Fawnig Fae

18

[lalalovelyly]

The Shores Of Broken Things

Jacaerys Velaryon x Reader

Summary: After the Battle of the Gullet, Prince Jacaerys Velaryon should be dead, instead, he washes ashore on a mysterious island, where a lonely woman nurses him back to health. As the days pass, Jace finds himself falling in love with his beautiful savior.

CW: The relationship contains themes of coercion, emotional dependency, and captivity. SMUT

Genre: Dark Fantasy

AN: First Jace fic! Different from what i usually write, comments are appreciated!

WC: 26K

He should be dead.

The last thing he remembered with any coherence was the sky, a sky choked with smoke and screaming. Beneath that memory lay only fractured images that swam behind his closed eyelids, fragments of chaos that refused to assemble into anything whole.

Vermax.

The name pierced through the darkness like a blade. His dragon. His beautiful, loyal Vermax, who had hatched from an egg placed in his cradle when he was nothing more than a squalling babe with a tuft of dark hair that already marked him as different from his silver-haired mother. Vermax had shrieked as the grappling hooks tore into his wings, as the Triarchy ships surrounded them, as the sea rose up to swallow them both.

Jace’s chest seized, he remembered the impact. He remembered the bone-shattering crash as Vermax slammed into the churning waters of the Gullet, and he remembered the dragon’s terrified, agonized roar. That sound had carried more than pain. It had carried something that felt like betrayal, as if Vermax could not understand why the sky had abandoned them. The cold of the sea had been absolute, salt water flooding his mouth, his throat, his lungs.

He had surfaced somehow. He had gasped and choked and reached for something, a piece of wreckage or a shattered mast, though the memory refused to sharpen. The waves had tossed him like a child’s toy. Through the spray and the smoke, the first bolt had taken him in the shoulder. The second had buried itself in his side, just beneath the ribs. The third was a blank space in his memory, a sensation his mind had simply refused to record.

What remained was the feeling that followed. A slow, spreading numbness. The way his limbs had stopped obeying him. The way the sky had tilted and spun, grey and gold and red bleeding together like watercolors on parchment. His last conscious thought had not been of his mother, nor of his brothers, nor of duty or the Iron Throne or the war that was tearing the realm apart. It had been of Vermax.

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.

—

He woke to the glow of candlelight, the light came from dozens of candles, the air smelled of salt and something else, something green and living. Herbs, perhaps, or flowers. It was an earthy smell, a growing smell, utterly unlike the smoke and blood and terror that had filled his nostrils before the darkness took him.

Jace tried to move, and his body screamed in protest. Every muscle, every joint, every inch of skin felt like an open wound packed with burning coals. Pain lanced through his shoulder, his side, his ribs. He sucked in a sharp breath through clenched teeth, and even that small motion sent fire racing down his spine.

“You shouldn’t move.”

The voice was soft and female, carrying an accent he had never heard before. The vowels were rounder than he was used to, the cadence lilting and unfamiliar, Jace turned his head slowly, every vertebra in his neck protesting, and saw you.

You were kneeling beside the bed, on a cushion of deep blue silk, and you were looking at him with an expression of such open relief that Jace forgot, for a moment, how to breathe.

You were beautiful in a way that had nothing to do with the powdered faces and elaborate hairstyles of court ladies. You wore no jewelry, no rings, no gems at your throat. Your dress, if it could even be called that, was unlike anything he had ever seen, layers of fabric in pale ivory and soft gold that had been draped rather than tailored. The cut left your arms bare, and the neckline was wide and flowing. It was clothing from a warmer world entirely, bearing no resemblance to the heavy velvets and structured bodices of Westeros.

“You’re awake,” you said, and your smile was like dawn breaking over still water. “I was beginning to fear you wouldn’t open your eyes again.”

Jace opened his mouth to speak, all that came out was a dry, rasping croak. His throat felt as though it had been scoured raw.

You reached for a clay cup beside you, glazed deep blue, and lifted it to his lips with a careful hand. “Drink. Slowly. You’ve been without water for a long time.”

The water was cool and impossibly clean. It slid down his throat like mercy. He drank until you pulled the cup gently away, your expression soft but firm.

“I said slowly. Your body has been through a great ordeal.” Jace sagged back against the furs, his breath coming in shallow gasps. Even drinking had exhausted him. He could feel the heat radiating from his own skin, a fever burning beneath the surface. “Where…” His voice was barely a whisper, cracked and ruined. “Where am I?”

You set the cup aside. “My home. I found you on the shore.”

He tried to form another question, but his thoughts were slipping away from him like water through fingers. The shore. The battle. The arrows.

“Your body was full of arrows,” you said quietly, as if you had followed the path of his scattered thoughts. “You looked dead. I do not know how you survived.” A pause. “But I am glad you did.”

Jace stared at you, his vision blurring and sharpening in turns. The candles made halos around your silhouette. The cave walls curved around you both like cupped hands. He lay in a bed of soft furs with clean linen bandages wrapped around his chest and shoulder. The space around him was strange, a blend of cave stone and polished wood and silk cushions.

He tried to focus on you again, on your strange dress and your unfamiliar accent and the way you looked at him without the calculating gaze of a courtier. Your expression held only simple, unguarded relief.

“You…” he started, but the words crumbled before he could shape them. He was so tired. The heat in his blood was growing worse, sweat beading on his forehead despite the cool air of the cave.

“Shh.” You leaned closer and pressed a cool cloth to his brow. Your touch was impossibly gentle. “You have a fever. The arrows were laced with something, I think. A poison, or something like it. It will take time to burn it out.”

Jace’s eyes fluttered. The cool cloth was a mercy, and your hand was steady against his skin.

“Where is this island?” he managed, the question barely a whisper. “How far from the battle…”

You shook your head, a small and quiet movement. “This is my island. That is all that matters now. You are here, and you are safe.” Your hand brushed the dark, sweat-soaked curls back from his forehead. “You are my guest. I will take care of you.”

He should have questioned you. He should have demanded to know where he was, who you were, how any of this was possible. He was a prince, raised on suspicion, trained to trust no one. But the fever was burning through him, and you were so calm, so steady, and your hands were so gentle, and he was so gods-damned tired.

“Rest,” you murmured. “You are not strong enough to stay awake. But you will be. In time.”

Jace’s eyes closed against his will. The darkness pulled at him, soft and warm. The last thing he felt was the cool cloth on his forehead and the gentle weight of your hand smoothing his hair back from his face.

“Sleep, Jace,” you whispered.

—

The days blurred together like watercolors left in the rain, Jace measured time by the changing quality of light that filtered through the cave's entrance, a distant glow that brightened and dimmed in a rhythm he slowly came to recognize. Morning, afternoon, evening, night. The cycle repeated itself over and over. He could not see the sky from his bed, only the rough stone ceiling and the flickering candles and, whenever he turned his head, the soft silhouette of you moving through the chamber.

You were always there, that was the first thing he truly understood once the fever broke and his mind began to piece itself back together. You were always there. When he woke gasping from nightmares of Vermax screaming, the arrows striking, the water closing over his head, you were beside him with your cool hand on his forehead and your voice murmuring words he could not quite catch but that soothed him anyway. When the pain in his wounds flared hot and unbearable, you were there with the medicine, spooning bitter liquid past his cracked lips and following it with cool water to wash away the taste. When the fever spiked and he thrashed in the furs, soaked in sweat and half-delirious, you were there with cloths dipped in cold water, pressing them to his chest, his neck, his brow.

He did not know how you slept. He did not know when you ate. He only knew that every time he opened his eyes, you were somewhere nearby, kneeling beside his bed or mixing herbs at the stone table or simply sitting on your silk cushion with your hands folded in your lap, watching the candles burn.

“You don’t have to stay,” he rasped one night, though it might have been day for all he could tell the difference. His voice was still weak and still cracked, but it no longer hurt to speak. “You must have other things to do.”

You looked up from the bowl you were mixing, and your lips curved into that soft, patient smile he was beginning to recognize. “I have nothing more important than keeping you alive, Jace. That is a full-time occupation, it seems.”

He wanted to argue, but exhaustion pulled him back under before he could form the words, the fever broke on what might have been the fifth day, or the sixth, or the seventh. He had lost count.

He woke drenched in sweat, his hair plastered to his forehead and the furs kicked to the foot of the bed, but his head was clear. For the first time since he had opened his eyes in this cave, his thoughts were not swimming in a haze of heat and pain. He could feel the wounds in his shoulder and side, still tender and still healing, but they no longer burned with the sharp, insistent fire of infection.

He was alive. He was going to stay alive, and that meant he had to get back.

His mother. His brothers. The war. Every day he spent lying in this bed was another day the Blacks fought without him, another day his family believed him dead, another day the Greens advanced their stolen throne. He had to get stronger. He had to return to Westeros.

“Your thoughts are very loud.” Jace turned his head. You were sitting on your cushion beside the bed, a piece of fabric in your hands and a needle moving in small, precise stitches. He had no idea how long you had been there. He had not even noticed you.

“My thoughts?” he repeated, his voice hoarse but steadier than before.

“You are frowning at the ceiling as though it has offended you.” You did not look up from your sewing, but there was a hint of amusement in your voice. “I assume you are planning your escape.”

Jace blinked. “I was not planning an escape. I was only thinking about how to leave.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing.” Now you did look up, one eyebrow raised, and Jace felt his face warm. He had walked directly into that.

“You want to go back,” you said, and your voice was quieter now, the teasing edge softened into something more serious. “It is natural. You have people waiting for you. A family. A war, perhaps, judging by the state of you when I found you.” You returned your attention to your stitching. “I understand.”

He was quiet for a moment, watching your hands move. The fabric you were working on was pale blue, the stitches neat and even. You were making him more bandages, he realized.

“Yes,” he admitted finally. “I have to go back. My family needs me. They probably think I am dead.”

“Then we will work to make you strong enough to leave.” You bit off the thread with your teeth, smooth and practiced. “But you cannot rush it. The wounds are healing well, but if you push too hard, too fast, you will undo all my hard work. And I have worked very hard, Jace.”

There was something almost stern in your tone, and despite himself, he felt the corner of his mouth twitch upward. “I would not dream of undoing your hard work.”

