen the way you've fucked yourself on your fingers," your skin heated, and started to fumble for a witty retort, but then he was dragging down your pants and underwear, shoving your thighs apart. "i bet you taste like honey," he murmured, "let me see for myself, darling?" "yes," you nodded feverishly, nearly panicked with how badly you wanted him, "yes, please," "how beautifully you submit to me," he praised, eyes catching yours as he settled between your legs, pupils blown.
he licked a wide stripe up your core, sighing at the taste, eyes closing and lashes brushing his cheeks as he melted into you. he laved at you like he was starving, losing himself in the taste of you, in the sounds tearing from your throat. you arched your back, wincing as the durasteel bit at your exposed skin, and he faltered. "you're hurt," filled your mind, "the floor?" "i'm fine," you said aloud, "please, don't stop," "can't have you hurt before i'm even done with you," he murmured, shifting until he was lying beside you, chest heaving, "here, sit," "no-" "come here," he insisted, pulling at your wrist, "perhaps you can put that argumentative mouth to use while i have my fun with you, hm?" you nodded, suddenly lost for words as you moved to straddle his face, your face hovering inches from the bulge in his pants. he reached around you to unbuckle them in one motion, seemingly unbothered by the reach, loosening them enough for you to push them down without complaint. then, he settled back on your core, the new angle leaving you gasping immediately.
you fumbled with his pants, finally pushing them down, his cock flushed and hard, just inches from your lips. you ran your hand along his length before finally taking him into your mouth, struggling to accommodate to his size, tongue running along his veins as you took him in deeper. he moaned into you, sucking your clit into his mouth, relentless in his pursuit of your pleasure. you felt that familiar invisible force at the back of your head, guiding you as you choked on his cock, drooling around him. his hands dug into the flesh of your ass as he pulled you harder against his face, tongue pushing inside you, exploring you. you moaned around him, clenching down, your orgasm approaching dizzyingly fast. you pumped what you couldn’t fit with your hand, hollowing your cheeks to suck him in deeper, moaning incessantly, though it was muffled. you pulled away, a string of spit connecting you to his skin, “close,” you managed, breathless and raspy, “fuck, kylo,” “let go for me,” echoed in your head as you took him back into your mouth, lapping at his tip, clenching around his tongue. you came with a muffled near scream, and he fucked up into your mouth as he guided you through it, working you perfectly until you were trembling on his face. he pulled back, tapping your hip, and you whined as you pulled off of his cock, climbing off of him on shaky legs. “bed,” he murmured, gesturing to the other room. “couldn’t have mentioned that before?” you mumbled, and he shot you a look, as if he was challenging you to say more.
you stepped into his bedroom, glancing around, but your curiosity was cut short when he pushed you to the bed, standing above you, one hand stroking your chin. “you still have gloves on,” you caught the tip of one finger in your teeth, and were surprised when he didn’t stop you, didn’t protest. you pulled it off slowly, tossing it aside, and he placed a fingertip to your lips, allowing you to shed him of the other. his hands were beautiful, thick fingers and blue veins, and you found yourself parting your lips again even after the glove was removed, inviting him to explore. he placed his thumb against your tongue, and you latched your lips around it, sucking him into your mouth with a satisfied hum. “good girl,” he murmured, his free hand reaching between your thighs once again, trailing through the sticky mess, “let me fuck you, darling. you’ve made me wait long enough,” you nodded, hazy with lust and dizzy from intensity, letting him slip between your legs and push them towards your chest, spreading you open for him.
“so pretty,” he praised, running his tip along your clit, “you can’t even comprehend how beautiful you are to me,” you let yourself believe it, let your mind drink in his praising, let yourself fall further into this all consuming chasm that you’d been teetering on. he pushed inside of you, tantalizingly slow, letting you feel every inch as he filled you. “oh,” you clenched around him, trying to relax, to let him in, “god, you’re so big,” “look at you,” he ground out, “all stretched out around me. i could break you,” you thought, distantly, that he already had. he pounded into you, hands digging at the backs of your thighs as he held your legs still, breath ragged and sharp. “please,” you managed, unsure what you were even begging for anymore, squeezing down on his cock with every motion of his hips. “please what?” his voice appeared in your head, his mouth busy as he dug his teeth into his bottom lip, “i’ll do anything you ask, darling,” you broke off into a moan, his sudden saccharine sweetness only adding to the wetness between your thighs. “you like that? you like when i’m sweet to you?” he panted, voice hoarse, the sound unfamiliar but welcome to your ears. “yes,” you nodded, quick and desperate, “so good,” “i know, star,” he sounded pitying, cloying, “you can take it, can’t you?” you nodded again, though you weren’t sure you could for much longer.
he slowed his thrusts, burying himself so deep you could see the indentation in the flat of your stomach, your eyes rolling back as he hit that spot deep inside you. “look at that,” he hummed, breathing shaky, “can see myself inside you. how beautiful,” and then he was pounding into you once more, knocking the breath from your lungs. you felt a warm, curling pressure against your clit, but both of his hands remained on your legs, holding you open. “fuck,” you choked out, the force grinding against your swollen, aching nerves, swirling in time with his hips, “oh, kylo,” “ben,” he managed, voice cracking in a deliriously delicious way, “call me ben,” this piqued your curiosity, added to the deepening bond between you, and you took it to heart, stored it away in your mind. “ben, please,” you mewled, “so close, please,” “oh, fuck me,” he growled, hips snapping against yours, “that’s it, darling girl, come on, make a mess of me,” he increased the pressure of the force, and then you were falling over the edge, vision blinking in and out as you came, entire body shaking beneath him.
“good fuckin’ girl,” he panted, twitching inside you, “gonna fuck you full, gonna make you mine forever. you’re gonna take it so good, aren’t you?” when you only nodded, he tapped your face, just enough to get your attention, “say it, baby. tell me you’ll take it,” “i’ll take it,” your voice cracked, and you sounded unfamiliar to your own ears, so lost in the moment, “i’ll take whatever you give me,” “damn right you will,” he sounded distinctly pleased, and then you felt a light pressure on your throat again, warming you as you recalled earlier in the evening, “look at me,” he demanded, “want to see your face when i fill you up,” you watched as he came unraveled, his jaw slack, eyes darker than you’d ever seen them, low, guttural sounds leaving his swollen lips as he came, spreading warmth throughout you. “oh,” his head tipped back, and he swallowed down breaths, chest heaving, “incredible. you’re incredible,” you hummed, watching him attempt and fail to compose himself, before he eventually collapsed beside you on the bed, sweat slick and warm.
“you’re going to be such a beautiful queen,” he murmured, voice raspy, “we’re going to change the galaxies forevermore,” “i never agreed-“ “lies,” he cut you off, tsking, “i thought we agreed no more lies, my darling. i’ll take care of you. we’ll be the most powerful people in the universe, or any other we happen upon, hm? don’t you want that?” you couldn’t ignore the silent question hanging in the air - don’t you want me? - but you tried anyway. “i told you i wanted no part of the order,” you said calmly, though you felt panicked, trapped. “no, my star. no order. only us,” he met your eyes, his fingers sliding to cup your jaw, “it will only ever be us. we don’t need to confine ourselves to order or resistance. they will bow down to the strongest, most tangible power. that which flows between us will be unrivaled by any other creation,” “i don’t want to lord over anyone,” you snapped, attempting to break free from his uncharacteristically soft grasp. “no, no,” he said quickly, almost desperately, “you’ll see it. maybe not now, but you’ll see,” he said it like a promise, like damnation, like his own twisted salvation, “stay with me tonight, darling. we don’t have to discuss it anymore,” you fell asleep next to him easier than you’d ever admit, safe and warm, the bond satiated. you dreamt of ruling, side by side with him, of power the likes of which no one had ever seen. it pleased you, the thought of being feared, of being recognized. when you woke, it was the first thing on your mind.
𑁤 SUMMARY: Tom Riddle and you? Not in a million years. Or that’s at least what you believe until he loses a heated duel against you, and his helpless, bound self reveals one or the other secret—involuntarily.
𑁤 WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. semi-public sex, forced submission, bondage, size kink, Tom may have discovered something called feelings, brief handjob, teasing, riding, unprotected p in v, they’re both in denial tbf, orgasm denial, public humiliation (???)
𑁤 AUTHOR’S NOTE: I have had this very idea FOR MONTHS and I was finally able to write it UGHHHHH I love pathetic enemy!Tom. Period.
wordcount: 4,2k
There are many things certain in your life.
The overwhelming sweetness of honey on your tongue whenever your grandma bakes her delicious special-recipe cookies. Or the birds on your windowsill, waking you every morning at the exact same time with their precious singing.
And, oh, how could you only forget—the irritating, stuck-up, egoistic, self-centred Tom Riddle.
Ever since you came back to start university at Hogwarts, he’s been tormenting you again—but not like before. Not outwardly, never directly, no. He always finds something new to bother you with, often a loophole in the school rules to get you detention with him on purpose.
Detention where you sit in an empty classroom and do nothing but stare out of the window, watching the wind sweep through the crowns of the trees. You could be working, doing homework or studying—but with him glaring at you from the other side of the room, you can’t concentrate, not really.
As much as you wish his honey-brown eyes didn’t affect you, they do.
The same way his stares, his comments, his perfume do when he walks by.
His words that replay in your head like a damn broken record every night before you drift off to sleep.
Prefect, head boy, school representative, trophy winner, fucking teacher’s pet.
You’re sick and tired of it.
It’s as though he’s trying to set you up for failure, as though he knows exactly when you’re out past curfew, when your skirt is just a little too short.
Countless times you’ve questioned why it’s you that he picks out of all the girls who don’t stick to the dress code. Why it’s you who has to sit through two hours of dreadful silence, why it’s you who he reminds of his power as prefect at least once every. damn. week.
You can’t grasp it. After all, the both of you have despised each other since the day you met at the sorting ceremony years ago. Back then, it was for your origin. Now, you are more than certain it’s the fact that you’re just as intelligent as him. Same grades, well-written essays, perfect spell executions and wand control.
Professors praise you just as much as him, even though he’d probably say otherwise.
Trying to get back at him doesn’t work. He has this infuriating calmness to him that you can’t seem to disturb, no matter what you say. It doesn’t change the subtle smirk on his lips as he watches you glare at him during the many hours you’ve involuntarily spent together.
Until you start noticing something strange about him. Well, strange—not necessarily. But uncommon. Now, being a prefect comes with its own special liberties—one of them being unsupervised access to the Restricted Section of the library. At any time of the day, that is.
And of course, with his beloved patrolling, he can sneak into the library without anyone noticing, especially during the night.
Two months ago, when you’d fallen asleep while studying at the very back of the library, you were woken by the tall wooden door creaking open, footsteps hurriedly crossing through the hall and disappearing behind another door—the Restricted Section.
Curious as you were, you quietly got up and peeked through a gap between one of the shelves—and just as you’d expected, it was Tom who reappeared with two books in his arm around five minutes later, locking the separate room and speedily leaving the library again.
From that moment on, you have been intrigued.
Because even prefects aren’t allowed to just take a banned book without leaving notice—which he clearly didn’t.
And so, you might have finally found something to hold against him.
Unfortunately, you don’t remember seeing a title on the books—which would’ve made your investigation a lot easier. You’ve tried spying on him during his patrols, though you only ended up getting caught twice, and so four more agonizing hours of detention to spend with him.
The upcoming exam season shoves many of your worries to the back of your head, including Tom’s interest in forbidden magic. Instead, you’ve been drowning yourself in research papers on rare potion ingredients and where to find them, just like today.
The library is quite crowded at this time of the school year, and you’re having a hard time concentrating—a headache pounding in your temples, exhaustion slowly taking over. The last few days have taken a toll on you, and your sleep deprivation soon has your eyelids fluttering closed, head perched on one of your hands as you fall asleep in front of your unfinished work.
When you wake the next time, it’s silent, dark—eerily so. It must surely be around one or two in the morning at this point, and you’re reaching to pack your books when you hear footsteps, freezing in place.
The door swings open a moment later and a tall figure enters, looking around before they head towards the far end of the room where the Restricted Section is located.
Tom.
The opportunity presents itself on a silver plate, your best chance to catch him red-handed—and this time, he won’t escape.
Shoving your papers aside, you quickly fix your skirt and hurry after him as fast as you can while not making a sound.
The cramped space reeked with the stench of old parchment and dust, so intense you’re quick to cover your mouth as the itchy sensation hits the back of your throat—almost making you cough.
Your eyes scan across the nearly pitch-black room until they find him—his back facing you as he browses through the books on a shelf marked with
“BANNED DARK MAGIC — OBJECTS”
Your mind reels with possibilities of what he might be searching for—though not for long, because as soon as he withdraws a book with a golden spine, he turns to leave.
And you’re, well, stood right at the entrance.
When he spots you there, looking at him with wide eyes, his heart sinks.
You shouldn’t be here, never mind be watching him.
Without even thinking twice about it, he raises his wand, stalking towards you.
“What do you think you are doing here?”
You scoff, fingers inching towards your own wand concealed beneath your robes. “I’ve been meaning to ask you the same question. You aren’t allowed to take books without leaving notice. Not even as a prefect, and especially not from the Restricted Section, Riddle. You should know that.”
“I am well aware,” he says casually, the corner of his mouth lifting into a self-assured grin. “I wasn’t going to take anything.”
If you didn’t have any better things to do, you’d love studying the sheer audacity this man has to lie straight in your face.
“Don’t lie to me. I have seen you steal books from here before.”
His lips press into a thin line at your words, jaw clenched tight. Normally he might’ve left you off with another two hours of detention with him—but now, you really didn’t leave him another choice than—
“Obliviate,” he murmurs, a blue electric light ejecting from the end of his wand in your direction—but you, you swiftly withdraw your wand and counter it perfectly.
“What the fuck, Riddle?” you hiss, taking a step backwards. “That’s against school rules, we shall only—”
“Why would I care?” he sneers, preparing to strike again. “You aren’t going to remember either way.”
This one you manage to dodge too—and even in the silver light of the moon and the flickering candle he’s brought with him, you can see the frustration etched into his features.
Not only are you defending yourself, but you soon gain enough ground to duel him—air buzzing with electricity and missed spells, smoke filling the thick air around you.
Tom grows irritated, nervous even—fingers trembling slightly, causing one of your incantations to bounce off his counter spell, sending a few books from one of the nearby shelves to topple and fall onto him.
It distracts him for just a split second, and you shamelessly use that to your advantage, casting a spell you’ve only recently learned his way.
And in no world did you ever imagine you’d once duel Tom Riddle, let alone beat him—but when the pink electric wave hits his body with a low buzz, the closest chair to him summons, and tight ropes bind him to it in the matter of just two seconds.
Your chest heaves with heavy breaths as you calculate your next move—but when you see him struggling against the binds, his wand out of reach on the floor a few metres away—it’s your turn to smile victoriously.
“What the— stop this!” he groans as you make your way towards him, collecting his wand on the way.
“Well, what did we learn at the very start of our first charms class ten years ago?” You pretend to wonder, admiring the two wands in your hand. His is slightly longer than yours, made of yew wood, crooked at the top. “If I remember correctly, it was something along the lines of ‘a wizard who loses their wand in battle has automatically lost the duel.’”
You scoff as you meet his eyes, standing directly before him. “But you wouldn’t know that—you were busy throwing paper planes at me, after all.”
Tom barely contains the smile that was about to form on his lips at the memory.
How he, even back then, tried his best to distract you from your work, to get you to turn around to him for once, look at him with the expression you wore whenever he bothered you.
Perhaps his favourite look on you.
He quickly discards those thoughts. “If you’re done, we can just forget about this. I’ll let you off with no detention and you keep your mouth shut in return.”
“Oh, but I don’t think so, Riddle. In fact,” you huff a laugh, pointing his wand at the column of his neck where his tie is bound, eyes flicking between his and the book he withdrew from the shelf. “I will get a professor right now. Make them see what kind of evil things you’re researching about.”
Your lips curl into a sly smirk, thriving in the power you’re holding over him—and he’s not able to do anything about it.
Slowly, you retreat. Both wands in your hand as you turn to leave him behind, heading towards the headmaster’s office—until his voice stops you.
“Wait,” he sighs in defeat. “What do you want?”
Oh, there are many things you’d want—but there’s one that comes to your mind instantly.
“You to keep your distance from me. I’ve never done anything to you, and yet the only person spending hours in detention with you is me.”
Tom could give you anything. Access to the prefect’s bathroom, entry to that one concert in the Quidditch stadium which has long sold out, hell, he could have given his recommendation to invite you to the noblest club of the entire school.
But leaving you be? No. That’s simply too much to ask of him.
“I am afraid that I cannot do,” he murmurs, the steady candlelight catching in the depth of his brown eyes as they trail down your body, stopping briefly at your—again—too short skirt before they return to yours.
A mistake, as he soon comes to realise.
“And why’s that?” You demand, looking down at his bound form, still unaware of the thoughts coursing through his mind at this very moment. “If you hate me this much, just ignore me, for fuck’s sake!”
He does hate you, yes. Though not for the reason(s) you may think.
You rant on, and his eyes stay fixed on you. On your face—irritated in the sweetest way—on the buttons of your blouse that barely hold the fabric together, stretched taut. On your thighs that are exposed most inappropriately.
“Why is that, Riddle?” you ask again at last, anger boiling in your veins at the unbothered look on his face.
“Like many things, that’s none of your concern.” he says strictly, though something—the slight shift in his tone—betrays him.
Your eyebrows furrow, scanning his expression—a faint shimmer lighting up behind his eyes when he meets your gaze.
You want to say something, you really do—but it’s as though he’s wiped your brain of any sane, coherent words.
And then—involuntarily, almost—your eyes drop. Drop to the very evident bulge in his fine, hand-tailored trousers straining the fabric. It’s so obvious, you don’t know how you haven’t caught on until now.
“Oh, Riddle,” you huff, gaze fixed on his lap. “You’re more pathetic than I thought.”
“If you didn’t wear these flimsy skirts, we wouldn’t need to have this conversation.” Tom counters, struggling against the ropes binding his wrists behind the chair. “Now untie me before I have you suspended.”
But you don’t budge. Not now, when you’ve just gotten started.
“I don’t think so,” you say with a smirk, taking a step closer and trailing the tip of your wand down his torso, throat bobbing at the electric touch. “Now I am even more curious as to why you’re after me.”
“Perhaps it’s because,” you purr, bending over his tied form, resting one of your hands on his thigh—close enough to his achingly hard cock to make him hiss. “You don’t mind me being around as much as you let on?”
He shakes his head, darkened eyes never leaving yours. “I— you’re wrong.”
“Am I?” You ask again, hand wandering higher until your thumb caresses along the evident outline of him beneath his dress pants.
It’s so soft of a touch, it shouldn’t even provoke any reaction from him—and yet, as if asking for more, he twitches under your touch, jaw clenched tight, still trying to hold on to his resolve.
“Stop this. You don’t know what you’re doing.”
“I am very well aware of what I am doing, Riddle.” you whisper, palm clasping the strained material. “You don’t actually hate me, do you? Dare I say—you like me?”
“You’re delusional—“ he rasps as you gently trail along the length of him. “—completely fucking deranged if you believe I’d—fuck—ever tolerate someone like you.”
“Yeah?” You tease, the corner of your lips lifting into a smirk as the pad of your thumb presses down on the head of his cock, making him draw in a sharp breath, hips bucking against your hand. “Then why are you so damn hard?”
Tom wants to argue, he really does. But there is no point in denying the obvious any longer—and your touch has his mind blank, ridding him of the last bits of sanity he’s so desperately tried clinging on to.
“Stop this— Merlin, stop fucking teasing,” he grits out, hands clenching into tight fists behind his back.
“You want me to do something about that?” you ask innocently, brushing your palm over the fabric as you look at him once more.
His chest rises and falls with every deep breath he takes, taking a second to muster up a response, voice strained. “Get it over with. Speak to anyone about this and you’ll lose everything you hold dear. I swear it to you.”
“There he is. Just like I know you.”
Tom swallows hard when your fingers work to open the zipper of his trousers, and you don’t even bother undressing him fully before your hand wraps around his swollen cock, freeing him.
You stifle the gasp that’s about to escape your lips at the sight of him in your hand—the head flushed and already leaking pearly white beads, thick veins stretching from the base along the underside of his length.
And God, he’s big.
You swallow your doubts before you grip him tighter, offering a few slow, experimental strokes—causing his head to tip back at the blissful sensation, barely containing his groans, sucking in air through his gritted teeth.
“Feels good?” you try, brushing your thumb over his sensitive tip—but he shuts you down immediately.
“Fucking— don’t talk.” he breathes, clenching his eyes shut.
You think it’s because it’s still you who’s touching him after all—but Tom, he can’t take it. Can’t take hearing your soft voice speak to him when it’s your hands touching him in a way that makes him want to rip his damn hair out.
It used to always be his own hand touching himself to the memory of you, late at night in the creaking bed of his single dormitory.
He’s almost glad when you let go of him after an entire one hundred and twenty seconds—yes, he counted them—of you stroking him.
You suppose nothing will ever change between the both of you. It will always be him, bitter because it’s you and not someone else that makes him feel this way.
Tom could have any girl in the school. They’re at his feet, begging for his attention. But tonight—tonight he’s yours. One time where he’s beneath you, where you get to take the reins.
And so, you come up with a better idea, one that will soothe the growing ache between your thighs.
Your fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, slipping them down your legs before you move to straddle his lap, holding onto his shoulder and meeting his eyes—lust and hunger burning beneath the dark chocolate orbs, the tension between the both of you close to suffocating.
It all happens so quickly, his mind is too slow to catch on—and when he does, your breath ghosting past his cheeks—he isn’t sure whether he will survive this.
It’s his perfume, his signature perfume that nearly makes you lose your mind. You’re so close to his warmth, so close to his pulse points where he applies his cedarwood and myrrh scent, that your thoughts start to spin.
He smells so unbelievably good.
“You’re infuriating,” you whisper as you lift yourself slightly, your other hand positioning his swollen tip at your slick entrance—and Tom groans at the sensation. “So, so infuriating, and I— fuck, I hate you— hate you so much.”
“That’s— that’s not—“ he stutters, muscles stiffening at the electric touch—but it’s too late. You need this just as much as him.
Without another thought, you sink down on him, slowly, gradually. The stretch is overwhelming, burning deep between your thighs—and every other inch, you stop to give yourself time to adjust.
“You’re— oh shit, you’re—“ he breathes heavily, brows knitting together as soon as he feels your warmth enveloping him, knuckles turning white from how frantically he’s clenching his fingers.
So tight, so wet. So goddamn perfect.
“No, it’s you— you’re so fucking— ugh—“ you argue, fingers digging into his shoulder when you’ve barely taken him halfway, giving yourself another break when the ache becomes unbearable.
How dare he— he complain when it’s him that is an overachiever even now—even when he’s between your legs, splitting you open like no one has ever done before. Making you feel things you never thought you’d be able to feel for him.
“Don’t— don’t fight with me,” Tom hisses, eyes briefly dropping to where you’re connected—and by the pained expression etched into your features, he knows you’re struggling, too. “Please, don’t fight with me for once.”
You only find the mental capacity to reply once he’s nestled all the way inside your warmth, finally able to breathe as you accustom to the stretch on your walls. “Then shut up. Shut up, Riddle.”
He nods. Only nods as his eyes flick back to yours. Those damned gorgeous eyes, looking up to you expectantly.
You hate him. You really fucking do—but God, the sensation of him fitting so perfectly inside you makes you want to reevaluate just how much you hate him.
Your trembling hand on his shoulders helps you lift yourself off him just a few inches, sinking down again—and this time, it doesn’t hurt but rather makes you feel the exact opposite.
So, gently, you set a rhythm. Slow rolls of your hips against his own that have stifled groans thrum deep in his chest, eyes locked onto your expression. How your anger slowly blurs into lust as you take him all, how you struggle to do so.
Fuck.
Even while still half dressed, Tom wishes he could touch you—the soft swell of your tits, your waist—anything. Merlin, anything he would be happy with.
The ropes have long burned red marks into his skin, but he can’t bring himself to complain. Not now, when you feel so slick and warm around him, when your parted, glossy lips make him want to kiss you.
“You’re so— egoistic,” you stutter, eyes fluttering closed when you find the perfect angle.
“I know,” he replies, his voice strained.
“I hate you,” you continue, the words leaving your lips before you get to even think twice about them.
“I— fuck, I am aware,” Tom groans when he feels your slick cunt flutter so sweetly around him, relieved that it’s not only him who is this close—this close to losing himself.
One of your hands slips between your bodies when you feel the familiar knot in your lower stomach tightening, rubbing tight circles on your puffy clit—meeting his gaze as you do.
And for some reason, he is even more handsome than you remember. Raven curls stuck to his forehead, soft, almost desperate eyes burning into yours, the dancing candlelight casting a shadow on his sharp jawline.
You whine when he bucks his hips into yours—once, twice, until both of you move against each other, each thrust deeper and harsher than the last.
“That’s good— so good, Tom.” you mewl, head dipping to rest on his shoulder as the both of you continue whatever this is—and you don’t even realise what you just said until his voice rips you from the thick haze clouding your mind.
“Look at me,” he rasps. “Look at me and say that again.”
Reluctantly, you lift your head—swallowing tightly when you see the look on his face.
Eyes glinting with lust, lips swollen and begging to be kissed—but you won’t. You can’t.
“You’re so— feel so good, Tom.”
“Fuck,” he growls, hunger fuelling his thrusts. “Don’t do this to me.”
His name on your lips. Not Riddle, but Tom. He has known religion isn’t for him from a very young age—but now, he is certain no God can save him from the depths that he’s fallen for you.
He cannot tell you that, though.
He can only live in this moment—in this very moment where you’re squeezing around him, eyes rolling to the back of your head as you finally tip over the edge with a broken moan.
“Tom— Tom please, oh God—“ you cry out, sobbing against his chest as you rock your hips against his, drawing out your high for as long as you possibly can, walls greedily clenching around his painfully hard cock.
You hold onto him for a while longer, breathing heavily as you let yourself calm down, clinging onto the soothing warmth radiating from him.
Half a minute later, and him twitching inside of you, groaning lowly, rips you from your lust-clouded mind.
What were you thinking?
You scramble off his lap at once, picking up your underwear, slipping into them hastily.
Merlin, this is a public space—a school of all things. A library in which you’ve lost countless nights of sleep. This is Tom Riddle—the person you’ve despised for over a decade.
Paper planes, torn pages in your textbooks, condescending comments—it all comes crashing down on you at once, tears stinging in your eyes.
But you refuse to cry, not in front of him. Not even when he’s still looking at you with something that’s so close to affection, you almost mistake it for just that. He’s messing with you, again.
And you’ve fallen for it.
His expression morphs into one of confusion as he watches you get dressed—his trousers unbuttoned, cock slick with your arousal, pulsing with need.
“Finish what you’ve started,” he demands, the softness behind his words vanishing as he spots indifference replacing your gentleness from before.
Oh, no. If he thinks he can get what he wants even this time, even now that he physically cannot do anything—he’s mistaken.
This is his punishment. For tormenting you, for targeting you. For everything. You lock the memories of his gorgeous, softened brown eyes and broken groans somewhere in the back of your head before you turn to leave, wand clutched tightly in your hand.
“What are you doing?” he calls after you, struggling against his binds—without success. “Don’t you fucking dare leave me here—like this.”
With a sly smirk spreading on your lips, you continue walking without turning around again. “I will send Malfoy and Rosier to get you. In an hour or two.”
“I’ll make you pay for this. Just you wait.” Are the last words you hear before you shut the door to the restricted section behind you, heading back to your dorm.
Frustrated, angry at yourself for almost giving in to him—for almost believing the spark behind his eyes could mean something other than hatred.
AUTHOR’S NOTE: it’s me again. hi. soooo… if yall are interested, I’ll look into writing more parts for this fic, simply bc I’d love to expand this idea. ahem. REVENGE HATE SEX. AHEM… just so you know.
SERIES MASTERLIST
thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3
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masterlist. | kinktober.
A/N; Was missing this big guy so I decided to finish this WIP I’ve had for way too long 😭 also needed a pick me up so naturally I went back to my omegaverse roots 🫡 and tysm for all the love on my first omegaverse, it was very unexpected <3
Summary; Kylo Ren, the feared Supreme Leader, never expected to find his mate on some backwater planet during a random mission. He never expected you to be so feisty either.
Content; NSFW 18+, AFAB reader, fem reader, omegaverse, soulmates, omega reader, virgin reader, alpha Kylo Ren, Supreme Leader Kylo Ren, scrappy feral reader, heats, ruts, loss of virginity, Kylo POV & reader POV, Knights of Ren, original characters, kidnapping, you try to fight Kylo (it doesn’t work), alpha voice, extremely possessive and obsessive Kylo, Force bonds, mind reading, suppressants, omegaverse terms (kids referred to as pups), nesting, scenting, fingering, piv sex, breeding kink, overstimulation, getting pinned, knotting, fluff, soft Kylo, Kylo’s a good alpha, heavy aftercare, you get pampered
Wc; 10.5k
☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆.。.:*・°☆ .。.:*
The smog of the city is thick. It makes Kylo appreciative of his helmet, of the filter it holds inside so that less of the disgusting air gets into his lungs. The smells assaulting his senses are almost overwhelming; burning metal, smoke, sweat, the spices of food, and to top it off, the scent of any aberrant passing through the market square. There’s more betas than anything—as is the standard of today—but occasionally he catches hints of aggressive, potent scents from alphas and even sweet, enticing scents from the very rare omegas.
The city of Yvelo II is especially crowded this time of day it seems. Kylo can feel the occasional pair of eyes on him, people curious about the owner of the fancy ship that just landed in the bay. He pays them no mind, all of them inconsequential to his mission on this worthless planet. He didn’t even want to waste his time here, but multiple generals on his council were insistent. There were strong leads that pointed here, suggesting a spy the Order is after is finding refuge on Yvelo II. He’d been told it would be worth checking out at least, so off he’d went.
He hadn’t brought Stormtroopers with him, instead choosing two of his Knights. They’re significantly better at keeping a low profile compared to the bright, shiny white spotlight Troopers make in a crowd. Not to mention their Force abilities will be crucial in trying to find an individual in the masses. Ap’lek and Kuruk stand next to Kylo now, covered head to toe in their typical array of weapons and black armor.
“Fan out. Find what you can.” Kylo orders. “Alert me when you get something.”
Both of the Knights nod, going forward and immediately disappearing into the ebb and flow of the city. Kylo decides to go in a different direction, trying to cover as much ground as possible. If this mission ends up being entirely worthless, he thinks he’s going to gut whoever came up with it in the first place.
The heat of all the collected bodies and heavy atmosphere presses in on him, sweat collecting beneath his mask and black padded armor, making it feel like it’s stuck to his skin. He knows it’s also making his scent all the more pungent, especially when a few heads turn as he passes by, their own noses assaulted by his alpha pheromones.
He does his best to weave amongst the streams of people, his hood drawn up in an attempt to make himself more inconspicuous, hiding the majority of his newly reconstructed helmet. Merchant carts line the streets, sellers yelling out their wares and deals to try and attract anyone with enough credits. He passes by more than a few squabbles, some started over something as petty as being bumped into while others are about trying to swindle a better deal. There’s restaurants made out of run down buildings mixed into the mess, all of them seeming to be full with lines out the door.
It’s all very loud, creating a jumble of thoughts and noises inside Kylo’s mind that he can barely make sense of. He knew this mission was stupid, he truly didn’t know why he let himself be persuaded to do it. Even with his Knights, he has very few hopes of finding a spy that might be on the planet. Some of the notes about the mission suggested the western sector of the main city, so that’s where he tries to head now. There’s a ring of informants that lives in the area, selling themselves to whoever has more to offer.
Kylo has to shoulder his way through the denser parts of the crowd, his height and width always coming in handy. He even gets the rare person jumping out his way when they smell him coming—he likes when that happens. It satisfies that primal part of himself.
The throngs of people begin to thin the farther he gets from the market square, allowing him to finally hear his own thoughts and make sense of the ones of those around him. None of them are worth anything; one is thinking about what she’ll make her family for dinner, another is cursing about having to spend so much on a ship part, and all the rest follow the same meaningless pattern.
Until there’s something that makes him stop in his tracks.
It feels as though someone just dragged their fingers up his spine, a shiver running through his body. There’s a singular, female voice that’s louder than the others, as if it’s being projected to him specifically. Although based on what she’s saying, it doesn’t seem like it’s on purpose, making Kylo all the more curious. She’s the one thing he can hear clearly, the only thing he can understand as everything else fades. There’s a rasp to her voice from misuse, from having to yell across a workers line. It’s… oddly soothing, calming something deep within him on default. It creates a very strong, very irresistible urge to keep that voice close.
Kylo tries to take a singular step forward and fails when he feels such a strong tug in his chest that it jerks him backwards. It startles him, setting him on edge with his hand against his lightsaber that rests on his hip. One word rings clearly and unexpectedly in his mind: mate. His blood seems to sing, pounding in his ears as everything in his biology screams at him to follow that tug. He has to help her, protect her, protect his omega-
He shakes his head roughly, his breathing becoming labored. His thoughts are jumbled, turned into a cacophony of desperate thoughts surrounding this mysterious voice. He doesn’t know what’s come over him and he finds he’s unable to use the Force to center himself, the otherworldly power instead exacerbating his problem. It projects this woman even more, to the point he can almost taste her on the roof of his mouth with just the smallest inkling of her scent, something so heavenly and right that he needs to get his hands on it before he jumps out of his skin. He feels an ache in his own scent glands, like his body knows how close it is to something he’s been looking for without realizing.
He has no choice. He has to follow that voice, that pull, that feral need.
He has to find her.
» ☆ «
You wipe sweat from your brow for the hundredth time. Lupar’s never wanted to invest in some fucking air conditioners in the workshop, despite complaints from every person that’s stepped inside. It’s suffocating, but you’ve gotten so used to it that it’s like a second home. It’s strenuous work for little pay, but it still manages to put food on the table and even allows you to get a drink every now and then.
You’ve worked for Lupar for around ten years now, finding your way into his shop when you were twelve and sticking around since. You’d been interested in the heavy-set male with gills on the side of his neck, webbed fingers, and pale green skin. It made you wonder why an aquatic like him chose to live on a hot, dry planet like this one.
You stayed because of Lupar’s generosity, something different from the flat out cruelty other workshop owners partook in. Besides, there’s worse things you could be wasting your life on than making ship parts in the back of his store. Lupar sells them for cheaper than most other vendors so people are always buying from him, luckily keeping you employed.
You’ve been promoted multiple times throughout the course of your time, steadily moving up the line all the way to where you are now: quality control. You stand at the end of the line, inspecting each piece as it comes your way for any loose or missing bits, then dipping it into its final sealant once it’s deemed satisfactory. The chemicals always burn your hands through the shitty gloves you wear but your skin has become so rough and calloused that you barely notice anymore.
Lupar trusts you more than any of the others, giving you the job of keeping everyone straight and making sure there’s no slackers. The whip that sits on your belt is telling enough of your status, though you’ve never used it and never plan on it. Simply yelling at anyone not pulling their weight is usually enough to solve the problem. Most of the workers are kids, just like you were when you started. You still have the scars on your back from the times you messed up around the wrong person.
“Zara, straighten up!” You shout. The teen immediately snaps back to attention, her shoulders hunching as she twists her pieces of metal tighter together like she should be. You’d noticed a few of them coming loose in the line, thus tracing it back to a specific part in the process. You huff, taking a rather heavy piece and dipping it into the coating and handing it off to Qiar who puts it on a massive drying rack.
Your life has fallen into an easy pattern. You wake up in your nearby apartment, you work for Lupar from dusk til dawn, and then you go home and do it all again the next day. You gave up your dreams of leaving a long time ago, never having the funds and always being fearful of the what the rest of the galaxy might have in store for an omega like yourself. You owe a lot to Lupar; he was the one that helped you when you presented at thirteen, giving you some of the basic supplies you needed just to survive your first heat.
It was the most unbearable thing you’d ever experienced, but he’d told you that you had to go through at least one to make sure your body didn’t go all out of wack. After that, he’s kept you strictly on suppressants. You aren’t sure where he gets them from and they’re definitely sketchy but they work so you couldn’t give less of a shit. Lupar provides them for all aberrant workers, just so he won’t have to lose them for a week to a heat or rut. It’s less than stellar, but if it allows you to ignore your biology then you’ll take it.
You’re about to take another hunk of metal before you feel it.
A prickle on the back of your neck, the hairs along your arms raising like there’s been a sudden chill despite the workshop being boiling. There’s a ringing that starts in your ears, your head feeling as though it’s been shoved underwater as all the noise around you becomes muffled. You stumble back a step, your eyes shutting in a wince. You don’t know what it is, you don’t know what’s happening, and your heart seems like it’ll beat out of your chest. You can feel a presence just at the corners of your consciousness, massive and dark and intimidating and also so, so… alluring. Something deep, deep inside of you that you haven’t felt for years is desperate for that unfamiliar entity, yearns for it so deeply it makes you ill.
Your lungs constrict in your chest, overcome with nerves and an innate instinct of fear and submission. The scent glands along your neck throb to a near painful degree, as if they’re trying to call out to something but are too blocked by your suppressants to do so. You tentatively reach up a shaking hand, pressing one finger to a gland and immediately regretting it from the ache that meets you. They’re probably flaring red if you had to guess, still unable to emit any scent. Your skin feels like it’s crawling with some kind of primal need you can’t recognize, that dark presence still thrumming along the edges of your mind.
You want it to go away, trying to say so again and again inside your head but it persists as if it can’t hear you, like you have no control. You’re confused, you’re scared, and your body is demanding something you don’t know of. You dig your teeth so sharply into your tongue you can taste blood coating your mouth, the iron tang so sharp it finally snaps you out of it. That, and someone shouting your name right next to your ear.
Your vision clears, your ears cease their ringing. Your breath comes back to you in a gasp, lungs finally free of the fist that was holding them. Qiar is next to you, looking at you with vague concern. “Hey, come on! Get back to work!” He says roughly, motioning to the back up of parts on the table.
“Right-” you begin to speak before blood dribbles down your bottom lip. It seems you bit yourself harder than you thought. “Fuck- sorry-“
Qiar lays a hand on your shoulder and you immediately twist away from him, the touch seeming to burn and feeling wrong. His brows crease. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Just- just keep working.” You spit, trying to swallow the blood in your mouth and not choke as you dip a ship part. You can breathe again but your muscles are still tense and it feels like there’s something you’re forgetting. It’s going to drive you mad, you think.
There’s a sudden lull in the line and you’re so busy trying to catch up that you don’t notice for a good few minutes. You’re about to yell at somebody before you hear what they’ve all paused to listen to. There’s shouting and also plenty of things being tossed around and crashing to the ground. It’s not unusual, sometimes Lupar does get the occasional unruly customer, but said customers have never busted down the fucking door.
A lot of the younger kids scream and cower when the door to the workshop goes flying off its hinges. A cloaked stranger in a mask stands in the doorway, his massive build filling the frame and blocking anyone from escape. You notice the weapon ignited at his side before anything else. A lightsaber, spitting red plasma with an unstable crackle to it that you’ve never heard of before. You read about lightsabers and Jedi and all that bullshit when you were younger and had a fascination with them, but you never thought you’d be met with one. Everything about this man sets you on edge; his black robes, his helmet full of red cracks, his chest heaving… and the fact he looks directly at you.
You flinch under his gaze even despite not being able to see his eyes. That muffled sensation from earlier returns, your head swimming as you gasp in pain. Your body doesn’t feel like it’s your own, instead feeling like an animal pacing in a cage, desperate to get out to whatever waits on the other side. Your blood is on fire beneath your skin, and so are your stagnant scent glands.
You can’t do anything as he walks up to you, methodical and predatory. Your limbs refuse to move, gripped tightly by some invisible force. You realize you’re completely at the mercy of this strange man.
Then his scent washes over you.
It reminds you instantly of rain in a forest, giving you the taste of something you’ve never been able to experience. It’s cooling and relaxing, like a fresh breeze blowing across your face. There’s depths to his scent that you haven’t smelled in other aberrants before; cold rain mixed with a gentle tinge of pine and then under it all is something smoky like a campfire, something that promises a strong personality, a strong alpha. It’s the most incredible thing you’ve ever scented, it’s an immediate balm to your burning skin. It soothes that deep, primal thing within you but does nothing to help against your regular, human panic.
“It’s you.” He says lowly, his deep, modulated voice sending shivers down your sweaty back. There’s a curiosity that edges his tone, like he doesn’t quite understand you standing before him—or why he’s been pulled to you. He reaches a gloved palm forward, easily gripping your chin in his fingers and moving your head from side to side. Just that touch is enough to send lightning sparking through your veins. 
You can feel his eyes on your scent glands and it makes you squirm. “Why can’t I smell you?” He speaks as if talking to himself, though you hear the distaste in his tone and his complete disappointment at your blocked scent glands. It irrationally makes you want to apologize, apologize for upsetting this alpha and ever taking suppressants in the first place. What the hell?
“Who are you?” You finally manage to say, trying to steel your voice so you can sound like the opposite of how you feel. He’s much bigger than you, both in height and build, your head having to tilt up slightly just to look into his visor. You’re obviously outclassed, especially with him still holding that lightsaber.
You’re so caught up in each other that you didn’t notice the commotion happening beside you, where Qiar is shoved to the floor by a man dressed very similarly to the one in front of you. “Get off of me!” Qiar shouts, angrily thrashing against his captor, though he has no hope of breaking free. You’re stomach churns when you hear a sickly snap followed by your coworker’s pained screams. He’s hoisted to his feet, tears falling down his sallow face, his body threatening to go limp.
“Master, this is the one we’ve been looking for.” The man says, his voice even deeper and rougher. He reeks of pure alpha—leather and metal and salt, the scent sharp and unpleasant against the roof of your mouth.
“Take him back to the ship.” The one in front of you orders, finally letting go of your jaw. “You’re coming with me, omega.”
You startle at the use of your designation; you haven’t been referred to that way in a long time. You feel the fight rise within you, trying to ignore that other part of you that howls with desperation to go with this threatening man. You bare your teeth, trying your best to growl. It’s a pathetic imitation of something an alpha could do, the sound coming out like a sad garble in your throat. It’s still enough to set off some of the alphas around you, their bodies tensing when they hear your distress call. No one’s coming to save you though.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” You snap. You manage a single step backwards before he’s reaching for you, gripping your arm with a leather clad hand and pulling you back towards him. Your instincts flare, a hiss ripping from you as you flail in his hold, kicking and trying to elbow your way out. It doesn’t work of course, that padded armor he wears doing a good job of protecting him from your weak assault.
“Omega, enough.” The man snarls and… oh. Your body has no choice but to comply. You have to choke back the whine that almost comes out as you struggle to lift your arm for another hit. You become weak in his hold, that alpha voice enough to make even the angriest of omegas turn docile. You’ve never before cursed your biology as much as you do in this moment. You want to continue fighting, to break free and run away but that pathetic thing inside of you has taken over, telling you to listen to the alpha.
He scoops your legs out from under you with a strong arm, holding you to him in a bridal carry as if you weigh nothing. With your face pressed against his tunic, you have no choice but to breathe in an abundance of his heavenly scent. It seems to finally be doing its job and forcing its way into your system and under your skin, bypassing your dosage of suppressants to get your muscles to release their tension and give in.
It all dissipates when you see Lupar’s body on the floor at the front of the shop.
Your flailing movements are so sudden that the man drops you, your knees banging painfully against hard concrete as an agonized scream explodes from you. “No! No, no, no!” You beg, your hands finding his already cooling body and turning him over. There’s a cauterized hole in his chest, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. Sobs are wracking you before you even realize. Lupar had saved you, he helped you feed yourself and protected you from more pain than you could imagine and this… this is the death he gets?
You’re torn from his body by strong hands around your middle pulling you back. “Get the fuck off me!” You screech, fighting with everything in you, alpha bullshit be damned. You wish you had a blaster, you wish you knew how to use the whip Lupar gave you, you wish you had anything to help you.
“Quiet, omega-” The man says, though the command doesn’t have that edge this time, like he’s trying to give you a choice.
“Fuck you!!” You yell in response, feeling satisfied in yourself when you wheel back your elbow hard enough into his ribs to make him grunt.
It doesn’t last long though. That invisible pressure from before returns, pinning your arms to your sides while your muscles strain in an attempt to escape. You show your small fangs, the growls coming easier this time, fueled by your rage. The alpha hesitates for only a second, clearly off-put by the blatant disobedience and rejection. He quickly collects himself, bringing a gloved hand forward and hovering it in front of your face. You don’t understand what he’s doing until you feel a very sharp pull on your consciousness. You try to resist, to fight back and stay awake, but you find it impossible as your vision starts to go black at the edges. That strong will slips further and further out of your grasp like sand falling from between your fingers.
You have no choice but to give in to the darkness.
» ☆ «
“Find something extra, master?” Kuruk jests when he sees Kylo emerge from the crowds with you securely in his arms.
However, Kylo is in no mood for jokes and so he snarls at the other alpha instead. The Force hangs heavy and dark around him, his scent thick with something tangy that’s downright unpleasant to any competitors nearby. It’s a very loud and clear warning to stay away from the omega he carries. Kuruk bows his head as Kylo passes him on the ramp into the Night Buzzard, fully admitting his submission simply to avoid a conflict on the journey back to base. Kuruk hasn’t seen his master like this before, but he knows good and well what a territorial alpha who just found his mate is capable of. Force only knows what the mighty Kylo Ren would do if any of them misstepped. He’s like a ticking time bomb.
Kylo takes the furthest possible seat from Kuruk and Ap’lek, who sits at one of the weapon control panels fixing calibrations. Kylo can smell Qiar on the ship somewhere, his misery sour on Kylo’s tongue, locked away in one of the prison cells to suffer with his broken arm and collarbone. Kylo curls his body around yours, hiding you within the darkness of his cape and shielding you from any wandering eyes. He’s never felt this on edge, like at any moment someone might try and take you from him and so he needs to be ready. His mind is a useless ramble of mine, mine, omega safe, protect, mine over and over and he finds he’s unable to shake off those thoughts. Not when you look so peaceful as you sleep, so wonderfully his.
The ship rumbles to life beneath his boots, Kuruk taking his place in the pilot’s seat. It’ll be at least two hours before they make it back to the Steadfast which gives Kylo more than enough time to look you over. He doesn’t understand the urges he has, the deep desire to know every single thing about you and see each inch inside and out. He’s never been this confused, he’s never had so little control of the Force, and he’s never felt such a connection to anyone before. But at the same time, nothing has ever felt so right either. Having you in his arms soothes something in him he didn’t know needed to be soothed and he never wants to let go of that feeling.
You shift suddenly in his arms, a small whimper escaping you as you shift through a dreamless sleep. It makes Kylo encase you a little more, bringing his head down so he can hear every sound you make. His eyes catch on your scent glands, on the red, swollen skin that he wants nothing more than to run his tongue over. Before he even realizes what he’s doing, he’s bumping the muzzle of his helmet against your neck, trying so desperately to coax your scent out. His breathing is unsteady through the filter in his mask, his chest rising and falling erratically in hopes that he could catch just a whiff.
It angers him that he can’t smell you at all, that he can’t properly scent his omega because of the damn suppressants running through your system. Knowing Yvelo II, the medication is probably shady and unsafe and he just hopes it hasn’t permanently damaged your health after all this time. Getting you examined will be the first order of business when they make it back to the Steadfast.
Finally abandoning the fruitless endeavor of trying to get your scent, Kylo takes note of all the other things that you need to be treated for. He picks up one of your arms gingerly in his gloved hand, studying the chemical burns that crawl halfway up your forearms. Your skin is splotchy and irritated, scars layered over one another in some attempt at strengthening your arms and hands against whatever acid that sweatshop was using. There’s a few fresh burns, cracked and caked with dried blood. He also saw the scars laced across your back, the ends of them poking out from your tank top. They seem to be from a whip of some kind, probably the same one you still have attached to your hip.
It maddens him, seeing how much pain his omega has gone through. Some insane part of him hisses that he should’ve done better, should’ve protected you as if he didn’t just find out you existed today. He has to shake his head to clear that voice, to try and get a grip on himself before he loses it entirely. He has you now, that’s all that matters.
Kylo huffs to himself, then noticing the already dark purple bruises on your knees. From when he’d dropped you. He does allow himself to feel some guilt about that—it was partially his fault after all. He wasn’t expecting you to fight him so much, and how was he supposed to know you’d be so distraught over that worthless fish-man? The one who had attempted to keep you from him? The way you’d sobbed and screamed over the shop owner had set something inside Kylo on edge and he’d tried to help you, but you refused to listen. He put you to sleep with the Force instead, just so he could take you back and not have to see your blatant distress anymore.
He uses the Force now to make sure you’re still deeply asleep, to make sure you won’t suddenly wake up and start throwing a fit with other, dangerous alphas around. The door to your mind is wide open to him, your defenses nonexistent in your unconscious state. He can sense the undercurrents of your emotions, the unease and fear and panic that consumed you moments before you were taken out. He centers himself to be able to walk through your mind, to rifle through your memories as though they’re stored away in a filing cabinet. He has to feed that insatiable desire to know everything about you and doing it while you can’t fight him seems like the easiest way.
Kylo sees how monotonous your days had been leading up to him finding you. You’d wake up in a dingy, run down, one room apartment, go to work in that hazardous sweatshop, and then go back home once the sun got low. Your memories go back for years like this, an endless cycle of just getting through this day and the next with barely any difference in between, save for an occasional visit to a cheap bar. He passes by all of that, lets it run through his fingers like smoke, searching for something deeper.
He discovers you have no family to speak of, your mother dying in childbirth and your father abandoning you once you were old enough to scrounge for scraps yourself. You were a feisty young thing, getting into tussles with other kids on the streets over food or odd jobs so you could get a few credits for the week. He sees when that man, Lupar, found you behind his shop, when he offered you a job and some sense of safety in the harsh environment of Yvelo II. Kylo almost can’t believe you stayed around for that long, all the way from twelve to you now being twenty-two.
Kylo digs into the memories of Lupar, of the suppressants he gave you every day. It kept you from having to deal with your biology, from ever having to seek out someone to put out the burning fire of need. Something in Kylo perks at that, knowing you’re untouched, like you were waiting for him all this time. He already knew that he had to help you, keep you safe, set you straight so you don’t have to suffer anymore—this just confirms it.
He’s pulled from your mind with the familiar quake of the Night Buzzard signaling it’s being docked. He looks up from you to the viewport, seeing the walls of one of the Steadfast’s many hangars. Kuruk stands from the pilot’s seat after switching off the controls, him and Ap’lek heading towards the back to drag the prisoner off the ship to be interrogated by Kylo later.
Kylo follows after, still holding you impossibly tight, finally bringing you into your new home.
» ☆ «
You barely recall anything, what you manage to catch being a blur as you slip in and out of consciousness seemingly against your will. You only catch a few things like bright lights and white walls, a new and sterile smell assaulting your nostrils, people poking and prodding at you—some with needles—and through all of it, that man swathed in black. He’s always there, right at the edge of your vision, watching over you with eyes you can’t see.
Kylo never once looks away from you while the medics examine you, as they run their endless tests. It takes everything in him to not grab you from them, the irritation of them touching you biting beneath his skin. He knows that the nurses can feel the pressure of him in the room, especially after he already grabbed the wrist of one when she went to give you the first of many vaccines. He couldn’t help it, the beast inside him snarling to not let them anywhere near you.
“Where did you find this omega, Supreme Leader?” The head doctor asks, the older woman studying him over the rim of her glasses. She clearly holds some suspicion towards him, towards the fact that he’s never before brought an omega on board but now he’s suddenly appeared with one he’d be willing to kill her whole staff for.
“Yvelo II. She was an inhabitant there.” Kylo responds, his voice crackling through his mask. “I was… drawn to her.”
The doctor hums. “I figured as much. Based on your reaction to her, this looks like a case of a fated pairing. An alpha and omega being so inexplicably perfect for one another, through a mixture of pheromones and preset genetic coding. To put it simply, there’s no one else more compatible for either party than each other. I assume it’s even stronger for you because of the Force.” She says. “It’s fascinating since this has become an increasingly rare phenomenon in recent years.”
Kylo doesn’t respond, but he mulls the information over in his head. It explains why the Force showed you to him in the first place, why he couldn’t do anything other than search for you on that backwater planet. He’s surprised that someone like himself would even have a fated pairing; he thought that those were just a myth. He nods towards you. “What of her? What’s her condition? The status of her cycles?”
The doctor sighs while scrolling through her data pad full of information on you. “She’s not in the best shape, though it’s expected for a resident of a planet like Yvelo II. She’s malnourished and dehydrated, but we’re giving her fluids now, and her chemical burns have been treated with some simple bacta. The suppressants she’s been on aren’t dangerous per se, and the dosage is surprisingly low, but her being on them since she presented certainly isn’t good. There’s a solution in her IV to help flush the rest of them out and as soon as they are, her body will immediately self-regulate and send her into heat.” She explains, her voice almost taking on a grave tone. “You’ll need to make sure she eats enough if you’re going to make her go through a cycle after so many years. It won’t be easy on the poor thing.”
“I know that.” Kylo snaps, visibly bristling under her scrutiny. “Don’t treat me like a fool, doctor.”
She doesn’t cower, merely meeting his steely gaze behind his helmet. “I’m not, I’m merely looking out for my patient, Supreme Leader.”
» ☆ «
You don’t know how long it’s been when you finally wake up, when you at last have control over your own mind and body.
You sit up slow, cautious of both your surroundings and the faint pounding in your head. You quickly realize you’re in a bedroom, though it’s not like any you’ve ever seen before. This one is bigger than your entire apartment back home.
Panic jolts through you at the thought, your memories rushing back to you in a suffocating wave. You remember the strange man, getting kidnapped, Lupar’s death—all of it making you spring up from the very comfortable bed you’d been laid in. You need to get out of here, before that man comes back.
There isn’t much in the bedroom besides a small bookcase, a desk, and two bedside tables, all of it in a matching dark color scheme. There’s large windows near the bed, revealing the glittering stars outside that stretch on for farther than you could ever imagine. It doesn’t bode well for your hope of escape if you’re in the middle of space. You try to ignore the scent that’s so thick in the room it coats the roof of your mouth—the scent of him. It threatens to cloud your thoughts, the weaker part of you telling you that you should just stay here in this heavenly smell, get cozy and wrap yourself in it. You refuse, heading for the door instead and finding it unlocked.
You open it into an even bigger room, this one looking to be some kind of general living space. Theres a couch and coffee table to your left, another bookcase and more doors to the right, and ahead of you is a small kitchen area. There’s a dining table next to it and on it is a wide assortment of food, more food than you think you’ve ever seen in your life. All different kinds from meats to fruits to cheeses and breads—it’s quite possibly anything you could think of. Your mouth immediately waters at the sight, your stomach howling in response, the tantalizing smells making you dizzy with hunger. Your meals on Yvelo II mostly consisted of stale foods that vendors didn’t want anymore or freeze dried packets from the cheapest place in town, never something like this.
You have to use every ounce of willpower to refrain from eating everything in sight, reminding yourself you’re in an unfamiliar place with a dangerous man undoubtedly nearby. It’s odd that you haven’t seen him yet though, that you can’t even sense him. It probably means you should use this opportunity to try and escape before he returns.
You try the most obvious route first—the main door. You aren’t surprised that it won’t open, but you figured you’d try anyway. You notice a silver plate next to the hexagonal doors, inscribed with a name and identification number. Kylo Ren. Considering the singular scent covering the whole space, you figure that’s the name of its owner, of the man who brought you here. The name is vaguely familiar from the pamphlets of propaganda that would occasionally reach Yvelo II, telling the galaxy of his accomplishments and plans. All you know about him is how deadly he is, how people would talk of his brutality, of the lightsaber he wields. You really need to get out of here.
You try the other doors in the room, seeing if maybe you could find a vent or something to crawl into, but each door you try is locked save for the bathroom. You curse under your breath, wiping your clammy palms on the new set of black pants you wear, the ones that are oddly well-fit to your figure, same with the dark gray tank top on your torso. It’s sad to admit they’re the best clothes you’ve ever worn.
You’re shocked when the final door you try opens, but your hopes are quickly dashed upon discovering it’s just a spacious closet. There’s nothing in it except for… a spread out comforter, pillows, and blankets? You pause in the doorway, your body swaying with how thick Kylo’s scent is inside, like every item was rubbed right against his glands. It’s intoxicating and pure alpha, easily fogging your mind, making heat prickle on the back of your neck. You stumble forward without thinking, your knees sinking into the plush comfort, his smell wrapping around you like a second skin.
You visibly shudder at the perfection, of all the nice soft materials soaked in an alpha’s scent… so good for nesting. The thought is foreign to you, never before needing to build a nest, never having the materials for one, never having a whole room for it before. You barely recall the singular time you did make one during your first heat, where you desperately tried to fit together your only two blankets and pillow into something satisfactory and it never being enough. But this is like heaven for the primal thing inside you, so comfortable and safe and warm. You know you should be irritated at the fact Kylo assumed you’d want something like this from him, that he used it to lure you in, but the smoldering, uncomfortable heat you feel building in your veins is enough to make you ignore that.
There’s a low whine that comes from you without you even realizing, the sound echoing through the space. Sweat has begun to bead at your brow, your limbs becoming shaky, and worst of all is the pressure you feel between your legs. It has your nails digging in to the comforter below you, your mouth dropping open in an attempt to breathe but just getting more of Kylo’s scent instead and making it worse. You know your underwear is already damp, sticking to your cunt with your slick. You gasp as a cramp clenches your lower abdomen, your body curling in on itself in pain. Past the haze in your mind you’re confused; you should still be on suppressants, they should still be working- unless they- unless Kylo-
“Good, you found it.”
You jump at the deep voice, forcing yourself to sit up, even if you have no hope of fighting anyone off in your state. Standing there, right on the threshold of your nest, is Kylo… but without the mask. You hate to admit that he’s beautiful with his rounded jaw and sharp nose, his strong features dotted with freckles, his black hair that curls delicately just past his nape. Theres a long, deadly scar bisecting the left side of his face, disappearing beneath his collar and making you wonder how far it goes. His chocolate brown eyes almost seem too soft for someone like him, someone so full of wrath and anger.
Those eyes look over you now, studying, calculating. His nostrils flare when your scent finally hits him, those damn suppressants gone at last. It’s the best thing he’s ever smelled, so sweet and honeyed from the onset of your heat, calling directly to those alpha instincts inside of him. He can see how badly you need him in your flushed skin, the quivering in your arms and legs, and the thick, cloying scent of your slick is undeniable. He’d step in and claim you right now if he could, but there’s that annoying part of him telling him he can’t enter your nest without permission, can’t invade your safe space.
You’ve scooted away from him as much as you can, your back pressed against the wall, though it does nothing to lessen his scent, fresher now with him standing right in front of you. You try to ignore the slick staining your pants, the ache that wracks your entire body. “You… you killed Lupar.” You manage to spit out, attempting to sound tough but ultimately failing with how much your words shake.
“He was harboring a spy.” Kylo says simply. And hurting you, he almost adds.
Your head shakes, trying to clear the fog. “There were kids that depended on him.”
“They’ll find someone else. There’s always scum to replace scum.”
“You’re a monster.” You say with as much venom as you can muster.
Kylo’s gaze narrows, the air shifting, his scent turning sharp for just a second. “I may be, but I still saved you, omega. Kept you from rotting away in that worthless place.”
“Don’t call me that.” You snap.
His head tilts, mocking. “Why? It’s what you are, isn’t it? My omega, my mate, it’s all the same.”
That manages to break you out of it for a few moments, your brow furrowing. “Mate? The hell are you talking about? I’m not anybody’s damn mate.”
The corner of his lip lifts in amusement. “Theres that bite from before.” He says. He then sighs. “I know you feel it too, that pull to me. We’re meant to be, you and I. It’s why you’re going into heat right now, omega.”
You whimper, folding over yourself again as the cramps return tenfold as if on cue. Sweat soaks your clothes, a raging fire of need and desire burning beneath your skin. “No.. no I-“ You try, refusing to succumb to your biology, to this stupid cycle that renders you helpless, to the horror of it.
“You didn’t think you could be on those suppressants the rest of your life, did you?” Kylo asks, watching as you writhe, hunger blazing in his eyes. “You won’t be touching them again. You won’t need them.”
“F-fuck off.” You bite out, trying so hard to ignore the voice in your head begging for him, for an alpha, to be mated good and proper like you’ve always needed, to get stuck on a knot and filled- “shit-“
“I know it hurts, sweetheart. Just let me help you.” Kylo says, gently this time, coaxing you. Everything in him is telling him to take you, the beginnings of a rut already starting to claw at his mind. He can’t help palming at the erection tenting his pants, the stimulation making him groan.
“I- I can’t.. f-fuck-“ you gasp, words broken by your heat, by the need too strong to ignore despite your struggle. The pain ruins you, and the omega inside you that’s always been neglected wants him more than anything, wants to—for once—be cared for. You’re looking up at him without another thought, desperate hands reaching towards him. “Kylo, please-“
Before you can even blink, before you can regret what you’ve said, he’s on you. His plush lips meet your own in a bruising kiss, his warm body presses firm against yours, your space no longer being your own and instead becoming a shared thing between you. You openly whine into his mouth, his scent fully enveloping you, his strong hands gripping your waist. It feels so right to have him there, to have him kissing you with a hot and sloppy possession, appreciative noises rumbling low in his chest. He shrugs off his cape, tossing it somewhere to the side, his tunic, gloves, and undershirt following after to be added to your nest. The smell of them is potent, making you more than pleased with the prime nesting material.
You moan when his lips trail down to your jaw, then the column of your throat, stopping at the scent glands at the base of your neck. He presses his nose to one and growls, his hold on you tightening as a shiver runs through his body. “Can finally scent you. I’ll fucking cover you in me.” He mutters, mouthing at the sensitive gland, running his tongue along the inflamed skin, your whines growing louder.
You paw at his now exposed back, nails digging in to the wide expanse of scarred muscle. You can’t help doing the same thing he is, sucking at his own scent glands, his taste flooding your mouth. It helps to quench some of the fire raging within you, soothes the ache between your legs for a split second with that pure alpha smell. It’s everything an omega could want, full of promises of protection and warmth and pups.
“Barely even touched you and you already want my pups?” Kylo says, voice dangerously low and amused, his breath fanning across your neck. You can hear the subtle pride in his voice, his teeth flashing right next to where your mating bite would go. “Good girl.”
You’d forgotten how easily he can read your thoughts, feeling your desire like it’s his own. You gasp as another wave hits you, heat flashing through your body, a gush of slick pooling in your underwear. It has you scrabbling for him, your mind fully clouded over. “Please, please Kylo- I need- it hurts- I need you-“ You beg, words beginning to slur together.
“I know, sweetheart, I’ll make it better.” He tells you, his hands working your pants and underwear down your legs. You shiver when the cold air hits your exposed skin, your pussy drenched and glistening in your own arousal. The scent of it is like a drug, flooding Kylo’s senses, making his head spin. He curses, eyes locked on to your cunt, saliva pooling in his mouth as he spreads your knees apart. He wants badly to lick you clean, collect every drop of slick you’d give him, but he knows you wouldn’t be able to handle that now. Your face is a flushed mess, limbs shaking and subtly trying to shut your legs.
“Easy.” He warns, voice thick with the lust sparking in his blood. You whimper at his tone, your biology forcing you to comply and go still. His chest heaves with his breath, each inhale embedding your scent further into his lungs. “I’ll take my time with you later.”
You jolt at the feeling of two fingers dragging through your folds, coating them in slick. Your moans turn breathless and you hide your face in his shoulder as he circles your entrance before sinking a finger in to the knuckle. Your entire body reacts to the sudden intrusion, your teeth digging into your lip, toes curling into the comforter below you. “You’ve never been with anyone before, right? Let alone an alpha.” Kylo grunts, watching the way slick coats his palm, his finger repeatedly disappearing into your hot pussy with rhythmic movements. You manage to shake your head, eyes shut tight, mouth dropped open in pleasure. “Saving yourself just for me, hm?”
“Y-yes- Kylo- please, more-“ You choke out, your hips rolling with his thrusts, chasing the friction. You easily adjusted to just the one, your heat making you pliant and eager. He hums at that, complying with your request, a second finger filling your pussy. You cry out at the pleasant burn, at the way he scissors your plush walls, stretching you nicely for his cock that’s straining against his pants.
His free hand shoves your tank top up and over your head, pinching a nipple between the pads of his fingers at the same time his thumb finds your clit. The sound you make may be the best thing Kylo’s ever heard, all whiny and high pitched as your muscles tense with pleasure. You can feel a pressure building in your gut, one that threatens to release as he palms your breasts and rubs vicious circles on that bundle of nerves. He loves seeing you so lost in your need, so dependent on him to snuff out the fire of your heat. Your scent shifts with your oncoming orgasm, becoming almost sickly sweet, and beneath it Kylo can smell the way his own scent has already intertwined with yours.
Your head falls back with a sob as your whole body bunches up, your release falling over you like a wave. He relishes in the way your cum covers his hand, your cunt squeezing his fingers. He tugs you even closer to claim your mouth, to lick the taste of you from behind your teeth, drinking you like the finest wine.
Your orgasm gives you just a moment to breathe, a second of clarity in the storm that is your heat. You’ve never felt such intense relief before, your body tingling from the aftermath. However, you can still feel the warmth licking at the bottom of your spine, a beast ready to rear its head at a moments notice. You know it won’t be fully satiated until you’re plugged with a knot, claimed in one of the most primal ways possible. Kylo knows it too, probably better than you do, his cock aching to be inside you, to fill you with his cum and keep it there.
Both of his hands grip your waist, moving you over, repositioning you so you’re lying on your stomach, knees beneath you and ass in the air. You don’t even resist, letting him do whatever he wants with you in your post-orgasmic haze. “My pretty girl,” Kylo murmurs, running a palm along the cheek of your ass, his thumb separating the folds of your pussy to see the mess you’ve made. Slick coats your thighs, runs down your cunt in small dribbles, soaking the blankets below you.
Your nails dig into the comforter in anticipation when you hear the rustling of fabric behind you, the sound of a zipper pulled down. Kylo groans when his cock is finally freed, painfully hard with precum beading on the tip. He pumps himself a few times with the hand he’d fingered you with, coating his length with your release, the sight making his breath catch. You whimper when you feel his shaft press against your pussy, tensing as his tip breaches your entrance, sinking in so, so very slow.
The stretch of his cock is almost too much, filling you more than you thought possible, forcing your legs further apart to accommodate. His warm, calloused palm runs up and down your back. “Breathe, omega. You can take me, I know you can. You were made for it.” Kylo says, the ends of his words cracking when he feels the way your pussy is pulling him in, hot and wet and greedy. His body bends over yours, his strong arms caging you in on either side just as he bottoms out. His intoxicating scent wraps around you like a noose, your mouth dropped open but no sound able to come out, his cock having punched all the air from your lungs.
“Fuck- so good for me-“ Kylo moans, sweaty forehead pressed to your shoulder, relishing in the feel of you, of his omega. The alpha in him swells with pride at getting to claim you, at being the first and the last to ever do so. He’ll fill you again and again, get you pregnant, make you smell like him inside and out so every other alpha in the damn galaxy knows who you belong to. The thought makes him groan in satisfaction, his lips finding your gland and sucking it into his mouth as his hips shift experimentally.
Your back arches to meet his chest, mewling for more, desperate for the heavy drag of his thick cock against your walls. He starts easy, slow thrusts where he draws all the way out before sinking in to the hilt. He’s never felt something this divine, his mind swimming as if drunk on your heat. Nothing has ever been this right before, like his connection to you is written into his blood, the Force and something deeper binding you together. He knows you feel it too, your emotions and thoughts shared, tied together with an invisible string.
He fucks you in earnest now, his thrusts snappier, the degenerate sounds of your slick being sloshed around by his cock filling the small space of the closet. There’s nowhere that isn’t full of Kylo, all of your senses knowing just him; his scent, his breathy moans and gasps, his body pressed against yours so all you feel is him. Tears stain your cheeks, another orgasm quickly building inside of you, growing each time he hits that spongy spot at the top of your walls.
“Gonna give you my pups- fuck- keep you here with me, sweetheart, keep you full. I’m all you fucking need.” Kylo snarls close to your ear, once again kissing at your gland, never able to leave it alone for long.
You barely manage to nod. “Y-yes- please, alpha-“
He groans at his designation, at the feral tone of it. He snakes an arm under you to rub his fingers against your clit, encouraging you to reach your peak a second time like a reward. It isn’t hard with how sensitive you are and you bury your face in the blankets, trying to muffle your cry as you cum around his length. Kylo nearly doubles over from the way you grip him, your pussy fluttering against his cock, slick and cum gushing out and smearing along his pants. “That’s it- so fucking good, sweetheart-“ He manages to get out.
You whine at the way he still brutally thrusts into your abused pussy, pleasure sparking within you like a frayed wire, your arms and legs twitching with aftershocks. Your mind is nothing but a chant of good alpha, my alpha, bite me, claim me, strong alpha, any other rational thoughts fucked out of you. The feeling of it is borderline overwhelming, so much so that you instinctually try to claw yourself away from him, your nails scrabbling desperately at the comforter underneath you. Kylo notices immediately, his hands coming to tightly grip your waist, tugging you back into him with a displeased rumble sounding in his throat. He further curls himself over you, using the full pressure of his body to completely pin you down so you have no choice but to take his cock as deep as you can, his tip kissing your cervix again and again.
Your vision waters, your moans become obscenely louder and Kylo revels in it, his nose buried in the crook of your neck so he can breathe you in. “My sweet omega, perfect omega…” He pants against your skin, the deep timbre of his voice sending shivers down your back. He rumbles again, his scent spiking with something heady and spicy—something so possessive it threatens to choke you. Your pussy throbs and oozes more slick around him in response. “Trying to run from me… you’re mine now, omega, mine.”
He gets his point across with harsher thrusts, steadily growing more erratic as he nears his release. Your own isn’t too far off—for the third time. You can feel his knot beginning to swell at the base of his cock, something like fear spiking in your chest over how big it’ll be, but Kylo’s given you no chance of escape. You’ve surrendered yourself to him completely, to your need for each other, to your mate that you didn’t know existed until a day prior. The noises you manage are a garbled mess of lust, of overstimulated pleasure bordering on begging for mercy as you cum once more.
Kylo merely kisses away your tears, silently praising how good you are, this last orgasm taking everything out of you and drawing his own out of him too. He thrusts once, twice, three times before he groans loud, his fat knot at last locking in to your pussy. You do a full body shudder when you feel the heat of his cum coating your walls, rope after rope filling you so completely you barely feel like you have room to breathe. You try to swallow down the air that you need, Kylo doing the same above you. Both of you are utterly spent, and your heat has finally calmed with his claim inside of you. It leaves you feeling exhausted but also satisfied, something you haven’t felt in a long time.
Kylo’s kisses are gentle along your neck and shoulders, but you nearly get sent into a panic when you feel him begin to move you. “Relax. You’ll like this better.” He tells you. You try to be good and let him shift you around, even as every limb aches in protest and it tugs on his knot firmly stuck in your cunt. He rests against the left wall, situating you in his lap so you’re basically sitting on his cock, keeping him impossibly deep inside you. You let out a small moan when a fresh spurt of his cum releases from the stimulation of his knot while his fingers dig into your waist.
He brushes your hair back from where it’d stuck to your face with sweat, holding his hand against your cheek so he can look at you. You lean into his touch, eyes closing, too tired to hold up your own weight, feeling like you need to sleep for the next ten years. “Beautiful.” Kylo mutters, his lips reverent when he kisses from between your breasts, across your gland, and up your neck to your lips. It’s nothing like the kisses from before which were hungry and desperate, instead this one is soft, loving, claiming you in a different way.
He nuzzles against your jaw when he separates from you, basking in your scent. “You need to eat before you fall asleep.” He says, forcing you to stay awake despite your struggle against it. “I know you didn’t before. You need to keep your strength.” You grumble a response, cracking your eyes open to find a plate sat to your left. You’re confused about how it got there before you remember Kylo’s weird Force abilities or whatever they’re called, letting him manipulate things in the space around him. He must’ve brought it in here when you weren’t looking.
It’s a simple plate with a mixture of fruits, cheeses, and pieces of bread, something easy to start so you don’t get sick. He’ll make sure you have a proper meal later, when you can think more clearly and you aren’t stuck together. He watches as you pick at the food, choosing whatever looks best, soothing the sharpest edges of your appetite. It makes him happy to see you eat, to know his mate is taken care of and getting the proper nutrition you desperately need. Healthy mate for strong pups, the alpha in him whispers, his teeth gritting together when he cums again as a result.