“Good.” You set the sewing aside and rose to your feet, your gossamer skirts rustling softly against the stone floor. “You have been lying in that bed for days. I think it is time you tried to sit up properly. Do you think you can manage it?”

Jace took a breath. His shoulder throbbed. His side ached. But the fever was gone, and his head was clear, and he was so gods-damned tired of lying flat on his back.

“Yes,” he said. “I think I can.” It was harder than he had expected.

His muscles had atrophied during the days of fever and stillness. His arms shook when he pushed himself up, and the wound in his side pulled sharply, and by the time he was sitting upright against the carved headboard, he was breathing hard and sweating again. But he was sitting. He was upright. He was looking at the cave from a new angle, and it was strange and wonderful and disorienting all at once.

“There,” you said, and you were smiling now, truly smiling, something brighter than the gentle curve of lips he had grown used to. “That was not so terrible, was it?”

“Terrible,” Jace managed, still catching his breath. “Absolutely terrible.”

“But you did it.”

He looked at you, at the way the candlelight caught the strange color of your eyes, and he found himself almost smiling back. “I did it.”

—

The days that followed fell into a pattern, you would help him sit up in the mornings, propping him against the headboard with pillows and furs. You would change his bandages, your fingers quick and efficient, your touch never lingering longer than necessary but never cold or impersonal either. You would bring him food, strange fruits he had never tasted before, sweet and tangy, and a porridge made from some grain he did not recognize, and fresh water that tasted cleaner than anything he had ever drunk in his life.

And you would talk about small things, the weather on the island, the herbs you used in your medicines, the fish you caught in the tidal pools below the cliffs. You had a dry, quiet sense of humor that surprised him, and a way of tilting your head when you were thinking that he found himself watching for.

In return, he told you things about himself. He was still a prince, still trained in caution, and so he held back the details that mattered most. But he told you about Dragonstone, about the volcanic rock and the sea winds and the dragons that wheeled in the sky. He told you about his brothers, careful to speak of them in the present tense even though Luke was-even though Luke had become something he could not yet say aloud.

He told you other things instead. That he missed the sea. That he had never been good at dancing. That his mother had taught him to read when he was four years old, and he had been so proud that he had carried the book around for a week straight, showing it to anyone who would look.

You laughed at that, a real laugh, bright and surprised, as if you had not expected him to say something so ordinary. “A week?”

“I was very proud of myself.”

“I can imagine. A little prince with his book, demanding that everyone admire his genius.”

“I did not demand. I simply made strong suggestions.”

“That is the same thing.”

“It is absolutely not the same thing, and I will not have my diplomatic skills insulted.”

You laughed again, and Jace realized with a jolt of surprise that he liked making you laugh. It was a good sound, your laugh, unstudied and unguarded, the sound of someone who spent too much time alone and had forgotten to be self-conscious about joy.

You were his only companion. His caretaker. His only visitor.

He had not seen another person even once in all the days he had been lying in this bed. No one came to the cave. No one called your name from outside. No one brought supplies or messages or news. It was only you, always you, appearing and disappearing through the winding passages of the cave system with the quiet confidence of someone who knew every stone by heart.

He had not asked about other people. It felt rude, somehow, when you were taking care of him and feeding him and changing his bandages and sitting beside him through the long, fevered nights. To ask about the absence of others would have sounded like an accusation, as though your company were insufficient, as though he had grown bored of you.

So he did not ask, but the question sat in the back of his mind, growing heavier with each passing day.

—

The day he walked for the first time was the day everything began to shift.

It was morning, the pale silver light filtering through the distant cave entrance, and you had just finished changing his bandages. The wounds were healing well, the flesh knitting together into angry red scars that would fade to white in time. You told him he would have a collection of them, a constellation across his shoulder and ribs. He said he would wear them with pride. You called him ridiculous.

“Today,” you announced, rising to your feet and brushing off your skirts, “you are going to walk.”

Jace looked up at you. “Walk.”

“Yes. Walk. Put one foot in front of the other. I assume you knew how to do it before you arrived here.”

“I knew how to walk.”

“Then today you will remember.”

It was harder than sitting up. It was harder than anything he had done since waking in this cave. His legs felt as though they belonged to someone else, weak and unsteady, the muscles wasted from days of lying still. You had to help him, your arm around his back and his arm across your shoulders, bearing some of his weight even though he tried very hard not to let you. You were smaller than him and slighter, and he was terrified of crushing you.

“You will not crush me,” you said, as if reading his thoughts. “I am stronger than I look. Stop trying to hold yourself up with pride alone and lean on me.”

He leaned on you, by the time he had taken five steps across the chamber, his legs were shaking and sweat was dripping down his face. But he had walked. Five steps. Then ten. Then, a few days later, he crossed the entire chamber without help, his hand braced against the wall and his breath coming hard and fast.

And the day after that, you smiled at him and said, “I think it is time you saw the sun.”

The cave system was a maze, Jace knew, that your home was larger than the single chamber where he had been lying. He had seen you disappear down passages and emerge from different directions, had caught glimpses of other rooms, a kitchen carved into the rock, a storage chamber lined with jars and barrels, a space where water trickled down the wall into a natural basin. But he had not grasped the full scale of it until you led him through it yourself.

The passages twisted and turned, branching off into side tunnels and dead ends. Some were narrow, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze through. Others opened into wide chambers with high ceilings, lit by candles placed in alcoves and by thin shafts of daylight that pierced down through cracks in the rock. The walls were rough in some places and smooth in others, worn down by time and water and the patient labor of whoever had carved this place.

“Did you build all this?” Jace asked, his voice echoing strangely in the stone corridors. He was walking slowly, one hand on the wall for balance, but he was walking.

You glanced back at him. “The caves were here long before me. I only furnished them.”

“You furnished them very well,” he muttered, stepping around a carved wooden chest that would not have looked out of place in a merchant’s manse.

“I had time.”

That was all you said, as if it explained everything. As if it explained anything at all.

The light grew brighter as you walked, the grey-silver of filtered daylight giving way to a warm golden glow. Jace could smell the outside now, salt air and flowers and something green and growing. His heart beat faster. He had been underground for so long that he had almost forgotten what the sky looked like.

Then you stepped through the cave entrance, and he followed you, and the world opened up around him.

It was beautiful, there was no other word for it, no word that could possibly capture what Jace saw as he stood at the mouth of the cave, blinking in the sudden brightness, his eyes struggling to adjust after so many days of candlelight and shadow.

The island spread out before him like something from a dream, the cliffs where the cave was carved dropped down to a shoreline of white sand that gleamed in the morning sun. Beyond the beach, the water was the most extraordinary shade of blue he had ever seen, turquoise at the shore, deepening to sapphire further out, clear and calm and glittering with reflected light. The sky was vast and cloudless, a pale, soft blue that seemed to go on forever.

But it was the island itself that stole his breath, flowers grew everywhere, wild, sprawling, abundant blooms that cascaded down the cliffs and carpeted the meadows in explosions of color. He saw flowers in shades he had never encountered before, deep violet, vivid orange, a blue so pale it was almost silver. Trees heavy with fruit he did not recognize bent over natural pathways, their branches laden with something golden and round, something dark and pear-shaped, something that resembled a pomegranate but was the color of honey.

The air was warm and sweet, thick with the scent of blossoms and salt and damp earth. Birds sang somewhere in the distance, strange, melodic calls that were not quite like any birdsong he knew. A waterfall tumbled down the cliff face to his left, a thin silver ribbon that caught the light and threw rainbows into the air.

Jace stood there, swaying slightly on his still-weak legs, and he could not speak.

“I know,” you said quietly, standing beside him. “It is a great deal, after so long underground.”

“I have never seen anything like this.”

“It is home.” Your voice was matter of fact, but there was something softer underneath it, something almost sad. “Come. There is a place to sit not far from here. You should not stand for too long yet.”

He let you lead him to a flat outcropping of rock cushioned with moss and ferns, and he sat down heavily, still staring out at the impossible landscape. The flowers swayed in the breeze. The waterfall sang its endless song. The sea glittered and danced.

And there was no one here, the realization crept up on him slowly, settling over his shoulders like a cold cloak. He looked out at the island, the meadows, the fruit trees, the white sand beach, the cliffs, and he saw no houses and no fishing boats pulled up on the shore. He saw no paths worn by the tread of many feet and no smoke rising from chimneys. He heard no voices calling in the distance. He saw no sign of human life at all.

Only the flowers. The birds. The waterfall. The sea.

And you.

—

He did not say anything at first, you helped him walk a little further each day, down to the edge of the meadow where the strange golden fruit grew on low, sprawling trees, up to a ridge that overlooked the eastern shore where the water was even bluer and the sky even wider. You showed him the tidal pools, teeming with tiny creatures he had never seen, brightly colored shells that moved on dozens of legs, star-shaped animals that clung to the rocks, fish that darted and flashed like living jewels.

And everywhere you went, you were the only person, he saw no footprints but yours, he saw no structures but the cave. The only signs of cultivation were a small vegetable garden tucked into a sheltered hollow behind the cliffs, neat rows of plants he recognized, mostly herbs and some kind of root vegetable, and further back, half-hidden by a grove of flowering trees, a low stone wall enclosing a patch of churned earth.

He heard the pigs before he saw them, a grunting, snuffling chorus rose and fell, punctuated by the occasional indignant squeal. Jace followed the sound, moving carefully along a narrow path between two rock formations, and emerged into a clearing where at least two dozen pigs were milling about in a large stone enclosure. They were fat and healthy, their coats glossy, their ears flopping. Piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt while larger sows dozed in the shade of the trees.

And you were in the middle of them, you were scattering something from a woven basket, scraps of fruit rinds and vegetable peels and some kind of grain, and the pigs crowded around you like old friends. You were speaking to them in a low, affectionate murmur, and your hands moved among them with the ease of long familiarity.

You looked up and saw him standing at the edge of the enclosure. Your expression shifted, just slightly. Something guarded, something wary, flickered behind your eyes before you smoothed it away.

“You found my pigs,” you said, Jace leaned against the stone wall, catching his breath. The walk had been longer than he had realized, and his side was aching. “You have a lot of pigs.”

“They keep me company.” You tossed another handful of scraps into the enclosure, and a particularly large sow shouldered her way forward to claim it. “And they are useful. The meat, the fat, the leather. Nothing goes to waste.”