He brings you a bottle of water too, making you drink the whole thing because of how dangerous dehydration can be for omegas during a heat. It’s shocking to you how easy it is to get basic necessities like food and water in this place after having to struggle for them your entire life on Yvelo II. You’ve never felt this pampered before, this safe and comfortable and cared for. You know it’s because of the alpha before you, your alpha.
You can’t help but reach your hands out, running them through his sweat slicked hair. He seems to preen at your attention, his eyes closing in contentment. Even in this moment of peace, you can’t ignore the thing that’s been gnawing at you ever since he knotted you. You bite the inside of your cheek, rolling the question around in your head. Kylo makes a grunting noise at you, like telling you to just spit it out already. You’ve clearly forgotten again that he can see inside your mind. He wants you to say it though, which makes your cheeks flush a little. “Why didn’t you mark me?”
His eyes open at that as he hums, studying your face. He stops your hand midway through his hair, instead bringing it to his mouth so he can kiss your rough and calloused palm. He nuzzles against it, his sigh tickling your skin. “It seemed like a lot for your first time.” He explains. His gaze shifts to where your mating bite will be, as if imagining the indent of his teeth there. “But I will next heat.” He says it with such finality and determination that it makes you shiver, a familiar warmth bubbling in your blood. If you weren’t so tired and still locked onto his knot, you’d probably go back into heat right then. He smirks at that, knowing exactly how his words affect you.
His arms come up to encircle you, bringing you forward until you’re laying on his chest. You immediately sink into his hold, your head resting nicely beneath his chin. You can hear his heartbeat thrumming steady and strong in your ear, a soothing melody that has your eyes falling shut. Kylo brings his cape over with a simple motion of his finger, wrapping it around you so you’re encased in his warmth, his scent. He says your name softly, like it’s something fragile he doesn’t want to break.
Pairing: Johnny Storm (FFFS) x female! reader (no mention of y/n)
Summary: Johnny Storm goes to a Flaming Hearts fan event expecting the usual chaos. Instead, he gets cornered by a sharp-tongued museum curator who paid for a ticket just to ask him a professional question. She’s working on a Space Exploration exhibit at the NYC Museum of Natural History, and is locked out by the Future Foundation so she's running out of patience. Johnny agrees to help no strings attached, while she remains blissfully unaware (or simply immune to the fact) he’s flirting. Late nights, holiday-lit moments, and simmering tension turn professional collaboration into something dangerously warm. Sweet turns scorching when Johnny’s abilities become less theoretical and far more hands-on.
Winter in New York is cold, but Johnny Storm isn’t.
Warnings: smut (minors go away!); temperature play; use of blindfold; foreplay; penetration; no use of condom but birth control mentioned; i can't think of much else? someone let me know if there's another to add because I'm blanking...
Word Count: 17745
Author's Note: Happy Holidays, everyone! I wanted to share a little gift: a Johnny Storm oneshot infused with some festive magic. This piece explores his... unique abilities in a more "intimate" setting. While the reader’s physical description is kept ambiguous (minus maybe mentioning they flush a few times), they are written with an autistic-coded perspective. I hope you enjoy this bit of holiday heat! Also apologies for any grammar or spelling issues... I did not have time to edit with the quickly approaching deadline of Christmas... Wishing you all a wonderful season. Peace and love, Mae
H.E.R.B.I.E.'s Data Log || Ao3 Link
Johnny had always had mixed feelings about the whole fan-club thing. It brought money in for charity. Brought comfort to some lonely women. Boosted his ego from time to time. But, at the end of the day, it was still inherently a bit odd. Moments that were endearing or made him feel like a million bucks could just as quickly sour, and suddenly he’d feel like an animal on display at a zoo and not just a man. A man who happened to have superpowers, sure. A guy who saw his face plastered on billboards and magazine covers. But still, he was a man under all that. Sue had reminded him two days prior about the whole event. A benefit to raise money for orphans. All he had to do was show up, smile, take some photos, answer a few questions. Be his normal, charming self in front of a bunch of mainly single women. Some pretty, some kind, some with wonderful spirits, but largely a room full of people who’d argue his favorite flavor of ice cream without realizing he was actually lactose intolerant.
It was thirty-three minutes into the open-mic portion of the evening when it happened. A shift he couldn’t have predicted under those hot lights, wearing a suit the firm had begged him to borrow from a designer. It photographed beautifully, fit him well when standing, and not so much when sitting. Pulled too tight in the waist and crotch in a way he questioned was intentional. Maybe the point was to give the ladies a little show. He’d never know and it was too late to question.
Johnny shook his head, plastered on that familiar smile, and answered yet another question about what he’d do on a first date. “Oh, you know. I’m a classic guy. Nice dinner, walk around the park. Maybe a kiss if I’m feeling brave enough.” He tilted his head with a smirk. Routine. It was all routine. This whole charade growing more and more into a farce he was tired of indulging.
The teenage girl who’d asked the question beamed at him, her braces catching the light. He smiled back, though it faltered the moment she scampered away. He reached down to discreetly adjust his belt again, trying not to look like he was squirming in the world’s tightest trousers. Distracted by the bite of the buckle, he barely registered the owner of the next voice until it came over the microphone.
“Mr. Storm, I have a bit of a technical question, and I was wondering if you could provide some clarity on the matter.”
The tone pulled him from his discomfort. Formal and almost bored. Not giggly or breathless. Not the sort of voice that he’d come to expect at these things. When he finally looked up, he saw her standing in line behind the mic, not even looking at him. Her gaze was down, tracking the movement of her pen over a small notebook as if the entire room didn’t exist.
The host, desperate to wrangle the evening back toward flirty harmless fun, interrupted her. “What’s your name, dear?”
She looked up at the host, not Johnny, irritation flickering across her features like she’d been yanked mid-equation. She supplied her name briskly, then, “I am a researcher and curator at the Museum of Natural History here in New York. I’ve hit a roadblock with a project of mine. So, Mr. Storm, I was wondering if you could provide confirmation about the specifications regarding your flight suit. The newer one, that is. Much of the engineering is theoretical, altered from traditional designs to accommodate your specific anomalies.”
Johnny blinked. Actually blinked. The formality in her voice, the immediate lack of interest in him as a person, the way she said anomalies like she was cataloguing a specimen had him leaning forward unconsciously, finally listening.
“My colleague and I were arguing about how you maintain your abilities in zero atmosphere, given the lack of oxygen. Setting aside modifications to avoid catastrophic combustion inside the suit, you would need to rely on your existing oxygen supply to maintain it. Based on my calculations, that would be…” She paused, eyes flicking down to her notes, then up to him. For the first time, her gaze landed squarely on his. Sharp. Focused. “Ten minutes maximum?”
The room had gone still around him. He felt it all slow: the rustling of programs, the hum of whispering women, the faint jingle of some overly festive holiday music playing beneath the stage speakers. He cracked a grin. “Well,” he drawled, sitting forward with his elbows on his knees, “someone did their homework.”
A few scattered laughs rose from the crowd, but she didn’t so much as twitch in response. She simply waited. Johnny gestured loosely toward her. “You’re close. The original adapted flight suit for space had a ten minute maximum, however Reed remodeled it in an edition that the public hasn’t quite seen yet. Mine’s been altered to re-route micro-amounts of atmosphere, what little there is in low-oxygen environments, through containment circuits designed to stabilize the output. Looks fancy on paper. Mostly it feels like wearing a thick winter coat.”
Some of the crowd giggled. She did not. She nodded once. “So the ten-minute cap is correct, then. On the design from when you all faced the cosmic being known as Galactus?”
“Correct,” he confirmed, shrugging lightly. “However I can manage about three times that, if I’m being a good boy and not pushing any limits.”
“Thank you,” she said simply, jotting something down. “That resolves the discrepancy.”
And she started to turn away and a strange surge ran through him. “Hang on,” Johnny stood, surprising himself and everyone else. “You seem familiar.”
She paused halfway, looking over her shoulder. “We took a class together. Stanford. Flight Stability. You were in mechanical engineering. I was in astrophysics.”
His eyebrows shot up. “I took that class? I can’t even remember if I passed.” Some of the crowd laughed.
“You scraped by from what I recall,” she said, a tone so dry it nearly made him laugh. “But you were charming. Good night, Mr. Storm.”
Before he could get another word out, such as asking her name again, asking what she was working on, or asking why she bothered to come at all, she slipped off into the crowd and he lost sight of her. The host cracked a joke about her odd behavior and he was back in the routine of showboy for the Fantastic Four before he could question it further.
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
He found her again entirely by accident at the end of the event. After he’d slipped into the back of the event space and skirted down some hallway to the entrance to the convention center. He’d ducked out into the cold to get air, and maybe avoid signing anything else, and there she was. Sitting on the covered brick wall under a flickering light. Scribbling furiously into the same little notebook. She didn’t even notice him approaching, but to be fair, she barely noticed him on stage either.
“You know,” he said lightly, stuffing his hands into his blazer pockets, “most people at these holiday charity events are drinking cocoa, not doing equations.”
Her pen paused mid-stroke, but she didn’t look up immediately. She finished the sentence or whatever mathematical problem she was working on, before finally raising her head. Her expression suggested she’d been interrupted mid-thought and wasn’t exactly thrilled about it, before she swallowed hardly and softened her look ever so slightly. “Oh,” she said, blinking at him. “Mr. Storm.”
She hummed in acknowledgment of his presence and clicked her pen. Only then did she tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear and add, “I didn’t intend to disturb your evening. I apologize if my question caused any concern. However, I suppose I did spend money to be able to slip in here. At least it’s for a good cause.”
“You’re kind of intense,” Johnny said, interrupting whatever ramble was about to take shape without malice.
“I prefer the word thorough.”
“I bet you do.”
She blinked again, clearly missing the tease, and returned her attention to her notebook. “I’m working on an exhibit for the museum’s new space wing. The committee requires detailed engineering notes for any educational component. Very little information is publicly accessible regarding your team’s technology. That’s proving to be inconvenient.”
“Depends on who’s asking,” he said, leaning back against the same brick wall. “And you’re asking with, uh” he gestured vaguely at her notebook, “a level of intensity usually reserved for Reed on his third pot of coffee.”
“If Mr. Richard's team had responded to my inquiry in a timely manner, I wouldn’t need to bother you,” she replied, so matter-of-fact it nearly knocked a laugh right out of him.
Johnny shook his head, charmed and bewildered all at once. “So you really did come here tonight because you wanted educational information.”
“I don’t believe I implied otherwise,” she said, turning a page of her notes.
“Right,” he said, amused. “Just checking.”
A swirl of wind sent a drift of snowflakes between them, catching in her hair and dusting the sleeves of his blazer. He studied her quietly. A tailored wool coat draped over a short tweed skirt, nylon-covered legs, and polished leather loafers. A teal sweater peeked out beneath the coat, simple yet carefully chosen, hinting at a mind accustomed to precision and professionalism. Pretty in a way that didn’t need to announce itself. He watched her scribble with the determination of someone trying to outrun time itself.
“You said we both went to Stanford…” he started, clearing his throat. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he tried to summon the memories. Back then, he was already known as a charmer like she’d pointed out, and now with being the Human Torch that had only amplified. But if someone that striking had been in class next to him, chances were he’d taken notice at least once. Possibly even done something about it.
“Yes,” she replied without looking up, “we attended at the same time. Our paths overlapped in a few classes, though only one section together. Flight Stability as I previously mentioned.”
Johnny arched an eyebrow, curious. “If you were in astrophysics, which is largely theoretical work, why sit in a very technical engineering class?”
Her pen paused mid-line, and she looked up at him, clearly surprised by the genuine curiosity in his tone. Perhaps she had expected flippancy, a joke, or a shallow compliment. She recovered quickly. “Just because my research is largely theoretical does not mean I dismiss the value of understanding the technical challenges involved in studying the cosmos,” she said, precise and measured. “What good is proposing a theory if one cannot also comprehend the technology required to prove its validity?”
Johnny grinned, impressed. “Look at you, putting me in my place with science. I like it.”
She didn’t smile, only inclined her head slightly, as if acknowledging the comment but refusing to let it distract her. “I am not here to entertain.”
“I didn’t say you were,” he said, leaning casually against the brick wall, the cold air turning his breath to mist. “Just intrigued. Most people at my events don’t speak in complete sentences. You asked a very unique question.”
Her eyes flicked back to her notebook. “I asked that question because they needed answers. Nothing more.”
Johnny watched her for a beat longer, a mixture of amusement and admiration tugging at him. There was something almost endearing about her focus, the way she completely ignored his presence unless it pertained directly to her work. He realized he had spent the evening used to the easy charm of people trying to impress him, and this laser-sharp professionalism and complete disregard for his celebrity status was intoxicating in its own way.
“Can I ask you something?” he ventured after a moment.
Her eyes flicked up, “You just did.”
“I suppose I did,” he said, smirking. “But I have a real question this time.”
She regarded him coolly for a beat, then nodded. “I shall permit it.” Finally, she slipped her notebook into her coat pocket and turned to face him fully.
“Why the Museum?” he asked. “You could’ve easily worked for Reed in research. I have no doubts about your abilities.”
Her gaze softened slightly, thoughtful but still formal. “I prefer focusing on knowledge preservation,” she said. “Archiving humanity’s discoveries creates a roadmap of where we’ve been, which in turn informs where we can go. It provides perspective and continuity.”
Johnny raised an eyebrow, intrigued. “So history and science?”
She nodded, a faint, almost nostalgic smile touching her lips. “Admittedly, I enjoyed field trips as a child. Museums always felt like portals to other worlds. Opportunities to stand beside the achievements of those who came before. And if, in some way, I can contribute to guiding even one brilliant mind toward discovery through this avenue, then I feel accomplished.”
Johnny leaned back against the wall, impressed despite himself. “You make it sound noble. But I imagine it can be exhausting.”
“Perhaps,” she said evenly. “But meaningful work rarely comes without effort.”
“Even if that effort involves attending an event for some hothead you could care less about,” he said with a lopsided grin, “just to get a yes or no answer about oxygen supply in a flight suit? Which you calculated accurately I might add, with very little to go off of.”
For the first time all night, he saw a crack in her carefully maintained exterior. A slight tightening around her eyes. It was fleeting, but it was there. Maybe hearing it out loud made her realize she’d come off as abrupt. Or maybe she liked his compliment about her intelligence. She paused, then allowed a faint, almost imperceptible smile. “Perhaps it is an unconventional method of research,” she admitted, her voice regaining its calm, measured tone. “But the answer was necessary.”
Johnny grinned wider. “Necessary, sure. But not exactly conventional museum curator behavior, huh? More in line with an investigative journalist.”
“I suppose,” she said softly, almost amused. “But conventionality rarely yields insight when you’ve hit metaphorical blocks in the road.”
“So,” Johnny pressed on, a little quieter now, “what exactly are you trying to figure out? You know, beyond the oxygen thing?”
For a moment, she hesitated. “There’s a great deal of unspoken theory surrounding the technology Reed Richards pioneered for space travel,” she began, voice softening into something more thoughtful. “The integration of human abilities with mechanical design, and the implications it has for future technologies. But the answers are fragmented. They exist in pieces, scattered between various studies and patents. It’s all so disconnected.” Her eyes flicked to him. “If you can shed light on any of those gaps, even if just through your own experiences, I’ll feel like I’ve achieved something meaningful.”
Johnny’s smile faded into something more genuine. “You’re serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I wouldn’t waste time on it otherwise,” she replied simply, the sharpness in her voice fading. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear absentmindedly. “The purpose of the exhibit is to show people that this–” she gestured vaguely toward him, alluding toward the idea of the Fantastic Four and their exploits “Is not just some fictionalized sensation. It’s the culmination of real science. Real discovery. People like you, doing extraordinary things for the future of humanity. It has weight. I think that weight deserves to be preserved accurately.”
Johnny stared at her for a moment, the winter air between them growing still, the weight of her words ringing in his ears. “I think I could help with that.”
She met his gaze then, a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, though her voice remained steady. “You’d be willing to assist?”
He grinned, leaning slightly closer, letting the warmth of his smile cut through the cold. “You’re telling me you want it for an exhibit. To preserve knowledge. Yeah, I’d be willing to help. Hell, even Reed loves to educate. He’s got that whole kids’ show shtick. I’m sure if he knew, he’d be game too. Just a matter of getting past secretaries and layers of bureaucracy, which is where I imagine your requests got stuck.”
Her eyebrows lifted, a trace of skepticism entering her otherwise composed expression. “And why would you want to help? What’s in it for you?”
Johnny chuckled, leaning back against the brick wall, pretending to consider the question seriously. “What’s in it for me?” he repeated, tone teasing but light. “I don’t know? Maybe the thrill of knowing I’m helping someone actually get it right. Someone who cares about the details, not just getting close to us for some ulterior motive.”
She regarded him coolly, unamused, as if weighing whether his answer made sense. “So, your motivation is essentially… altruism?”
“Call it that,” he said with a shrug, though his eyes sparkled. “Or curiosity. Maybe a little mischief. Seeing someone like you focused, serious, and completely immune to the usual nonsense is… refreshing.”
Her lips twitched, but she didn’t comment, only tilted her head slightly, and commented “Interesting observations Mr. Storm.”
He caught himself smiling at her obliviousness. It was cute, in a way that made him want to keep talking to her. “Anyway,” he continued, “it’s not about me. It’s about getting you what you need for the exhibit. And who knows, maybe we both learn something about each other along the way.”
Her gaze softened just slightly, but her voice remained composed and formal. “I would prefer to focus on the facts and the technology rather than the intangential.”
“Can’t be all business though, right?” Johnny asked, tilting his head. “I’m sure you’ve got hobbies.”
“A well-regulated individual often engages in interests to mitigate work-related stress,” she replied without missing a beat.
He stared for a second, trying to decode the phrasing. “…Right. Sure. Regulation. Stress mitigation.” He cleared his throat. “But what are your interests?”
“Irrelevant to the task at hand,” she said immediately, as if the question itself were a misfiled document.
He lifted a brow, amused. “Wow. I’ve had doors close slower than that.”
She blinked, not catching the joke. “If the concern is conversational flow, you may redirect us back to the topic of the suit’s mechanics.”
Johnny laughed under his breath. “I’m starting to think you enjoy shutting me down.”
“That is not my intention,” she said simply. “I just prefer to remain focused.”
“Yeah,” he murmured, unable to stop the smile tugging at his mouth. “I’m getting that.”
A quiet moment passed, snow drifting in lazy spirals between them. She looked down to jot something in her notebook and Johnny found himself watching her, charmed in a way he couldn’t quite articulate. He shifted a little closer, hands deep in his coat pockets. “So, if we’re sticking strictly to business, I guess we should figure out how you wanna do this. The whole helping-you-with-the-exhibit thing.”
“The sooner we establish a structured plan, the more efficiently we can proceed.”
He snorted softly. “Of course we need a structured plan.”
“I find they’re the most reliable–”
“I was trying to, you know what nevermind–” He lifted his hands in surrender, still grinning. “Are you free tomorrow?”
“My schedule tomorrow remains open,” she said, matter-of-fact as ever.
“Cool,” he said, confidence slipping back into place with a click. “Then how about you come by the Baxter Building tomorrow afternoon? I can get you access to the flight records, schematics, whatever you need. Full tour, data, let you see some stuff. The whole Fantastic Four VIP experience.” He tucked his hands deeper into his pockets, watching her reaction with a spark of anticipation. “Strictly professional, of course.”
She considered that for a long moment, eyes narrowing just slightly as if she were parsing an equation rather than an invitation. Snow gathered along the edge of the brick wall behind her, the light above them buzzing faintly. “Your definition of VIP experience is ambiguous,” she said at last. “However, access to original schematics and firsthand observational data would significantly reduce conjecture. From a scholarly standpoint, that is compelling.”
Johnny smiled, slow and satisfied. “That’s a yes, then?”
“It is a provisional agreement,” she corrected. “Contingent upon the understanding that this visit is strictly professional, observational, and time-efficient.”
“Wouldn’t dream of anything else,” he said, hand lifting in mock solemnity. “Scout’s honor.”
Her eyes flicked to his raised hand. “I do not believe you were ever a scout.”
“I wasn’t.” he confirmed before smirking, “But you recall me from college.”
“I remember patterns,” she replied. “You had a tendency to arrive late, sit near exits, and contribute only when directly called upon. Yet when you did, your answers were… surprisingly competent.”
Johnny laughed, genuinely this time. “That might be the nicest thing anyone with a brain’s said about me all week.”
She reached into her coat pocket and retrieved a small card, holding it out to him. “This is my institutional email. If you are serious about facilitating access, I will need written confirmation for the museum’s records.”
He took it, glancing down. Her name sat neatly printed beneath the museum’s insignia. “Well,” he said, tucking the card safely into his wallet, “I’ll email you in the morning. Noon tomorrow work?”
“That would be optimal,” she said, already slipping her notebook fully away. “Thank you for your cooperation, Mr. Storm.”
She stepped down from the brick wall, adjusting her coat, clearly preparing to leave. “Hey,” Johnny said, before he could stop himself. She paused, looking back at him expectantly. “You never actually told me why you remember me,” he said lightly. “I mean, if I barely scraped by and all.”
A beat. Then, for the second time that night, she surprised him. “Besides being diagnosed with hyperthymesia?” she hummed looking away for a moment before continuing. “You asked an insightful question during one lecture, about how instability in propulsion systems might mirror stellar collapse under external pressure. It was an elegant comparison.”
Johnny blinked. “I did?”
“Yes.” A faint smile returned, softer this time. “It stayed with me.” And with that, she turned and disappeared into the falling snow, leaving Johnny standing under the flickering light, suit too tight, cheeks cold, and chest warm in a way that had nothing to do with fire.
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
The kitchen lights were dimmed to their usual evening setting, the Baxter Building settling into its pre-dinner rhythm. Pans clinked softly as HERBIE moved about the space with quiet efficiency, steam curling up from a pot on the stove. The gentle hum of servos mixing with the occasional electronic chirr as he adjusted temperatures and timers.
Johnny sat at the kitchen table, tipped back in his chair, one sock covered foot hooked around the rung. A document rested in his hands, already creased once down the middle, his thumb absently worrying the edge as his eyes moved over the page. He wasn’t studying, exactly. More like orbiting the text. Reading a line, losing it, rereading it again.
Across the room, Sue entered without announcing herself. She paused when she saw him. Not because he was at the table, but because of what he was doing. Her gaze lingered, curious. Johnny flipped the page and squinted. HERBIE rolled past him, extended arms draining pasta. Johnny reached out automatically, steadying the pot and giving a lazy assist before settling back into his chair.
Sue finally spoke. “How was the benefit?”
Johnny shrugged, easy. “Loud. Festive. Lots of opinions about my dating habits.”
She smiled faintly, watching him rather than the robot or the stove. “And?”
“And I survived,” he said. “Charity’s happy. No fires. That’s a win.”
HERBIE wheeled away. Johnny set the document down on the table as he stood to grab plates from the cabinet. The cover landed face-up.
A moment later, the heavy footfalls announced Ben’s arrival. “Smells good,” Ben said, then stopped short. “What’s that?”He leaned over the table, peering down at the document. Johnny didn’t look back. Ben read the title. Nonlinear Stability Constraints in Human-Adaptive Propulsion Systems Under Variable Stellar and Near-Vacuum Conditions. He blinked. Then glanced toward Johnny’s back. “Kid. Why are you readin’ astrophysics?”
Johnny slid plates onto the counter, nonchalant. “Broadening my horizons.”
Sue’s head tilted slightly. She hadn’t moved, but her eyes flicked between Johnny and the dissertation, curiosity sharpening. Still, she said nothing. Before Ben could continue, Reed entered, adjusting the cuffs of his sleeves. He stopped when he saw the paper, then without asking picked it up. “Hm,” Reed murmured, already flipping through the pages. “This is quite sophisticated.”
Ben stared at him. “So why’s Johnny pretending to read it?”
Reed skimmed faster, eyes tracking equations, diagrams. “The framework is solid. Ambitious, too. Whoever wrote this is attempting to matter with adaptive propulsion under stellar variance. That’s not easy.” He glanced at Johnny. “Where did you get this?”
Johnny leaned against the counter, arms folded. “The author attended tonight. I met her at the benefit.”
Sue’s eyes flicked up sharply at that. She studied Johnny’s face now, searching, still quiet. “Oh?”
“Her?” Ben echoed, a grin creeping in.
“Yeah,” Johnny said easily. “Museum curator. Astrophysics background. Asked me a technical question onstage about my flight suit. Didn’t laugh at my jokes. Barely looked at me.”
Ben laughed. “Oh, I like her already.”
Reed paused mid-page, intrigued. “She asked about your flight suit?”
“Oxygen limits. Zero atmosphere. Had the math spot on,” Johnny said, shrugging. “She wasn’t there for me. She was there for answers.”
Sue crossed her arms, thoughtful, gaze never leaving him.
“And now you’re,” Ben smirked as he continued. “... readin’ her thesis? Why?”
Johnny shrugged before suddenly finding the lint on his sweatpants very fascinating. “I offered to help fill in some blanks with her work, figured it may be good to have some talking points if there are lulls,”
“You offered to help her?” Sue asked butting in finally with more that skeptical intrigue.
“I said I’d help with access. Figured I should at least know what she’s worked on in the past. Least I could do for someone who’s trying to preserve science for the benefit of others.”
Reed nodded slowly, impressed. “This is not casual reading, Johnny.”
“Yeah, I noticed.”
Ben leaned back, arms folding over his rocky chest. “Lemme get this straight. She ignores you, talks science at you, walks away–”
“She was efficient,” Johnny countered.
“–and now you’re sittin’ here before dinner pretendin’ you understand nonlinear stability constraints.”
Johnny glanced at the paper, then back at Ben. “I never said I understood it.”
Sue finally spoke, softly. “Do you like her?”
Johnny paused, just for a beat. Then shrugged, easy again. “I think she’s interesting.”
Ben snorted. “That’s a yes.”
Reed closed the dissertation gently and set it back on the table. “You should introduce her to me,” he said mildly. “I’d like to discuss her methodology.”
Ben leaned closer, grin sharpening. “She pretty?”
Johnny rolled his eyes. “That’s not–”
“Oh, she is,” Ben said, pointing a rocky finger. “You don’t sit here squintin’ at equations unless she’s easy on the eyes.”
Johnny opened his mouth, then stopped. He glanced at the paper. The title. The notes he’d already underlined without realizing it. “She’s attractive.”
Ben smirked triumphantly. “Knew it.”
“But that’s not why,” Johnny added, straighter now.
Ben arched a brow. “Uh-huh.”
Johnny exhaled, rubbing a hand over the back of his neck. “It was her energy. She didn’t care who I was. Didn’t want anything from me except answers. She was sharp. Focused. And she said we both attended Stanford together. Said I wasn’t a total idiot all the time,”
Reed closed the dissertation carefully, thoughtful. “That’s a positive observation.”
Sue finally spoke, quiet but warm. “You liked that.”
Johnny nodded once. “Yeah. I really did.”
Ben studied him a moment longer, then huffed. “Alright. Fine. I’ll give you that one.” He smirked again. “Still think you’re gonna give yourself a headache tryin’ to impress her.”
Johnny grinned. “Worth it.”
Sue smiled, just a little, as HERBIE signaled dinner was ready. “You said you invited her here?”
“Tomorrow,” Johnny said. “Noon.”
Sue’s smile deepened, knowing. “That’s soon.”
“Efficiency,” Johnny echoed lightly, shooting her a look.
Ben barked a laugh as he took a seat. “Kid’s already talkin’ like her.”
Johnny scoffed and rolled his eyes fondly while he grabbed a plate. “I’m just saying, she’s not big on wasted time.”
Reed, already halfway lost in thought again, “If she’s arriving at noon, I’ll ensure the lab is clear. We can prepare the schematics for the Mark IV and V suits. I can have the originals pulled from the archive. Possibly the early interstellar containment models as well.”
Johnny paused mid-bite. “Whoa, slow down, Stretch. You’re gonna scare her off.”
Reed blinked. “Why would any of what I mentioned be intimidating?”
Sue rose to help HERBIE serve, glancing at Johnny as she passed. “Just try not to flirt too much with this woman. If she is working on a museum exhibit regarding our work, I would rather not have that tainted by your uh… reputation.” she said gently.
Johnny scoffed. “I know how to act like an adult, Sue. Besides, she's the type to be immune to it entirely. I flirted with her tonight and she didn’t even seem to notice.” All three of them stared at him. “What?” he amended. “She really didn’t notice. Like at all.”
“That’s not reassuring,” Ben told him bluntly.
“How?” Johnny’s eyebrows drew as he tossed a napkin over his lap.
“Because it means you’re just likely to try harder than normal,”
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
The next day arrived far quicker than Johnny expected. He’d woken early. The sun wasn’t even fully up when he found himself staring at the ceiling, replaying fragments of conversation he hadn’t realized had lodged so firmly in his brain. Hyperthymesia. Propulsion instability mirroring stellar collapse. It stayed with me.
By ten-thirty, he’d showered, changed shirts three times, and was currently debating a fourth in the mirror. “You are spiraling,” he muttered to his reflection. HERBIE rolled past the doorway with a slight nod of his head, as if confirming Johnny half spoken thought before speeding away.
“Traitor,” Johnny said, tugging on the collar of the third shirt again. He settled eventually on something simple. Dark jeans, boots, a fitted henley under a light jacket. Casual. Professional-adjacent. The sort of thing he normally found himself in, as if hoping the comfort would settle his racing mind. He tried to be minimal with cologne the same way he tried not to fuss too much over the way his fringe laid in the mirror.
At precisely noon, the elevator chimed. Johnny straightened instinctively. She stepped out with the same composed precision she’d had the night before. Wool coat again, scarf neatly looped, leather satchel tucked over her shoulder like an extension of herself. She paused just long enough to take in the space. The open atrium, the sweeping windows, the faint hum of machinery embedded into the building’s bones. “This is an efficient use of vertical space,” she said after a beat.
Johnny grinned. “Welcome to the Baxter Building.”
She turned to him then, and inclined her head. “Thank you for facilitating access, Mr. Storm.”
“Johnny,” he corrected gently. “If we’re doing the house tour, you can drop the Mister.”
A pause and he visibly saw her mental recalibration. “Very well,” she said. “Johnny.”
Something in his chest sparked.
Reed appeared moments later, already calling the woman’s professional name and title as he extended a hand. “Reed Richards.”
Her eyes lit, not dramatically, but unmistakably. She shook his hand firmly. “Your published work on solar radiation was foundational to my graduate research. It’s a pleasure.”
Johnny blinked. “Wow. She’s nicer to you.”
“That’s because Reed speaks her language,” Sue said mildly, appearing at Johnny’s side.
The woman nodded to her. “Susan Storm-Richards. Your microgravity papers were cited extensively in my postdoctoral work.”
Sue’s brows lifted, impressed. “You did your homework.”
“I consider it fascinating.”
Johnny stepped back then, content to become an observer as his world quietly collided with hers. Their worlds, really. Her interests unfolded seamlessly, her cadence and careful phrasing echoing the same precision Reed wielded so effortlessly. It was a proficiency Johnny usually found grating, with Reed’s habit of sounding perpetually instructive, as though everyone else in the room were lagging behind him. Yet when it came from her, Johnny didn’t bristle. He didn’t feel the instinctive urge to push back or roll his eyes. Instead, he listened. And when she praised his sister’s intelligence something warm flared in his chest. Pride that flashed up sharp and sudden. Sue was brilliant, and Johnny had always known it, but hearing it recognized by someone else, someone clearly formidable in her own right, made him stand a little taller. Same blood, same roots. It mattered more than he liked to admit.
There was something oddly familiar about her presence as she moved through the space, as though she belonged there beside them, despite the fact that he couldn’t have told you where exactly they’d first crossed paths. A sense of déjà vu tugged at him, not in memory but in feeling, like a tune he knew by heart without remembering when he’d learned to play it.
So when Reed and Sue inevitably commandeered the meeting he’d so carefully arranged, Johnny surprised himself by not feeling irritated. No flash of possessiveness, no resentment at being sidelined. He simply followed along, hands in his pockets, watching the easy enthusiasm bloom across her face. Watching how alive she looked when she spoke, when she was understood. And for once, Johnny didn’t feel the need to interrupt or reclaim the moment. He let it happen. Let himself enjoy the quiet, unexpected pleasure of witnessing her joy.
And two hours later, Johnny realized something alarming. She wasn’t just smart. She was relentless. She moved through the lab with purpose, questions precise and layered, building on each answer in a way that made even Reed pause to consider before responding. She listened attentively and adjusted her assumptions on the fly. When Johnny offered an anecdote about how the Mark V suit felt under pressure, she scribbled furiously, eyes bright.
“Do you experience resistance fluctuation at higher output levels?” she asked.
“Yeah,” Johnny said. “Like pushing against thick air. It gets harder the hotter I burn.”
She nodded, already sketching. “That supports my secondary hypothesis.”
“Biological input is often dismissed as anecdotal,” she replied. “I find that shortsighted.”
Johnny watched her talk science with Reed Richards without an ounce of intimidation, and something alarming made itself known. This wasn’t a crush born of novelty or looks or the thrill of the chase.
This was respect.
Eventually Sue and Reed took their leave, chasing after their child or other responsibilities. They bid her a polite goodbye, and promised should she need anything else not to hesitate to contact. Additionally, Reed offered to loan some of the artifacts from the archive for display under her now vetted and trusted care. She’d thanked him profusely before they’d left.
By the time she closed her notebook, the sun had shifted across the windows. She exhaled, the first visible sign of fatigue he’d seen from her all day. “This has been exceptionally productive.”
Johnny smiled. “Told you we could help.”
She hesitated, then met his gaze. “I was partly incorrect in my assumptions about you.”
He raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“I assumed charm was your primary function,” she continued, unapologetic. “But you are observant. Thoughtful. And more technically aware than you let on.”
Johnny rubbed the back of his neck, heat creeping up his ears. “Careful there Sweets. You’re gonna ruin my reputation.”
A beat. Then, something unprecedented happened. She smiled. Not faint. Not restrained. A real one. “I believe,” she said, “that reputation is often an oversimplification. Likely the result of easily formulated media consumption or simple societal projection and perception. But, highly oversimplified regardless.”
Johnny’s heart did a stupid thing. “Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “if you need anything else like data, follow-ups, firsthand demos, I know I’m not Reed or Sue but–”
“I will,” she said immediately. Then paused. “I believe this concludes today’s professional obligations.”
“Oh,” he said, masking his disappointment. “Right. Of course.”
She slipped her notebook into her bag, then looked back at him. “That said,” she added, “you mentioned yesterday that one cannot be all business.”
He stilled. “I might’ve said something like that.”
“There is a café near the museum,” she continued, tone measured but eyes curious. “Their coffee is statistically above average.”
Johnny grinned, slow and brilliant. “Doc,” he said, offering his arm, “are you asking me out?”
She considered that. Then took his arm anyway. “I am proposing,” she said, “a non-work-related interaction. For observational purposes.”
Johnny laughed, fingers curling over where her hand had tucked itself into the crux of his elbow. He immediately noticed how cold her skin was in comparison to his own. “Yeah,” he said. “I think I can work with that.”
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
The café was exactly the kind of place Johnny wouldn’t normally notice but absolutely remember forever afterward. It sat on a corner just far enough from the museum to feel tucked away, windows fogged over from the heat inside, strands of warm white lights drooping lazily across the awning like they’d been put up by someone who cared more about ambiance than precision. A little bell chimed when Johnny pushed the door open, ushering in a burst of cold air and snowflakes that clung stubbornly to his jacket.
She paused just inside, taking it all in with that same careful assessment she applied to everything else. The chalkboard menu. The mismatched mugs hanging behind the counter. The crackle of an old jazz record humming low enough to be felt rather than heard.
“I find this environment to be charming,” she noting.
Johnny smirked. “High praise for something seemingly anecdotal?"
“I prefer clearly defined metrics,” she replied, already unwinding her scarf. “But I will concede this space scores well in warmth-to-coziness ratio.”
He laughed at her thinly veiled humor. Johnny realized then, that despite their interactions last night, she was capable of humor. Albeit, seeming to miss his attempts at it by miles at times, she slowly seemed to have attuned to his uses of sarcasm or lightheartedness.
They ordered at the counter before taking a small table by the window. Outside, the snow had picked up, thick flakes drifting down in lazy spirals, blurring the city into something softer. Johnny shrugged out of his jacket, draping it over the back of his chair, while she wrapped both hands around her mug the moment it arrived.
“You’re cold,” he observed.
“This is not unexpected,” she said. “It is December.”
“Yeah, but like extra cold,” he countered, “You didn’t bring gloves.”