He watched you for a moment. The pigs jostled around your legs, grunting and snuffling, and you moved among them without the slightest hesitation, like a shepherdess, like someone who had been doing this for years.

“Where are the other people?” he asked.

Your hands stilled on the basket. You did not look up.

“What other people?”

“The villagers. The farmers. Whoever else lives here.” Jace gestured vaguely at the enclosure, at the pigs, at the island beyond. “You said this was your island. But someone has to help you with all of this.”

He trailed off. You were looking at him now, and your expression was strange, as though you had been expecting this question and dreading it in equal measure.

“There are no other people, Jace,” you said quietly.

He stared at you. “What do you mean, there are no other people?”

“I mean it is only me.” You set the basket down on the stone wall. Your hands, now empty, folded together in front of you. “There is no village. There are no farmers. There are no fishermen or shepherds or traders. There is only me, and the pigs, and the birds, and the fish in the sea. That is all.”

The words refused to make sense. Jace shook his head, a short, sharp movement. “That cannot be right. You cannot live here alone. How do you survive? How do you get supplies? There has to be someone else, a trader who comes by ship, a neighboring island, something.”

“There is no one else.” Your voice was calm and steady, but there was something raw underneath it now. “No ships come here. No traders. No neighbors. The island is hidden. It does not appear on any map. No one knows it exists.”

“That is impossible.”

“It is simply true.”

Jace pushed himself off the stone wall, ignoring the protest of his healing wounds. His heart was beating too fast. His thoughts were spinning. “How did you get here, then? How do you live? You cannot simply be alone on an island forever.”

“I did not say I chose it.”

The words stopped him cold, you were still standing in the middle of the pig enclosure, surrounded by grunting, oblivious animals. Your strange dress fluttered in the breeze, the pale fabric catching the sunlight. Your face was composed, but your eyes were dark with something old and heavy and carefully buried.

“My brother sent me here,” you said. “As punishment.”

Jace opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again. “Punishment for what?”

“For disobeying him.” Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings. “I did something he could not forgive. And instead of killing me, he sent me here. He had the means to do it, the ships, the men, the knowledge of this place. He left me with supplies and seeds and animals and told me I would never leave.”

“You have been here ever since,” Jace said slowly.

“I have been here ever since.”

“How long?”

You looked away, out over the blue water, and for a moment you were utterly still. “A long time.”

Jace’s mind was racing, scrambling to fit the pieces together. A brother with enough power to exile someone to a hidden island. Ships and men and the means to keep the place secret. A lord powerful enough to make his sister disappear without anyone asking questions.

“Who is your brother?” he asked.

Your jaw tightened. “A lord. That is all you need to know.”

“A lord of what? Where? What house?”

“It does not matter.” Your voice sharpened, just slightly, the first hint of steel he had ever heard from you. “What matters is that he is powerful enough to do this. Powerful enough that if I try to leave, if I find a way off this island and set foot on the mainland, I will be found and I will be brought back, and the consequences will be worse than exile.”

Jace stared at you, you were alone. Completely, utterly alone. You had been alone for what might have been months or years or decades. You had built a life in a cave, furnished it with silk and polished wood, grown a garden and raised pigs and taught yourself to heal. And no one had come for you. No one had visited. No one had even known you were here.

Until a dying dragon prince washed up on your shore.

“I am sorry,” he said, and the words felt pathetically inadequate. “I did not know.”

“How could you have known?” You picked up the basket again, your movements brisk and practical, as if you were eager to change the subject. “You were unconscious when you arrived. It is not as if I introduced myself and gave you a tour. Welcome to my prison, please enjoy the flowers.”

“It is not a prison.” You looked at him, and your smile was tired and sad and strangely kind. “It is a very beautiful prison. But it is a prison nonetheless.” You turned and walked away, the basket tucked under your arm, the pigs trailing after you like a strange, grunting entourage. Jace watched you go, your bare shoulders and your flowing dress and the way you moved through the meadow as if you had memorized every inch of it.

And he understood, suddenly, why you had never hesitated to save him. Why you had sat beside his bed for days on end. Why you had laughed at his stupid jokes and argued with him about the proper way to brew medicinal tea.

You were lonely.

Jace stood at the edge of the pig enclosure, the sun warm on his face and the sea glittering in the distance, and he thought about his mother and his brothers and the war and the throne.

He had to go back. He had to, but as he watched you disappear into the grove of flowering trees, your figure growing smaller and smaller against the impossible beauty of the island, he realized that leaving might be harder than he had thought.

—

In the days following your revelation—it is just me, there is no one else—Jace threw himself into the work of recovery with a ferocity that surprised even him. He woke early, before the light through the cave entrance had shifted from silver to gold, and he pushed his body harder than was probably wise. He walked the island's paths until his legs stopped shaking. He climbed the low cliffs until his arms stopped burning. He ate everything you put in front of him, slept when you told him to sleep, and bit back every complaint when you made him drink your bitter medicines.

"Someone is motivated," you remarked one morning, watching him pace the length of the chamber. He had been doing laps—back and forth, back and forth—testing the strength of his newly healed legs. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to pink, then to white, and the pain was a distant memory now, only flaring when he moved too quickly or twisted the wrong way.

"I have to get home," he said, not breaking stride. "My mother needs me. My brothers need me. Every day I spend here is another day they think I'm dead."

You nodded, your expression unreadable. "Then we had better build you a boat."

The boat took shape slowly, you showed him a grove of trees on the eastern side of the island, tall and straight, their wood pale and close-grained, ideal for shipbuilding. You had an axe, kept sharp and well-oiled in one of the storage chambers, and you handed it to him without ceremony.

"I will help where I can," you said, "but I am not a shipwright. You will have to figure out most of it yourself."

Jace had never built a boat before. He had sailed on dozens of them but knowing how to sail and knowing how to build were two very different things. He felled the first tree through trial and error, the axe handle blistering his palms, the sweat dripping into his eyes. By the time the trunk crashed to the ground, he was exhausted and exhilarated in equal measure.

"Not bad," you said from where you sat on a nearby rock, a pile of mending in your lap. You had been watching him work for the better part of an hour, offering no advice but plenty of company. "For a prince who has never done a day's labor in his life."

"I've done labor."

"Name one example."

He opened his mouth and swung the axe into the fallen trunk with more force than necessary. "I trained with swords. That's labor."

"Swords are not labor. Swords are play for princes."

"Then what do you call this?" He gestured at the tree, the axe, his blistered hands.

You smiled, that slow, warm smile that was becoming as familiar to him as the sunrise. "I call it a good start."

The days passed, Jace shaped the wood as best he could, stripping branches and hewing planks with tools you provided from the depths of the cave. Some of them were strange—shaped for hands slightly different from his own, their handles worn smooth by use that was not his. He didn't ask where they came from. He was learning that there were questions you would answer and questions you would not, and the line between them was invisible until he crossed it.

But you were always there, always nearby.

He had grown accustomed to the rhythm of your presence, the rustle of your strange, flowing dresses, the soft pad of your bare feet on stone, the quiet humming you did when you worked. You brought him water when the sun grew hot. You checked his scars every evening, your fingers against his skin, pronouncing him healed and healing well. You sat with him while he ate, and you talked about nothing and everything, and your laugh was the brightest sound on an island full of bright sounds.

"I should be further along by now," he said one evening, staring at the skeleton of the boat with frustration. The hull was taking shape, but slowly—too slowly. At this rate, it would be months before it was seaworthy.

"You are one person building a boat by hand," you pointed out. You were sitting cross-legged on a flat rock, sorting through a basket of herbs. The setting sun caught the planes of your face, the curve of your bare shoulders, the way your dress draped across your lap in soft folds. "I think you are allowed to take your time."

"I don't have time." He ran a hand through his hair—longer now, curling past his ears, in desperate need of a trim. "My mother—she needs me. The war—"

He stopped.

The war.

What war?

The thought slipped through his mind like water through fingers, there and gone before he could catch it. There was a war. Of course there was a war. He was fighting in it. Or he had been fighting in it. That was why he had been in the Gullet, why Vermax had—

Vermax.

His chest tightened. He remembered the dragon's scream. He remembered the water closing over his head. He remembered the arrows.

But what was the war about?

"The war," he repeated, more quietly now. "I have to get back to the war."

You looked up from your herbs, and your expression was gentle. Unreadable. "You will. When the boat is ready, you will."

"Right." He nodded, the motion jerky. "Right. The boat."

He picked up the axe and got back to work.

—

One afternoon you were down by the shore, sitting in the shade of a flowering tree while Jace worked on the boat's hull. "Brothers," he said, sanding down a rough edge of wood. "Three of them. Well—two full brothers. Two half-brothers. That's four. No, wait." He frowned. "Joffrey and... and the little ones. Aegon and..."

He stopped, the name wouldn't come.

"Viserys," you said quietly.

"Viserys. Right. Viserys." He shook his head, laughing at himself. "I don't know why I couldn't remember that. He's the youngest. Named after my grandfather."

You said nothing. You only watched him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and your fingers were very still on the mending in your lap.

"And Luke," Jace continued, the name coming easier now. "Lucerys. He's the second one. He's..."

Dead.

The word surfaced from somewhere deep, cold and sharp as a blade. But it didn't hurt the way it should have. It was distant. Muffled. Like a scream heard through a closed door.

"He's what?" you asked.

Jace blinked. "He's... he's at Dragonstone. With our mother. Waiting for me to come home."

You nodded slowly. "I am sure he misses you."

"He probably thinks I'm dead." Jace turned back to the boat, running his hand along the smooth wood. "I have to get back soon. Before he does something stupid. He's always doing stupid things, Luke. He's impulsive. Reckless. He doesn't think before he acts."

Luke is dead. Luke was torn apart by Vhagar above Storm's End. You weren't there. You didn't protect him.

But the voice was fading. Growing quieter. Harder to hear over the sound of the waves and the breeze and your soft, steady breathing.

—

The boat took longer than it should have, some days Jace worked on it from sunrise to sunset, his hands raw and calloused, his back aching, his mind fixed on the singular goal of getting home. But other days—more and more days, as the weeks wore on—he found himself... distracted.

The waterfall, for one thing.