“I did,” she said. “I misplaced them.”
He leaned back, grinning. “Classic.”
She frowned. “What does that imply?”
“Nothing bad,” he said quickly. “Just very on brand with the geniuses I know. All that brain space reserved for stuff that matters, and not trivial things such as remembering to grab gloves.”
“That is an unfair assessment,” she replied, then paused trying to counter his argument. “My coat lacks sufficient storage for things like outerwear. Perhaps it was intentional.”
Johnny laughed into his mug. “That may be true but your bag has plenty of room for them, so it would appear you forget them.”
She sipped her coffee, eyes narrowing slightly. “You appear to derive satisfaction from being correct.”
“Maybe,” he said lightly. “Happens to feel especially good being around people who are right all the time.”
She gave him a look that suggested she was filing that statement away for future rebuttal. “Your confidence remains disproportionate to available data.”
“Ouch,” he said, placing a hand over his chest. “First date and you’re already peer-reviewing me.”
Her brow furrowed. “This is not a date.”
He tilted his head. “Non-work-related interaction. Warm drinks. Snowy afternoon. You’re sitting across from me instead of somewhere else.”
She opened her mouth, then closed it. Looked down at her mug. Considered. “The categorization remains ambiguous,” she said at last.
Johnny grinned, victorious. “I’ll take it.”
A lull settled between them. Outside, a couple hurried past the window, laughing, scarves trailing behind them. Inside, the music shifted, a slow croon curling through the air like steam. She broke the silence first. “You seem more relaxed than previous interactions.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “No microphones. No cameras. Nobody asking me what my ‘ideal woman’ looks like.”
“Does that happen often?” she prompted.
“More than I wish it did,” he added. “Unfortuantely comes with the territory at this point. It’s hard to change people’s opinions of me. Unless of course, they actually are willing to look a little longer. Makes it easier to not feel the need to put on a show when I know that’s the case.” He hoped that she would catch what he was implying. That her simple observations about him had led to an ease he felt with her. That he knew she was willing to give him a benefit of the doubt, and not simply reduce him to outward expectation.
Her lips twitched into a grin. “You do appear less performative.”
He shrugged. “That stuff gets old. Smiling on command. Saying the same answers like they’re new.” He met her gaze. “I imagine you aren’t the type to accept the charade.”
“No,” she agreed simply. “I prefer accuracy.”
“Funny thing is,” he said, softer now, “that’s kind of what I want too.”
She studied him over the rim of her mug, eyes sharp but warmer than before. “Then perhaps our objectives are not as misaligned as initially assumed.”
Johnny took that as his cue to shift toward something more lighthearted. Something that didn’t involve suits or schematics or how the world perceived him. “So,” he said, resting his forearms on the table, voice deliberately casual, “we’ve spent a lot of time talkin’ about my stuff. Suits. Space. Ego-damaging public appearances.” He tipped his head. “What about you?”
Her brows drew together faintly. “In what capacity?”
“In the human capacity,” he said. “You know. You.”
She blinked. Once. Then twice. “I am not particularly relevant to–”
“Hey,” he interrupted gently, not teasing this time. “No equations. No exhibits. No professional obligations.” He smiled, small but sincere. “Just conversation.”
She looked down at her coffee as if it might provide guidance. “I am not especially practiced at discussing myself.”
“I find that hard to believe,” he said lightly.
“I do not,” she reaffirmed with a slight edge to her tone.
He chuckled, then softened again. “Okay, compromise. We don’t have to dig deep. Let’s keep it easy.” He gestured vaguely toward the window, where the snow continued to fall thick and steady. “It’s the holidays. Everybody’s got something they look forward to.”
Her mouth opened on instinctive refusal then stalled. “The holidays are largely ceremonial,” she said. “A series of repeated social expectations that–”
Johnny lifted a hand. “Careful. You’re doing that thing again.”
She paused. Exhaled. “What thing?”
“Over formality,” he said, smiling. “Try again. It’s just a conversation, not a dissertation. Promise I won’t doc points if you use improper syntax.”
She regarded him for a long moment, then leaned back slightly in her chair. “Very well,” she said, as if agreeing to a controlled experiment. “Casual conversation.”
He grinned. “See? You’re already improving.”
“That remains unproven.”
“Semantics,” he prompted. “What do you enjoy about this time of year?”
She hesitated. Long enough that he thought she might redirect again. Instead, her gaze drifted to the window, where the glow of lights reflected off the snow. “I like the ritual of it,” she said slowly. “Specifically the beginning.”
“The beginning,” he echoed.
“Yes.” Her fingers tightened slightly around her mug. “Selecting a tree. Bringing it home. The smell. The process of arranging lights and ornaments in a way that feels intentional.” She paused, then added, quieter, “And poinsettias. I always fill the house with them.”
Johnny’s smile softened. “You strike me as someone who would be very particular about where things go.”
“They must be balanced,” she said immediately, then stopped herself. “But not symmetrical. That would be dull.”
He laughed softly. “I can picture it.”
For a moment, she looked almost shy, an unfamiliar expression that flickered and passed quickly. “Unfortunately,” she continued, “it will not be an option this year.”
Johnny tilted his head. “No tree?”
“Or poinsettias,” she corrected.
“That’s a tragedy,” he said lightly, then gentler, “Why not?”
Her shoulders rose and fell in a small, resigned breath. “I recently took in my neighbor’s dog.”
“Oh,” Johnny said. “That’s actually really sweet.”
She nodded once. “He was elderly. My neighbor, not the dog. He passed rather suddenly. There was no immediate family.” She stared into her coffee. “The dog had nowhere else to go.”
“So you stepped in,” Johnny said.
“It was the logical course of action,” she replied automatically. Then, after a beat, added, “And I had grown accustomed to his presence.”
Johnny didn’t push. He only smiled, easy and patient. “What’s the dog’s name?”
“Alfie,” she said. “Formally, Alfred, though he responds more reliably to Alfie. He is ten. Deaf in one ear. Entirely uninterested in personal boundaries.”
Johnny’s grin widened. “Sounds like a great roommate.”
“I admit,” she said after a brief pause, “that his presence provides a form of companionship that was previously… absent.” Her fingers tightened subtly around her mug. “Unfortunately, that also means there will be no poinsettias this year.”
Johnny tilted his head. “He allergic?”
“Yes, as all dogs are” she replied, lips pressing together in faint frustration. “But unfortunately it’s not just flowers. Trees as well. Pine, fir, most seasonal greenery. The vet was very clear.” She exhaled. “Festive traditions have been suspended for the sake of canine respiration.”
Johnny let out a soft laugh, not unkind. “That’s a hell of a trade-off.”
“It was non-negotiable,” she said simply. “He had nowhere else to go.”
Johnny studied her for a moment, “So you gave up your favorite traditions.”
She shrugged, as if minimizing the weight of it. “Traditions are adaptable.”
“Yeah,” he said gently. “But you don’t sound thrilled about it.”
Her gaze flicked away, out the window, snow blurring the city into something softer. “I suppose I am not.”
A beat passed. “For what it’s worth,” Johnny added, leaning back in his chair, “Alfie sounds like he lucked out.”
She glanced back at him, caught off guard. “How do you figure?”
“Someone who gives up their favorite part of the holidays for an old dog with bad allergies?” He smiled, small but sincere. “That’s a pretty good person to end up with.”
Color touched her cheeks, faint but unmistakable. “I did not do it for moral validation.”
“I know,” Johnny said easily.
She looked down at her coffee, then up again, a trace of something softer in her expression. “He snores,” she added, almost defensively. “Loudly. And he insists on sleeping directly against my legs.”
Johnny laughed. “Of course he does.”
“It is inconvenient,” she said, though her tone lacked conviction. “But mostly tolerable.”
Johnny’s smile didn’t fade. If anything, it softened. “So,” he said, voice easy, “what else do you enjoy about this time of year?”
She lifted a brow, thoughtful. “If this is to remain a casual conversation, as you insisted,” she replied, “then reciprocity is only logical.”
He laughed quietly. “See? You’re better at this than you think.” He cleared his throat, suddenly aware he’d just volunteered himself. He leaned back in his chair, gaze drifting toward the window where the city glowed in uneven constellations. “I like being with my family. I know that probably sounds, I don’t know. Lame. Especially coming from me.” He shrugged. “And honestly, I couldn’t get away from them even if I wanted to.” Her expression didn’t shift into judgment or amusement. She simply listened. “But it’s good,” he continued. “The holidays slow everyone down a little. We end up in the same rooms, at the same table. Arguing about food. Laughing at stuff we’ve already laughed at a hundred times.” His mouth curved faintly. “It reminds me that I’m not just the guy people point at in the sky.”
She followed his gaze as he gestured upward, then down. “And I like the lights,” he added. “Seeing them from above. People stringing them along rooftops, windows, fire escapes. From up there, the city looks like it’s trying to imitate the stars.” He glanced back at her. “It’s the one time of year the world actually feels like space. Full of tiny points of light.”
For a moment, she said nothing. Then, softly, “That is not lame.”
Johnny blinked. “It’s not?”
“No,” she said, a hint of warmth entering her voice. “It is poetic. And observant. You appear to notice patterns most people overlook.”
He smiled, a little bashful now. “Guess that’s what happens when you spend enough time up high.”
She turned her mug slowly between her hands. “I enjoy the stillness,” she said after a pause. “The reduction in noise. Fewer emails. Fewer demands.” Her gaze flicked to him. “And I enjoy rituals. Even small ones.”
“Like poinsettias,” he prompted gently.
“Yes,” she said, lips curving with something like fondness.
He watched her carefully. “And this year?”
“This year,” she said, exhaling, “I will settle for string lights and candles. Non-allergenic festive substitutes.” A beat. “Alfie appears to enjoy the lights.”
Johnny tilted his head, curious. “And who do you usually spend the holidays with?”
“Previously my neighbor,” she said, a faint shadow crossing her features, “Now it’s just Alfie. My colleagues are… colleagues. Friends have their own families. No romantic partners,” she added, almost as if clarifying for herself as much as him.
“Does that get lonely?” he asked gently, sensing the space between her words.
She considered this for a moment, swirling her coffee slowly. “Sometimes,” she said finally. “I could attribute it to loneliness. The cold, the shorter days amplify the isolated phenomena. But,” she lifted her chin slightly, a small smile forming, “it is quite manageable, I assure you.”
Johnny leaned back, studying her. “Still,” he said softly, “it must be different without someone else around. Even just one person to share the small moments.”
Her eyes drifted to the window, where snow spun lazily through the air. “Perhaps,” she said softly. “But the moments exist all the same.”
Johnny hesitated, then shifted in his chair. “Can I admit something to you?”
She glanced back at him, expression neutral but attentive. “I suppose I cannot prevent you.”
He winced slightly. “I read your dissertation last night,” he confessed. Then immediately amended, “Or, uh. I tried to.”
Her brows knit together. “Why?”
He shrugged, a little sheepish now. “I don’t know. Maybe I wanted to impress you. Or maybe I wanted you to know I was actually putting in the effort to understand your work, the same way you’re putting in the effort to understand mine.”
She studied him carefully. “But my work is for the museum,” she said. “It serves an institutional purpose.”
“And mine,” Johnny replied, gentler now, “is genuine curiosity. But I like to think that doesn’t make it less valuable.”
Something shifted in her expression. He saw it in the way her eyebrows drew and her nose scrunched across the bridge for about half a second. “You realize most people feign interest,” she said. “They ask questions as a courtesy, not an investment.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I’ve met those people. It’s about all I deal with at those events you came to. Even a room full of fans, and I still feel the lack of genuine interest in what truly interests me. Most people just want the easy to rattle off facts or something that concerns how they may fit into my story. Not simply for the joy of enjoying who I am on its own. I know how frustrating that can be.”
She turned her mug slowly in her hands. He could tell she was choosing her words carefully given his admission. “Did you understand any of it?”
He laughed under his breath. “Some. Enough to know you’re way out of my league. And enough to recognize when something’s important, even if I can’t solve the equations.”
“That is more than most attempt,” she admitted.
“Well, for what it’s worth,” Johnny added, meeting her gaze, “the way you think? The way you connect things? That part came through loud and clear.”
Her lips curved, just slightly. “You are an anomaly, Mr. Storm.”
“Johnny,” he corrected again, smiling.
She nodded once. “Johnny.” After a beat, she added, “Thank you. For the effort.”
He smiled, “Anytime. Just don’t quiz me on it. I’d like to retain some dignity.”
“Forgive me if I’m wrong but, I wasn’t aware you had any.” She glanced down for a beat, and he caught her teeth worrying at her lower lip.
He stared at her dumbfounded. “Was that an attempt at humor?”
“Perhaps.” She allowed herself a small, genuine laugh. Outside, the snow continued to fall, and inside, something quietly, unexpectedly began to feel like it was settling into place.
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
The silence after he knocked made Johnny acutely aware of his pulse. Too loud. Too fast. Somewhere between the second and third beat, it dawned on him that this might have been a mistake. Showing up unannounced suddenly felt questionable. Yes, she’d told him which building she lived in. Yes, the apartment number had been listed on the paperwork she’d sent Reed. But standing here now, jacket zipped up against the cold, he realized there was a fine line between thoughtful and intrusive and he might’ve sprinted right over it.
He didn’t have time to spiral further before the door swung open. She stood there, head tilted slightly, confusion written plainly across her face. “Johnny?”
“Uh–hi,” he said, a grin pulling at his mouth despite himself.
“What are you doing here?”
Fair question. In the week since her visit to the Baxter Building and the coffee afterward, he’d made a point of keeping in touch. Not obsessively, he told himself. Just semi consistently. He’d stopped by the museum on Monday to bring her takeout for lunch. A kind gesture veiled in a question about her work that lead to, what he considered, the most adorable rant he’d seen in his life. Animated in a way she normally wasn’t, larger than life with hand gestures, and so on.
On Wednesday he walked her through the archive when she came to collect Reed’s donated materials, then asked her to dinner. Still a little stunned when she’d said yes because it was one thing to arrive unprompted with a deli sub, but to actually go out to dinner was another. Nothing fancy, honestly just some local pub tucked up away from crowds with decent bar food on Thursday with more small talk. On Friday, he’d called her using the number on her card just to mention there was a meteor shower that night, and they’d ended up watching it from their respective windows, mentioning observations to break the silence every so often over the reciever. Still. This was different.
“I remembered something you mentioned,” he said carefully.
“You are going to have to narrow that down,” she replied.
Before he could, a low, determined shape waddled into view. The fattest corgi Johnny had ever seen sauntered to the doorway, looked up at him with vague interest, then turned and ambled away as if Johnny were already old news. Johnny blinked. “The famous Alfie, I presume.”
“Yes,” she groaned. “And before you ask, I am attempting to reduce his weight. My former neighbor was… generous with treats. Alfie is down ten pounds, but progress is slow.” She paused. “And you are deflecting.”
“Actually I’m not,” Johnny said, glancing fondly after the dog. He met her gaze. “Can I–?”
She hesitated, then stepped aside and opened the door wider. “Briefly.”
Johnny stepped inside, warmth and the faint scent of citrus and wax washing over him. The apartment wasn’t messy, exactly, but it was lived in. Books stacked in uneven towers. Papers spread across surfaces like constellations only she could map. An ordered chaos that contrasted sharply with her otherwise meticulous nature.
He took it in quietly. Photographs tucked into frames. Mementos from places she’d mentioned in passing. A few paintings that he realized were hers, from a brief window of time she’d mentioned the hobby against the wall. And, unexpectedly, a large sword mounted above a bookshelf. He glanced at it, amused. “Is that–”
“Yes,” she said flatly. “From a Lord of the Rings exhibition. And yes, I am aware it contradicts my stance on speculative fiction.”
“You said you didn’t like it,” he said.
“I don’t like science fiction,” she replied. “Fantasy does not pretend to obey physics as science fiction so often does. Incorrectly. It is aggravating. Tolkien however is something I find enjoyable.”
Johnny smiled. “Good to know.” His gaze drifted to the windowsill. Candles.But no greenery. No red blooms. Which brought him back to why he was here. “You mentioned Alfie was allergic to pine,” he said gently. “And poinsettias.”
“Severely,” she confirmed. “The veterinarian was quite explicit. The wreath I attempted to bring home prior to a very expensive vet bill was not well received.”
Johnny nodded. “Yeah. That’s what I figured.” He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, discreet pill case and held it up between them. “I talked to Reed.”
She studied the case, cautious. “What is it?”
“A temporary antihistamine compound,” Johnny said. “Tailored. Non-sedative. Reed tweaked it specifically for Alfie’s allergy profile. It’s mild and a friend of Sue’s who is a vet already approved the formulation.”
Her breath hitched, just slightly. “Johnny–”
“It’s not permanent,” he said quickly. “Just enough coverage that you could maybe have a small tree. Or a few poinsettias. If you wanted. No pressure.”
“You went to considerable effort to enlist your brother in law for such a menial task,” she said finally.
He shrugged, suddenly shy. “You said it was your favorite part.”
She looked past him, toward the candles, toward the dog snoring faintly down the hall. When she looked back, her eyes were brighter than before. “That was… very thoughtful,” she said quietly.
Johnny smiled, the kind that wasn’t for an audience. “So,” he ventured, careful not to crowd the moment, “do you think I could convince you to come with me to a tree lot?”
Her brows knit together. “A tree lot?”
“Yeah,” he said, hopeful. “There aren’t many left in the city this late, but I know a couple of places that might still have something. Nothing big. Something small. Manageable.” He lifted a hand, already anticipating objections. “I’ll carry it back. I promise. You won’t even have to touch it.”
She studied him, expression sharpening. “What do you gain from this exchange?”
Johnny didn’t answer right away. He didn’t joke, didn’t deflect. He just met her gaze. “The pleasure of your company,” he said simply.
The quiet that followed felt different. Less analytical. More human. Her lips parted, then pressed together again, as though she’d been prepared for cleverness and found herself disarmed by sincerity instead. “That is an imprecise metric,” she said at last.
“Maybe,” he admitted. “But it’s an honest one.”
She looked at him for a long moment, then reached for her coat. “Very well,” she said. “However, we are operating under several constraints.”
He smiled. “I figured you’d say that.”
“Alfie will not be exposed without the antihistamine,” she continued. “We will not exceed forty minutes outdoors due to the temperatures. And if the available trees are substandard, we will not settle out of sentimentality.”
Johnny opened the door, cold air curling in. “You drive a hard bargain.”
She paused beside him, scarf halfway looped, and glanced up. “And you,” she said quietly, “are surprisingly good at this.”
“At what?” he asked.
“Convincing me to deviate from routine.”
Johnny’s grin softened. “Careful. I might start making it a habit.”
₊˚｡⋆❆⋆｡˚₊
They were almost back when the conversation drifted into that quiet, wandering space that happened when neither of them was trying to steer it anymore.
“…which is why,” she was saying, breath puffing in small clouds, “the common assumption that museums are static institutions is fundamentally flawed. They are, in fact, in constant negotiation with–”
Johnny adjusted his grip on the tree as they turned the corner onto her block. “–public perception and interest?” he finished, mostly guessing.
She stopped short and looked at him. “Yes,” she said slowly. “Exactly that.”
He grinned. “Lucky guess.”
“Hm.” She eyed him, suspicious but amused, and kept walking. “You continue to surprise me.”
The building came into view, the brick darkened by a slight fall of snow, with the soft glow in a few windows suggesting warmth just beyond the glass. Johnny checked his watch out of habit, then ignored it. Forty minutes had long since passed, but neither of them mentioned it. Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of an old radiator nearly burning and lemon floor cleaner. Johnny maneuvered the tree with ease while she fumbled in her bag for her keys.
It was only once they were inside the apartment, the door clicking shut behind them, and as she set her bag down, tugging off her gloves with stiff fingers he noticed. Her hands were red, blotched from the cold, movements a little slower than before. “Hey,” Johnny said quietly. “Your hands gotta be freezing.”
She blinked, as if the thought hadn’t occurred to her. “That is a predictable response to prolonged exposure,” she replied, automatically.
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he set the tree carefully aside and stepped closer, close enough that she had to tilt her head to look at him. “Still,” he said. “They’re like ice.”
Before she could protest, he gently took her hands in his warm palms closing around her fingers. The contact was brief at first but neither of them pulled away. She inhaled, sharply, then stilled. Johnny rubbed slow circles with his thumbs. The apartment was quiet except for the soft hum of heat and Alfie’s faint snoring down the hall. He became acutely aware of how close they were, of the way her gaze flicked down to his mouth and then back up again like it had been an accident. “This is unnecessary,” she said, but her voice lacked conviction.
“Humor me,” he murmured.
Another beat passed. Two. The space between them felt charged, like something waiting to snap or spark. Johnny’s grip softened, but he didn’t let go. Her pulse fluttered under his thumb. She swallowed. “…Thank you,” she said finally, quieter than before.
He smiled, gentle, and released her hands reluctantly before stepping back just enough to give her room. She cleared her throat and turned toward the tree, suddenly very interested in the twine wrapped around it. “Well,” she said, briskness reasserting itself with effort, “since you have already disrupted my evening and introduced foreign vegetation into my living space,” Johnny laughed softly. “You may as well assist in mitigating the chaos,” she finished. She glanced at him over her shoulder, something softer hiding behind her composure. “Would you like to help me decorate it?”
His grin came easy, genuine. “Yeah,” he said. “I’d really like that.”
She moved first, crossing the room toward the music player on the bookshelf, fingers already navigating it with habitual precision. “Background noise improves task efficiency,” she said, as if that were the only reason. “Silence encourages distraction.”
“Don’t need to convince me to put on music. It’s not exactly a hard sell,” Johnny replied, peeling off his jacket and draping it over the back of a chair.
Music filtered into the apartment through an old radio. Instrumental at first, warm enough to take the edge off the quiet as some old crooner singing Christmas songs softly took over. She crouched to free the tree from its wrapping while Johnny steadied the trunk, their hands occasionally brushing in brief, accidental contact that felt anything but. “Left,” she instructed.
“Got it.”
“No, my left.”
He adjusted, smiling to himself. “You’re very good at delegating.”
“I am excellent at delegating,” she corrected, then paused, looking up at him. “You follow instructions well.”
Johnny’s brows lifted. “Is that a compliment?”
“It is an observation,” she said, then returned to her task a little too quickly.
They worked in near-silence after that, punctuated only by the soft music and the rustle of branches. Ornaments emerged from a carefully labeled box. Just simple glass ones, in standard colors of gold and red. No tinsel. No garish colors.
“You don’t do whimsy,” Johnny noted, hanging one carefully.
“It is preferable to hone more of a traditional style,” she said.
He laughed under his breath. As he reached past her to place an ornament higher up, he became aware again of the closeness. Her shoulder near his chest, the faint citrus scent he’d noticed earlier. She didn’t move away. Instead, she straightened, studying the tree, then glanced at him with an assessing look that felt different than before. More direct. Less guarded.
Johnny stood back to let her place the first ornament, watching the careful way she adjusted it until it sat exactly right. “You know,” he said lightly, “for someone who claims to dislike sentimentality, you’re taking this very seriously.”
“This is not sentimentality,” she replied.
“Uh-huh.” He reached for another ornament, then paused, grin creeping in. “You should see some of the trees I grew up with. Tinsel everywhere. Questionable homemade ornaments. Lopsided angel on top.”
She hummed, noncommittal. “Your upbringing appears consistent with your public persona.”
“Ouch,” he said, clutching his chest. “That hurts.”
She shot him a glance. “You cultivate attention. It is not an insult to acknowledge it.”
Johnny leaned against the table, folding his arms. “Cultivating attention, huh? Is that what you call it when your face ends up on a billboard with,” he gestured vaguely behind himself, “very little fabric involved?”
Her hand stilled mid-hang. Slowly, she turned to face him. “You are referring,” she said carefully, “to the advertisement featuring sun protection lotion.”
He smiled. “The one with the–”
“Yes,” she cut in. “I am aware.”
Johnny blinked. “You’ve seen it?”
She lifted a shoulder. “It is difficult to exist in this city and not encounter it.”
“Wow,” he said, clearly delighted. “And here I thought you paid no mind to things like that.”
“I avoid frivolity,” she corrected. “However, that image was unavoidable.”
He pushed gently. “Unavoidable?”
She studied him for a moment longer than necessary, gaze drifting before returning to his face. “It was an effective use of visual rhetoric,” she said. “The composition draws the eye. The subject is,” a pause as her eyes darted away, “physically compelling.”
Johnny’s smile softened. “Physically compelling,” he repeated.
“It is not a personal endorsement,” she said, a little too quickly.
“Sure sounds like one.”
She turned back to the tree, but not before he caught the faint color high on her cheekbones. “If you must know,” she added, tone clinical but wavering at the edges, “You display the typical symmetry associated with physical appeal. Light features are traditionally sought after. I understand why one might find that enticing.”
Johnny stepped closer. Not crowding. Just enough that she was aware of him. “That sounds like an overly clinical way of saying you find me attractive, Doll,” he murmured, “Feel free to correct me if I am wrong.”
Her breath stuttered. She reached for another ornament and missed it by an inch. The song shifted again. “This is an unfortunately timed ballad,” she said. “The implications are–”
Johnny extended his hand, palm up, expression open. “Dance with me.”
She stared at his hand as if it were a variable she hadn’t prepared for. “I do not–”
“Please,” he said gently. “Just for a minute.”
After a long beat, she placed her hand in his. He drew her in slowly, one hand settling at her waist. They didn’t really move at first. Just stood there, close enough to feel each other breathe. Johnny lowered his head slightly, voice soft, almost absentminded as he hummed along to the first verse. His thumb brushed lightly at her side, once, then still. Her composure wavered. She looked up at him, eyes searching. “You are leveraging proximity and auditory stimuli to influence my behavior,” she said, quietly.
“Yeah,” he replied, just as quiet. “But only if you want me to.”
She didn’t reply, only pressing closer before mumbling into his collar, “It is tolerable,”
“Only tolerable?” he chuckled.
“That is the furthest I am willing to explain at risk of being vulnerable,”
“Fair enough,” he looked down at her, Dean Martin’s crooning filling the space between them for a second before Johnny joined in, playful and theatrically playing off the song. “Your eyes are like starlight now…” he sang softly, maintaining eye contact as he did so. In the past, something of the sorts might’ve seemed like a charming routine. But with her, he knew she wouldn’t play into that kind of theatrics. Thus, the effect of his soft singing, their swaying and the unbroken eye contact felt genuine for the first time in a long time.
A laugh escaped her, in an unguarded burst of sound that transformed her face. She tilted her chin up at him, the amusement in her eyes slowly being replaced by something warmer. Before he could think, before he could second-guess the momentum carrying them forward, he leaned down and kissed her. She hadn’t even seemed shocked by it, simply letting her lips part to welcome it in a way he hadn’t expected to feel so natural.
Then her fingers tightened on his shoulder, and she kissed him back. It was slow and deep, tasting of her and a sudden, desperate need he hadn’t realized he was carrying. He pulled her flush against him, the warmth of his body bleeding into hers. He ran a hand down her back, pressing her closer as she deepened the kiss. Her hands moved up to his neck, burying into his hair. The world narrowed to this: her mouth, the soft fabric of her shirt, the scent of pine and her light bergamot perfume. He felt her shiver and pulled back just enough to rest his forehead against hers, their breath mingling in the space between them.
“Well,” he said, voice rough with amusement, “that was unexpected.”
“I do not see how,” she replied calmly. “We are both exhibiting the typical indicators of attraction. Dilated pupils. Increased proximity–”
“Don’t make it sound like a lab report,” he interrupted, leaning in to kiss her again. This one was different. Less tentative, edged with intent. His grip tightened at the small of her back as the music carried on around them. When he finally pulled away, he smiled, voice dropping to a whisper timed perfectly with Dean Martin crooning in the background. “Gosh, your lips are delicious.”
“You are extremely warm,” she said when he leaned back.
“Is that a surprise?” he asked, chuckling as he met her gaze.
“No.” She tilted her head, studying him. “However, I had not accounted for the increase in body temperature during acts of intimacy.”
“I do,” he said simply. “Run warmer, I mean.”
“That is consistent with human physiology,” she mused. “Heightened emotion and distraction often elevate temperature. Given your anomalies, it is logical.” She hesitated, eyes flicking up to his. “Have you ever…” She stopped herself, shaking her head. “Perhaps that is not an appropriate question.”
“No,” he said, laughing softly as he tugged her closer again, the back of his finger brushing her cheek. “Now you have to ask.”
“It is hardly professional.”
“That’s exactly why you should.”
She studied him for a moment, weighing her words. “Have you ever attempted to adjust your body heat intentionally for… pleasurable outcomes?”
He blinked, then let out a short, surprised laugh. “You mean during sex?”
“It sounds unnecessarily crude when you phrase it that way,” she said flatly, sidestepping the question altogether.
Johnny’s smile widened, just a touch. “So what you’re really asking, doll, is whether I can control the temperature in the bedroom.”
She met his gaze, held it, then nodded once. “It was merely a question born of curiosity. You are under no obligation to answer–”
“No,” he said, cutting in gently. Then he tilted his head, mischief flickering in his eyes. “But now that you’ve put the thought in my head, it sounds like a pretty interesting experiment.”
Her brows lifted. “An experiment.”
“Sure,” he said lightly. “Low stakes. Purely theoretical.”
She considered that, lips pressing together as if running calculations only she could see. “Hypothetically,” she said at last, “such control would require a high degree of focus.”
“Good thing I’m great at focusing,” he replied.
She gave him a look. Measured, skeptical, but undeniably amused. “Your definition of focus appears to be… flexible.”
“Depends on the motivation,” he said, drawing a little closer again. “And curiosity can be very motivating.”
“Well,” she said at last, breaking the silence, “should you ever decide to test your hypothesis, I would expect rigorous methodology.”
“Oh, only the best,” he replied, tipping his head toward her. “I wouldn’t dare cut corners.”
She paused, fingers flexing slightly at her side. “Hypothetically,” she continued, voice measured but no longer distant, “would such a test not require a willing participant?”
Her gaze lifted to his, and something in it shifted. Less analytical, more intent. In that instant, Johnny stopped seeing the sharp-edged woman who had once bulldozed into his charity event with nothing but facts. The equations, the precision, the careful distance all fell away. She was just there. Close, deliberate, unmistakably aware of what she was doing to him as she stared up at him doe eyed through her lashes. The effect hit him hard. The way she framed the question so clinically, while looking at him like that, sent a rush through his chest, quick and dizzying. His pulse jumped, heat flaring beneath his skin as if his body had decided before his mind could catch up.
“Are you saying you’d volunteer?” he asked, voice lower than he meant it to be.
“I thought,” she started as she leaned in and said, “that was obvious”. Then smashed her lips against his in a way that certainly wasn’t tentative or left room for the imagination. The kiss was brief but intentional, and the moment it happened, the world seemed to lurch. The rush was immediate and overwhelming, like a sudden drop on a roller coaster he hadn’t known he was standing in line for. Heat surged through him, sharp and exhilarating, stealing the breath right out of his lungs.
When she leaned back just enough to look at him, his smile had vanished completely. What replaced it was genuine surprise. For a moment he just stared at her. “Well,” he breathed, a low laugh breaking through, “I’ll be damned.”
“You find my proposition amusing,” she said, voice steady even as the air between them tightened.
His hand came up at once, firm and certain as it cupped her jaw, leaving her no room to retreat. “No,” he said quietly, heat threading every word. “I find it irresistible.”
He pulled her back and kissed her again. Deeper this time, charged with intention. It wasn’t rushed, but it wasn’t gentle either; it carried the weight of everything he hadn’t said. When he finally drew away, his forehead rested against hers, his grip still unwavering. “You’re still thinking about the methodology, aren’t you?” he murmured, his breath warm against her lips.
She didn’t pull away. Instead, she let her eyes flutter shut, leaning into the solid strength of him. “I am considering variables,” she admitted, though her voice lacked its usual clinical edge. It was breathy, softened by the friction of his skin against hers. “For instance, if you were to increase the thermal output by even two degrees, the metabolic response would likely–”
Johnny didn’t let her finish. He let out a low, rough growl of a laugh and shifted, his weight pressing her back into the wall. “Variables,” he repeated, the word a vibration against her throat as he tucked his head into the curve of her neck. “I think we’re past the planning stage, Doll. We’re well into the fieldwork.”
He followed the words with a slow, deliberate trail of kisses along her collarbone. As he did, he made a conscious effort to tap into that well of heat he usually kept under a tight lock and key. He didn’t let it flare – that would be dangerous – but he let it gently rise a bit to the surface. He felt his temperature climb, a steady, pulsing glow that radiated from his chest outward to his fingertips.
She gasped, her fingers knotting into the fabric of his shirt. Her back arched instinctively, seeking the source of the sudden, intense warmth. “Johnny,” she breathed, her composure finally fracturing. “That is a significant shift.”
“Data point number one,” he whispered into her ear, his teeth grazing the lobe. He could feel her heart hammering against his ribs, a frantic, rhythmic tapping that told him more than any sensor ever could. “How’s the comfort level? Purely for the records.”
“Optimal,” she managed to say, though it sounded more like a confession than a report. She reached up, her palms flat against his chest, feeling the sheer, vibrant heat of him. It wasn't like a fever; it was like standing in the sun, visceral and life-giving. “In fact, thermal transfer is highly effective.”
“Good,” he said, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye. His pupils were blown wide, dark with a focus that was anything but flexible now. “Because I’m just getting started on the calibration.”
The air in the room felt heavy, charged with a static tension that made the fine hairs on her arms stand up. Johnny watched the way her gaze tracked the movement of his hands as he reached down to catch the hem of her sweater.
“Still want to keep the lab notes?” he asked, a crooked, challenging smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
She reached out, grabbing his collar and pulling him back down to her level, her eyes flashing with a sudden, fierce hunger that matched his own. “Observation can be conducted,” she whispered, “Post-coitally that is. For now, I require the necessary experience to properly articulate those observations.”
Johnny didn’t need to be told twice. He let the sweater she wore go, his hands sliding instead to the small of her back, lifting her slightly to close every remaining millimeter of space between them. The heat he was generating wasn’t just physical anymore; it was an atmosphere. “Experience,” he repeated, the word vibrating between them. “I am more than happy to provide some clarity.”
He moved with a sudden, fluid confidence, rolling them over until she was pinned to the wall behind her by the gentle weight of him. The change in position drew a sharp, hitching breath from her, her eyes widening as she took in the sheer intensity of his gaze. He looked molten. Not just because of the literal warmth radiating from his skin, but because of the raw, unshielded way he was looking at her.
His hands began a slow, possessive exploration, tracing the lines of her body with a precision that rivaled her own as he worked the sweater off, leaving her only in a bra from the waist up. Everywhere he touched left a lingering trail of heat that seemed to sink beneath her skin, hum through her nerves, and settle deep in her marrow.
“Johnny,” she whispered, her head falling back against the wall. Her usual poise was gone, replaced by a restless tension. “The thermal distribution is not localized.”
“That’s the idea,” he murmured, his lips finding the sensitive pulse point at her jaw. “I’m trying to see just how much you can take before the ‘analytical’ part of your brain finally shuts up and lets the rest of you take over.”
“A bold objective,” she gasped, her fingers digging into his shoulders. Her skin was flushing, a delicate heat blooming across her cheeks and chest as her own body temperature rose to meet his.
“I’ve always been an overachiever,” he teased, though his voice was thick with a growing hunger.
He shifted his focus, his kisses becoming more demanding, more rhythmic. He felt the moment her defenses fully dissolved. The moment her fingers stopped clutching his shirt and started sliding into his hair, pulling him closer with an urgency that wasn't calculated at all. She was no longer a scientist observing a phenomenon; she was the phenomenon itself, reacting to him with a volatility that made his head spin. As the friction between them increased, Johnny pushed the limit of his control. He let the heat flare just a fraction more, a low-simmering burn that turned the air between them into a shimmering haze.
"Here, I have an idea," he hummed, his voice dropping into a smooth, melodic register as he guided her away from the wall. Her hands flew to her chest instinctively, a flick of residual modesty he didn’t bother to challenge. Johnny was a man on a mission, and his focus was far too sharp to waste on an argument. He steered her toward the small armchair by the window. He eased her down, watching as she settled into the upholstery, her eyes following his every move with a mix of clinical expectation and raw, human nerves. He scanned the room until his gaze landed on a familiar scrap of fabric: An old beige plaid scarf Sue had gifted him years ago. It was soft, worn thin by time, and perfect for what he had in mind.
He knelt between her knees, the scarf draped over his palms like an offering. When she looked down and realized what he was holding, he watched the gears turn behind her eyes. "Visual deprivation to heighten sensory processing?" she asked, her voice hitching just slightly.
"That’s a very wordy way of saying 'blindfold,' but yeah," he chuckled, his thumb grazing the fabric. "That okay with you?"
"The constant solicitation of consent is… remarkably attractive," she admitted, giving a single, sharp nod. "Yes. Proceed."
Johnny stood, stepping behind the chair. He moved with a quiet deliberation, gathering her hair and spilling it over one shoulder before wrapping the scarf around her head. He tied it with a gentle knot at the back of her head, ensuring the soft wool sat snug against her eyes.
"Can you see anything?"
"Only shadows," she whispered.
"Good. Now, lean forward for me." She obeyed, the movement exposing the elegant, vulnerable curve of her spine. Johnny didn't touch her immediately. He took a breath, closing his eyes to find that internal dial. The one that controlled the literal fire in his blood. He didn't want the flame; he wanted the slight glow. He reached out, his index and middle fingers hovering just a fraction of an inch above her shoulder blade. He felt the phantom buzz of her proximity, then he made contact.
She flinched. Not in pain, but in shock. His fingertips weren't just warm; they were pulsing with a concentrated, radiant heat that felt like liquid sunlight. "Johnny," she gasped, her hands gripping the armrests of the chair until her knuckles turned white.
"Shh," he murmured, his voice a low vibration near her ear. "Just feel it."
He began to trace a slow, torturous path along the ridge of her shoulder. As he moved, he subtly turned up the dial. The heat intensified from a comforting hum to a searing, focused throb. He drew a line down the center of her back, following the valley of her spine, his touch leaving a trail of hyper-sensitized skin in its wake.
Her breath came in ragged, uneven bursts. Without her sight, the world had narrowed down to the point of contact between his skin and hers. She could feel the precise moment he increased the temperature. The way it seemed to melt the tension right out of her muscles while simultaneously setting her nerves on fire.
"The thermal output..." she strained to speak, her head tilting back as he traced the sensitive skin at the base of her neck. "It’s startling to feel it increasing. Yet it is localized to the fingertips. It’s... it’s fascinating."
"Does it feel like science?" he asked, his voice dropping to a gravelly whisper as he leaned closer, his lips nearly brushing her earlobes. "Or does it just feel good?"
He didn't wait for an answer. He spread his hand flat against the small of her back, letting the full force of his controlled heat sink into her. She let out a soft, broken cry, her body arching toward him, her blindfolded face turned up to the ceiling in a silent plea for more.
Johnny didn’t answer her with words. Instead, he let his touch do the talking. He moved his hands back up to her shoulders, his thumbs digging into the tight knots of muscle beside her neck. He pushed the temperature just a hair further. He could feel her pulse jumping everywhere he touched, a frantic, rhythmic thrumming that was faster than any calculation. "You're shaking," he noted softly, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate straight through her skin.
"The... the sensory input is overwhelming my normal cognitive load," she managed to choke out. Her head fell forward, her forehead almost touching her knees as she shivered under the sheer weight of the heat he was pouring into her. "I cannot... prioritize the data."
"Then stop trying," Johnny commanded. He slid his hands down her arms, his fingers interlacing with hers and pulling them away from her chest. He pinned her hands to the armrests, his palms flat over the backs of her hands, flooding her with that intense, supernatural warmth.
He leaned down, his lips ghosting over the sensitive junction where her neck met her shoulder. He could smell the faint scent of her shampoo. "Tell me what you feel," he whispered, "without using the word 'thermal'."
She let out a shaky, frustrated breath, her head thrashing lightly against the blindfold. "I feel... consumed," she whispered, her voice breaking. "It’s as if you are... rewriting my nervous system. Everything is warm. It’s hard to focus on anything but... you."
Johnny felt a surge of triumph that had nothing to do with his powers and everything to do with the woman in his arms. He released her hands, instead tracing the dip of her waist before bringing his hands back to the center of her back. This time, he didn't just use his fingers. He pressed his entire forearm against the length of her spine as his fingertips clutched at the base of her neck possessively, a broad, searing brand of heat that made her cry out. A high, sharp sound of pure, unadulterated want. "Johnny, please," she gasped, her fingers clawing at the upholstery of the chair.
"Please what?" He teased, his voice thick with his own rising heat. He could feel the fire itching to break the surface, the "Flame On" instinct humming in his veins, but he kept it tethered, focusing every ounce of that energy into the points where they touched.
"I require..." She paused, her breath hitching as he nipped at the curve of her shoulder with his lips. "I require more than just the localized application."
He laughed, a dark, breathless sound. He reached around, his fingers finding the knot of the scarf at the back of her head. With a single, deft tug, the plaid fabric fell away. She blinked rapidly, her eyes unfocused and swimming with heat as the dim light of the room rushed back in. She looked wrecked. Hair mussed, skin flushed a deep, beautiful crimson, and her gaze finally landed on him with a desperation that made his heart hammer against his ribs.
"Experiment's over," he murmured, his eyes glowing with a faint, amber light. He didn’t give her time to regain her equilibrium. The moment the blindfold hit the floor, Johnny moved, hauling her up from the chair and into his arms in one seamless motion. She gasped, her legs instinctively wrapping around his waist to steady herself, her hands finding purchase in the hair at the nape of his neck.
As he carried her toward the bedroom, the air around them seemed to distort and shimmer, the way a road bleeds into a mirage on a mid-July afternoon. "Johnny," she murmured against his ear, her voice a low, vibrating hum. "Your core temperature… it is rising beyond the previous parameters."
"I told you," he grunted, kicking the bedroom door shut behind them. "I’m an overachiever. And right now, I’m highly motivated."
He lowered her onto the mattress, following her down before she could even catch her breath. The contrast between the cool sheets and the searing intensity of his body made her hiss, her back arching as she was caught between the two extremes. He pinned her wrists above her head, his fingers glowing with a soft, internal light that cast dancing shadows against the walls.
"You wanted rigorous methodology," he whispered, his face inches from hers. He was smirking, but his eyes were burning. Literally. Faint wisps of steam rose where his skin met the air, fueled by the sheer adrenaline of the moment. "But I think we’re done with the talking part of the evening."
She looked up at him, her chest heaving, her logic centers finally, mercifully, offline. "The data," she whispered, a ghost of a smile touching her lips, "is becoming… secondary to the sensation."
"Good." He released her wrists, his hands sliding down to frame her face, his palms radiating a heat that felt like a physical weight. "Because I’m about to show you exactly what happens when you play with fire."
He kissed her then, and it wasn't the tentative exploration of a scientist. It was the roar of a furnace, the sudden, violent ignition of everything they’d been building since the moment she’d walked into his life with her clipboards and her questions. She met him beat for beat, her movements no longer calculated, but primal. The room grew stiflingly hot, the scent of ozone and parched air filling her lungs, but she didn't pull away. She leaned into the burn, realizing that for all her study of human physiology, she had never truly understood the concept of combustion until Johnny Storm put his hands on her.
The shift was instantaneous. The playful arrogance Johnny usually wore like a second skin stripped away, replaced by a raw, desperate hunger that didn’t leave room for teasing. He broke the kiss just long enough to grab the hem of his shirt, pulling it over his head with a violent, impatient yank that sent the fabric flying somewhere into the shadows of the room.
The moment his bare chest met hers, she let out a strangled sound. Half-gasp, half-sob. It wasn't just warmth anymore; it was like being pressed against a living star. The heat was immense, radiating from his skin in waves that made the very air in the room feel heavy. Johnny didn’t hesitate. He came back down over her, his weight a solid, grounding force, his skin sliding against hers with a friction that felt electric. His hands were everywhere. His palms searing tracks along her ribs, his fingers digging into her hips with a possessive intensity that finally shattered her remaining restraint.
"Johnny," she choked out, her head lolling back as he buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath coming in hot, jagged hitches.
"I've got you," he growled, the words vibrating against her skin. "I've got you, Doll."
He wasn't holding back the "anomalies" anymore. The golden light behind his skin pulsed in time with his racing heart, casting a flickering, amber glow across her face. He kissed her with a ferocity that felt like a claim, his tongue tangling with hers as if he were trying to consume the very air she breathed.
She responded with equal fervor, her nails raking down the smooth, burning muscle of his back. She didn't care about the physics of it anymore. The way his temperature was defying every biological law she knew. She only cared about the way he made her feel: like she was the center of a controlled explosion, the only thing in the world capable of touching him without turning to ash. The intensity was dizzying. Every time their skin moved together, a fresh jolt of heat surged through her, pulling her deeper into a haze where only his touch and the smell of his cologne existed. Johnny pulled back for a second, his eyes searching hers, looking for any sign of hesitation, any hint that he was too much.
But all he found was a reflection of his own desperation. Her eyes were dark, blown wide with a frantic sort of need that matched the fire in his blood. "More," she whispered, the word a ragged command.
He let out a low, guttural sound and closed the distance again, his body a conduit for a power he was finally letting her share. There was no more methodology, no more data points. Only the searing, blinding reality of two people burning at the same frequency. Johnny didn't just move; he surged. The restraint he had practiced all evening snapped like a tension wire.
He caught her face in both hands, his fingers leaving ghost-trails of light against her skin. His gaze was anchored to hers, his eyes burning with that steady, molten amber. "You sure?" he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel and fire. "Because once I stop thinking about the 'science' of this, I'm not stopping."
"Johnny," she said, her voice dropping all pretense of its usual clinical precision. She reached up, her palms flat against his burning chest, feeling the terrifying, beautiful rhythm of his heart. "Calculations are for things we don't already know. I know how much I want you right now."
That was the permission he needed. He crashed his lips back onto hers, the kiss no longer a question but a statement. He moved with a desperate, heavy grace, with energy humming under his skin. Everywhere they touched, the heat intensified. When his chest pressed against hers, she felt a flush of warmth so deep it felt like it was coming from inside her own bones. It was a feedback loop. The more she reacted, the more his temperature climbed, and the more his temperature climbed, the more she lost her grip on the world outside this bed.
The sheets beneath them were warm to the touch now. Johnny’s hands slid down to her waist, his grip firm and urgent, pulling her flush against him until there wasn't a breath of space left. He was a man made of sun and stars, and for the first time, she wasn't just observing the light through telescopes. She was standing right in the center of the flare. "You're incredible," he breathed against her skin, his words muffled by the frantic pace of his own breathing.
She couldn't find the words to respond. She could only pull him closer, her fingers digging into the muscles of his arms, her body humming with a sympathetic vibration to his power. The "experiment" had long since evolved into something primal, a dance of friction and flame that threatened to melt everything else away. As he moved with her, the glow behind his skin brightened, illuminating the room in a soft, flickering gold. It was the Human Torch in his most private form. Not a hero. Just a man burning with a heat that only one person was allowed to feel.
The last of the barriers vanished with a frantic, shared desperation. Johnny didn’t wait for a polite pause; he reached down, his hands steady despite the tremor of adrenaline, and hooked his fingers into the waistband of his trousers. At the same time, his other hand found the hem of her skirt. There was no grace in the movement, only a raw, singular purpose. He shucked the clothes away, the fabric hitting the floor in a heap as he moved back over her, his skin finally meeting hers without the interference of a single thread.
The contact was a revelation. Without the layers of cotton and silk, the heat transfer was absolute. She gasped, her eyes flying open as her entire body registered the sheer, unadulterated power of him. It wasn't just his hands or his chest anymore; it was the heavy, solid length of him, radiating a warmth that felt like it was stitching them together at every point of contact.
"Johnny," she whispered, her voice a ragged thread of sound. She felt weightless and heavy all at once, pinned to the mattress by a man who felt less like flesh and blood and more like a force of nature.
"I've got you, doll," he rasped, his voice thick and low. He braced himself on his forearms, his muscles corded and glowing with that faint, internal light. He looked down at her, his face taut with the effort of maintaining his control. "Tell me if it's too much. If I'm too hot."
She didn't answer with words. She reached up, her fingers trembling as she cupped his face, pulling him down into a kiss. She arched her back, her skin slick with a fine sheen of sweat, seeking more of that terrifying, beautiful heat.
As the intensity reached a fever pitch, Johnny suddenly stilled, his breath hitching as a flare of protective instinct cut through the haze of desire. He stayed braced above her, his muscles quivering with the effort of pausing when every nerve in his body was screaming to continue.
“Wait,” he rasped, his eyes searching hers, and his iris flickering with a mix of urgency and caution. “The, uh... the logistics. I’ve got–well, I usually keep one in my wallet, but with the... you know...” He gestured vaguely to the heat radiating from his own skin. “Standard latex has a melting point. I don't want to cause a secondary chemical reaction or, well, a failure.”
Even in this state, her analytical mind flickered to life for a brief, sharp second. She looked up at him, her chest heaving, a strand of hair stuck to her damp forehead.
“Mifepristone,” she whispered, her voice still thick with a heavy, honeyed weight. “Taken daily and never, ever missed despite my typical lack of exposure to justify its usage.”
Johnny let out a short, startled laugh, the tension in his shoulders breaking for just a second. “Assuming that’s some sort of birth control?”
“The scientific name, yes,” she confirmed, as her fingers were tracing down the back of his neck. Then, her gaze softened, “So for the record, Johnny... Birth control is not a variable you need to account for tonight.”
“Good to know,” he breathed, the last of his hesitation dissolving. He reached for the drawer, his movements quick and efficient. “Because I think my internal temperature just jumped another ten degrees.”
He moved back over her, the contact even more electric than before now that the "logistics" were settled. The sheer, unadulterated reality of their shared proximity took over, drowning out the last remnants of clinical observation. “No more variables you want to account for?” he asked, his voice dropping into a low, possessive rumble.
“None,” she replied, her eyes closing as she wrapped her legs around his hips. Johnny didn't need any further encouragement. Bracing himself on his forearms he lowered himself under they were pressed tight against one another. Then he sunk into her drenched core with ease as she hissed at the intrusion. And when she finally opened her eyes after acclimating to the way he stretched her, she gave a small nod.
He moved with a newfound, singular focus, the rhythm of their bodies finally falling into a sync that transcended any of the technicalities they’d just discussed. As he merged his unnatural heat with hers, she let out a sound that was less a word and more a vibration. A long, melodic note of pure release. The sensation was unlike anything her hypothesis could have prepared her for. It wasn't just the physical act; it was the way his power felt like it was pouring directly into her. A golden, liquid warmth that seemed to fill the very spaces between her cells.
“Johnny,” she gasped, her eyes flying open. She saw him above her, his jaw taut, his skin literally shimmering with a soft, bioluminescent amber. Small, harmless sparks danced in the air where their sweat-slicked skin met, a byproduct of the friction and the sheer energy he was channeling.
“I’m right here,” he groaned, his voice sounding like it was coming from the center of a forge. He was keeping his temperature at a steady, searing threshold, pushing himself to the absolute limit of his control to ensure she was feeling every single degree of his devotion.
She felt her own pulse begin to race in a frantic, runaway gallop, a physical echo of his. Her hands moved restlessly over his back, marveling at the sheer power coiled in his muscles. Every time he moved, the heat flared, a rhythmic surge that felt like the tide coming in: hot, heavy, and unstoppable.
“It’s so…” she whispered, her head tilting back as the sensation reached a crescendo. “It’s so overwhelming.”
“Let it go, doll,” he whispered back, his lips pressing against hers, his breath a scorched-earth heat. “Just burn with me.”
And she did. The walls of her meticulously ordered mind finally gave way to the fire. The room, the heat over every single inch of her skin, the way he warmed her from the inside with every thrust of his hips. It all dissolved into a singular, blinding point of light and warmth where they were joined. It was the ultimate chemical reaction: two disparate elements colliding with such force that they created something entirely new, something that defied every law of physics she had ever known. Not in distant stars or galaxies, but simply in her bedroom as Johnny Storm stared down at her with those wide eyes and that smirk of triumph.
In the final, explosive moments, Johnny let out a ragged, triumphant cry, his skin flaring to a brilliant gold that illuminated every corner of the room. She held onto him as if he were the only solid thing in a world of light, her own voice joining his until the last of the sparks faded and the only sound left was the frantic, synchronized thudding of two hearts.
The silence that followed was heavy, sweet, and thick with the scent of their sins. The intense, blinding gold that had radiated from Johnny’s skin slowly receded, settling into a soft, sunset glow that lingered beneath the surface. He didn't pull away immediately; instead, he collapsed into the space beside her, his arm hooked around her waist to pull her flush against his side.
He was still radiating a gentle, comforting heat. No longer a furnace, but a steady hearth. She let her head rest on his shoulder, her breath finally slowing to match the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. "Data... inconclusive," she murmured, her voice a sleepy, satisfied rasp. "I believe further testing... will be required."
Johnny let out a low, rumbling chuckle that she felt more than heard. He turned his head, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to her temple. "I think I can fit that into my schedule," he whispered. "Maybe a lifetime's worth of peer-reviewed studies."
He reached down, pulling the tangled duvet up over their sweat-slicked bodies. Outside the window, the winter wind rattled the glass, a sharp reminder of the freezing New York night they had successfully locked out. The faint sound of the radio in the next room was still audible through the wall, and by some stroke of cosmic irony, the same melody from earlier was drifting through the air once more. The muffled, brassy notes of Baby, It’s Cold Outside hummed in the background. Johnny smiled into her hair, his grip tightening just a fraction. "Hear that?" he asked softly.
She shifted, tucking her now slightly chilled nose into the warm hollow of his neck. "The lyrics are technically a series of excuses to avoid inclement weather," she noted, though there was no bite in it.
"I think it’s more about finding any excuse to get close to a pretty lady," Johnny hummed, his fingers tracing lazy, glowing circles on her hip, almost teasing another round once they both fully recovered. "But honestly, doll? Looking at you, feeling this... I don't want to go anywhere. Not to the Baxter Building, not out there in the cold, or even to the kitchen for water."
"It would be wise to hydrate," she whispered, her eyes fluttering shut as the warmth of his body acted like a heavy, velvet blanket.
"It can still wait," Johnny said, his voice dropping to a tender, honest register. He shifted so he could look her in the eye, his amber gaze soft and clear. "It's freezing out there, and I’ve got everything one could need to stay warm right here."
She met his gaze, and for the first time, she didn't see an anomaly or a superhero. She saw a man who had intentionally lowered his guard so she could see the fire inside. She reached up, her fingers grazing his jaw. "In that case," she whispered, "I suggest we remain in this current state for the foreseeable future."
"Best idea you've had all night," he replied, closing his eyes and pulling her closer into the quiet, golden glow of the holiday season.
synopsis. a lesson on amortentia right before valentine’s day sets off an unfortunate chain of events once you realize tom riddle had set his sights on you.
𑣲 content. MDNI, fem!reader (she/her pronouns), smut, dubcon/noncon (you’re under the influence of amortentia), oral (fem!recieving), p in v at the end, drugging aka use of love potions, slughorn is lowkey a scheming mf lmfao, you reject tom, it’s love day!!, reader lives on white chocolate (cause i do lol), she also appreciates tom’s pretty face, tom riddle is and will always be his mother’s son, slight homophobic themes (era accurate), you’re very woke for the day and age (you’re a good person with morals), kinda angsty (bad ending? you still get dicked down on the floor of the astronomy tower during a storm though), virginity loss, on the nose religious themes.
𑣲 word count. 13.9k (sorry)
𑣲 author’s note. this just in folks, tom riddle takes advantage of local chocolate lover on valentine’s day. my first long fic with smut eek i’m nervous! i hope you guys like it and happy hearts day dearests <3 based on this headcanon i wrote ;) also, new graphics for long fics. i’m in need of a little something different. and i may or may not have given reader’s bsf the same name as my fav character from my little pony… i pull the strings here (rubs hands together like a mischievous fly). not proofread. i suck at writing smut so bear with me if it isn’t tasteful. finally finished, i will go devour banana pudding now. lordlist.
Potions class had started as it always did in Professor Slughorn’s dungeon — humid air heavy with the scent of herbs and simmering cauldrons, glass clinking softly as students returned with their ingredients from the storeroom. The room felt warm and sticky, as usual, from all the steam curling towards the ceiling. It clung to your robes and on your hair, making a sheen of sweat appear on your skin before class had even begun.
Outside remained a similar gloom as February rain tapped faintly against the windows of the castle, the sky a familiar sight of grey as if foreshadowing a coming storm. And the day after tomorrow would be Valentine’s Day — a muggle holiday that had somehow infected the wizarding world enough for Professor Slughorn to make a spectacle of it.
A wise choice? No.
One that would prove to have interesting outcomes right before Valentine’s Day? Yes. And Horace Slughorn liked to see results.
“Now, now,” Slughorn drew the attention of students just walking in with barely concealed excitement. “A special lesson, just in time for the season of romance! Today, we’ll be studying the most powerful love potion—,” a ripple of giggles spread across the room, “—in existence,” he finished with a grin.
“Purely academic, of course,” Slughorn had declared, lip twitching along with his mustache in delight as he presented the shimmering contents of his cauldron he had prepared himself before the beginning of class. “One must understand the theory of such things in order to defend against them. Amortentia, my dears — the most powerful love potion in existence. Banned to distribute in Hogwarts, naturally, but perfectly permissible to brew under supervision according to the curriculum.”
As if that was a plausible excuse.
The potion glimmered like liquid mother-of-pearl on the wooden workbench, spirals rising from it in hypnotic coils. One by one, the students (mostly consisting of girls) leaned over to inhale, unable to help but be pulled in — as was the nature of the brew. Amortentia carried a different scent to each person. You watched some of your classmates continue to crowd around it eagerly, faces flushing, expressions turning curious. Some laughed whilst some went oddly quiet in consideration.
You didn’t think much of it personally, staying in your seat, wafts of clean linen and chocolate drifting in your direction. Love potions were rather grotesque things — manufactured obsession masquerading as affection. There was something fundamentally wrong about them, no matter how pretty they looked or how good they smelled. You still felt it was wrong that they weren’t outlawed, or that they were sold in shops at all, making them accessible to the public.
Knowing how reckless some teenagers were and how insidious the minds of some worked, it made itself an easy solution in order to prey on the vulnerable. It was — “naturally” — a recipe for disaster.
Completely and utterly barbaric, in your opinion.
Now, the classroom buzzed with chatter and the scrape of ladles against cauldrons as students got to work. Your peers talked over one another, arguing over measurements or comparing notes in low voices.
The potions professor wandered around the room, observing each student at work and complimenting a few on his way through. His waistcoat strained over his stomach as he waddled between tables. “Observe the pearlescent sheen — yes, exactly! That’s what we’re aiming for. And the steam should rise in spirals. Spirals, Mister Avery, not— oh dear.”
You wiped your hands on a cloth and leaned over your own brew. The cauldron in front of you shimmered faintly, the surface of the Amortentia swirling with a soft, luminous glow. It was beautiful in a way that made your skin crawl. You leaned in closer despite yourself. The steam brushed your face, warm and sweet with notes you were very pleased with.
Decadent and creamy white chocolate, the scent of cleanliness, your favorite perfume, sugar, and obviously more sugar. Your mouth curved slightly, both in satisfaction at your successful potion making skills and amusement at the predictability. You liked simple comforts. You liked things that made you feel safe.
You swallowed and straightened at the insidious prospect of that.
“I bet you smell a candy shop,” your best friend, Cadence, murmured from where she stood beside you, leaning over your shoulder.
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
“I’m saying,” she smirked, “that anyone who ends up giving you sweets may have a chance,” she sang.
“Or they could try a conversation,” you shot back lightly, throwing Cadence an unimpressed look and an arch of the brow.
“Ah, yes. Conversation. How revolutionary.”
You rolled your eyes. Around you, students were murmuring and nudging one another. Giggles broke out near the Hufflepuffs. A Ravenclaw boy turned pink to the ears as he stirred quietly. Even a few Slytherins were smirking more than usual as they hovered close near their cauldrons, unable to resist the temptations. No one seemed particularly concerned about the fact that what they were brewing was so dangerous that it was prohibited to use inside of these walls. There were different types of love potions, but Amortentia was the most potent.
“Honestly,” muttered a flushed Gryffindor, stubbornly, in hearing range. She tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear as she peered into her cauldron, “what possessed him to teach this now? It’s practically Valentine’s.”
What possessed him indeed. Slughorn was clearly having way too much fun with this lesson, doing rounds and asking each student what they smelled, smiling knowingly at the flustered ones who stumbled over their words as if this all had been a ploy, a gentle nudge to some to confront their feelings for a special someone right before the holiday of love — which he would deny and deem it was for research purposes only, of course.
“I think it’s romantic,” the Gryffindor girl’s seat mate sighed almost dreamily.
You almost snorted. Romantic wasn’t the word you would’ve chosen. Your potion reached completion faster than you expected. You glanced up, searching for Slughorn to signal that you were finished. The man was currently bent over another station, fussing over someone’s “almost adequate” consistency before going to the next batch, circling like a pleased bee.
Your gaze wandered mindlessly now that you were done with your brew, and you knew it’d be a while before Slughorn made his way over here. So, you slowly dragged your eyes over the students around you before they collided directly with another’s.
Across the room, through rising steam and flickering torchlight, a boy stood at his station. His sleeves were neatly rolled to his forearms, revealing pale skin and long, steady fingers guiding the ladle through his potion. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes immaculate as always. There wasn’t a single fleck of ingredient out of place near him. Even here, in the damp heat of the dungeon, he looked composed — untouched by the chaos around him.
And he was staring at you.
Tom Riddle was staring at you.
His expression was calm, almost blank, a void that sent shivers down your spine. It was unlike any expression you’ve ever seen him make, completely unnatural on a face as handsome as his — not that you’ve watched him much. His eyes did not falter even when you met his unblinking gaze, not flustered whatsoever at being caught gawking so noticeably.
Riddle didn’t look away. The steam rose between you like a thin veil and still — he held your gaze.
The noise of the classroom seemed to dull, your pulse stuttering. For a moment, you forget to breathe, his dead stare like a hand on your throat.
This look wasn’t one of interest in the way other boys sometimes looked at girls. There was something unnerving there unlike the easy charm he wore so well, the one that he showed professors and students alike.
This felt almost… predatory.
Creepy.
Your fingers tightened and whitened around the edge of your desk, body frozen from the uneasiness that washed over you. Then, just as quickly, his gaze flicked away. Riddle adjusted the flame beneath his cauldron with a smooth, unwavering movement as if he’d merely been lost in thought, face now taut in concentration.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, though you weren’t sure why.
He probably zoned out, you told yourself. People stare without realizing it. It doesn’t mean anything, right? Why would he be looking at you? It was easy to drift in a class like this. And you had never spoken more than a passing word to him. You weren’t one of the girls vying for his attention. You didn’t trail after him in corridors or sigh when he walked into a room.
If anything, you made a point not to. You barely paid him mind beyond the general awareness everyone had of him. It was impossible not to at least notice someone like him. Riddle was top of every class. Professors adored him. Students either worshipped him or resented him for numerous reasons.
And yes — he was handsome. Painfully so. Anyone with functioning eyes could see that. But admiration from afar was one thing; interest was another. You preferred to know someone before you decided how you felt about them.
Even if he had dark hair that fell just slightly yet perfectly over his forehead. Blessed with sharp, aristocratic cheekbones and tiny beauty marks on pale skin that added to his devilish looks. Pink lips that seemed permanently on the verge of a polite, measured smirk that made girls swoon. Riddle was the kind of boy that had them whispering and preening and inventing foolish excuses just to brush arms with him in corridors.
But at that moment, he looked like he was out for your blood. Like you were nothing more than an animal in the wild and he was the hunter, pinning his sights on you.
You had better things to think about. So, you forced your attention back to your station, exhaling slowly and capping the flame beneath your cauldron. You willed your shoulders to relax with the release of breath before you frowned faintly to yourself.
You wondered, annoyingly, how long he had been staring before you had even noticed.
Across the room, Professor Slughorn beamed, hovering near Riddle like always.
“Splendid, Tom! Simply splendid. Textbook perfection. A natural talent, as always. Twenty points to Slytherin!”
Different reactions swept the room — admiration and heart eyes from some, irritation and jealousy from others. Riddle only inclined his head modestly, unbothered by all the attention. “Thank you, sir.”
His voice was smooth, distinct from everyone and anyone else’s, and positively heart throbbing in itself. You risked another glance at Riddle, just to reassure yourself that you’d been mistaken.
He was no longer looking at you, thankfully. Slughorn stood at his side while Riddle wore that soft smile that made people melt. He nodded his head at precisely the right moments, listening attentively as the professor praised the clarity of his brew of Amortentia, how it was the perfect viscosity and shade. He didn’t even seem all that delighted, more so expectant like he was used to it and confidently knew he would’ve had the best one in the room before walking in; like clockwork.
Nothing about his demeanor suggested he had just been staring at you like he wanted to devour you alive. You felt faintly foolish for thinking like that. Perhaps, you hadn’t seen him properly? After all, the abundant amount of steam in the room did make it rather difficult.
Lost in your thoughts, you briefly think about what Riddle must have smelled. Tom Riddle had never shown any interest in dating anyone in all his time at Hogwarts, much to the dismay of many pretty girls. Maybe he had a muggle girlfriend outside of school?
You remembered, faintly, a memory from a few months ago.
A girl you knew, Wendy, had asked him out and like always, he politely let her down. He had declined each and every love confession he had ever received with courtesy. And yet, people still had the audacity to be slighted, as if they were entitled to him and his feelings.
She had regaled to you and a few other girls the story in the library. You were all supposed to be studying, but the topic eventually drifted, like always — to boys.
“And then he said, “Thank you, but I’m afraid I’m occupied.” Occupied with what?!” Wendy scoffed, clearly hurt that she decided it’d be better to gossip badly about Riddle, red in the face.
“Honestly, he acts like he’s above everyone. It’s exhausting. And not natural.” Then, her eyes widened in realization. “You don’t think he’s… you know?”
It had bothered you, what she said.
You don’t know why to this day. Maybe it’s because you imagined a boy talking about you like that just because you didn’t feel the same way, and how it wouldn’t sit right with you, how it wouldn’t be fair for them to speculate. That you shouldn’t be forced to like specific people because that’s what was socially acceptable.
So, you defended him without thought.
“Or maybe he just doesn’t want to go out with you specifically,” you mutter, flipping a page.
Three heads turned toward you.
“That’s not the point,” Wendy scoffed, offended by your words but trying not to show it. “It’s rude. He acts like no one’s good enough for him.”
“Or,” you started, “he isn’t obligated to entertain you.”
“You defending Riddle now?” A familiar voice asked in an amused tone after a moment of silence — your best friend, you realized, when looking up from your book at last.
“I’m just saying, you can’t call someone arrogant for having boundaries.”
“We’re just talking,” another one of them snapped, some girl you didn’t know the name of to this day.
“So talk,” you replied calmly. “Just don’t act like he owes you his attention.”
A few of them exchanged glances. One shrugged. Then, the conversation shifted.
You shook your head faintly, dismissing your thoughts. It wasn’t your concern.
The bell chimed faintly in the corridor beyond the door just in time — five minutes to the end of class. Slughorn clapped his hands together to get everyone’s attention. “Time, my dears! Cap your potions, label them, and leave them on this table right here. And remember — no sneaking a sample. I’ll know.”
That resulted in a few groans and bits of laughter.
Students began tidying their stations, including you — corking bottles and wiping spills. Slughorn’s back turned as he hurried to inspect a few remaining students brews of the love potion. In the chaos — with robes swishing, chairs scraping against the floor, chatter rising — no one paid attention to Tom Riddle.
His back was angled toward the class, body shielding his cauldron from view. Slughorn was still preoccupied, none the wiser.
Tom moved with hurried precision, covered by the ruckus and cluster of students. One hand slipped into the inner pocket of his robes. The other lifted his ladle. A small, glass vial appeared between his deft fingers. He tilted the utensil ever so slightly and a thin ribbon of pearlescent liquid slid into the container. Not enough to be obvious and change the level in the cauldron, the right amount for him to take.
He corked it carefully and quietly before it vanished into his robes. By the time Slughorn turned back around, Tom busied himself with packing up his things unhurriedly; entirely innocent. He gathered his books neatly, cleaned up his area with a flick of his yew wand, and stood waiting for dismissal like the exemplary student everyone believed him to be — even bidding a polite farewell to the Professor like he does at the end of every class, receiving an oblivious smile from the man in return.
Slughorn clearly did not know.
Soon enough, you’re next to step out into the corridor with your friends.
As you walked with them, curling a strand of hair behind your ear whilst complaining about your next class — behind you, footsteps followed at a distance.
Tom Riddle was staring at you again.
And you walked away, unaware.
Valentine’s Day arrived like a fever spreading inside Hogwarts.
The dormitory had been awake before dawn. You awoke to whispers around you and the rustle of tissue paper. The sharp, sweet scent of perfume clouded the air. Ribbons were tied, taken down, and then retied into hair to perfection. Girls were already sitting cross-legged on their beds in silk nightgowns and perfectly brushed hair, opening velvet boxes and parcels tied in satin ribbon. One girl squealed while another flushed and tried to pretend she hadn’t been waiting for this day all week when opening her package. Someone even shrieked when an owl tapped the window with a parcel of sugared candies.
You rolled onto your back with a sigh, lying still for a moment, staring up at the canopy above your bed as you listened to the excitement around you.
It wasn’t that you cared about today or longed for a boy. It was your decision, countless times, to not have a boyfriend. And you wouldn’t want just any boy approaching you today with trembling hands and a rehearsed declaration of love. In fact, the thought of a public decree made your stomach tighten since you would have to gently decline — and that was humiliating enough for one party. You had no desire in entertaining feelings you did not share like some of your acquaintances.
Still.
It would have been… nice. To be chosen.
You smiled when appropriate as other girls showed off their Valentine’s gifts; a small, traitorous pang in your chest. Ridiculous. You weren’t interested in anyone. You shook it off, rising from the mattress to wash up in the restroom and get dressed for classes that day.
Your uniform was pristine like always, white blouse pressed and colored tie straightened. You smoothed your skirt over your thighs, stockings reaching just below the knee, shoes polished. You brushed your hair until it shone and left it down before fastening your cloak. You dabbed a faint touch of your everyday perfume on your wrists because for you, it was just another day.
When you made your way into the common room, you saw girls clutching bouquets of all different types of colors and chocolates wrapped in boxes.
The corridors were no different, buzzing like a beehive. And by the time you reached the staircases, the castle was alive more than it has ever been — even during the Christmas holidays. Enchanted cupids flitted about and abundant laughter echoed against the stone walls of the castle.
You adjusted the strap of your satchel and eventually met up with your friends at your usual spot, walking towards the Great Hall together, their chatter echoing around you about the latest drama: who got what and from who or who hadn’t gotten anything and ended up splitting on today of all days. You tuned them out until a different name cut through the noise.
“Did you see him?” a pair of Slytherin girls hissed in hushed excitement as you passed. “With a whole bouquet of flowers, I swear! And chocolates too — the expensive kind.”
“Who?”
“Tom Riddle.”
Your steps faltered before you could stop yourself.
The other girl gasped. “You’re lying.”
“I’m not! He was coming up from the dungeons. He had them transfigured so it wasn’t obvious, but I know what I saw.”
You didn’t turn your head. You kept walking before you could linger too long and appear obvious. You had no right to be curious. You barely spoke to him. And you most certainly were not one of the girls who trailed after him like moths to a flame.
Tom Riddle with roses.
With chocolates.
It was almost absurd.
It sounded absurd.
You truly hadn’t meant to listen, truly. Riddle had never shown interest in anyone publicly. He seemed the private type and further more, was single to the point he had never even been rumored to have dated anyone because everyone would know it to be untrue in a heartbeat. But, perhaps he did have someone this entire time. Someone worth keeping a secret of.
You found, to your irritation, that you were curious. It must be someone in school, then.
But who? Who had finally stolen his heart and had the Tom Riddle so enamored?
The Great Hall doors opened to an alive spectacle of owls swooping low through the high windows and dropping parcels into waiting hands, charmed doves fluttering between floating hearts that drifted lazily beneath the enchanted ceiling which had been charmed to a pale pink sunrise with pearly light despite the real one outside being dull and grey like it had been for the last few days, anticipating a storm.
The House tables were louder than usual, scattered with unwrapped sweets and floral arrangements that clashed with everything else in a nearby vicinity.
You scanned the Slytherin table without meaning to.
Riddle wasn’t there.
You exhaled harshly through your nose, annoyed with yourself for searching.
You took your usual place at your table — the same bit of bench you had claimed since first year with your friend group, the same place anyone could find you in the mornings. Predictable. Safe. Like everything you choose. You spooned whipped cream onto your waffles, adding sliced strawberries and a drizzle of syrup on them.