It tumbled down the cliff face on the western side of the island, a silver ribbon that caught the sunlight and scattered it into rainbows. The pool at its base was deep and clear and shockingly cold, fed by some underground spring that kept it cool even in the heat of the afternoon. Jace had discovered it on one of his exploratory walks, and he had been drawn back to it again and again.

You came with him sometimes. You would sit on the rocks at the edge of the pool, your feet dangling in the water, your dress hiked up to your knees. You would tilt your face toward the sun and close your eyes, and Jace would find himself watching you instead of the waterfall.

"Are you going to swim or are you going to stare?" you asked one day, not opening your eyes.

"I wasn't staring."

"You were staring."

"I was... appreciating the scenery."

You opened one eye. "The scenery."

"The waterfall," he said, gesturing vaguely. "It's very nice."

You laughed—that bright, unguarded laugh that he had come to love—and he felt something warm bloom in his chest. Something that had nothing to do with the sun.

"Come on, then," you said, and before he could react, you slid off the rock and into the water with a splash that sent droplets arcing through the air like diamonds.

Jace stared at you. You surfaced a moment later, your hair plastered to your head, your dress clinging to your skin, the wet fabric rendered nearly transparent. The water lapped at your collarbones, and you were laughing again, and you looked—

You looked beautiful.

He had known you were beautiful from the moment he opened his eyes in the candlelit cave. But there was something different about you now. Something that had shifted, the curves of your face seemed softer. The color of your eyes seemed deeper. The way you moved—the way you laughed—the way you looked at him—it all seemed more vivid. More precious.

"Are you coming in or not?" you called, treading water in the center of the pool.

Jace pulled his shirt over his head and dove in after you, the water was cold and clean and wonderful. They splashed each other like children, chasing each other around the pool, ducking under the waterfall and emerging gasping and laughing. Jace couldn't remember the last time he had laughed like this—freely, openly, without the weight of duty pressing down on his shoulders.

Your dress clung to you like a second skin, the wet fabric outlining every curve of your body. Jace tried very hard not to notice. He failed. "You're staring again," you said, but your voice was different now. Quieter. Almost shy.

"Sorry." He wasn't sorry.

—

"I was betrothed," he said one evening.

You were sitting on the rocks overlooking the western sea, watching the sun sink toward the horizon in a blaze of orange and pink. Jace sat beside you, close enough that he could feel the warmth of your arm near his. The boat sat half-finished on the beach below, forgotten for the day.

"Was?" you asked.

"Am. I am betrothed." He frowned. "I think. We were supposed to marry before... before I left."

"Before the battle."

"Before the battle, yes." He stared out at the sunset, trying to conjure her face. His betrothed. She was a Targaryen, he was sure of that. Silver hair. Purple eyes. A dragon. But her name—her name wouldn't come. "She's my cousin, I think. Or my step-sister. Both, actually. It's complicated."

"What is her name?"

Jace opened his mouth. The name wasn't there.

"I can't remember," he said, and the admission felt strange. Not frightening—it should have been frightening—but strange. Like discovering a pocket in a familiar coat that he had never noticed before. "I know her face. She's... she's fierce. Brave. She has a dragon. A small one, I think. Or maybe it's large. I can't..."

He trailed off.

You were quiet for a moment. Then, very softly: "Do you love her?"

"Love?" He considered the question. "I don't know. She's family. She's duty. She's... she's what I'm supposed to do, but i care for her, a lot."

"That is not the same as love."

"No," he agreed. "It's not."

He didn't say anything else. Neither did you. But your arm was warm against his, and the sunset was beautiful, and when he finally walked you back to the cave, his hand found the small of your back without thinking, and you leaned into the touch instead of pulling away.

—

He forgot about the betrothed entirely by morning.

—

The days grew warmer. Or perhaps they didn't—perhaps it was only that Jace had stopped paying attention to the passage of time. The boat sat on the beach, half-finished, and he told himself he would work on it tomorrow. Tomorrow came and went, and he spent it with you instead—walking the island paths, gathering fruit from the strange golden trees, sitting by the waterfall and talking about nothing.

What are you doing? a voice whispered in the back of his mind. You have to go home. Your mother needs you.

But what did his mother need him for? There was something—something important—something about a throne, a war, a betrayal. But the details were foggy now, blurred like ink left out in the rain.

He remembered her face. Her silver hair. Her voice saying his name, but the rest was slipping away, piece by piece, day by day, and the more he forgot, the more he noticed you.

The way you moved through the meadow, your skirts brushing the wildflowers. The way you hummed when you cooked, some melody he had never heard before but that felt familiar anyway. The way you looked at him sometimes, quick glances from beneath your lashes, as if you were checking to make sure he was still there. Still real. Still alive.

The way your hand felt in his when he helped you over a rocky patch of ground.

The way your laugh echoed off the cliffs and came back to them multiplied, a chorus of joy.

The way your eyes caught the light of the setting sun and held it, like they were made of something more than flesh.

He loved you.

He loved the sound of your voice and the curve of your smile and the gentle patience with which you had nursed him back from the edge of death. He loved your dry humor and your quiet strength and the way you never pressed him for answers he didn't have. He loved the life you had built here, alone on an island that should not exist, and he loved that you had let him into it.

He loved you.

And the more he loved you, the less he remembered.

—

The morning was hot and still, Jace had woken early, as he always did now, but instead of reaching for the axe or walking down to the beach where the half-finished boat sat waiting, he had gone straight to the waterfall.

The pool was cool and clear, fed by the endless rush of water that tumbled down the cliff face in a silver curtain. He shed his clothes on the rocks, just the loose linen breeches you had sewn for him from fabric found somewhere in the depths of the cave, and dove in without hesitation. The cold shock of the water stole his breath and cleared his head, chasing away the last cobwebs of sleep.

He floated on his back, staring up at the pale blue sky, watching the birds wheel overhead. His dark hair fanned out in the water around him. The scars on his shoulder and side had faded to thin white lines, barely visible now. He was stronger than he had ever been, his muscles hardened by weeks of manual labor, his skin tanned golden by the sun.

He should have been thinking about the boat, about going home, about his mother and his brothers and the war.

He was thinking about you. Your laugh, your smile, the way your eyes caught the light. The way your hand felt in his. The way you looked at him sometimes, soft and searching, with something unspoken hovering just behind your lips. He had kissed you before, small kisses, brief and chaste, a press of his lips to your forehead when you fell asleep beside him, a brush of his mouth against your knuckles when you handed him a cup of water. But he had not kissed you properly. He had not kissed you the way he wanted to, the way he had been imagining for weeks, the way that left no doubt about what he felt.

He was thinking about that when he heard your footsteps on the rocks above. "You started without me."

Jace turned in the water, treading easily, and looked up at you. You were standing at the edge of the pool, barefoot on the smooth stone, wearing your dress of pale purple gossamer that drifted around your ankles in the faint breeze. The sun caught the planes of your face and the curve of your neck and the dip of your collarbones, and the sight of you struck him silent for a moment.

"Someone has to," he called back, forcing his voice into something approaching normal. "You sleep too late."

"I was gathering herbs. Some of us have work to do."

"Swimming is work. It builds character."

You laughed, that bright, warm sound that he had come to treasure more than anything else on this island. "Is that what you are doing? Building character?"

"Come in and find out."

You hesitated for just a moment. Your eyes met his across the water, and something flickered in your expression, something tentative and questioning, as if you were making a decision and waiting to see if he would notice.

Then you reached up and untied the clasps at your shoulders.

The dress fell and Jace stopped breathing.

You stood above him in nothing but the sunlight, bare to the sky and the water and his gaze. The curves of your body were soft and smooth, your skin glowing in the morning light. Your breasts were full and round and tight in the open air. Your waist dipped inward in a graceful curve before flaring out to the swell of your hips.

You were the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.

"Are you coming in or not?" he asked, his voice rougher than he intended.

You smiled, then you dove into the water in one clean, graceful arc, slicing through the surface with barely a splash.

You surfaced inches from him, the water lapped at your collarbones, but beneath the surface he could see the pale shape of your body, distorted by the ripples, impossibly close. Droplets clung to your lashes. Your hair floated around you like ink spilled in water. Your lips were parted and slightly wet, and you were looking at him with those shifting sea-glass eyes, and Jace forgot how to think.

"The water is nice," you said, and your voice was teasing and light, but there was a tremor underneath it.

"Nice," he repeated. He could not stop staring at your mouth.

"Very refreshing."

"I had not noticed."

"No?"

"No."

His hand found your waist beneath the water. Your skin was cool and slick and impossibly soft. You did not pull away. You drifted closer, your bare legs brushing against his, and the contact sent a jolt through him like lightning striking water. He could feel the heat of your core through the cool water, a promise of the warmth waiting for him, and his cock stirred against the confines of his breeches.

"Jace," you whispered.

That was all. Just his name, but the way you said it, breathless and aching and full of want, broke something open inside him.

He kissed you, his mouth strong against yours. His hand tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him. His other hand came up to cup the back of your head, fingers tangling in your hair. You made a small, desperate sound against his lips and kissed him back just as fiercely, your arms winding around his neck, your bare breasts pressing against the hard plane of his chest.

You were bare beneath his hands, there was nothing between his palms and your skin but water. He could feel every curve of you against the hard muscle of his own. His thumbs traced the ridges of your middle, and you shivered, and he swallowed the sound you made. His hands slid lower, cupping the full curve of your arse, kneading the firm flesh, pulling your hips against his so you could feel the rigid length of him pressing against your belly through the wet linen of his breeches.

"Jace," you gasped against his mouth. "Jace, I—"

"Tell me to stop." His voice was wrecked, barely recognizable. "Tell me to stop and I will stop."

"Do not stop." Your fingers dug into his shoulders, nails biting into his sun-warmed skin. "Please do not stop."

He kissed you again, deeper this time, slower. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, and you opened for him with a shuddering breath. The taste of you, sweet and clean and faintly herbal from the medicines you were always brewing, flooded his senses. He explored your mouth thoroughly, learning the texture of your tongue, the ridge of your teeth, the softness of your inner cheeks. You moaned into his mouth and sucked on his tongue, and the sensation went straight to his groin. He could feel your heart pounding against his chest, or perhaps that was his own heart, hammering so hard he thought it might crack his ribs.