Cadence lightly nudged you with her elbow, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “If someone asks you to be their Valentine today — hypothetically — you’re saying yes, aren’t you?”
“I would hypothetically decline,” you retort dryly, cutting through your waffle.
“How cruel you are to every boy who would be lucky to have you.”
You lifted an unimpressed brow. “I have standards.”
She laughed. “You’ll end up alone at this rate.”
“I’m not afraid of being alone.”
That much was true.
You were about to take your first bite when a shadow fell across your plate.
You looked up, pulse jumping.
A Slytherin boy stood there. You don’t think you’ve ever seen him before. Cute, but not your type. And he looked… nervous. His fingers flexed at his sides with a kind of strained urgency. For a fleeting, mortifying second, you imagined him clearing his throat and announcing — loudly — that he would be honored if you would accompany him today. In front of all these people.
Your heart gave one uncomfortable thud.
Please don’t let him do this here.
“Yes?” you asked slowly, lips drawn in a tight line, already preparing the polite apology on your tongue.
He swallowed. “Er— sorry to interrupt.”
“It’s fine,” you said, your fork hovering midair, frozen like a statue as you wait for the inevitable.
“Professor Slughorn would like to see you.”
Relief washed over you instantly, your features softening and shoulders relaxing. Thankfully, it wasn’t a love confession. Still, your brows knit together. “Now?”
“Yes. In the courtyard.”
You glanced instinctively towards the staff table. Slughorn wasn’t there. Though, a flicker of doubt continued to brush against your mind.
“What for?” you asked, turning your head back to the boy.
He hesitated. “I-I don’t know. He didn’t say.”
Your friend chimed in. “That’s odd.”
You agreed.
Still, there was no obvious reason to refuse. You hadn’t done anything wrong. And if it were truly important, you couldn’t very well ignore it. Maybe it was about schoolwork. You set your fork down with visible reluctance, eyeing your plate with mild mourning and a pout. The whipped cream was already softening into the waffle, syrup pooling at the edges.
A waste.
“If I’m not back in ten minutes, eat that,” you told your friend, gesturing with a tilt of your chin.
“So selfless,” one of them replied solemnly.
“I know.”
You rose, smoothing your skirt, adjusting your cloak over your shoulders before leaning down to grab your bag from the wooden seat and hook it around your shoulder. The boy stepped aside at once to let you pass, relief evident in his posture — as if he had been afraid you might refuse. Though, you can’t imagine what was so frightening about Slughorn that made him tremble so.
The corridors beyond the Great Hall were quieter now, the morning frenzy thinning out as you stepped out into them.
Chatter faded behind you, replaced by the echo of your own footsteps against the stone hallways of the castle. Light filtered through the high windows as best it could with dark skies as you walked further down. When you made your way to the courtyard however, your steps slowed at the sight that greeted you.
You stepped through the arched doorway into the open space. The cold bit at you at once, stealing the warmth from your cheeks. The fountain at the center trickled faintly as water spilled over marble into its basin. Grey clouds sagged overhead, heavy with unshed rain, the stones beneath your shoes damp.
It was completely vacant.
There was always a student or two loitering around, but now, it was unnaturally silent. Not like the peaceful kind you preferred. And there was no Professor Slughorn bustling about. You frowned, uneasiness coiled low in your stomach and sliding beneath your ribs. The courtyard was never empty — even on a day like this.
You shifted your satchel higher on your shoulder, glancing toward the archways as if the professor might appear from behind a column.
You found yourself almost turning back. For reasons you couldn’t explain, you wished you were still at your table in the Great Hall, surrounded by your friends, scarfing down sugary waffles. Thunder clapped overhead like a bad omen.
“I’m glad you came.”
You startled violently despite yourself, breath catching, spinning around too quickly. It unsettled you more than you cared to admit that you hadn’t heard him approach at all.
That voice was unmistakable.
Tom Riddle stood a few paces behind you as though he had always been there. Your heart leapt traitorously in your chest.
Riddle looked striking and flawless as always. Dark hair combed neatly with a curl falling deliberately over his forehead. His Slytherin tie was perfectly knotted, robes falling straight and sharp along his lean, slightly muscular frame. The faintest flush from the cold touched his pale skin, but he did not seem to feel it.
In one hand, he held a box of chocolates wrapped in ribbon. In the other — a bouquet.
Your favorite flowers.
Your breath caught.
It could be coincidence, you told yourself. Flowers were flowers. Anyone could like them. Perhaps he had chosen them at random. Perhaps he was waiting for someone else and you had merely wandered into the scene by accident. Your mind scrambled for reasons because you had a feeling this situation was headed a certain direction that you weren’t sure how to deal with.
Riddle held your gaze steadily, as if he could see each frantic thought as it passed through you.
“I’m waiting for Professor Slughorn,” you said too quickly, the words tumbling out before he asked anything. “He sent for me.”
Why were you explaining yourself?
You avoided his eyes, studying instead the collar of his robe, the way his fingers curved around the base of the bouquet. You felt awkward and absurdly aware of how alone you were with him. Riddle’s gaze rested on you, assessing. There was something faintly amused in the curve of his mouth — and not the warm kind. More like, he knew something you didn’t.
“I’m afraid,” he started gently, “that Professor Slughorn will not be joining you.”
The words prickled at your skin like a bite.
You blinked, looking up at that.
“What?”
“I asked Nott to fetch you.” He tilted his head slightly like he had a habit of doing, studying your reaction with dark brown eyes, ones that felt too intense on you. “I wanted a moment alone.”
For a second, you could only stare at him.
“You lied?” The accusation left you before you could soften it.
Riddle did not falter. If anything, that faint amusement deepened on his gorgeous features, dark and unfairly perfect brows lifting a fraction. “Would you have come if I had asked you myself?”
Your lips parted automatically, ready to retort with something sharp or clever, that he didn’t need deception or to intimidate someone enough to do his bidding — but the truth remained stuck in your throat.
Because no. You wouldn’t have.
You didn’t know him. Not really. You had exchanged perhaps a handful of words in passing. If Tom Riddle had approached you openly in the Great Hall, with half the school watching, you would have declined out of instinct alone.
You pressed your lips together in defeat.
Riddle’s smirk deepened with satisfaction.
“I thought not,” he murmured. He stepped closer, not enough to invade your space, but enough that you could feel his intensity.
Then, “Happy Valentine’s Day,” he said suddenly.
It wasn’t a stammering confession you had braced yourself for from some nervous boy. His voice was steady, like a statement rather than a request. He extended the bouquet and chocolates toward you, waiting.
The gesture was immaculate, private, considerate. Exactly the sort of confession you would have preferred without a spectacle or an audience.
The courtyard felt even quieter. Somehow, you couldn’t even hear the single chirp of a bird.
You were acutely aware of the space between you. The way Riddle’s eyes did not leave your face, as if he was deciphering your every thought just from your expressions like how a snake would assess its meal before lunging. He seemed entirely certain of himself.
Then, it hits you that he must have been the one to clear the courtyard. Of course. Who else could have that type of power? Your pulse thudded in your ears, heat creeping up your cheeks. He had orchestrated this entire thing.
And he had done everything right.
For a tiny moment, you imagined accepting. You imagined walking back into the castle at his side, flowers in your arms. You imagined the looks. Too many looks. Too many whispers. Because Tom Riddle was always being watched. Either out of admiration or envy. If you stepped into his orbit, you would not be permitted anonymity again. There would be jealous girls, speculation, and endless scrutiny from every direction. The resentment from those who had tried and failed to get close to him. Your life would no longer be quiet at school.
And beneath that practical reasoning, there was something else — the simple truth being that you did not know him.
And under that, the memory of that look in class — the way he had stared at you through the steam as if claiming something that did not yet belong to him.
And Tom Riddle did nothing without purpose.
So, why you?
You were not one of the girls who trailed after him in corridors. You didn’t blush when he entered a room. You didn’t whisper about him.
Perhaps… that was precisely why.
“Tom,” you began carefully, fingers tightening around your bag’s strap like a lifeline as you swallowed. “Riddle, I mean,” once you realized how familiar you sounded unintentionally. You noticed he straightened a little at that. “I-I’m sorry.”
And you truly meant it. But the next few words caught in your throat when you saw the flicker of the same expression from the dungeon — the one that had frozen you in place. His cold eyes sharpened with displeasure and something possessive. A chill shot down your spine. But, then it was gone, vanishing almost instantly — as if it’d never been there. The polite mask slid back into place so seamlessly that you almost doubted you had seen his other face at all.
“I can’t accept this,” you finished softly. “I didn’t know… I mean, we’ve never even—” You huffed, frustrated with yourself. “It wouldn’t be right.”
A silence so deafening stretched between you.
You couldn’t meet his eye. Riddle hadn’t moved at all from your peripheral. But then, he spoke at last, “I see...”
Surprisingly, he hadn’t looked embarrassed or wounded. There was not a hint of a tremor in his voice or a trace of bitterness — and somehow, it unsettled you more than pure anger might have.
“I appreciate your honesty.”
He sounded thoughtful. So, you found your shoulders loosening.
“I hope there aren’t any hard feelings,” you added carefully, brows furrowed.
“None,” he assured you with a flutter of his dark lashes, polite and unbothered as ever like the proper gentleman he was. Then, almost as an afterthought, Riddle lifted the box slightly to you. “At least take these.”
You hesitated.
“I know how fond you are of them,” he continued, tone mild. “It would be a shame to let them go to waste.”
Your brows drew together faintly. “How did you—”
He gave the smallest shrug. “It isn’t a secret.”
It wasn’t. You were rarely without something sugary in hand. Anyone observant enough could notice. And Tom Riddle was observant. You studied him one last time before slowly reaching out and accepting the chocolates, the edge of the box cool against your sweaty fingers.
“Thank you,” you said, offering a small, apologetic smile. “Truly.”
His gaze dipped briefly to your hand as it closed fully around the container of chocolates, a small smile on his lips.
“You’re welcome.”
“And… I am sorry,” you added once more for great measure.
Riddle smiled reassuringly. “There’s nothing to forgive.” Then, he adds with a tone that sounded innocently hopeful, “But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”
The statement seemed so casual that it hadn’t even hit you that it’ll be storming all week, that the skies wouldn’t be visible for the next few days. But, you nodded anyway just to be nice. You had just rejected his feelings after all…
With a step back, hands folding neatly behind him, the bouquet remained there, hidden from your view. He inclined his head with quiet courtesy. You nodded in return, already turning, eager for the warmth and noise of the Hogwarts corridors. With each step away from him, your lungs seemed to fill more easily. You slipped the chocolates into your satchel and adjusted the strap over your shoulder. By the time you reached the archway, you had almost convinced yourself the entire encounter had been harmless. Unfortunate, perhaps — but civil.
You were lucky Riddle was so understanding.
As you walked off, behind you, Tom did not move. He watched you until the stone walls of the school swallowed you from sight as if he could still see you through them.
The polite expression dissolved the instant you disappeared. His jaw tightened, broad shoulders becoming rigid beneath his robes. And behind his back, his fingers tightened around the stems of the bouquet until his knuckles turned white. They bent and snapped under his unforgiving grip. The pretty flowers blackened at an unnatural pace right at the edges before gradually bleeding inward at an alarming speed. The delicate petals wilted, reduced to something lifeless and small.
Tom’s remained eerily calm other than that. A petal fell soundlessly, and he watched as it reached the wet stone at his feet.
He smiled.
Then, he threw the bouquet to the ground like dirt before turning, his cloak sweeping behind him.
Thankfully, the rest of the day passed by in a haze.
The castle’s Valentine’s fever broke slowly but surely. By afternoon, the romance had dulled. Very few couples still walked too close in the corridors, smiling and holding hands. Girls with broken hearts huddled with blotchy eyes while their friends stroked their hair and whispered assurances. The enchanted decor had long since tired themselves out.
You drifted through it, lost in your own head as your mind wouldn’t stop circling back to him.
Tom Riddle had wanted you.
It still felt crazy, but you knew it now. That in Potions, he must have smelled you.
“Are you even listening?” A friend hissed at you during Transfiguration, nudging your knee under the desk.
You blinked, snapping out of your daze, quill hovering uselessly above parchment, dripping ink from the tip in large blots and ruining your work. “What?”
She stared. “Professor Merrythought just asked you a question.”
Heat flared in your cheeks, eyes darting around the class and then apologetically to the Professor.
“Right. Sorry.” You forced your attention forward, ignoring the low ripple of snickers.
Your mind felt like it was moving through syrup, and you kept it all to yourself. In Arithmancy, you lost track of numbers you usually handled with ease. In History of Magic, you stared through Professor Binns as if he were smoke.
You had never truly noticed how many classes you shared with Tom Riddle before today. Now, it felt excessive. Potions, Transfiguration, Defense, Ancient Runes. He had always been there — but you had never catalogued the frequency of his presence until now. Riddle always sat with his back straight. His quill moved with elegant strokes as he took notes. He answered every question asked of him and was always correct.
And he did not look at you once.
Not even once.
A part of you bristled.
It bothered you more than if he had glared across the room because he was unbothered as ever. It was as if the courtyard had not happened. As if he had not offered you your favorite flowers and waited for your answer. Why ask if he did not care?
You caught yourself watching the side of his face during Transfiguration, tracing the sharp line of his cheekbone, the faint hollow beneath it, the way his long and skillful hands worked his wand. You noticed he liked to fidget with it a lot — running his fingers along the side, caressing, holding it delicately like it was an extension of himself. Riddle suddenly shifted slightly in his seat, and you looked away at once, heart pounding madly in your chest.
You should be grateful. This is what you wanted, you reminded yourself. You would have hated his scorn. You would have hated whispers and pointed stares. This was the better outcome. You didn’t want to be known as the girl who rejected Tom Riddle even when your chest tightened unpleasantly each time he gathered his books without so much as glancing your way.
So, why did it feel like something was terribly wrong?
By the time late afternoon crept in and you finished your classes for the day, you were already making your way to the Hogwarts library.
It was quieter than normal. Valentine’s Day had drained the castle of its usual studious population. Lamps glowed in warm, cozy pools of gold across long wooden tables. The smell of ink and old books welcomed you like an embrace. The tall windows were darker than they were before now. And most of all, it was silent in the way you liked. The library had always been your refuge.
You passed a few stragglers who also had nothing better to do on Valentine’s Day as you made your way to the back of the huge reading area, shrugging off your cloak and draping it over the armrest before sinking into a wooden chair.
As the minutes passed, books started to accumulate around you on the table. You diligently studied for your next exam, burying yourself in the library as evening settled over Hogwarts. The light outside the tall windows dimmed so slowly that you hadn’t even noticed until you took a glance and realized how much time had passed. You rolled your shoulders, flexed your aching fingers, and leaned back over your notes. You read the same line three times, finding yourself unable to focus as hunger gradually gnawed at your stomach.
It hit you that you had not eaten at all today.
Your plate at breakfast had gone unfinished, and you skipped lunch entirely to come here. The dining hall would be closing soon. You considered getting something from the kitchens later. Though in truth, your appetite had vanished after the encounter with Riddle, your mind preoccupied with other things.
Then, you remembered.
The chocolates.
You stilled, hand hovering over parchment. A small feeling of guilt bloomed in your chest. You had nearly forgotten about them.
At least I won’t starve, you thought dryly.
Thanks, Riddle.
When you reached into your satchel, your fingers brushed against something smooth and rigid. After a second of hesitation, you drew out the box. It was elegant, with dark packaging and a perfectly tied ribbon. It felt nice and cool against your warm fingers that had been working for hours.
You set it on the table, undoing the carefully knotted bow, and lifted the lid almost excitedly. You loved chocolate, and you were always curious about the taste of different ones. A container like this would surely hold varying types that you were interested in trying. Some could have a filling of jam, or caramel, or a different flavor chocolate inside. The possibilities were endless.
Where others sought spontaneity in their real lives, you found it in chocolate. Because chocolate was the one thing that could never hurt you.
When you set the top aside, you saw that inside lay neat rows of white chocolates, each one ornate and delicately crafted, faintly glossy under the light. Your breath caught at how stunning they were, and you inhaled. A smile curled onto your lips despite yourself, giddy in your seat like a child.
They smelled exquisitely divine. They looked like the sweet and rich type, very expensive — just as the Slytherin girl from this morning had claimed. Too pretty you didn’t even want to eat them. You didn’t question how he knew of your preference. Because you rarely went a week without white chocolate; anyone paying enough attention could have noticed.
And Tom Riddle paid attention.
Your stomach gave a sudden, sharp pang at the enticing scent.
With the grace of an eager child, you picked one up and brought it to your mouth. The smooth chocolate melted instantly on your tongue, silky and decadent. A soft, pleased moan escaped from your lips before you could stop it. Embarrassed heat rushed to your cheeks, and you glanced around.
Merlin.
You hope no one heard that.
You swallowed quickly, your hunger starting to satiate bit by bit, before your fingers reached for another without thinking. The second tasted even sweeter. A warmth like no other continued to spread in your chest, like something had been wound tight and was now loosening itself. You leaned back slightly in your seat, tilting your head and humming in satisfaction as your eyes shut for just a moment.
Tom’s face suddenly surfaced in your mind with startling clarity, but not with the typical unease that came with it before.
You only remembered the charming curve of his soft, pink lips. The single, adorable curl that always falls over his forehead like it’s dying to be tamed, fixed back into place by your gentle hand. His strong, broad shoulders and the confident, attractive way he carried himself. The way his voice had dipped almost sensually, eyes smoldering when he told you Happy Valentine’s Day.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the box.
Why had you said no?
You were confused.
Tom had been awfully considerate earlier today. He had known exactly what you would prefer. He had arranged everything so carefully. The lie, the empty courtyard, the timing to give you peace of mind.
Your pulse quickened.
Tom had looked at you like you were the only person in his world.
A soft, almost aching pressure built beneath your ribs. You could picture him so vividly now that it made your breath shallow. He was extraordinary. Brilliant in every class. Admired by professors. Feared, even, by some. There was something absolutely magnetic about him — something no one else had.
And he had chosen you.
A sharp wave of regret washed over you, sudden and consuming. How foolish you must have seemed. How cold. You had rejected him without even trying to understand him. You wanted conversation, you told yourself. You wanted to know someone first.
Tom had been trying to give you that chance.
And you had hurt him.
The realization struck with surprising force.
He had stood there — perfectly composed — while you rejected him. Tom had offered you your favorite flowers and you felt a pang of regret now at not taking them when you had the chance.
Your heart began to race in earnest, a dizzying rhythm that made your fingers tremble slightly. The warmth in your chest deepened, spreading into your throat and then to your limbs like fire. You felt unsteady and lightheaded. The thought of him alone somewhere in the castle, alone because you had sent him away—
No.
The idea of it twisted painfully in your heart like a knife.
“But, if you do happen to change your mind, I’ll be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. I hear the stars will be rather exceptionally beautiful tonight.”
You glanced toward the tall windows of the castle library. The sky outside was darkening rapidly, clouds thick and dark grey. It might storm soon tonight. Tom had said the stars would be beautiful. But perhaps he had only meant it as an excuse. An offering. It didn’t matter.
You had been so careless. Of course you had feelings for him. How could you not? Every glance he’d ever given you now felt charged in retrospect. Potions class — earlier, you figured out he had smelled you. That was why he’d stared. Tom was drawn to you. He hungered for you.
You released a soft gasp, your heart thudding harder.
Better yet, he understood you like no one else did. You were sure of it now. He had watched quietly, learned your preferences and your habits. The thought of him doing just that, of staring at you for long periods of time without you even realizing just to understand you made your heart soar, a flush blooming on your cheeks. Taking his time, he had waited for the right moment to confess. You pressed your fingers lightly to your lips, trying to steady your rapid breathing that sounded almost like panting.
You needed to see him. A need that felt important above all else.
You needed to go. You needed to fix this. Not tomorrow. Now. He must have thought you didn’t care. He must have believed you dismissed him as easily as the other boys who tried.
Standing abruptly, your chair scraped loudly against the floor. A few students glanced up from distant tables, annoyed — you even earned a soft shush from somewhere to your right — but you barely registered it. Your pulse hammered in your ears now, loud enough to drown out reason. Every thought circled back to him — his voice, his eyes, the way he had said your name.
How had you not seen it before?
Tom was perfect.
Handsome. Intelligent. The very idea of him made your stomach flutter and your pulse quicken. Of all the girls who trailed after him, who whispered about him, who would have fallen at his feet if he so much as glanced their way — he had only looked at you.
A soft ache spread beneath your ribs. You had mistaken him. He hadn’t looked unbothered today because he didn’t care. Tom was giving you space.
Your throat tightened.
Tom was waiting for you.
He had said he would be at the Astronomy Tower this evening. It was evening. He might leave. The idea filled you with an unreasonable urgency. What if he thought you truly meant your refusal? What if he decided you were not worth pursuing? What if someone else—
No.
Your stomach twisted at the notion.
Your books and parchment lay forgotten as you close the lid of the chocolate box with careful, trembling hands and slipped it back into your bag, clutching it close as though it were something precious. You didn’t even bother with your cloak. The thought of missing him made your chest constrict. He would understand. He always seemed to understand. Tom was always so understanding.
You loved him.
The realization felt less like a question and more like an admission of truth you had been avoiding. It explained the awareness of him and the irritation at his composure. You had been afraid of wanting him. But he wanted you.
And you wanted— needed to see him desperately. If you didn’t, you think you’d die. You may have wasted the day, but you won’t make the mistake of wasting the night. You belonged with him. And you would not let him slip away.
The staircases seemed endless.
You didn’t remember leaving the library. You barely felt your feet striking stone as you ran, the slap of your shoes against stairs you nearly missed, fingers clutching freezing stone banisters to swing yourself around corners. Students cursed with startled protests as you shoved past without apology; one boy nearly dropped his books.
Someone may have called your name. You weren’t sure. The only thing you were sure of was Tom. Nothing mattered in the moment except him.
The castle was extremely chilly after sunset. Cool wind slipped through narrow slits, raising goosebumps along your bare arms through your thin blouse, yet heat pulsed under your skin — feverish and burning. You had left your cloak draped over the library chair. It did not occur to you to go back for it. So, you had forgotten it. Forgotten your books. Forgotten everything except him.
Tom.
Every minuscule and unimportant thought curved back to him. Your mind whispered his name like a prayer. Your breath tore in and out of your lungs as though you had been running for miles. Up spiral staircases. Through corridors and past suits of armor. The storm had begun outside; you could hear it building — wind battering the windows, distant thunder rolling like a warning.
None of it mattered.
There was only one fixed point in the world, and it was at the top of the Astronomy Tower.
You took the final staircase, breathing shallow in uneven gasps, heart rate frantic and desperate — fingers gripping the metal railing to steady yourself. The tower door loomed ahead, iron latch glinting at you mockingly. You shoved it open with strength you weren’t even aware you possessed just to get to him.
The wind struck you fully at once, brisk and furious, carrying the faint scent of rain washed stone. It whipped your hair around your face, but you paid it no mind. The sky was ominous and frightening, nothing like what he had promised.
Yet, amidst it all was your North Star. Your guiding light. Funny, wasn’t it? That he was in the Astronomy Tower of all places.
The clouds hid the heavens, but Tom glowed as he stood in the dark of night at the balcony’s edge, facing the horizon with his back to you, hands resting lightly on the railings. The storm swallowed the sky, but in your vision he was lit from within. The only thing illuminated. The only thing that mattered. His dark robes stirred with the breeze, the fabric clinging and releasing against his lean frame. You could only see the elegant line of his neck and the sharp angle of his jaw. He looked carved from shadow and pale marble, perfectly still against the raging weather.
You could only stare in awe.
He looked like he belonged to the night.
The beauty of what lay in front of your eyes made your breath catch in your throat.
“Tom.”
The name left you with reverence and breathlessness, almost disbelieving — like you had stumbled upon something sacred.
He turned.
At that moment, thunder cracked overhead. Lightning split across the sky in a violent flare of white, bathing Tom in a sudden light. For a heartbeat, your world froze with that flash. He looked like an angel. The light carved his high cheekbones, hollowed shadows beneath them, kissable lips curved in something that was not quite surprise.
His brown eyes found yours instantly before the faintest smile touched his lips — and somehow, you felt like you could breathe again. Like your entire world had rightened itself under your feet. Because Tom looked so happy to see you.
Rain began to mist in the air, cool against your flushed cheeks.
“I wondered how long it would take,” he finally spoke, voice carrying easily through the harsh winds. Your heart trembled at the melodious sound.
The implication in his tone flew right over your head. You only heard his voice, smooth like velvety chocolate on the tongue. It wrapped around you like warmth which you were in desperate need of.
Tom knew you would come. And he waited, so patiently. He knew you better than you knew yourself.
You stepped toward Tom before you even realized you were moving, like he was a magnet. Then again. And again. The distance— the separation between you felt unbearable.
And Tom watched closely the entire time, tracing over you slowly in a way that made you shudder from the intensity. He took note of everything, studied you. The lack of a cloak and your thin blouse which did nothing against the chill as if you had rushed over here. The flushed cheeks and your heaving breasts. The wild shine in your eyes. The way your hands trembled slightly at your sides.
Tom’s gaze darkened with something akin to pleasure.
“You’re cold,” he observed, though his voice carried no real concern.
“I don’t care,” you whispered.
Every step closed the space and yet it was never fast enough. The wind tangled your hair across your face, but you did not brush it away. You could not look anywhere except at him.
“You were right,” you choked out, your voice unsteady. “About the stars.”
Tom paused for a moment, faintly confused before his lips tugged at the corners in amusement at your state of delirium. It was, after all, an effect of the Amortentia he put in the chocolates you took from him this morning. It was also the last thing he had said to you in parting, and so, it wasn’t surprising you would be fixated on it.
“I’m usually right.”
You know that now, down to your marrow.
“You’re beautiful,” you breathed instead, unable to help yourself from commenting on it. Up close, he was overwhelming. And that smile on his face was devilishly handsome. It gave you butterflies. Satisfaction flickered in his eyes — eyes like dark chocolate. You loved chocolate and you loved Tom.
You reached for him to steady yourself as though you had been falling all along. And the second your fingers touched the fabric of his robes, the world narrowed to that single point of contact. He was real. And he was yours. Tom stood at the center of your universe — like the stars, burning and eternal.
“I—” Your voice trembled suddenly. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t see it,” your words tumbled over one another. “I didn’t understand earlier. I was foolish. I thought— I thought I didn’t know you. But I do. I must. I just— didn’t want to be… like the others.”
A huff of amusement came from Tom.
“You are nothing like the others.”
By the look on Tom’s face, he seemed to be telling the truth, so sure of himself and what he had spoken to you. Of course he was. Tom would never lie to you. He did earlier today, but that was because he knew you’d be too stubborn to listen then. Again, an example of how well he knew you.
Another roll of thunder swallowed your words.
You closed the final, treacherous inch between you and collided into him like a supernova, fingers fisting into the fabric of his robes, pressing yourself against his chest as though proximity alone could steady the storm inside you. Your arms wound around his waist, clutching him tightly as though he might vanish into a black hole.
Tom went rigid beneath your touch.
A subtle tension rippled through him as if your unrestrained contact took him by surprise. But it was gone almost instantly. His arms came around you with one hand settled at your lower back, the other sliding possessively at your nape, fingers threading lightly into your hair.
You melted into his burning touch. His hands felt like a furnace on a cold night. You took advantage of the situation, inhaling the scent off his clean clothes. And God, he was the best thing you ever smelt — better than chocolate. Better than the ones he had given you that tasted sweeter with every bite you took. You wondered if Tom’s lips tasted the same.
“I thought I didn’t need anyone,” you continued, your voice breaking as hot tears streamed down your cheeks. “But when I left you this morning, i-it felt like I couldn’t breathe.” Your fingers tightened in the fabric at his back. “It felt like something was crushing my chest.”
Tom’s hand at your neck flexed with subtle pressure, guiding you closer. His chin lowered slightly — so tall, so tall — resting against the crown of your head. He did not hush you. He only listened. Oh, Tom. He was perfect in every way.
“Did it?” He murmured softly in return, voice near you ear. His thumb brushed upward along your spine in a slow, absent movement. Safe. You felt safe in his arms. You only nodded against him hysterically, fingers clutching at his robes, wrinkling the immaculate fabric.
Tom’s gaze lifted to the stormy, dark horizon in the background as you spoke into his chest. He had known you would come. The amount of love potion he put into the chocolates were enough to tilt you gently in the direction you were meant to face. Toward him.
“I couldn’t focus. I couldn’t think. I kept seeing you. And I realized…” Your breath hitched. “I realized I can’t be without you. I don’t want to be. I need you,” you finally confessed, cheeks hot, fisting his shirt. The words trembled as they came out of you, but they were certain. You were afraid for him to leave you, to be alone.
“I need you like I need air, Tom.”
The wind howled faintly around the tower, tugging at your hair and at his cloak with fiercer ferocity. The storm clapped mercilessly above, rain starting to pouring heavily into the balcony which you both stood near at an angle. Tom stepped closer inside to avoid being hit much by it, leading you backwards with him.
You barely noticed, eyes locked on his face like you couldn’t look away; entranced.
Tom tilted your chin up with two fingers. You looked at him through tear blurred vision, cheeks flushed, lashes wet, lips parted and wobbly. Devotion was written plainly across your face. Worship and unwavering loyalty. Tom’s gaze swept over you slowly, drinking you in. He couldn’t help but swallow, pale throat bobbing.
Perfect. You were… perfect like this.
“You want me? You need me?” He repeated very quietly, voice raspy as he cupped your cheek. It sounded like gospel to your ears. You leaned into his hand. Honestly, you could hear Tom speak all day. You almost hated yourself for having to respond because he went silent just to hear you. But Tom wanted you to talk to him, and you would do anything to make him happy.
“Yes,” you gasped, your response immediate and absolute.
Tom’s thumb brushed beneath your eye, catching the edge of a tear as he collected it onto his finger. He examined the moisture on his skin briefly before letting his hand fall.
“I don’t give my attention lightly,” Tom hummed. “You know that.”
“I know.”
“And when I decide something belongs to me…” His eyes held yours, unblinking. You inhaled sharply. “I do not let it go easily.”
A shiver ran down your spine.
“I don’t want you to,” you whispered.
Tom’s hand slid from your jaw to the curve of your waist, fingers spreading there as though testing the shape of you, claiming you. You leaned into him further. He drew you impossibly closer than that, your body pressed against his fully now. You could feel the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your palm. It wasn’t beating erratically like yours.
Your fingers slid higher along his chest, curling near his collar. He doesn’t stop you.
“I want you.”
The statement hung in the air as Tom simply looked down at you.
“You have me,” Tom said at last, and your heart swelled painfully at that. He understood. He always understood. You buried your face against his chest again, tears barely dampening the front of his rain soaked clothes. His hand moved to the back of your neck once more.
“And you won’t run again,” he murmured, and it sounded like seduction.
“No.”
His thumb pressed lightly at the base of your throat, just enough to feel the frantic pulse there, tilting your head back up ever so slightly to meet his eyes.
“Say it.”
You swallowed, and he felt it against his finger. You were completely vulnerable in this position. And yet, your breath shook wildly, eyes dilated.
“I won’t run from you.”
The faintest hum left him, almost content.
“Good girl.”
Your breath hitched at the praise. Good girl. You wanted to hear it again and again until it was etched into your bones. Your lips parted instinctively as if asking for more without words. Lightning flashed again, closer now. The harsh breeze mauled at your damp hair, whipping it across your face again. He reached up and smoothed it back with unsettling gentleness.
“You belong with me,” you practically begged. “Don’t you see? I belong with you.”
“I was hoping,” he started carefully, pausing to look over your expression, “that you would come to that conclusion on your own.”
Your heart seized at that. He had believed in you. He had waited.
“I love you,” you hiccuped, the words tumbling out without hesitation.
Silence followed. Droplets of rain striked the stone around you.
“You couldn’t live without me?” Tom asked.
You shook your head helplessly, enamored with him and hanging onto his every word.
“No.”
A faint exhale left him — almost a laugh, but not quite. For all his contempt of love potions, Tom could not deny their elegance.
He had always despised them — weak little instruments for those too pathetic to command any type of devotion on their own merit. The irony of his own conception had burned that hatred into him early. A foolish girl from a crumbling line, infatuated with a filthy Muggle, desperate enough to drug him into counterfeit affection. A love potion slipped into a drink. A Muggle man ensnared. And from that humiliating farce — him. His mother had begged for love. And when it slipped through her fingers, she had withered.
Lord Voldemort would never wither.
Lord Voldemort would never be weak.
He would never beg a filthy Muggle to stay. He would never cling to someone who did not choose him freely. He would never lose control of himself the way his mother had. Tom did not feed you this potion because he lacked control over you. He brewed it because power — which was neither good nor evil — meant using every bit of magic available.
Tom Riddle was nothing like his stupid mother.
Merope had dosed Tom Riddle Sr because she feared he would leave. Tom had dosed you because you would not have the good sense to stay. Because you were stubborn in that infuriatingly, principled way. Because you required… encouragement.
And now?
His hand tightened subtly at your nape, thumb pressing into the pulse at your neck just beneath your skin as if testing it. You trembled for him. You burned for him. You had run through the castle, abandoned dignity, abandoned sense, abandoned warmth — because you needed him.
A memory flickered through his mind.
It would be months ago from now. He had not meant to linger in that aisle longer than necessary, running a simple errand for a professor before he heard his name. Now, Tom was by far not an uncommon name, he admitted to himself with bitterness. But, he recognized the voice. Out of pure instinct, he peeked through the shelves, curious and silent, gaze sharp through the narrow, emptied out spaces between spines of ancient books in the castle library.
Tom saw one of the girls who he had turned down the day before. Clearly, she was not as okay with it as she had pretended to be and would gladly tear him apart for sport in front of her pathetic friends. Not that he cared about such trivial matters. The concept of love was the least of his concerns. He knew what to expect. Tom could read people like an open book. Resentment and hurt; he had grown accustomed to nurturing it in others every time he said the word no.
But then, he heard you.
Defending him.
You hadn’t known he was listening. You had no idea he stood on the other side of that shelf, watching you. You had simply said what you believed to be true. That he owed no one his affection. That boundaries were not arrogance. You had sounded sincere, not a single trace of want in your tone.
It had stuck with him.
At first, he assumed it was typical teenage girl pettiness. A little rivalry using a clever remark to wound another for competition… until he realized you never once looked at him in class or in corridors. You did not smile at him shyly. You did not linger near in hopes of getting his attention. You did not even seem to care that he existed.
It wasn’t always obsession.
That was when curiosity took root.
Then, curiosity became irritation.
Tom Riddle was accustomed to being watched. To the whispers. To the desire and lust in other people’s eyes. But you — infuriatingly — refused to orbit him. Never preened. Never sought him out. You rejected boys without hesitation, as if their offers were minor inconveniences. Including Tom too, apparently.
What did you want, then? What standard did you hold that so many failed to reach? He couldn’t figure you out as easily as anyone else. And ironically, Tom Riddle hated riddles.
After closely watching you for months, he had figured out plenty about you. You lived quietly, guarding your privacy like treasure. You liked silence, he did too. But not the eerie kind like Tom did. You preferred the type that consisted of at least some natural noise. You disliked spectacles, stiffening at anything that would draw attention to you. Like him, you valued control. In some ways, you and him were not so different.
You tucked your hair behind your ear when irritated. You frowned faintly when concentrating, a look he’s seen many times when you never noticed him staring right at you. You were kind. Tom first saw it in the way you protected his name in conversations that did not concern you and he hasn’t forgotten it since.
And then, there was the chocolate — always white chocolate. It was your weakness. He had catalogued it months ago, when you unwrapped one absentmindedly. The faint smile you wore when you thought no one was looking, how you so easily lost yourself in it, brain going numb — the sight made him hungry in a way he never was growing up as a poor orphan. It made him want to ravish you where you stood. He had been looking. He was always looking at you. And you were blissfully unaware.
Tom had known you would eat what he gave you. Your sweet tooth was abominable. How could something so simple bring you so much joy? You lacked restraint when it came to sugar. He had measured the dosage of Amortentia carefully — enough to turn the tide of your stubbornness, not enough to dull your mind completely. He did not want a puppet. He wanted something that felt real, that sounded real — as real as a love potion can get.
Tom had given you the illusion of choice; in a manner of speaking. And when you still rejected him in the courtyard — just as part of him knew you would — cold fury had flared inside him, bright and violent, beneath his composed exterior. You had dared to believe there was someone better suited to you than him? How dare you find him insufficient? Who could possibly surpass him?
No one.
No one would have you.
He had orchestrated every detail to make you comfortable.
And still, you said no.
How ungrateful you were.
He had even planted the seed with Slughorn weeks before, during a late Slug Club gathering. It was a casual suggestion, an offhand remark about the curriculum timing what with Valentine’s Day approaching. Wouldn’t it be amusing to align love potions with the season? Slughorn had beamed at the brilliance of it, utterly unaware he had been maneuvered.
The pieces had arranged themselves beautifully. As they always did, the stars shone in his name — for he was the universe’s favorite. Everything would work out for Lord Voldemort in the end.
As you clung to him now, pliant, Tom felt no guilt. Only confirmation that you were not like the others — he had been right about that from the beginning. You had defended him when you owed him nothing. You had shown him something dangerously close to loyalty before he had even asked for it.
And loyalty deserved to rewarded.
In all honesty, your trust had always been your flaw. You defended him when you did not know him. You believed in goodness where others would not. You believed in him.
You were too good for your own good.
And goodness, in this world, required protection. He would be that protection. Deep down, even a god like him craved to be seen as a man from time to time. So, you would love him like one. Tom would show you how. And you would never stop.
Tom’s lips crashed onto yours with bruising force, a hand fisting in your damp hair. Deep and claiming, his tongue swept into your mouth like he was starving for the taste of you. Like he’d been starving for weeks, months, years. Like this was his first taste of life and death all at once. You gasped against him, overwhelmed — and Tom took the opportunity by deepening the kiss, your body arching instinctively into his chest, a hand gripping your waist hard enough to bruise.
He backed you against the stone walls of the Astronomy tower, thigh nudged between yours, pressure settling exactly where heat pooled most desperately. You whimpered, a broken sound swallowed by another searing kiss.
Tom’s hands were everywhere — rough, impatient, possessive. He shoved your skirt up past your hips without breaking the kiss, wand calloused fingers dragging over bare skin before finding your panties soaked with slick. He growled into your mouth at the feeling. A dark, satisfied sound that made you even wetter.
Tom didn’t let up, your whimpers going straight to his groin. He fed off every breathless sound you made, every tremble that ran through your frame at his touch. When he finally pulled back an inch, his brown eyes burned down at yours, flashing red almost. They were feral.
“So wet,” he rasped against your lips, tone thick with something between disbelief and satisfaction with you. “For me?”
You could only nod frantically as his thumb circled once over swollen flesh like a loving caress one would absentmindedly give an animal, a slow tease, before taking them away. Before you could complain however, without warning, Tom dropped to his knees before you on those cold stone floors drenched by windblown rainwater pooling near your feet and gently pushed up your soaked skirt once more. The second his cold, powerful fingers brushed your inner thigh, you shivered.
Tom looked up at you through dark lashes. Droplets of rain streaked down his pale face. His hands were steady, skillful— too calm for a prodigy that was about to do something so filthy on a magical tower where anyone could find them.
But then again, Tom had never cared about rules when it came to getting what he wanted.
And right now?
He wanted you.
With deliberate slowness, torturous, he hooked one long finger under your soaked panties before he pulled them aside. A cool gust of wind swept over your exposed heat just as his warm breath ghosted across sensitive skin. A soft gasp left your throat at the sensation before your lips parted further in surprise.
Tom had licked once — a long, slow drag straight up your slit — and groaned like it was honey on his tongue, the sound making you clench around nothing. He was starting to understand why you lost control of yourself when it came to sweet things.
All you could focus on was the mouth suddenly sealing over your core like a man possessed. His tongue worked in ruthless circles, relentless and straight to the point, plunging inside before licking back up again with just the right pressure to make your knees buckle.
You cried out, a high pitched and desperate sound as one hand fisted in his hair while the other braced against damp stone wall behind you. You wanted him. You wanted all of him. Anything he’d give you, you’d take in a heartbeat. The wind continued to howl around you, drowning out your noises, rain slashing sideways onto your faces — but neither of you cared.
All that existed was Tom’s mouth devouring you like ripe fruit offered to a god — the wet sounds obscene as he sucked at your clit between sharp nips of his teeth — a low growl vibrating from his chest and against your folds, sending shocks through the sensitive flesh every time another whimper escaped your lips.
Everything about this was borderline animalistic, something you never expected from Tom.
Tom.
Tom.
“Tom, Tom, Tom—!”
Your voice was a broken melody as you worshipped his name like it was the only word left in your world, dazed and drunk from the love potion’s magic. He was the only thought in your head. It confused you how you could love someone so much so suddenly. But you guess that’s what it meant to love someone so great. Each utterance of his name dripped with reverence, laced with the love potion’s haze and raw pleasure as his tongue worked magic between your thighs. And though he despised that name — Tom Marvolo Riddle — hearing it fall from your lips like this? Like you were praying to him?
It undid something in him. Tom reveled in it.
His eyes stayed locked on yours even as he feasted on you, dark pools of hunger and possession flashing with each clap of lightning outside. Rain slicked every inch of his face. His cheeks dusted faintly pink from exertion — but it hadn’t compared to how utterly wrecked you looked above him.
Fingers tightening further at your hip while the other curled under your thigh, lifting it effortlessly so he had a better angle. Tom was relentless. Every lick, every suck — each one was born to ruin you. His tongue dragged up your slick folds with agonizing slowness, the tip playing with your tiny clit just enough to make you whimper before pulling away completely and doing it again. And again; like he had all night.
It was just them, like it was always meant to be — the breeze whooshing around their bodies that were pressed together — and Tom was worshipping at the altar of your cunt like it truly was sacred ground only meant for him.
Tom groaned against you when you ground down harder onto his mouth, hips rocking helplessly as pleasure coiled tighter in your belly. One hand shot out instinctively to brace against his shoulder while the other still clung desperately to his hair — pushing his face deeper without meaning to.
The vibrations of another low growl rumbled through his lips straight into your throbbing bundle of nerves. You were so close, rutting against his pretty face in tandem.
“Tom,” you whined pitifully. Tom knew. He always knew.
He could feel it, from the way your thighs tensed to how your breaths turned into frantic little gasps that dissolved into moans. From the moment you tilted your head back, baring that delicate throat to the sky, breaking eye contact with him although he knew it pained you to do so. Because all you ever wanted to do was look at him now.
Without breaking rhythm, his tongue circled your clit while two fingers suddenly pushed inside you without warning, long and deft, finding that spongy spot deep within instantly, filling you up deliciously.
“Tom— oh! Oh God—”
Tom smirked up at you. Your back arched off the wall while thighs shook around his invading hand. It burned, stretched you too fast — but god it was good, especially when Tom curled them upwards just right. He sucked hard on your puffy little nub and the combination of everything all at once was too much.
A scream tore from your throat, his name ripping out of you in a sob as the orgasm crashed over you like a tidal wave. You didn’t even recognize your own voice.
Your back arched violently off the wall. Your hips jerked against Tom’s mouth and fingers like a delightful seizure as pleasure washed through every nerve ending in your body. You could see it behind closed eyelids — flashes of light, stars bursting across your vision just like he’d promised.
Tom didn’t stop.
He let you ride out your high, feeling every pulse of your pussy as you clenched tightly around his fingers, slurping gently now to prolong it while his digits kept pumping inside you at an achingly slow pace meant to wring every last drop of ecstasy from your trembling body. You let out a shaky breath, hands carding through Tom’s wet strands endearingly, the wet look making him look even more attractive.
From the rain or your juices, you didn’t know. All you could do was gasp for air and whisper his name again between shuddering gasps as Tom kept going until the last tremor had faded from your body, ignoring the strain in his trousers for now.
Only then did he finally pull his fingers free with a wet pop — lifting them to his lips and licking every drop of you clean without breaking eye contact. Your cheeks grew hotter, eyes glassy and dazed as you peered down at him, pupils dilated and practically the shape of hearts. His expression was pure sin, dark eyes heavy lidded and mouth glistening with your slick and cum.
“Delicious.”
You were still slumped against the wall, legs weak and breath ragged, completely wrecked.
But Tom was far from done with you.
In one fluid motion, he stood up — towering over you again before he yanked off his soaked cloak in one impatient tug. The fabric hit the wet floor with a heavy splash as rain dripped down every sculpted inch of him. His thick cock already painfully hard beneath his pants. Your gaze devoured him, tracking his bulge specifically as he begins to unbuckle his belt without breaking eye contact.
You barely had time to acknowledge how your back ended up on the cold stone floor, or how your clothing now lay torn in shreds, exposing your entire body to him — Tom looming over you like a predator about to claim its prize. His eyes looked wild and free. Your heart skipped a beat.
The cold stone bit into your bare skin but it was nothing compared to the heat radiating off of Tom’s body when he blanketed yours, even when his clothes were soaked and you lay entirely bare in contrast before him. Rain pounded down harsher than before as he positioned himself between your thighs. His cock, his beautiful cock already glistening at the tip from precum, pulled out from between his zipper. It tapped against your soaked entrance before circling it almost teasingly. You don’t remember seeing him taking it out.
One hand gripped your hip tight while the other braced beside your head. Tom’s breath came ragged now too, control fraying at every second spent not inside you.
Tom didn’t give you time to overthink as his hand guided himself between your slick folds already swollen from his earlier attention. His mushroom tip pressed hot and heavy against your hole and you clenched involuntarily, eager to suck him in. It leaked precum onto your sensitive skin. So close. You could feel how big he was, thicker than your wrist, longer than expected — and a pit grew in your gut before it went away like it had never existed.
“Breathe,” he murmured, not unkindly. He must have sensed you were nervous. But, Tom was also impatient as he proceeded to press the tip inside without warning.
As his cock pushed in, stretching you impossibly wide — a groan, deep and guttural, was wrenched from his throat. You were tight. So tight it nearly stole his breath.
“Mmnn—”
You whimpered at the burn. Every inch of him was slowly sheathing itself in your slick heat, gooey walls fluttering around him like a heartbeat. Virgin cunt untouched until now. Until him.
His glorious cock speared into you further like a divine sword until he bottomed out inside you fully. Full. Your lips parted in a silent scream, brows furrowed and eyes fluttered shut. You never felt this good, this full, even though it stung a little in comparison, when you ate chocolate.
You were delirious, lost in your head. On top of you, Tom didn’t move again right away.
Couldn’t.
Just braced above you with trembling arms, your nails digging crescents into his pale skin, drawing a hiss that sounded unnatural for a human to make but it made you clench around him all the same. His forehead pressed to yours as rain dripped from his face onto yours like holy water. His hips twitched involuntarily — a shallow grind that dragged a whimper from your lips.
Then slowly. So. Fucking. Slowly. He pulled back, your head tilting as your eyes rolled back to your skull, toes curling, until just the tip remained before pressing in again.
Thunder and lightning clapped in your ears, splitting the sky in jagged bursts that lit your upturned face for a few seconds. The world above was chaos, black storm clouds swallowing the sky as the heavens raged. Rain hammered down mercilessly, turning the stone floor beneath you into a slick mirror. Your soaked hair splayed across the stone floor like a halo.
You stared up at that upside down horizon with hazy eyes, each thrust from Tom rocking your head back further against wet rock as he rutted into you.
And yet, all you could think about were those stars that you saw behind closed lids whenever pleasure crested too high — the ones only he had shown you.
.✦ SUMMARY: Tom has sworn to protect his little brother from women like you—but ends up falling into the trap himself when your punishment becomes his demise ;)
.✦ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. revenge hate sex. slight exhibitionism. Tom is jealous but doesn't want to admit it. rough sex, little to no prep, degradation, slight slut shaming? choking, face slapping (m rec MUHAHA), tearing instead of taking off clothes, unprotected p in v, creampie, orgasm denial, no aftercare, Tommy is obsessed with our pussy us :333
.✦ AUTHOR'S NOTE: yall know the phrase "missionary so we can keep arguing" ??? beccause that's them. lol.
wordcount: 3,1k
This. Exactly this is why you loathe Astronomy lessons.
Your arms hug your chest more tightly, hurrying along the dark and eerily quiet corridors, cursing yourself for not taking a warmer jacket with you. Although spring is slowly but surely starting up here in the far north of the country, you currently find yourself in that strange transitioning phase, where afternoons are pleasantly warm, hot even, while nights are bone-chillingly cold.
Astronomy classes typically start at 21:00 and end two hours later—catching the last few weak sunrays painting the horizon a bright, saturated orange as well as the starry night sky, sometimes accentuated by polar lights.
And while these definitely are the highlights of your lessons, it doesn’t quite change the fact that the walk back, especially in cold, dark weather, is as much unpleasant as terrifying.
The size of the castle does not help, either. Your walk to your dorm takes around 10-15 minutes surely and spans across half the castle. It leads you past the Great Hall, countless portraits of famous witches and wizards, the kitchens, and classrooms.
If you weren’t so caught up in your thoughts and regrets about signing up for Astronomy in the first place, you might’ve noticed the shift in the air around you. How the torches’ flames dim slightly as you turn the corner, how the owls’ hoots from the Owlery a few hundred metres away fade into the tranquillity of the night.
Instead, you shake your head at a comment your professor made this night, eyebrows pinched together in annoyance. He could’ve just cancelled the lesson for bad weather—but instead, he insisted, only to then be a nuisance when students couldn’t make out constellations.
If you weren’t so damn inattentive, you might’ve been able to draw your wand in time when a door to your right flies open, one strong arm circling your waist, the other clamping over your mouth as you’re pulled into a classroom before you can even react properly.
Might’ve been, you think, but when notes of sandalwood and myrrh flood your senses, that small chance dissolves into nothingness.
What could he possibly want from you this late?
He lets go of you when he’s put a sufficient amount of distance between you and the door and spins you around to face him.
Moonlight is drowning in from outside, the only source of light in the classroom besides a few candles—still, the resentment edged into his features is as evident as ever, and your mind races through all scenarios where you may have insulted Slughorn’s favourite boy.
And yet, you cannot recall such a moment. You are smart enough to keep distance between him and yourself, even though you sometimes would do nothing rather than smack him across his stupidly handsome face. There's no word in the whole English language to describe the sheer audacity of this man—starting with the way he treats his friends and ending with his perfect-student act in class.
Sometimes, you wonder if you are the only one seeing right through the facade he puts up. And even if you can’t quite place it, beneath said facade shimmers nothing good. That, you are sure of—and one of the many reasons why you prefer staying away from trouble rather than giving him that deserved slap across his cheek he is practically begging for.
“Mattheo,” he says, lowly. Nothing else. No explanation, just his brother’s name.
What about him? You nearly ask, but then it dawns upon you.
Oh.
Oh, fuck.
Over the years, Tom Riddle has acquired many titles. Prefect, Head Boy, top student, but most of all, protective older brother.
And you may or may not have gotten involved with the younger of the Riddles. Involved as in... hooked up with.
In your defence, you were quite drunk. More than usual. And those pretty brown curls, those freaking gorgeous doe-eyes—they led straight to your demise. Mattheo asked so sweetly too—how was your drunk self supposed to abstain from that?
It was just a one-time thing. Or, well, if you count the other two times it has happened after that—a three-time thing, perhaps.
You decide not to tell him that. “That’s none of your business, Riddle. He’s an adult and very well capable of making his own decisions.”
He scoffs with his signature condescending tone and shakes his head.
“Perhaps if he didn’t go after someone like you. But he can’t seem to keep his hands off women who are clearly bad for him.”
Bad for him? Someone like you? Who on earth does he think he is?
“Someone like me? What is that supposed to imply?” you ask exasperatedly, crossing your arms over your chest when a breeze sends a shiver down your spine.
Tom’s eyes drop to the now strained buttons of your blouse, a muscle ticking in his jaw before his eyes return to yours.
“You have quite the reputation regarding... that.”
“And you, you, Riddle—” you laugh in disbelief, closing the distance between the both of you, poking his chest with your index finger. “You’ve got quite the reputation for being an absolute asshole, which you’ve just proved right once again—contrary to me, because I don’t have said reputation.”
You don’t miss the flame lighting up behind his guarded eyes when your skin touches the fabric of his shirt. For a long moment, silence falls between you two, and your hand drops to your side again, swallowing the lump which has built in your throat.
You are too close. So close, you see how his jaw clenches and unclenches, how the crease between his brows fades. So close, if you shut your eyes and breathed in, you’d find yourself in a dark forest after rain—intoxicatingly good, but also just as dangerous.
Did he bathe himself in perfume?
Before you get to say anything else, a hand wraps around your throat. Firmly, but not enough to hurt or stop you from gasping. Tom walks you backwards until you’re pressed up against one of the tables, trapped between his body, taller and broader than your own, and the oak currently biting into your skin.
“You’ve quite the mouth on you. Careful, sweetheart. I wouldn’t want to do anything I might regret later.”
His thumb brushes along the side of your neck then, his eyes—a darker brown than his brother’s—following. The touch of his bare skin on yours efficiently short-circuits your mind. You shouldn’t let him do this. You should ridicule him and flee to the sanctuary of your dorm—but something in his voice makes you curious. Makes you stay—right there, a breath away from him, your pulse hammering beneath his fingers on your neck.
“Is there anything mighty Tom Riddle could possibly regret? Here I thought you live a regret and carefree life. Guess I was wrong.”
His grip on your throat tightens the slightest bit. “Oh, there are plenty. Though I will make sure I won’t regret staying up late for this.”
You raise a brow at him. “Riddle missing out on his beauty sleep for me? The greatest tragedy of the 21st century, for sure.”
“Quiet,” he snaps, his hand leaving your throat. Tom places them on the back of your thighs instead, lifting you up to sit on the edge of the table. “You’ve said and done enough.”
Enough? You were just getting started. A warm-up, you could say.
You never thought arguing with him could be this much fun—especially when it riles him up to the point he gets fucking hard from it.
Because no, you haven’t quite missed the tent in his trousers, which was poking into your hips until a few seconds ago. How could you have? It was scarily evident. Knowing that you have this effect on him, a guy who you’ve never seen leave a party alongside a girl, is more satisfying than you’d like to admit.
He makes quick work of his belt, and that, on the other hand, is something you did not expect—not from him, at least.
It’s not only the fact he initiated this—but time and place. A classroom, of all places. Anyone could hear you. Prefects on duty, professors walking past. It was dangerous. Reckless. So unlike him, you wonder whether someone slipped him a potion during dinner.
Good that you don’t necessarily mind reckless.
He steps between your thighs, wrenching them apart.
“Someone could walk in, Riddle. You are insane,” you scold, though not entirely sincere, eyes darting between the unlocked door and him.
He flips up your skirt in response.
“Knowing you, you would most definitely enjoy that, slut.”
The retaliatory insult sits on the tip of your tongue but never makes it past your lips. His eyes are focused on the wet spot soaking through the cotton of your panties. His thumb presses down on it, tracing it upwards until he finds your clit, and you moan in response, meeting his touch.
He pulls away. “You get wet from just this? From arguing?”
You grin up at him. “Only when I am winning.”
Instead of asking you to lift your hips so he can slide your panties off, he hooks his fingers beneath the damp fabric, ripping it along the middle with a sharp tearing sound.
Those were expensive, you want to tell him, but his hand clamps over your mouth instead. “I would’ve considered going easy on you. If you weren’t such a goddamn brat who doesn’t know when it’s better to shut up, that is.”
Your eyebrows pinch together, because how could they not? It’s him who pulled you into this classroom just to what? To fuck you because you dared to have sex with his brother? Even if you tried making sense of it, you doubt you’d succeed.
But for now, for now you are curious whether he is bluffing or if he actually knows what he’s doing—and the answer, you find just a moment later.
His trousers are left to pool around his ankles, and he takes one last step forwards—groaning lowly as he coats himself in your slick. Tom doesn’t prepare you any more than a few bumps against your aching clit. Doesn’t use his fingers to work you open and get you to relax your muscles and give in to pleasure.
Instead, he nudges against your entrance and pushes inside. Not slowly, either. With one mean, sharp thrust, he splits you open around him, hands on your hips keeping you in your place. The sting is overwhelming at first, blinding. Your scream is muffled by his hand over your lips, and he stills for a moment—giving you enough time to stop him if you so wished.
When you don’t, your thighs closing around his lower body, he has the answer he needs. And though your vision is blurry with unshed tears, you feel the smirk on his lips. The satisfaction radiating off him is sickening, and thoughts about smacking it away return.
“So fucking tight. If you can’t take it, just say so. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”
“How considerate of you, Riddle.” you murmur with a fake smile, meeting his gaze. “I am not backing down, though. Now show me what you’ve got before I change my mind.”
He eases your legs apart, keeping them spread wide for him as he sets a rhythm. Fast, deep, unrelenting. His hips slam against your own with a loud smacking sound which echoes off the walls and—you are quite certain—can be heard from outside just as clearly.
God, perhaps that ego of his is rightfully as massive as it is.
His hand leaves your mouth and instead wraps around your throat again, more tightly this time. Your eyes flutter close, losing yourself in the feeling of him so close, so deep. Tomorrow will be soon enough to hate yourself for this. Now, now, you want to feel. Feel as he fucks his hatred into you.
But Tom—Tom isn’t quite happy with that. He wants to see you. Wants to see your eyes roll to the back of your head as he stuffs you full over and over again, wants to see you tear up each time he thrusts deep enough to brush against your cervix. He wants you to focus on him during it all.
“Eyes on me,” he rasps, voice low and thick with resentment. He grasps your chin and tilts your face towards his. “Look at me when I fuck you.”
You obey. And you hate that you do. You hate that he walks around the castle like he owns it. You hate that he’s making you feel like this.
Most of all, you hate that he always gets to have his way.
Your fingertips tickle with want, and what you do next isn't entirely thought through.
“I hate you, Riddle.” you whisper, eyes glaring up at him just as he wanted. And then, in one swift motion, your palm connects with his cheek, a loud SMACK! reverberating between you two.
His head stays turned to the side, and you clench your hand into a fist, dropping it to your side.
Damn, that hurt—but also, fuck, that felt amazing.
Tom stills his movements, buried all the way inside your velvety walls, his tip nudging uncomfortably against your already-sore cervix. You can’t say you’re not scared of what comes next. Did you hurt his ego? Will he stop? Will he—and you much preferred this option—do the same to you?
You could’ve frozen time, thought about every possible outcome for days, perhaps weeks, and what comes next wouldn’t have crossed your mind in that time. It wouldn’t have crossed your mind at all, not in a thousand years.
His head dips, and at the same time he uses his grip around your neck to pull you upwards. Tom breathes in, a mere inch from your lips—once, twice, his dark eyes staring at yours so intensely, the room around you starts spinning—and then, his lips collide with yours.
It’s messy, rough, uncoordinated—as it has been. He steals your breath away, but you don’t complain. His other hand finds your blouse, again, ripping instead of opening, one button after another popping off, leaving your chest bare for him.
Only when his lungs too run out of oxygen does he part from you, a whole new expression written over his face.
I hate you, but I can’t get enough either.
Tom seems to realise what the latter may mean, and God, if he was rough before, he is feral now.
His cock pistons into you at a pace you have a hard time keeping up with, every thrust making the table squeak and sending your hips backwards—so harshly, he has to pull you back multiple times.
“This is what you wanted? Getting fucked like a slut? Don't even bother answering. We both know.”
You shriek when he angles his thrusts just right, gripping his forearm. “Riddle— Tom, I—”
He looks at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. Torn blouse and panties, mascara smeared, whining and moaning so sweetly beneath him. This is so much better than he imagined it to be.
Similar thoughts cross your mind. Beads of sweat on his temples, one dark curl hanging loosely over his forehead. He breathes heavily, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. He looks gorgeous like this—even more so than usual. Human, almost. With real feelings. Fuck.
His thumb finds your swollen clit, briefly—pulling away before it starts feeling good. He scoffs when you whine at the loss.
“You thought I’d allow you to come? Pathetic. Think again.”
You want to argue with him, beg, if you really have to—but he pushes you down onto the surface of the table, leaning over you—an angle which allows him deeper, and that, he uses to his advantage.
Low grunts and groans begin spilling from his kiss-swollen lips, and with a few more deep thrusts, he spills himself inside you, painting your walls white with his release.
Tom stays there while he catches his breath—buried deep, keeping you full of him for a moment longer.
When he does finally withdraw, you hiss at the friction—God, you aren’t looking forward to the walk back to your dorm.
Tom doesn’t speak a word while he dresses himself. Only when he is about to exit the classroom does he turn around one last time, a small, satisfied smirk tugging on the corner of his lips when he realises you haven’t moved, thighs slick with your combined arousal.
“Don’t come near him—us—again,” he says, keeping his tone as strict as he could—though failing. “Trust me, I will know.”
・・・
You are glad it’s the weekend, because for the last two days, after returning to your dorm, you haven’t moved much. Your whole body aches, and a part of you wishes you smacked him twice instead of just once.
With your latest read in your hand, you prepare yourself for bed—though sleeping has been rather difficult when all you can think about is him. How he felt inside you, how pretty he looked when his guard was down.
A few minutes later, a sharp knock on your window startles you. The bed just got warm, and you sigh deeply as you swing your legs over the edge and cross the room to the window.
Who in their right mind sends an owl this late?
You open the window, a chilly breeze greeting you. Taking the letter from your owl, you pet her, and she flies off into the darkness of the night again. You sink onto the chair at your work desk, studying the envelope.
The seal looks familiar, and yet you can’t quite place it—only when you open it do you recognise the handwriting.
It’s Tom’s—and the content makes you huff a laugh.
Tuesday, after Herbology. The classroom I use for tutoring. Don't be late, or I’ll make sure you won’t be able to walk for another three days.
You cringe at the thought of him seeing you limp to the Great Hall for breakfast and quickly shove that thought away. Most importantly, he reached out to you. After just two days, he’s the one breaking his own rule.
You sensed it was a lie back when he told you to stay away. It didn’t come with the usual authority, with the finality you’d expect from him.
A smirk spreads across your face, slow and sweet realisation dawning on you.
You got both Riddle brothers addicted to you—and your pussy.
A/N pt 2: THREESOME WHEN WHEN WHEN????
thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3
—
masterlist. | oneshots.
synopsis: making tom do your homework is an easy feat that shows the rest of slytherin house just how whipped he is for you. | wc: 1.2k+
fem!reader (she/her pronouns), fluff, established relationship, reader is a muggleborn yet you always get your way with him (no specific house), knights of walpurgis cameos, their gossip and reactions are funny (to me), riddle era. | lordlist
Most students keep their distance from Tom Riddle — head boy, the prodigy with something dark lurking underneath that they don’t want to be caught up in. Most students anyway.
You, however, are currently sprawled across the green velvet cushions in the Slytherin common rooms beside him, dramatically slamming your potions textbook shut with a groan — making the students (largely consisting of some of Tom’s weird friends) to flinch for their lives at the abrupt noise disrupting the peaceful quiet.
“Slughorn is trying to kill me,” you whine loudly, earning you a few looks. You fail to notice them however — your eyes shut, tipping your head to rest it against your boyfriend’s shoulder.
Tom doesn’t even spare you a glance from his own work, quill gliding across parchment with infuriating ease. You peek a single eye open to watch his reaction, but all you see him do is scribble in ink. It really isn’t fair. No normal guy should have hands as attractive as that — veiny, big, powerful.
“You said the same thing last week. And the week before.”
“‘Cause it’s still true,” you pout.
“Or,” he says pointedly, dipping his quill into the pot of ink besides him, “you’re simply hopeless at brewing anything more complex than tea.”
You sit up straight, head leaving his shoulder which makes Tom shift a little at the lack of your warmth, gasping with furrowed brows at the jab. He doesn’t care to look your way. You stare harder. Nothing. So, you decide to pinch his arm.
Tom barely reacts, of course, finally glancing sideways at you — giving you a blank stare in return and an unamused arch of the brow at your childish behavior.
Suddenly, an idea pops in your head — one of great brilliance.
“Tom,” you coo, dragging your words. He hums, no longer paying you any mind and busying himself with his own work again — but you know he’s paying attention from his peripheral. You bat your lashes once, then twice, eyes wide and pleading. Your voice drips in innocence. “Will you do it for me?”
The response comes immediately.
“No.”
You huff, vexed. “Why not?”
“Unlike you, I have self respect,” he answers coolly.
You narrow your eyes, roll them, before smiling as if he made a funny joke. “I’ll give you a kiss!”
Tom scoffs. “I’m not that easily bought.”
You lean in closer, eyes glittering, soft lips ghosting near his ear. He intakes a sharp breath when they brush his lobe. “Two kisses. Pretty please?”
His quill pauses. Some of the other students peak over at the both of you at the sudden silence, having been nosy and overhearing the conversation the whole time.
“I’m not doing your entire assignment.”
“So… half?”
“Assisting,” he reiterates, albeit, still giving in to your demands. For all that Tom is, he appreciated the value of hard work and looked down on cheating… but for you, he’ll let it slide just this once (it does not end up being just once).
“Fine. Assist me then while I lie here and do absolutely nothing,” you hum in delight, patting a cushion and making yourself comfortable.
Tom exhales sharply — a mix between an exasperated sigh from how much you test his patience and a suppressed huff of laughter.
“You are completely unbearable.”
“And yet, you adore me.”
Unfortunately, he did.
Because Tom Riddle is the boy who could bend minds with a smile, and yet, for you — he is currently scribbling out your entire potions essay and rewriting it while you sit back and relax as if you hadn’t just gotten the most feared Slytherin at Hogwarts to do your homework on your command.
Across the room, several members of his inner circle — the so called Knights of Walpurgis — were watching the whole thing in disbelief.
“She didn’t even have to try,” one whispers.
“He just… did it.”
Another scowls. “She’s a mud—”
“Shut up,” a new voice hisses. “He likes her. I heard he hexed Rosier last week for making a joke about it.”
“…”
“Maybe if we get on her good side—”
“Enough.” Tom’s voice cuts through the air like a knife.
The gossipy murmurs stop immediately. The group clears their throats, looking anywhere else except at the both of you in a very obvious, idiotic fashion. None of them dared to meet Tom’s gaze… except you.
You lean over and kiss his cheek sweetly, smug and triumphant and ever so oblivious. “Well, I’ll be back later. I’ll give you the other kiss once you’re done as a reward — promise.”
You stand, dusting off your robes, already moving towards the stairs to leave the common room when he speaks out again, low but heard by all.
“Don’t stay out too long.”
You pause in your tracks, turning to face him with a tilt of your head.
“Why? Gonna miss me?”
Tom doesn’t answer your tease with what he wants to, not in front of the blithering idiots — but he doesn’t have to. The look in his eyes says ‘yes, I’ll burn this world down if it ever takes you from me’ . . . but instead, all that leaves his mouth is:
“Because your friends are irritating, and I prefer when you’re where I can see you.”
‘Sure, it’s only that,’ the students in the common room all thought collectively.
extra:
Later that night, when the common room had emptied, the Knights of Walpurgis gathered near the fireplace, voices hushed but urgent.
“I still can’t believe it,” Malfoy mutters, poking at the embers with his wand. “He ended up doing the whole bloody essay.”
“He didn’t have to,” Lestrange points out gruffly. “He chose to. Like… a domesticated pet.”
A few of them snort at that.
Rosier leans in, whispering like he’s sharing top secret intel. “I swear on Salazar’s beard I saw him almost smile when she came back down and gave him three kisses ‘stead of one like she said. He’s whipped.”
“Three?” Mulciber repeats, incredulous. “Yeah, one for each cheek, and then on the lips,” Rosier confirms, puckering his own and making kissy sounds. “Like a proper fairytale ending — if the fairytale involved a future dark lord doing someone’s potions homework.”
There is a long pause as they all try to picture it.
Avery finally exhales a laugh, making them all turn their heads his way. “He’s gone mad.”
“Mad?” Nott repeats, smirking into his goblet of wine. “Yes, mad with love.~”
That earns a few cackles and smoochy sounds — the kind that immediately dies the second a shadow falls across their little group. They slowly and carefully turn their heads to look back.
Tom stands right behind them with his arms crossed, expression unreadable, sleeves rolled up to his elbows neatly, the faintest trace of ink still on his fingertips. His gaze sweeps over each of them, cold and sharp enough to make them shudder and bow their heads in submission.
“Something amusing?” he asks softly, tone dangerous.
“No, Riddle,” they chorus at once, faces pale.
He regards them for a moment too long to make them squirm, then turns away in finality, the hem of his cloak brushing against the rug as he makes his way up towards the dorms.
But just before he disappears down the corridor, they all swear they see it — the slight pep in his step and the smallest curve at the corner of his mouth.
Short Summary: Tom Riddle is quite laid-back when it comes to you—but under the effect of a Lust Potion, he just takes what he wants—however he wants.
Warnings: 18+ only! consensual non consent. somno, sex under the effect of a lust potion, rough sex, choking, unprotected p in v, sex with little to no prep, creampie
A/N: I got the highest grade possible for my thesis, you get filthy smut! Win-win.
wordcount: 1,2k
“No, stay— stay like this.”
It’s the first thing you hear when you stir awake in the middle of the night. You try to move—but something, or rather someone, is making sure you have no choice but to stay trapped beneath them.
“Please, no—“ panic rises in your chest as you struggle under their weight—but it’s no use.
“Shh. It’s me. Be good and stay still.”
This time, you recognize the voice, and you exhale a shuddering breath, relaxing just slightly.
It’s Tom.
Lying on your front, you don’t get to meet his expression, hell, you don’t even get to fucking ask what he’s doing—
Because you already feel him pressing against your entrance, tip hot and flushed, leaking with need—and with a single, measured thrust, he pushes inside. Deep.
“Fuck—“ you shriek at the sudden, stinging stretch. “Tom, that hurts!”
As you reach behind you, trying to push him away, give you time to adjust, he instantly pins your wrists to your back.
“I know— fuck, I know.” He grumbles, yet shows no intent to stop. Instead, he pulls out, pushing back inside immediately—drawing another sharp gasp from you. “Go back to sleep, sweetheart.”
You don’t know exactly what’s gotten into him. Yes, you both agreed upon this, that he could use you when you were asleep—and that you could tell him to stop whenever you actually wanted to—but never had he been this eager.
“Tom, please—“ you try again, whimpering at the burning, unrelenting stretch. His hand finds its way into your hair, lifting your head slightly just to push you into the pillow beneath you—muffling your whines.
His hips rock forward once more, testing, trying how much you can take.
“You will be quiet and take it, alright? Be a good girl for me?” He mumbles, voice coming out raspy, laced with need. He withdraws then, only halfway this time—
Just to snap his hips forward again, tip harshly ramming against your sensitive cervix—a feeling that has you biting your lips so hard, you taste blood.
“God, Tom!” You yelp, hips involuntarily bucking against his in an attempt to free yourself—but it only results in him slipping deeper, drawing a low groan from the brunette.
Slowly, he starts rolling his hips against yours, still buried deep, brows furrowed, breathing heavily through his slightly parted lips at just how tight you feel around him.
Finally, his hand leaves your hair, allowing you to inhale a deep breath—lungs burning from the lack of oxygen as you do. Just a mere second later, it’s wrapped around your neck instead, pushing you down once more.
He’s got you exactly how he likes you—one leg angled to your side, his body trapping yours between him and the bed, fingers pressing into your pulse point, enough to make you feel light-headed. Hips flush with yours, ass pressed against his pelvis—it makes his head spin. He needs to have you, take you—now.
“Slipped me this potion— told me it was for sobering up— fuck, sweetheart, you’re tight.” He groans, a deep, low sound somewhere from the back of his throat, feeling him twitch inside you.
It all comes crashing down onto you. Why he is like this.
They made him drink a Lust Potion.
Judging by the fact that he didn’t even second-guess before downing it—must mean he’s had a decent amount of drinks as well.
All of that, combined with the effects of the potion—turned him into this.
You don’t get to think about the situation for much longer and what you could do to ease the effects—the slow drag of his cock against your walls as he starts thrusting into you efficiently short-circuiting your brain.
He doesn’t ease you into it. After one or two thrusts, he picks up his pace, hips snapping against yours as though it’s the last time he gets to have you.
Tom usually isn’t the most vocal. Yes, he enjoys it—loves it, even—when he can pin you down and fuck you into the mattress until you are begging for him to let you come. But, just like outside of your sacred four walls, he likes to keep his composure—even during the most intimate acts.
In short: he hates losing control.
But now—he’s moaning, whimpering even at how sensitive he is—at how good and warm you feel, wrapped tightly around him.
It’s making your brain fuzzy. Everything about it. How you are slowly loosening up for him, allowing him to increase his pace, how your own arousal makes it even easier for him to thrust deep.