Your legs wrapped around his waist beneath the water. The movement was instinctive and natural, and it brought your hips flush against his, the heat of your sex pressing against the hard ridge of his cock through his breeches. He groaned against your mouth, low and rough, his fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. You were so warm. Even in the cool water, the core of you radiated a heat that he could feel through the fabric separating them.

He walked you backward through the pool, still kissing you, still holding you, until your back met the smooth stone of the cliff wall. The waterfall rushed beside them, a curtain of silver sound. He kissed the hollow of your throat, feeling your pulse flutter against his lips. He traced the delicate line of your collarbone with his tongue, tasting the clean, mineral tang of the spring water on your skin. He let his mouth drift lower, over the swell of your breast, and when his lips closed around one tight, pebbled nipple, you gasped and arched against him, your fingers fisting in his hair.

He lavished attention on your breasts, suckling first one and then the other, his tongue circling the tight buds, his teeth grazing them with just enough pressure to make you moan. Your breasts were perfect in his hands, full and soft, fitting his palms as though they had been made for him. He kneaded them gently, thumbs brushing over the wet peaks, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your head had fallen back against the stone, your lips parted, your eyes squeezed shut. The sight of you like this, bare and wanting and completely surrendered to his mouth, made his cock throb painfully against his breeches.

"I have wanted this," he breathed against your skin, his voice ragged. "Gods, I have wanted this for so long."

"Then do not wait any longer."

He lifted his head and looked at you. Your eyes were dark with want, your lips swollen from his kisses, your chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. The water lapped at your breasts, revealing and hiding, and he could feel every inch of you pressed against him, every curve, every soft place, every point of contact where your body met his.

"Are you sure?" he asked. He needed to hear it. He needed to know.

In answer, you cupped his face in your hands and pulled him down to you. "I have never been more sure of anything in my life."

He kissed you again, soft and sweet this time, a promise and a question all at once. Then his hand slid down your body beneath the water, tracing the curve of your waist, the swell of your hip, the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. Your legs tightened around his waist, and he felt you tremble against him. His fingers found the heat of you, warm and slick even in the cool water, and he traced the folds of your sex with a feather-light touch. You gasped and bucked against his hand. He explored you slowly, learning the shape of you, the soft outer lips, the slick inner petals, the hard pearl of your pleasure at the apex. When he circled that sensitive nub with his thumb, you cried out, a sound half-lost in the rush of the waterfall. He swallowed it with his mouth, kissing you through it, his touch gentle and searching and patient. He slid one finger inside you, feeling the tight, wet heat of your body grip him, and you moaned against his lips. He added a second finger, stretching you gently, his thumb still circling your sensitive peak, and you writhed against his hand, your inner walls clenching around his fingers.

"Please," you whispered, the word broken and beautiful. "Please, Jace. I need you inside me."

He withdrew his fingers, and you made a small sound of protest that he silenced with a kiss. He reached down and freed himself from his breeches, his cock springing out, hard and thick and aching. The head was dark with need, a bead of moisture already forming at the tip. You glanced down through the clear water and your eyes widened at the sight of him, long and rigid, curving slightly upward toward his belly.

"You are so beautiful," he murmured, positioning himself at your entrance. He rubbed the head of his cock against your slick folds, coating himself in your wetness, teasing you both with the promise of what was to come. "I want to watch your face when I enter you. I want to see what I do to you."

Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels pressing into the small of his back. "Then do it. I want to feel you."

He pushed into you slowly, so slowly, inch by agonizing inch. The water made everything liquid and easy, but he wanted to savor this, the way your eyes fluttered closed, the way your mouth fell open, the way your body welcomed him. You were so tight and so warm and so perfect around him. He could feel every ridge and fold of your inner walls as they gripped him and fluttered and stretched to accommodate his size. Your heat enveloped him, searing even through the cool water, and he had to stop and breathe when he was fully sheathed, his forehead pressed to yours, his whole body shaking with the effort of holding back.

"Look at me," he murmured. "Please. Look at me."

Your eyes opened. They were dark and shining, full of something that looked very much like love. "You feel incredible," you breathed. "I am so full."

He began to move, he withdrew almost completely, feeling the drag of your body against every inch of his length, and then pushed back in with a slow, deep thrust that made you both gasp. The sensation was overwhelming, the tight clutch of your body, the heat, the way your inner muscles rippled around him. He set a steady rhythm, each stroke deliberate and full, sliding into you to the hilt and then pulling back until only the head remained inside you. The water splashed gently around them, ripples spreading outward in concentric circles with every movement. Your legs tightened around his waist, your heels digging into the small of his back, pulling him deeper with every thrust. Your hands slid down his spine, tracing the ridges of muscle that flexed with every movement. You were making soft, breathless sounds, gasps and moans and fragments of his name, and he caught each one with his mouth, kissing you, drinking you down like wine.

"You feel incredible," he groaned against your lips. "So tight. So perfect. I could stay inside you forever."

"So do you," you gasped, your words barely coherent, slurred with pleasure. "Harder, Jace. Please."

He did not need to be asked twice. His pace quickened, his hips slamming against yours with increasing force. The sound of their coupling echoed off the cliff walls, wet and rhythmic, the slap of skin against skin beneath the water. Your breasts bounced with every thrust, and he watched them, mesmerized by the way they moved, the way the water lapped at the peaks. He bent his head and captured one nipple in his mouth again, sucking hard, grazing it with his teeth, and you cried out sharply, your inner walls clenching around him.

He shifted his angle slightly, tilting his hips, and on the next thrust you cried out sharply, your head falling back against the stone, your whole body arching against his. He had found the right spot, that sensitive place deep inside you, and he drove into it again and again, watching your face contort with pleasure. Your brow furrowed and your lips parted and your eyes lost focus, and you were babbling now, a stream of broken words, his name and pleas for more and incoherent praise.

"There," you gasped. "Right there. Do not stop. Please do not stop."

He did not stop. He could not have stopped if the world was ending. There was nothing but you, your body, your voice, your hands on his skin. He felt your inner walls begin to flutter around him, the first warning signs of your approaching climax, and he moved his hand between your bodies, finding the slick, sensitive pearl of you beneath the water. He pressed his thumb against it in tight, circling strokes, matching the rhythm of his thrusts.

"That is it," he murmured against your ear, his voice low and rough. "Let go. I want to feel you come apart around me."

Your climax took you by surprise. He felt it building, the way your breath quickened, the way your nails bit into his shoulders, the way your body tightened around him until he could barely move. And then you shattered, crying out his name, your head thrown back, your whole body arching and shuddering against his. He felt the rhythmic pulsing of your release gripping his cock, your inner walls milking him in waves, and he watched your face contort with pleasure, your mouth open, your eyes squeezed shut, your cheeks flushed dark. The sight of you, bare and beautiful and completely undone, was enough to push him over the edge. He drove into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt, and let go. His release surged through him in hot, pulsing waves, spilling deep inside you, and he groaned your name against the curve of your neck, his body shaking with the force of his climax.

For a long moment, neither of you moved, your breathing slowed, your chest rising and falling against his. Your fingers traced lazy patterns on the back of his neck. He remained inside you, still half-hard, reluctant to separate from the warmth of your body. He could feel his seed and your slickness mingled together, warm and wet around him, and the sensation was so intimate, so perfect, that he never wanted to move again.

"Jace," you whispered, and your voice was hoarse and sweet and utterly content.

He lifted his head and looked at you. Your cheeks were flushed. Your lips were red and swollen. Your hair was a wild tangle around your shoulders. Your eyes were soft and hazy with satisfaction. You had never looked more beautiful.

"I love you," he said.

The words came out before he could stop them, before he even realized he was thinking them. But once they were spoken, he knew they were true. He loved you. He loved you so completely and so absolutely that he could barely remember what his life had been before you. You were everything. You were the sun and the sea and the stars. You were the only thing that mattered.

Your eyes widened. "I love you too," you said. "I have loved you since the moment you opened your eyes."

He kissed you again, softly this time, tenderly, a kiss that tasted of water and salt and promises. And then he held you, your body still wrapped around his, the waterfall cool against his back, the sun warm on his face.

They did not leave the pool for a long time. When they finally climbed out, their skin pruned and their limbs heavy with satisfaction, they did not bother to dress. Jace carried you to a patch of soft grass beneath the flowering trees, and he laid you down among the fallen petals, pink and white and gold. He knelt between your spread thighs and looked down at you, at your bare body glistening with water droplets, at the place where his seed was already beginning to leak from your swollen folds, and he felt himself harden again at the sight.

He made love to you again, slower this time, sweeter. He kissed his way down your body, his mouth tracing the hollow of your throat, the swell of your breasts, the plane of your stomach. He paused to dip his tongue into your navel, making you squirm, and then continued lower, pressing kisses to your hip bones, the sensitive crease where your thighs met your body. When he reached the junction of your thighs, he settled between them and looked up at you. Your scent was intoxicating, musky and sweet and mixed with the salt of his own release. He could see the evidence of their earlier coupling, the glistening slickness that coated your folds, and the sight made him groan with want.

He tasted you properly for the first time. His tongue parted your folds, tracing a slow path from your entrance to the peak of your pleasure. The taste of you combined with the taste of him was earthy and raw and utterly intoxicating. You cried out and fisted your hands in the grass, your hips rising to meet his mouth. He took his time, learning what you liked, alternating between broad, flat strokes of his tongue and focused, circling attention to your sensitive peak. He slid two fingers inside you as he sucked on that tight bundle of nerves, curling them forward to press against that sensitive spot on your inner wall, and you came apart against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head, your voice breaking on his name, your body gushing wetness that he lapped up eagerly.

After that, they walked back to the cave hand in hand, bare and unashamed, their clothes forgotten on the rocks by the waterfall. The sun had climbed higher in the sky, and the island was alive with birdsong and the scent of flowers. Jace kept his hand on the small of your back as you walked, unable to stop touching you, his thumb tracing small circles against your skin.

When you reached the bedchamber, the bed where he had first woken, the furs soft and the candles flickering on the walls, he took you again. This time you pushed him down onto his back and climbed on top of him, straddling his hips. You looked down at him and you reached between your bodies to guide him to your entrance. He watched his cock disappear inside you, inch by inch, watched the way your folds stretched to accommodate him, and the sight was almost enough to make him spend right there. You sank down until he was fully seated inside you, and you both moaned at the sensation.

You began to move, rolling your hips in a slow, sinuous rhythm. He watched you move above him, your breasts swaying with each roll of your hips, your stomach flexing, your head thrown back in pleasure. He reached up and cupped your breasts, rolling the tight peaks between his fingers, and you gasped and increased your pace. Your thighs flexed as you rose and fell, taking him deeper with every stroke. He guided you with his hands on your waist, helping you find a rhythm that made you both moan, his thumbs pressing into the soft flesh of your hips.

"Look at you," he breathed, his voice full of wonder. "You are so beautiful riding my cock."

You leaned forward, bracing your hands on his chest, and the new angle made you gasp. He thrust up into you from below, meeting your movements, and the wet sound of your bodies joining filled the chamber. Your inner walls were fluttering around him again, your breath coming in short, sharp gasps. He moved one hand to where your bodies were joined and pressed his thumb against your sensitive peak, circling it in time with your movements. You cried out and shattered above him, your body clenching around him, your back arching. The sight of you, lost in pleasure, pushed him over the edge. He thrust up into you one final time and spilled his seed deep inside you, groaning your name, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to leave marks.

You collapsed against his chest, spent and trembling, and he wrapped his arms around you and held you close, still buried inside you. Your breath was warm against his neck. Your heart hammered against his chest. He could feel the thrum of your pulse where your bodies were still joined, and he never wanted to let you go.

You fell asleep like that, joined together, your body draped over his, and when you woke an hour later, the candles had burned lower and the light through the cave entrance had shifted to the gold of late afternoon. You stirred against him, and he felt himself harden again inside you, still buried in your warmth. You smiled sleepily and began to move your hips in a slow, lazy rhythm, and he rolled you onto your back and made love to you again, gentle and tender, whispering your name like a prayer.

After that day, they could not keep their hands off each other, it was as if a dam had broken. Every moment they were together, they were touching. His hand on the small of your back, your fingers tangled in his hair, his lips on your shoulder, your thigh pressed against his beneath the dinner table. The boat sat forgotten on the beach, the wood beginning to weather and grey in the salt air. The days blurred into a haze of sun and water and skin.

He took you in the meadow, surrounded by wildflowers, the grass tickling your bare skin as he moved inside you, your legs wrapped around his waist and your fingers digging into his back. The sun was warm on his shoulders and the scent of blossoms was thick in the air. He rolled onto his back, pulling you on top of him without breaking their connection, and you rode him among the flowers, your head thrown back, your breasts bouncing with every movement, the bright petals clinging to your damp skin.

You pulled him into the storage chamber one afternoon and pressed him against the cool stone wall. You sank to your knees before him on the worn stone floor, looking up at him and you freed him from his breeches with practiced hands. He was already hard, his cock springing out, the tip glistening. You wrapped your hand around the base of him, feeling the weight and heat of him in your palm, and then you leaned forward and took him into your mouth.

He groaned and buried his fingers in your hair as your lips closed around him. You took him slowly, deliberately, your tongue tracing the ridge on the underside of his shaft, your cheeks hollowing as you sucked. You worked him with your mouth and your hand in tandem, your head bobbing in a steady rhythm, your tongue swirling around the sensitive head on every upstroke. He watched you move, mesmerized, watching his cock disappear between your lips again and again, feeling the wet heat of your mouth, the gentle scrape of your teeth. When you took him deeper, relaxing your throat to accommodate his length, he groaned your name and tightened his grip on your hair.

You pulled back, your lips slick and swollen, a strand of saliva connecting you to his tip. You looked up at him and smiled, a slow, wicked smile, and then you took him deep again, hollowing your cheeks, increasing your pace. Your hand cupped him gently, rolling him in your palm, and the dual sensation pushed him closer and closer to the edge. When he could not hold back any longer, he warned you, his voice ragged, but you only took him deeper, and he spilled into your mouth with a ragged cry of your name. You swallowed everything he gave you, your throat working around him, and you did not pull away until he was spent and trembling.

You looked up at him, your lips slick and swollen, a tiny bead of his release at the corner of your mouth that you caught with your tongue. The sight of you, kneeling before him, having taken everything he had to give, made his spent cock twitch with interest. He pulled you to your feet and kissed you deeply, tasting himself on your tongue, and then he spun you around and bent you over the stone table where you mixed your medicines.

He bunched your skirts around your waist, baring you to his gaze. Your folds were already slick and glistening, your arousal dripping down your inner thighs. He ran his hand over the curve of your backside, kneading the firm flesh, and then he positioned himself at your entrance. He entered you from behind in one smooth thrust, burying himself to the hilt, and you gasped and clutched at the worn stone surface. He set a hard, fast rhythm, one hand gripping your hip hard enough to leave fingerprints and the other braced on the table beside yours. The sound of his hips slamming against your backside filled the small chamber, wet and rhythmic, punctuated by your breathless gasps and his low groans.

"Is this what you wanted when you got on your knees for me?" he asked, his voice rough. "Did you want me to bend you over and fuck you until you screamed?"

"Yes," you gasped, pushing back against him. "Yes, I wanted this. I wanted you."

He reached around and found your sensitive peak with his fingers, rubbing tight circles in time with his thrusts. The angle was perfect, driving him deep, hitting that spot inside you with every stroke. Your gasps turned to cries, your cries turned to screams, and when you came, your body clenching around him so tightly that he could barely move, he followed a heartbeat later, groaning your name into the curve of your shoulder, spilling himself deep inside you.

He stayed inside you until he softened, his forehead resting against your shoulder blade, both of you breathing hard. Then he pulled out gently and turned you around, and he kissed you softly, tenderly, his hands cupping your face.

Every night, they fell asleep tangled together in his bed, their bed now, and every morning they woke the same way. Sometimes he would wake first and simply watch you sleep, the soft rise and fall of your chest, the way your lips curved into a faint smile as if you were dreaming of him. Sometimes you would wake first and trace the lines of his scars with your fingertips, until he stirred and rolled on top of you and the day began the way all their days began now, with your legs around his waist and your soft cries filling the candlelit chamber.

He could not get enough of you. He could not get enough of your taste or your scent or the sounds you made when you came apart in his arms. He could not get enough of the way your eyes fluttered closed when he kissed your neck, or the way your back arched when he ran his hands down your sides, or the way you whispered his name in the darkness, over and over, like an incantation. He learned every inch of your body, every sensitive spot, every place that made you gasp and every place that made you moan. He learned the rhythm you liked, slow and deep when you were tender, fast and hard when you were hungry. He learned how to read your body well enough to know which one you needed before you had to ask. He learned that you liked it when he talked to you while he moved inside you, telling you how beautiful you were, how much he loved you, how he wanted to stay buried in your warmth forever.

And every time he was inside you, every time you came apart in his arms, every time he lost himself in the heat and the pleasure and the overwhelming, consuming love he felt for you, something else slipped away.

In many ways, you were. You were his world now. You were everything.

And he was forgetting that there had ever been anything else.

—

The ship appeared on the horizon like a ghost from a life Jace had almost forgotten, he was down by the shore, skipping stones across the glass-flat water while you gathered shells further down the beach.

Then he saw it, a dark shape cut against the glare of the sun. At first he thought it was a cloud, or a trick of the light, or one of the strange birds that sometimes wheeled overhead. But the shape grew larger and sharper and resolved itself into masts and sails and a hull cutting through the water.

Jace's hand froze mid-throw. The stone dropped from his fingers and plunked into the shallows.

"Jace?" Your voice came from further down the beach, laced with concern. "What is it?"

"A ship."

The word felt strange in his mouth, foreign. He had not seen a ship in how long? Months? Years? He could not remember. Time had stopped meaning anything on this island.

He squinted against the sun, his heart beating faster. The ship was large, a warship by the look of it, three masts and a reinforced hull. As it drew closer, he could make out the banner snapping from the mainmast.

A seahorse. Silver on sea-green.

Velaryon.

The name hit him like a wave. His grandfather's house. His mother's allies. His family. The memories surged up from wherever they had been hiding, Dragonstone, Driftmark, the fleet, Lord Corlys, the war.

The war. He was fighting a war. His mother needed him. He had to go home.

"They are here for me," he breathed, and then he was running down the beach, waving his arms over his head, shouting at the top of his lungs. "Here! I am here!"

The soldiers came ashore in a longboat, six of them, their armor gleaming in the sun, the Velaryon seahorse embossed on their breastplates. They were grizzled men, seasoned fighters, and when they saw Jace standing on the beach, their faces broke into expressions of shock and relief and barely contained joy.

"Prince Jacaerys," the lead soldier breathed, dropping to one knee in the sand. "We thought you were dead. The Queen, your mother, she sent ships to every corner of the Narrow Sea. She never gave up hope."

Jace pulled the man to his feet, his hands shaking. "My mother. Is she well? Is the war still—"

"The war continues, my prince. The queen has taken Kings Landing. She will be overjoyed to see you. Everyone believed you had perished at the Gullet."

The Gullet. The arrows. Vermax screaming. The water closing over his head.

Jace shoved the memories aside. "I am alive," he said, and he was laughing now, giddy with relief and adrenaline. "I am alive, and I am coming home."

He turned to find you, you were standing a few paces back, your hands clasped in front of you, watching the soldiers with an expression he could not read. Your strange dress fluttered in the sea breeze, and your eyes were dark and unreadable.

"This is Y/N," Jace said, pulling you forward. You came reluctantly, your bare feet dragging in the sand. "She saved my life. She pulled me from the water and nursed me back to health. I would not be alive without her."

The lead soldier bowed to you, respectful. "The Queen will want to thank you personally, my lady. You have done the realm a great service."

You said nothing. You only nodded, a small, stiff movement.

Jace pulled you aside while the soldiers began unloading supplies from the longboat. His hands were still shaking. His heart was pounding. He felt more alive than he had in weeks, or months, or however long it had been.

"You are coming with me," he said, the words tumbling out in a rush. "I know what you told me about your brother and the exile. But I am a prince, and my mother is the Queen. Whatever power your brother holds, it is nothing compared to the Iron Throne. We can protect you."

Your eyes widened. "Jace..."