“Taking me so well, sweetheart.” Tom praises, breathless, the sound of skin slapping against skin filling the otherwise quiet bedroom. “Like this pussy was fucking made for me, fitting me like a damn glove—“
And at this point you are praying you would survive this.
His thrusts grow rougher, punishing almost, brushing against your cervix with every single snap of his hips. His hand wraps around your throat, cutting off your airflow once more as he feels himself getting close.
“Fuck, darling— going to let me fill you up, hm? Make you nice and full of me?” He grits out, staying pressed flush against you for a second, making you feel all of him—every vein, every ridge—every. single. inch.
You nod as best as you can, clenching down tight around him.
“Please Tom, please fill me up— need it, fuck—“
He groans at that, cursing under his breath.
“Good girl. Such a perfect little doll, all nice and pliant for me—“
It’s not long until his pace falters, hips stuttering against your own—and he groans lowly as he starts spilling deep inside of you, coating your walls with his warm release.
He collapses on top of you—breathing heavily against your neck, chest heaving—and although your mind is still hazy with your own pleasure, your thoughts drift back to what happened before he returned to your home.
Knowing them, you guess it’s Rosier and Mulciber who did it. Probably thought it was hilarious, too.
You aren’t sure if you should feel bad for the fact that you don’t know what Tom would come up with as punishment.
Because hell—they are not the ones who have to put up with him like this.
Meanwhile, Tom is still buried deep, keeping his release right where it belongs—but then, when his breathing returns to normal, he gives you the slightest roll of his hips—
“Said it would take three hours to wear off—“
And you already feel him growing hard again.
Fuck, you are screwed.
“Tom, please—“
He shushes you with a kiss on top of your head.
“No. Stay— need you— need you again.” He rasps, back to thrusting into you, fucking his cum even deeper as he’s back chasing his next climax. And you? You are right there with him, on the precipice of your own orgasm.
Merlin fucking help you.
If he won’t kill them for this, you might just do it yourself.
thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3
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masterlist. | oneshots.
head boy tom riddle having his own publicly claimed compartment on the hogwarts express like he’s had every year since he was a fourth year.
no one touches it. no one dares to even knock. the blinds are drawn shut on the way to and back from hogwarts at the start and end of each school year. students gossiped all the time since he’s officially — unofficially — put his name on that specific spot.
they talk about how much he values his privacy.
about how he might be jerking off.
but this year, things were different. for the first time, he let someone else inside with him.
you.
and of course, people speculate. it’s rather scandalous, isn’t it? for a boy and a girl who were dating to be alone, shut together in a small space, not a sound coming from inside?
some try to peek in to find out. nervous first years search for empty seats and older students steer them away from their doom, whispering stories like they do every year in the corridor like tradition, one after another chiming in on the mystery of riddle’s compartment. some say he’s simply studying up for the new school year beforehand to be ahead like always. others say he’s finally found a partner to share his so called sexual escapades with.
but, there is simply no way, right? golden, head boy, respectful prodigy, polite gentleman, saint riddle would never do that to a girl on the train to hogwarts, would he?
he would never be sitting silently with his legs crossed and a book on his lap in that compartment on the express, humming to himself in thought as he read through an issue for the new curriculum, turning a page every once in a while with one hand.
…while the other sat squeezed just between your shut thighs and inside your soaked panties beneath your skirt, long fingers curling and thrusting in and out of your sopping little hole absentmindedly as you squirmed in your seat beside him, panting and whimpering quietly like he said to while clinging onto his arm, hips humping your cunt against his digits desperately while he paid you no mind whatsoever.
tom riddle was always a good multitasker, and he’d need the skill to balance work and pleasure for this coming year. so, he is doing just that — diligently taking care of his academics and dutifully assisting his girlfriend who was just so pent up after not having seen him all summer.
poor thing.
out there, they all say he’s either studious or debauched. tom riddle thinks: why can’t he be both?
after all, it was just his responsibilities as head boy(friend).
never in your life you would have thought that daddy kink is something you would enjoy. well, until your boyfriend made you take his dick in doggy style.
the room felt hot, terribly hot - even if it was a freezing winter night. of course, you tried doggy before, but this time? your man was going all in, quite literally. barely mere seconds after sliding his cock inside your tight hole, that bastard was already giving you quite hard n quick hiptrusts.
it was almost pathetic that just a few minutes in, your walls were clenching around him like crazy. refusing to cum so fast, you lift your head from the pillow in which he shoved your face a few seconds earlier.
"fuck daddy, not so fast-"
you moan out before your brain can register what exactly came out of your mouth. a burning redness creeps to your neck as you realize how terribly hot is sounded to your own ears. the trusts come to a sudden halt, forcing you to risk a shy glance behind your shoulder.
he is looking right back at you, eyes still hazy from the pleasure. his lips are slightly parted, as if he was caught mid groan. his gaze goes from your embarrassed look to the red blush of your cheeks and his lips curl into a lazy smirk. before you can mutter an ashamed 'sorry', he leans in completely, large body hovering over your smaller frame. he is so close that you can feel his warm breath against your neck and his dick sliding deeper inside you (if possible).
"care to repeat?" his voice is low, with a small hint of mockery and a bigger hint of satisfaction. when you stay quiet for a second too long, he gives your ass a light slap that makes you whine.
"c'mon, i asked you something baby."
you swallow thickly and the tip of your tongue peeks out to run across your dry lips. the heat is still coiling tight in your belly, fueled by his hands tracing slow pattern on your back as he waits for an answer. you are staying so still that you can almost feel him throb inside you, patient for your reply.
"i said, not so fast..." you lose your confidence half through your sentence but find the courage to continue after he gives your hip a encouraging squeeze. "daddy. not so fast daddy. please."
his breath shakes slightly as he lets out a little scoff. he finally grabs your hips, pulling out all the way until only the tip of his cock remains inside.
"can't ask me to slow down and call me that at the same time, love." he says, shoving himself back inside you. as he hits your sweet spot, your vision whiten for a second. your grip on the bedsheets tighten - a pathetic attempt to control yourself, or rather, the mindblowing orgasm that's rushing to you.
"a-ah, wait... -!"
"it's daddy for you now. you started this game? you finish it, sweetheart."
𝟎𝟎𝟕: 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐒𝐇𝐎𝐓 . . . everything in its right place.
summary: you have been numb for years, tom has been empty since forever. together, you can both pretend you are warm.
pairings: tom riddle x fem!reader.
words: 7.1k.
warnings: alternative universe, modern setting. serial killer!tom riddle. dark comedy. love at first sight, yes really. kidnapping. stockholm syndrome, sort of. graphic violence and death. mentions of dismemberment. unhealthy dynamics. emotional manipulation. unreliable narrators. alternating povs, but it's tom most of the time. reader is also fucked up in the head. i try to be mild but still mind the tags. tom's anatomical obsession. morally ambiguous reader. you both need therapy but we know who needs it more.
author notes: hello my loves, i am so sorry for being gone so let me make it up to you with this. (can you tell the state of my mental health when i made this) i wrote the fic in between my internship and thesis writing all the while coping with a breakup so it's a bit messy, forgive me. i am all over the place. i've seen your messages and will answer to them soon. thank you for the lovely support on my previous fic! despite life kept getting in the way, i'll try to be more online here. any typos & errors, send them out to me. as always, enjoy reading :) how i have missed you.
Tom Riddle has always preferred things in parts. Not in the sentimental sense, no. Tom has no patience for the way people break themselves into stories, into memories born from nostalgia, into neat little explanations for why they are the way they are. He finds that kind of dissection imprecise. Sloppy. A child's attempt at order.
His father would have likely called him vile, had the man lived long enough to form any decent thought about the son he'd abandoned. But Tom didn't dwell on the ghost of Thomas Riddle Sr., just as he didn't dwell on the grey, lime washed walls of the home he escaped from. Those memories were sewn at the edges of long forgotten childhood degeneracy.
If his mother, Merope, that cunt, had possessed the dignity to raise him properly, she might have tried to offer him something soft, perhaps sentimentality—love? Tom would have found a way to excise that, too. He had no use for softness. Softness was for the weak, the yielding, his victims.
The true silver lining of his isolation was the void of a space it left in his psyche—a room inside his head where he filled with the topography of the human form. He knew the exact tension required to snap a radius, the resistance of the periosteum, and the way the sciatic nerve threaded through the pelvis like a violin string. Music to his ears.
There was a profound, almost tranquility to the work. A small release and reset. All the chaos of life running wild through history made simple—in one perfect moment. Everything neat, and everything tidy. It centers him in ways he can't really explain. It's replenishing. Unbecoming. Break yourself apart for him to see near the flesh, where blood flows right through.
He works slowly. That's the difference between him and the rest of them—the frenzied, sweating things that leave behind ruin and call it necessity. Tom doesn't rush. He has learned, over time, that haste introduces error, and error is intolerable, so Tom Riddle takes his time.
The body on the table (it was called an Anthony, and the man was unimportant as he was dead) has already been reduced to something far more honest. No longer a person, no longer a vessel for monotonous thoughts and louder, uglier wants. It was a composition. A study in tendon and bone, in the dormant machinery that exists beneath the lie of skin.
His finger began racing the edge of the severed femur, marveling at the sheer yet unbothered weight of it. Why was the internal design so much more elegant than the external life? Tom envied the ribs their curve, the lungs their delicate webbing; they were masterpieces, while the man who had owned them had been nothing but a collection of mediocre impulses. Its lack of hunger for Tom had never known a life where he isn't one.
Tom also wondered if his own insides was this pristine or if he was as cluttered on the inside as the world he sought to prune.
And this is what it gives him; the voices have gone quiet, though not gone. They never leave him entirely, but they recede, a sensation of a curtain pulled tight over a screaming mouth, muting what still exists behind it. In their absence, Tom can think—can breathe—can exist without the constant insistence of a presence lodged too deep to be reached or removed. How it never last.
He paused, glanced down at his work with something that might resemble satisfaction—if one were inclined to misinterpret him. His cuts are clean, had always been, and then Tom adjusted the angle of the limb, studying the way the joint settles, the way gravity takes hold once the resistance is gone, and that treacherous voice in the back of his head is back, knocking against the insides of his brain, whispering, screaming, asking him to sink his teeth into the flesh. Tom ignored those thoughts away as he reveled.
The human body, stripped of its pretenses, is remarkably obedient.
His gaze lingered a moment longer before he reached for the cloth at his side, wiped his hands with methodical care. There was blood beneath his nails, along the creases of his skin, but it didn't bother him as it was simply residue. A byproduct of the process. It will be removed in due time—like everything else.
Now what he needed to do was to dispose the dismembered parts. Tom wasn't stupid, nothing about this phase interested him, but it was necessary. He had learned carelessness was what separated men like him from the ones who ended up caught, and pitied in headlines he would never read.
It was a solitary existence, but a clean one. Tom enjoyed the perspicuity of it, he enjoyed the fact that no one had ever truly seen him, because there was nothing to see—only a void shaped like a man, dressed in a suit. Cool air pressed against his skin, slipping beneath the collar of his coat, and the night had welcomed him like it always did.
He parked his car away from the road, the engine cutting out with a soft purr. Tom stepped out onto the uneven ground, damp soil soft beneath polished shoes, dragging what remained of Anthony. His task was halfway done when the world broke its silence, its sound was a metrical clack-clack-clack.
Heels. Rubber-soled, cheap, and hurried.
Tom's spine went rigid. His internal clock, usually so flawless, faltered. It was 2:30 AM. The 402 bus was supposed to be delayed by construction on 5th Street. The shortcut should have been empty. He stood paralyzed for a fraction of a second, his brain whirring through the innards of your inevitable death before he had even fully turned his head.
And then he did turn, and the world for both of you stopped.
You stood few feet away from him and Anthony, of course—frozen like a deer in the path of a high speed train. You were clutching a brown paper bag, the top of a celery stalk poking out, your eyes were wide with a jarring recognition of the wrongness in front of you.
Tom felt a flare of genuine, human irritation. A witness. How tedious.
But Tom didn't lunged, yet. To do so would be to acknowledge the panic that was currently clawing at the base of his throat, trying to disrupt his composure. Instead, he stood up slowly, the plastic handle of the bag still gripped in his right hand, the weight of Anthony's torso pulling his shoulder into an anatomical line.
"Long way from home?" Tom had broke the silence, he was banking on the sheer absurdity of the moment to paralyze you. If he acted like a man doing something normal, perhaps your brain would shutter long enough for him to close the gap between you, and then he'd wrap his fingers around your throat and suffocate you.
"The 402," you whispered, the words barely catching on your teeth. Your gaze dropped to his shoes—the expensive leather now caked in the wet filth of the soil, and then to the heavy bag at his feet.
Tom watched your pupils dilate, he could practically see the electrical signals firing across your synapses, the realization that the luggage he was dragging was far too yielding to be anything but flesh. Tom felt that familiar itch behind his eyes again, the one that demanded he take you apart just to see where the fear was stored.
"The 402 was delayed," Tom corrected smoothly, taking a measured step forward. His movements were deceptively casual. "Construction on 5th. Most people would have taken the long way around… You're quite brave, aren't you? Walking through here alone with your groceries."
"I... I wasn't..." you took a stumbling step back, the brown paper bag crinkling loudly in the stagnant air. Wrong place, wrong time. You were simply a person who had worked a double shift and wanted to make a salad, your mundanity was going to become your undoing.
"Put the bag down."
"What?"
"The groceries," he murmured, his voice dropping to a register that was quite intimate. Tom became close enough to see the way the cold was turning your knuckles sickly. "It's heavy, isn't it? If you drop it, the celery will bruise. And I imagine you went to quite a bit of trouble to find it this late."
It was a test. A way to see if you would still obey the social contract or if you would finally break and scream. Tom found himself hoping for the latter. The silence of the woods was starting to feel a little too crowded, and he was beginning to wonder if your anatomy was as elegant as your panic suggested.
"Is that a—" you couldn't finish, knees buckled, and you had to clutch the groceries to your chest to keep from collapsing.
"Let's skip the shock, shall we? It wastes time neither of us has." Tom adjusted his coat, looking every bit the gentleman except for the dried blood beneath his fingernails. "Yes, it's a body. I put it there. Specifically, a torso and several detached limbs I have cut myself. Does the honesty of it frighten you?"
"I—I won't tell anyone, I promise."
"People always say that," he mused, mocking pity. "But the brain is a leaky organ. Memories fester. You'd tell a priest, or a lover, or the police. Unless, of course, I give you a reason to be more afraid of the telling than the secret."
The raw, unadulterated terror radiating off you acted like a tonic on his nerves, it seemed to cut through the residual static in his mind. Most people were dull, even in death, but your fear made him feel substantial. The voices did not return, not yet, but something else took their place. It gave him a jolt of electricity that made the tips of his fingers tingle beneath his gloves—a sensation of power so potent it was almost intoxicating.
Tom Riddle wondered if this was what other men felt when they fell in love; this overwhelming, possessive need to keep the object of their attention pinned under a microscope. Only, Tom didn't want your heart—he wanted to cut through your sternum and spread your ribs apart, claim the very center of you, hold it where nothing and no one else could touch it.
Perhaps that cunt was right, falling in love feels a lot like magic.
Tom Riddle had expected more of a struggle.
Most animals and humans were, at their core, just poorly optimized creatures who found a useless burst of energy when faced with the end, but you though, you had been remarkably easy to fold. When you turned to run (big mistake), your shoes slid on the mud, and Tom hadn't even needed to exert himself. He simply reached out, his fingers tangling in your hair with a hard tug, and redirected your momentum toward the ground, the sound of your skull hitting the ground made you fully unconscious.
Your wrists are bound to the legs of his table, then for a few minutes, you began to stir on the floor. Somewhere between the road and here, it had ceased to matter. So had everything else. Anthony was long gone inside his head.
He watches from the armchair across the room, legs crossed, hands folded over his knee. The kitchen light is dim but deliberate—enough for you to see him, not enough for you to see the entirety of the space around you. Tom learned that trick years ago. Fear thrives in partial darkness. Too much light, and the mind grows bold. Too little, and it retreats into itself. But a soft, yellow glow from a single overhead fixture? That keeps the imagination working overtime.
Your ankles are free, which is intentional. He wants to see if you'll try to kick. He wants to see what you do when you realize there's nowhere to go.
"There you are," he says, voice soft. Almost warm, or at least, the imitation of it. The cadence of tone you'd hear from an actor in a romance movie.
You jerk against the restraints, and the chair scraped against the floor. Your eyes found him immediately. Most people take a moment to orient themselves; they look at the ceiling first, or the walls, or their own hands. But you look straight at him, and Tom feels something shift deep within his heart.
"You're going to want to scream," he continues, uncrossing his legs and leaning forward slightly. "I wouldn't recommend it as it will only exhaust you, and I find that tedious to work around. You'll need your strength."
Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. No sound comes out, and Tom can see the words stacking up behind your teeth—why, please, help, someone—all the useless vocabulary of the dying. Tom has heard it a hundred times, he could recite it in his sleep.
"I imagine you have questions." Tom then stands, smoothing the front of his trousers. He's changed since the woods; fresh shirt, dark trousers, no blood. The hands he extends toward you are clean now, scrubbed raw in the utility sink until the water ran clear. "That's natural. I'll answer some of them."
Your chest is heaving, he could see the outline of your ribs beneath your shirt with every breath—the expansion and contraction of the thoracic cavity, the elegant mechanics of survival. Beautiful, really. He has to resist the urge to press his palm flat against your sternum just to feel it.
"You're in my home," Tom says, crouching to your eye level. This close, he can see the fine tremor in your lower lip, the way your pupils have blown wide despite the light. "No one knows you're here, and even if someone came looking—which they won't… They wouldn't find this place, I've made certain of that."
Then, almost tender: "I'm not going to kill you."
Your breath hitches. Hope—there it is, that useless, bright thing igniting behind your eyes. It made Tom almost smile.
"Not immediately," he amends. "Not tonight. It depends entirely on you, really. On how well you listen. Whether you make this... unpleasant for both of us."
Tom reaches out, slowly, giving you time to flinch. You do. Your whole body goes rigid as his fingers brush your jaw, tilting your face toward the light, and he studies the bruise forming at your hairline—the gift of the forest floor, the impact that had rendered you mercifully silent for the drive back. The skin is already bruising purple, warm to the touch. He makes a mental note of it; the location, the size, the way the swelling is spreading toward your temple.
"You hit the ground quite hard," Tom says, almost apologetically. "I would have been more gentle if you hadn't run. Running complicates things, it forces my hand."
"I won't—" your voice cracks, splinters. "I won't run again. I won't tell anyone. Please, I'll do—"
"You'll do what?" Tom tilts his head, genuinely curious. "What could you possibly offer me that I couldn't simply take?"
The question hangs in the air between you, he watches you search for an answer—watches your mind race through bribes and bargains, through promises you don't have the power to keep. It's almost pathetic, the way you're grasping, like watching a mouse chew off its own leg to escape a trap that has already sprung. Tom had seen this before, of course. The bargaining stage, and it bores him almost as much as the denial.
Tom could put you out of your misery, he could tell you that there is nothing you could offer. But watching you squirm is, he finds, not entirely unappealing.
"You have a very elegant neck," Tom breaks the deafening silence, apropos of nothing. His thumb traces the line of your jaw down to your throat, hovering over the pulse point. Beneath his fingertip, your heart hammers—rapid, panicked, wildly fast. "The carotid artery sits two centimeters beneath the skin here. Did you know that? Most people don't. They go their whole lives with this extraordinary machinery humming away inside them, and they never once think about how close it is to the surface. How easily it could be opened."
He couldn't remember a time when he hadn't been fascinated by the body's vulnerability. As a child, Tom had pulled apart small animals with the same reverence other boys reserved for their toys out of a deep and abiding need to understand. To see how the pieces fit together. To learn, eventually, how to take them apart again. The human body was simply the most elegant iteration of that same principle. More complex, yes. More resistant. But the resistance was part of the pleasure.
The way the skin split along natural lines, the way blood followed gravity like water follows a river. His fingers had itched even then, small and useless as they were, to press into the soft places and see what gave way. How the spine bent and straightened and bent again. How the hands, those remarkable instruments, could close around a throat and feel the pulse fluttering beneath the skin like a trapped bird. Dead, dead, dead.
The children at school called him strange. They had not been wrong. Other people sought peace in religion or medication or the arms of a lover—Tom sought it in the space between the fourth and fifth ribs.
"I'm not going to hurt you tonight," he spoke again, withdrawing his hand. Tom stands, taking a step back, giving you air. The shift in proximity makes you exhale; a shaky sound that seems to surprised you as well. "I'm going to ask you some questions, and you're going to answer them truthfully. If you lie—I'll know, but I won't punish you. I value honesty more than anything, do you understand?"
When you nodded, a smile ghosted over his lips.
"Good," Tom returns to the armchair, settling into it with ease. "Well first, tell me your name."
The first time you saw a dead body, it was your father.
You were fifteen, which meant you were old enough to understand what was happening but young enough that the nurses still looked at you with that particular softness reserved for children who had to grow up too fast. They kept calling you honey and sweetheart and placing warm hands on your shoulder, and you let them because it was easier than telling them to stop. Easier than explaining that their pity sat on your chest like a second lung, making it hard to breathe.
The room smelled like artificial lemon and something else—something entirely wrong, the kind of smell that clung to the bedsheets no matter how many times the staff changed them. You learned that smell over the previous eight months—the smell of a body eating itself from the inside out.
Your father had been handsome once. That was what everyone said at the funeral, as if the past tense absolved them of having to look at what he had become. You remembered his hands most of all—how they had been steady and sure, capable of fixing anything in the house, of lifting you onto his shoulders at parades, of holding a coffee mug without trembling. Those same hands had been lying on top of the hospital blanket when you walked in, yellowed and thin, the bones visible through the skin like the skeleton was already trying to escape.
Your father was already gone when you arrived, the machines had been turned off twenty minutes earlier, but no one had thought to call you until after, because no one ever thinks to call the child first. They call the spouse, the sibling, the next of kin listed on the form. You were fifteen, you were not on the form.
So you walked into a room where your father's body was still warm and watched a nurse pull the sheet up over his face, and you felt—nothing. Not nothing, exactly. That wasn't fair. You felt the absence of something—absence of the grief you were supposed to feel, the grief that everyone expected to see written across your face.
Though when you looked at the shape beneath the sheet, the shape that had been your father for fifteen years, all you could think was: that's not him.
Because it wasn't. Whatever had been living inside your father's body—the thing that laughed at his own jokes, that cried at the end of old movies, that taught you to ride a bike and let you win at cards and called you kiddo even when you were too old for nicknames—that thing was gone. It had left sometime in the night, or maybe it had been leaving for months, leaking out of him a little at a time, and what remained on the hospital bed was just the packaging. The shell. The meat. You had stood there for a long time, staring at the sheet, and the numbness creeps in.
We are all just waiting to become objects.
It was a horrible thought, God—you knew it was horrible. You tucked it away in the same drawer where you kept all your horrible thoughts, the ones you weren't supposed to have, ones that made you feel like something was wrong with you. Because people weren't supposed to look at their dead father and see meat. People were supposed to see a life, a legacy, a man who had loved them.
But you had seen the body for what it was. Meat. Meat. Meat.
You didn't cry at the funeral, and your aunt had pinched your arm afterward, hard, and whispered show some respect into your ear, and you had nodded and tried to manufacture something that looked like grief. But your face had never been good at lying, and everyone had gone home talking about how cold you were, how distant, how strange. Maybe they were right, maybe there was something wrong with you.
You thought about this sometimes, in the years that followed. In the quiet hours between shifts, on the bus ride home when the city was nothing but streetlights, in the moments just before sleep when your mind was too tired to guard its borders. You think about your father's hands, and the sheet pulled over his face, and the way the nurse had avoided your eyes because she didn't know what to say to a girl who wouldn't cry.
You thought about death a lot, for someone your age.
Not in a morbid way, at least you thought so. You simply observed it, sometimes. The way the cashier at the grocery store had dead eyes behind her smile, or the man who lived two floors down hadn't walked his dog in three days, and the dog had started barking—this hoarse, desperate sound that made your stomach churn, and the way the city itself seemed to be dying a little every day, the buildings graffitied and gutted, the streets cracking open to reveal the dirt beneath.
Death was everywhere. By the time you were an adult, you had seen more bodies than you could count, developing a theory; unspoken and unshareable, that most people were already dead, though they just hadn't stopped moving yet. So when you turned the corner that night—the shortcut through the woods, the one you'd taken a hundred times before and saw the man standing over the bag, that fucking bag that was too suspicious to be anything but a body, you did not scream.
You should have screamed. Every survival instinct, every movie you'd ever watched, these crime documentaries—they all said scream. Because the first thing you thought, the very first thing, before any of the useful responses was: That's not a person anymore. And somehow, impossibly, that made it worse.
You recognized that shape, and you would have never known who was that body, except that it had been reduced to parts and placed in a bag, but you recognized the thingness of it. The object-ness. The way the flesh had stopped being a person and started being just... meat.
You had seen this before. In a hospital room, at fifteen, watching a sheet rise over your father's face. And the man standing over the bag—tall, dark haired, dressed like he was going to a dinner party instead of disposing of a corpse; he saw you see it. You watched him realize the moment your pupils dilated, your breath caught, your brain finished processing what your eyes had already understood.
The man was too calm, not a panic crossing his face, and then he stood up slowly, wiping his hands on a cloth, and looked at you with something that might have been curiosity. And you thought, in that strange, dissociated way that had become your default response to horror: He knows. He knows that I know what death looks like.
Then he spoke, and the world tilted sideways, and you stopped thinking altogether.
The next few hours were a blur of sensation.
Cold mud seeping through your shoes. The crack of your skull against the ground. The taste of blood and dirt on your mouth. The smell of him—clean, like soap and something something woodsy, like cedar or sandalwood, and blood, but old. Dried.
And then waking up; bound to a leg of the table. A dim light overhead. A man in an armchair watching you with the patience of someone who had all the time in the world. He asked for your name and you gave it, didn't think about lying, because lying had never been your strength, and something told you that this man would know anyway.
In return, he had told you his. Tom Riddle. What an unusual name, you thought as he spoke of it. Maybe it was a fake one he gave you.
That was hours ago, now you sit in the silence he has left behind. You could feel the table beneath your wrists is solid wood, the kind of table that had belonged to someone's grandmother before it belonged to a murderer, and you had wondered if he killed that grandmother too, or if Tom simply bought the table at an estate sale like a normal person. The thought is so ridiculous that you almost let out a laugh, and the almost smile hurts your face, and you realize that your jaw is clenched so tight you might crack a tooth.
You force yourself to relax for a brief moment—just fucking breathe, then it was your father's face who floats up from memory, but it's what he looked before, not dead. It was when your father was alive—when he was a person, not a body.
We are all just waiting to become objects. You had been fifteen when you thought that—you had been fifteen, and grieving, and so terrified of your own emptiness that you had turned your father into a philosophy problem just to avoid feeling the loss.
You missed him. Fuck, you missed your father. Will you see him then? If Tom killed you tonight, and he might, he probably would, the odds were not in your favor—would you open your eyes and find yourself in whatever came next?
Would he be there, with his open arms and the look he got when you made him proud? You didn't know. You had never known. But for the first time in years, you wanted to believe. Desperately so. You wanted to tell him you were sorry for being cold, for not crying when you should have cried. You wanted to hear him say it didn't matter, you wanted to hear him say he loved you anyway.
With the ropes cutting into your wrists and the silence of this room suffocating you—you wondered if convenience was such a bad thing. If believing, even for a moment, might be its own kind of salvation.
Tom stands at the stove, stirring a saucepan with the same steady hand he uses for everything else, and a thought passed through his head. I am going to marry you. It is, perhaps, the most dangerous thought he has ever had. More dangerous than the first time he held a knife to living flesh nor the first time he looked in a mirror and saw nothing looking back.
He tries to imagine it—the ceremony, the rings, the life that would follow. Tom imagine himself introducing you to someone as my wife, and the word feels foreign on his tongue. But Tom Riddle does not have a wife—he does not have a girlfriend, a partner, a confidant. He only has himself, and his work, and the voices that never quite leave him alone.
His gaze focused on observing bubbles on the sauce, watching the basil released its oil into the heat. He dipped his finger down, and tasted it on his tongue, then decidedly, added a pinch of sugar. The thought comes resurfacing once again, I am going to marry you, or I am going to kill you, I'm not sure which one turns me on more.
Or Tom could do the latter instead. It would be easier.
The knife was in the drawer, three feet to his left. He could cross the kitchen in four strides, and you would not even have time to scream. He could lay you out on the table where you now sat, and he could take his time, the blade sliding in—that first resistance, then the give, then the warmth of blood spilling over his fingers. Tom could peel back the layers of you; skin, muscle, fascia, bone, and he could finally see the edifice of your fear and regrets.
Where did it live? Was it in the brain, like his? Or had it settled somewhere deeper, somewhere more primitive?
He wanted to know. That was the problem, wasn't it? Wanting. Tom had spent his entire life wanting things—power, silence, the sweet relief of a world that made sense but this was different. This wanting was soft, curled around his ribs like smoke, the memory of your exposed skin beneath his fingers, the warmness of its touch.
Hm. Maybe he would gift you something. A heart, perhaps? Your father's, if he could find it. Tom was very good at finding things.
The pasta is good.
That's the first coherent thought you've had in hours, and it's so absurd that you want to vomit it all out. Your stomach clenches around the first bite, uncertain whether to keep it or reject it, and you have to force yourself to swallow. This is wrong—all of this is wrong. Your fork hovers over the bowl, and for a moment, you consider putting it down—refuse to eat, make some useless gesture of defiance that would change nothing but would let you feel like you still had some control. But you're hungry. God, you're so hungry.
You can't remember the last time you ate a proper meal, can't even remember the last time someone cooked for you. But that night, for reasons you still couldn't explain, you had decided to make something real. A salad. Nothing fancy, simply vegetables and maybe some chicken if you felt like splurging.
You'd walked to the store, bought the celery, and walked into the woods like a lamb to slaughter. This was what happened when you tried to take care of yourself—this was what happened when you reached for something better.
It lead you to this, whatever the fuck this is.
And now you're eating Tom's pasta and trying not to think about the body, but you cannot stop thinking about it. Someone's son or daughter, maybe. Someone's friend. A human being who had woken up that morning with plans and preferences, and now that person was in pieces, and you were eating pasta, and the pasta was good.
The guilt rises in your throat, hot and acidic, and you chase it down with another bite because the alternative is to stop eating, and stopping feels like giving up.
Tom sat across from you, his gaze on you. He's not eating anymore, his hands folded on the table in a pose that might look relaxed if you didn't know better. But you do know better. You have been watching him too, cataloging the details the way he probably cataloged yours; the way his shirt fits across his shoulders, the way some of his strands falls across his forehead, and his eyes; almost black in this light, haven't left your face since you sat down.
He's handsome. You hate that too.
"When was the last time you had a proper meal?" The question is so ordinary, so domestic, that it takes a moment to process, and when you didn't answer he spoke again. "That's what I thought," Tom added. "You live alone."
It's not a question, but you nod anyway.
"No partner. No family. No one who would notice if you didn't come home."
You set down your fork. The metal clinks against the ceramic, loud in the kitchen. "Is this some fucked up thing you do with your victims before you kill them?"
"No," Tom says simply. "This is something new."
You laugh—a short yet bitter sound that scrapes your throat on the way out. "Forgive me if I don't take the word of a murderer."
"You do not have to believe me, (Name)."
"Then I don't understand you," you replied, and your voice comes out steadier than you expected. "You kidnap me. You tie me to a table. You ask me my name and tell me yours like we're at some fucking party—and now you're feeding me pasta and asking about my eating habits." You shake your head. "What do you want from me?"
Tom is quiet for a long moment, then his voice came out softer, it wasn't warm or anything but not cold either.
"I have told you already, haven't I? I simply want to know you."
"That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
You don't break eye contact, and neither does he. In the silence swallowing you whole, you realize something that makes your stomach turn and your heart race in equal measure. He means it—he actually means it.
"I think you're just lonely, Tom."
"Perhaps," he said after a pause. "But I know you are not the cure for loneliness."
"You know, most people pick up healthy habits or do normal stuff when they feel lonely—you cut people into pieces."
"I cut bodies into pieces. The people were gone long before I found them." He watches you carefully, looking for the flinch, the disgust, or moral outrage that always comes eventually. It doesn't come, and you're not sure why. "You understand that, don't you? You've seen it before—the moment when a person becomes just... meat."
Your jaw tightens. "My father."
"That's when you learned," he noted. "When you understood."
"Understood what?"
"That the person and the body are separate. One can leave while the other remains."
"Yes," you whisper. "That's when."
"I am sorry."
"Are you?"
"No," Tom admits. "But I would like to be."
You don't know what to do with his honesty, you have spent so much of your adolescence tightly clutching onto anger like all women do. It was worse than the blood constantly collecting in your mouth, worse than realizing the wretchedness and agony that blooms within you. So much death, so much loss.
You should be plotting your escape, planning your survival, thinking about anything other than the way his voice sounds when he says your name on his lips. Instead, you sit there, and you wonder what it would feel like to be that honest. To look at someone and say this is who I am, and I will not apologize for it. You have been apologizing your whole life—for your grief, for your coldness.
Tom doesn't apologize for being the way he is. Tom Riddle simply is. And some small, shameful part of you envies that.
Tom descends the stairs, with you following behind him, you could feel the warmth radiating off from his hand around your wrist, firm enough to remind you that you are still captive, still at the mercy of a man who collects bodies the way other people collect stamps. The fluorescent light flickers on, and you see it.
The table is steel, old and gleaming, yet it's clean—spotless, actually, wiped down with the same fastidious care Tom applies to everything else. But cleanliness does not erase what has happened here. You can feel it in the air, heavy: the ghost of every body that has been laid out on this surface, and on the table, arranged with precision, are the pieces.
You stopped breathing. Tom releases your wrist and steps forward, his shoes clicking against the concrete floor. He moves to the table, gestures to the display like a curator showing off a prized exhibit.
"I told you I would give you something," he says, and his voice is soft, almost tender. "Something to prove that I understand."
You cannot speak, words died at the throat, your lungs frozen, your brain struggling to process what your eyes are seeing.
Arms. Legs. A torso, split open and hollowed out. The remains are fresh, you can tell by the color, the texture, the way the blood has not yet fully dried. This is someone else. Someone who had been alive yesterday, maybe, or the day before.
"There was a man," Tom says, circling the table slowly. "He lived three streets over from you. He kept to himself, mostly. But he had a temper. He had a history, had done things to others. People who could not fight back." Tom pauses, his hand hovering over the torso. "I had been watching him for weeks. He was meant to be my next... project. But then I met you, and I realized that I wanted to repurpose him."
He lifts something from the table. It is small, dark, wet—and it takes you a moment to recognize it for what it is. A heart.
Tom holds it in his palm, cradling it like it's precious. The organ is still moist, fresh, and bearing the warmth of the body it had been taken from. He turns to face you, and his eyes are bright with something beyond your comprehension.
"I could not find your father's body," Tom explains. "I searched. I looked through records, through cemetery plots—every possible location where he might have been laid to rest. But too much time has passed, and the trail has gone cold, and I am not omniscient. Not yet." He steps closer, and the heart is between you now, close enough that you can smell the iron of it. "But I found this. A heart. Not his—I cannot give you his. But a heart nonetheless. A symbol. A promise."
Your knees buckle, with your hands reaching out, then grabbing the edge of the table to steady yourself, and your fingers come away wet.
"What the fuck, Tom?" you manage, and your words barely a whisper.
Tom Riddle has never given anyone a gift before, for he has taken and taken and taken but has never given. The concept had always seemed foolish to him—a waste of resources, an inefficient allocation of effort. Why give when you could simply take? But you are different, he supposes. Someone he would like to marry. He extends his hand, the heart resting in his palm like an offering.
"Take it," Tom whispered. "It's still warm—the metabolic heat hasn't fully dissipated. It's the most vibrant thing in this room, second only to you."
He thinks about the word love. He has never said it, not quite sure he knows what it means. Though standing here, in this cold basement of his, with the smell of blood in the air and the warmth of the heart bleeding into his palm, he thinks that perhaps this is what love looks like for someone like him. Not flowers or poetry, but rather, something like this; a heart, still warm, held out as an offering.
Surprisingly enough, you do take the heart, you tender fingers closes around it—tentative at first, then firmer, as if you are afraid it might slip. The blood seeps into the lines of your palm, staining your skin red, and you look down at it with an expression he cannot quite read.
"Okay," you rasped out, ache stirred inside your chest.
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