"I mean it." He took your hands in his, squeezing tight. "You saved my life. You have been alone here for so long, and I am not going to leave you behind. Come with me to Westeros. I will keep you safe. I swear it."

For a long moment, you only looked at him. Your sea-glass eyes searched his face, looking for something he did not recognize. It might have been doubt or hesitation or some reason to refuse, then you smiled.

"Yes," you said. "I will come with you."

Jace pulled you into his arms and held you tight, his face buried in your hair, breathing in the scent of you, salt and flowers and home. "We leave at dawn," he murmured. "Tomorrow, we leave at dawn."

That night, you cooked a feast, the soldiers were camped on the beach, their tents pitched in a neat row above the tide line. They had offered to share their rations, but you had insisted, telling them in that quiet, gracious way of yours that they were guests on your island and that you would feed them.

Jace helped you carry platters of food down to the beach. There was roasted pork, crackling and golden, seasoned with herbs from your garden. There were strange fruits sliced and arranged in intricate patterns. There was fresh bread baked in the stone oven at the back of the cave, still warm and fragrant. And there was wine, more wine than Jace had ever seen in the cave, deep red wine in clay amphorae, rich and dark and potent.

"Where did you get all this?" he asked, watching you fill cup after cup for the soldiers.

You smiled, your hands steady on the amphora. "I have been saving it. For a special occasion."

The feast was a joyous affair. The soldiers laughed and sang and told Jace stories of the war, battles won and lost, allies gained and betrayed, the endless, grinding struggle for the Iron Throne. He listened with half an ear, nodding in the right places, but his attention kept drifting to you.

You moved among the soldiers like a ghost, refilling cups, offering plates of food, your smile never wavering. The men thanked you with drunken enthusiasm, their faces flushed with wine and gratitude. Jace felt a swell of pride watching you, his savior, his love, soon to be his companion in Westeros, where he would shower you with every luxury you had been denied on this lonely island.

"To the Prince!" one of the soldiers bellowed, raising his cup. "To Prince Jacaerys, returned from the dead!"

"To the Prince!" the others roared.

Jace raised his own cup and drank deep. The wine was stronger than he expected, and it went to his head almost immediately. The stars above seemed to blur and swirl. The fire on the beach danced and flickered. Your hand found his under the table, and he squeezed it tight.

Tomorrow, he thought. Tomorrow, we go home

—

He woke to sunlight and the sound of birdsong, his head pounded. His mouth was dry and sour with the aftertaste of wine. He groaned and pressed the heels of his palms against his eyes, trying to drive back the ache that throbbed behind them. How much had he drunk? He remembered the feast. He remembered the soldiers laughing, the wine flowing, your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered the fire on the beach and the stars wheeling overhead and the giddy, overwhelming relief of knowing that he was finally, finally going home.

The soldiers, Jace sat up so fast that the furs tangled around his legs and nearly sent him sprawling. The soldiers. The ship. They were leaving at dawn. He had to get up. He had to get dressed. He had to—

He stumbled out of the bed and through the winding passages of the cave, his bare feet slapping against the cold stone. The light grew brighter as he ran, golden and warm, and then he burst through the cave entrance and stopped dead at the edge of the cliff.

The beach was empty, his eyes swept the shoreline, back and forth, back and forth, searching for the tents and the longboat and the supply crates. He looked for the ship, the great Velaryon warship with its three masts and its silver seahorse banner, riding at anchor in the bay.

There was nothing there, the white sand stretched out below him, pristine and unmarked. The sea glittered in the morning sun, calm and blue and utterly empty all the way to the horizon. No ship. No sails. No sign that anyone had ever been here at all.

"What..." Jace's voice came out hoarse, cracked. He turned and ran down the path to the beach, his legs still unsteady, his heart pounding against his ribs. He reached the sand and walked through the place where the camp had been, his eyes scanning the ground for any trace of the soldiers. A footprint. A scrap of cloth. A ring of stones where the fire had burned. A spilled cup. Anything.

The sand was smooth and unblemished. The tide had come in during the night and erased whatever marks might have been left behind.

"Jace?" Your voice drifted down from the cliff above, calm and curious. "What are you doing?"

He looked up. You were standing at the mouth of the cave, barefoot, wrapped in one of your flowing dresses, your hair loose around your shoulders. The morning light caught the soft curves of your face and made your eyes gleam.

"The soldiers," Jace called up to you. "The ship. Where are they?"

You tilted your head, your brow furrowing slightly. "What soldiers?"

The question hit him like a physical blow. He stood there on the empty beach, staring up at you, waiting for you to laugh or smile or tell him it was a joke. You only looked back at him with mild, patient confusion.

"The soldiers," he repeated, his voice rising. "The Velaryon soldiers. Six of them. They came yesterday in a warship. They landed on the beach. We had a feast. You served them roast pork and wine. They were going to take us home this morning."

Your expression did not change. That small, puzzled frown remained, as though he were speaking a language you did not quite recognize.

"Jace," you said gently, "I think you must have dreamed it."

"I did not dream it." He was breathing hard now, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. "They were here. They said my mother sent them. You spoke to them. You—"

He stopped, you were walking down the path to the beach now, your bare feet moving sure and steady over the rocks. When you reached the sand, you came to stand beside him, and your hand rose to rest against his cheek.

"You had a great deal of wine last night," you said, your voice soft and soothing. "More than I have ever seen you drink. Sometimes wine can make dreams feel very real."

Jace shook his head, pulling away from your touch. "It was not a dream. They were here. They were real."

"Then where are they now?" You gestured at the empty beach, the empty sea, the empty horizon. "Where is the ship? Where are the footprints? Where is the fire? If six men camped on this beach last night, where is the evidence of it?"

The sand was smooth. The sea was empty. There was no smoke rising from the ashes of a campfire. There were no tent pegs driven into the earth. There was no ship, no longboat, no sign that anyone but the two of you had ever set foot on this island.

"I do not know," he said, and his voice sounded thin and uncertain even to his own ears. "I do not understand."

You stepped closer, and your hand found his cheek again, and this time he did not pull away. Your palm was cool against his flushed skin.

"You have been through so much," you murmured. "Your body is still healing. Your mind is still healing. Dreams and memories and wishes can all blur together. But you are here with me, and you are safe. That is what matters."

Jace stared down at the sand. His head was pounding. His thoughts were tangled, slipping over each other like stones in a landslide. He remembered the feast so clearly, the taste of the roast pork, the sound of the soldiers' laughter, the weight of your hand in his. He remembered the banner snapping in the wind, silver seahorse on sea-green. He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, the shock and relief on his weathered face.

But the beach was empty.

"Perhaps you are right," he said slowly, and the words felt like surrender. "Perhaps I dreamed it."

You smiled, and your smile was warm and gentle and full of something that might have been relief. "Come back inside. I will make you something to eat. You will feel better once you have eaten."

He let you lead him back up the path and into the cave. He let you sit him down at the stone table. He let you place a plate of fruit and fresh bread in front of him, and he ate without tasting it, his mind still chasing the fragments of the dream that had felt so real.

That was what you had called it. A dream. And perhaps you were right. Perhaps the longing for home had grown so strong that his mind had conjured a rescue where none existed. Perhaps the wine had done the rest, weaving the longing into something that felt like memory.

Perhaps.

He did not think about it for the rest of the day, it was not until late afternoon that he noticed the pigs, he was walking past the enclosure without any particular destination in mind, his feet carrying him along the familiar path, when he stopped and frowned.

The pigs had always been numerous, he had never bothered to count them exactly, but now, looking at the enclosure, he could see that there were more than there had been the day before. Many more.

The sows jostled and grunted. The piglets tumbled over each other in the dirt. They were fat, healthy animals with glossy coats and floppy ears, rooting in the churned earth of the enclosure, there were at least twice as many pigs as there had been the day before.

Jace stood at the stone wall and stared at them. The pigs stared back, their small dark eyes unblinking, he stood there for a long time.

—

Days later, Jace found the hole by accident, though later he would wonder whether anything on this island ever happened by accident at all. He had been exploring, something he did more and more often now, wandering the island's paths and cliffs and hidden coves as if searching for something he could not name. He had walked further than usual that afternoon, following a thin stream that wound through a cleft in the cliffs, its water cold and clear and tasting faintly of minerals when he cupped his hands to drink. The stream led him deeper into the interior than he had ever gone before, past stands of flowering trees whose blossoms released a sweet, drowsy perfume, past moss-covered boulders that loomed overhead like the shoulders of buried giants and that was when he saw it.

A dark opening in the rock face, half-hidden by a curtain of flowering vines that spilled down from the cliff above in cascades of white and purple. The vines were thick and tangled, but they did not quite conceal the gap behind them. An opening wide enough for a man to walk through without ducking his head.

He should not have gone in. He knew that, even as his feet carried him forward, even as his hands reached out to push the vines aside. A voice in the back of his mind, the voice that had once belonged to a prince trained in caution and suspicion, whispered that he should turn around and walk back to the sunlit meadow and forget he had ever seen this place. But that voice had grown very quiet in the months he had spent on this island, and something else had grown louder.

The darkness swallowed him whole. He stood motionless for a long moment, waiting for his eyes to adjust, one hand pressed flat against the cool stone of the wall. The passage sloped downward, the floor worn smooth by the passage of time or water or the tread of feet. He could not see more than a few feet ahead, but he could feel the space around him opening up, widening into something larger than a simple tunnel. The air was dry and still, the silence so complete that he could hear his own heartbeat thudding in his ears.

He walked deeper, the passage twisted once, then twice, then opened abruptly into a chamber so vast that Jace's footsteps echoed back to him from walls he could not see. Thin shafts of daylight pierced down through cracks in the ceiling high above, illuminating the space in pale, dusty columns that fell across the floor like the bars of a cage made of light and in those columns of light, Jace saw them.

Armor.

Dozens of sets, perhaps hundreds, arranged against the walls and stacked in corners and laid out on stone slabs that rose from the floor like altars. Breastplates and greaves and gauntlets and helms, their surfaces catching the thin light and throwing it back in dull gleams. Some were polished and gleaming, as if they had been cleaned and oiled with meticulous care. Others were rusted and crumbling, their edges flaking away into red-brown dust, their shapes barely recognizable beneath the corrosion of years or decades or centuries. Swords and axes and spears and maces, their blades dull with age and disuse, their hilts wrapped in leather that had rotted away to nothing.

And clothes, stacks and stacks of clothes, tunics and breeches and cloaks and boots and belts and gloves. They were piled against the walls in drifts that rose nearly to the ceiling, some of them neatly folded as if awaiting a return that would never come, others tossed carelessly into corners in tangled heaps of faded fabric. Some were new, the dyes still bright, the wool still soft, the linen still crisp and clean. Others were ancient and moth-eaten, their threads crumbling at the slightest touch, their colors bleached to ghostly echoes of what they had once been.

Jace stood in the center of the chamber and turned in a slow circle, his breath caught in his throat, his heart hammering against his ribs like a fist beating against a locked door. The scale of it was incomprehensible. There were so many. Too many. More than one person could ever need. More than a dozen people could ever need. More than a hundred people could ever need. This was not a collection. This was a graveyard for the belongings of the dead.

His eyes caught on a breastplate near his feet, and the world tilted sideways, it was newer than the others. Its metal still held a faint gleam beneath a thin layer of dust, and its leather straps were still supple, and on its chest, embossed in silver that caught the light like a blade, was the seahorse of House Velaryon.

He remembered the lead soldier kneeling in the sand, his weathered face breaking into shock and relief. He remembered the feast on the beach, the crackling fire, the roast pork and the wine and your hand in his beneath the table. He remembered waking to find the beach empty and the sea bare and you standing at the mouth of the cave with your head tilted and your brow furrowed, asking him what soldiers he meant, telling him it was only a dream, only a dream, nothing more than a dream.

The soldiers who had never been here. The soldiers he had only imagined. Their armor was lying at his feet.

He stumbled backward. His heel caught on a gauntlet and sent it skittering across the stone floor with a sound like a startled crab. The noise echoed through the chamber and died away into silence, and Jace stood there with his hands shaking and his mind blank with a terror so absolute that it felt almost like calm. He could not think. He could not breathe. He could not make sense of what he was seeing, and some part of him understood with terrible clarity that making sense of it would destroy everything he had built on this island. Every moment of peace. Every hour of love. Every whispered word in the darkness. All of it balanced on the edge of this pit, and if he looked down, if he truly looked, he would fall.

"What are you doing here?"

He spun around so fast that his boots skidded on the stone floor, his heart slammed against his ribs, once, twice, a frantic drumbeat of pure animal terror.. "Nothing. I was only looking, I wanted to understand—"

"You were only looking." You stepped out of the shadows and into the thin light that filtered down from the cracks in the ceiling, and the expression on your face made his stomach drop. The gentle warmth he had come to love was gone. The softness was gone. Your jaw was tight, the muscles corded beneath your skin, and your hands were clenched into fists at your sides, and your eyes were fixed on him with a glittering intensity that pinned him in place like a butterfly on a board. "At what, precisely? At the belongings of dead men? At the evidence of my sins? At the proof that I am not the gentle, lonely woman you thought you loved?"

Your hands unclenched and clenched again, the fingers curling and uncurling in a rhythm that seemed almost involuntary, as though you were strangling something invisible.

"I asked you a question, Jace." Your voice dropped, soft and dangerous. "What are you doing here?"

He should have been afraid. He was afraid. The hair on the back of his neck was standing up, and his heart was beating so hard he could feel it in his throat, and every instinct he possessed was screaming at him to run. But something else rose up inside him too, some scrap of the prince he used to be, some stubborn remnant of the boy who had faced down enemies on the battlefield and never flinched. He straightened his spine and met your eyes and refused to look away.

"Why are they here?" he asked, gesturing at the armor that surrounded them. "All of these. Dozens of sets. Hundreds, maybe. The soldiers who came for me, their armor is here. The same breastplate, the same sigil. It wasn't a dream was it? What happened to them?"

You stared at him. A muscle in your jaw twitched.

"It does not matter."

"It matters to me."

"It does not matter, Jace." Your voice was rising now, cracking at the edges, splintering into something raw and desperate. "It should not matter, Jace. Those men are gone. Let them stay gone. Let the past stay buried. We were happy. We were so happy. Why could you not leave well enough alone?"

"Because I need to know the truth."

"The truth will not make you happy. The truth will not keep you warm at night. The truth will not hold you when you wake from nightmares and tell you that everything is going to be all right."

"The truth is the truth. I deserve to know it."

You laughed, it was sharp and bitter and jagged, the laugh of someone who had been hurt too many times to believe in fairness anymore. "You sound just like them. Every single one of them. They all wanted the truth. They all thought they deserved to know. And do you know what happened when they found it?"

Jace did not answer. He did not need to answer. The armors answered for him.

"What happened to the soldiers?" he asked instead. His voice was very quiet. "The ones who came for me. The ones whose armor is lying at my feet. What did you do to them?"

Your face crumpled, the coldness shattered and the fury crumbled and underneath it was something far older and far more terrifying, a grief so immense it had calcified into rage over centuries of solitude. The tears that spilled down your cheeks were real, hot and sudden and utterly convincing.

"Why do you want to leave me?" you screamed, the sound echoed off the stone walls and came back multiplied, a chorus of accusations that battered him from every direction. Your voice was raw and ragged, shredded at the edges, and the pain in it was so enormous that Jace felt his own heart clench in response. The anger that had been building in him, the righteous fury at being lied to, began to waver. How could he be angry at someone who was in so much pain? How could he accuse someone who was so clearly suffering?

"Why do you want to leave me?" you cried again, and your voice broke on the last word. "Why do they always leave? Every single one of them, they wash up on my shore and I save them and I nurse them back to health and I give them everything I have, everything I am, and they tell me they love me, they look me in the eyes and they swear they love me, and I believe them every time, every single time I believe them because I am so desperate to be loved by someone, anyone, and then they remember. They always remember. And they always leave. They always want to go home. Why am I never enough? Why am I never enough for anyone?"

The question hung in the air, raw and bleeding. Your chest was heaving. Your hands were shaking. You looked at him with those burning eyes, and Jace felt his resolve crumbling, you were not a monster, you were wounded, a woman who had been abandoned and betrayed so many times that she had forgotten how to trust. How could he blame you for what you had done?

"I love you," he said, and his voice was shaking but he meant it with every fiber of his being. "I love you. I do. I love you more than I have ever loved anyone."

"Then why do you want to leave me?" Your voice was small now, wounded, the fury draining away to reveal the vulnerability beneath. "If you love me, why isn't that enough? Why do you need to go back? Why can't you just stay here with me? Why do you need a mother and brothers and a war and a throne? Why can you not just stay here and be mine?"

"Because I have a family." He was pleading now, hating himself for the pain he was causing you. "Because I have a mother who needs me and brothers who are waiting for me. Because there is a war, a war I was fighting, a war I was supposed to win. Because I have a duty."

"A duty." You laughed, but it was a broken sound, a laugh that was really a sob. "Duty. Honor. Family. I have heard all of this before. Every single one of them said the same thing. They had to go back. They had responsibilities. They had people who needed them. And what about me? What about what I need? I needed them. I loved them. And they left me anyway. They all left me. Just like you will leave me."

"I don't want to leave you," Jace said, and the words felt inadequate, pathetic. "I want to go home, yes. I want to see my mother. I want to protect her from the enemies who would see her dead and her throne stolen. But I want to take you with me. I want you to meet her. I want to marry you properly, before the whole court, with a septon and a cloak and vows spoken in the light of the Seven. I want to make you my queen. When I sit the Iron Throne, you will sit beside me."

He reached for you, desperate to comfort you, to wipe the tears from your cheeks. You did not pull away, but you did not lean into his touch either.

"I do not care what you did to these men," he said, his voice low and fierce. "I do not care what you have done. I love you. I love you more than I have ever loved anything in my life. I just want you to come with me. Please. Come with me."

For a long moment, you were silent, then you shook your head. Slowly. Miserably. With the exhausted certainty of someone who had heard these same promises too many times to count.

"It is not true," you whispered. "They always say this. When my brother sends them here, they always tell me they love me. They always promise they will stay. They look at me with those earnest eyes and they swear they are different from the others, and I believe them. I always believe them. Because I want to believe. Because I want so desperately for it to be true. And then they remember who they were before, and everything changes."

You pulled your hands out of his grip and wrapped your arms around yourself, your shoulders hunching inward as though you were trying to make yourself smaller, harder to hurt. Jace felt a surge of protectiveness so strong it almost knocked the breath out of him. He wanted to hold you. He wanted to shield you from everything that had ever hurt you.

"They remember their old lives," you continued, your voice barely above a whisper, "and they tell me they will save me. They tell me they will break the curse and take me away from here and marry me in a real sept with real vows. They promise me everything I have ever wanted. And for a little while I let myself hope. I let myself believe that this time will be different. This time the love will be real."

Your voice caught on the last word, splintering into something that was almost a sob. Jace felt tears prick at the corners of his own eyes. Gods, how could anyone have done this to you? How could anyone have been so cruel?

"But they never mean it," you said. "They are only saying what they think I want to hear. They are only trying to placate me, to buy themselves time, to find a way to escape. And when they try to break the curse and they fail, when they realize their love is not strong enough, when they understand that they do not really love me at all, they run. They try to leave. And I—"

You stopped. Your hands were trembling violently now, the fingers twisting together in front of you.

"What do you do?" Jace asked, though he already knew the answer. He knew it, and it horrified him, and yet somehow he could not bring himself to judge you for it. You had been hurt. You had been betrayed. You had been left alone for so long that you had forgotten what it felt like to be held. How could anyone expect you to react with grace when another man tried to abandon you?

"I do not let them leave." Your voice was barely a whisper, so quiet he had to lean closer to hear it. "They do not get to leave. They do not get to go back to their families and forget about me while I rot here alone. They stay. They stay here with me. Forever."

"The pigs," Jace said.

"They are happier as pigs," Your voice took on a defensive edge, almost childlike in its insistence. "They do not remember their old lives. They do not feel the disappointment. They do not want to leave. They are content. They have food and shelter and each other. I take care of them. I take better care of them than anyone ever took care of me." Your eyes searched his face, looking for understanding, looking for absolution. "They are better off this way. I gave them peace. I gave them a life without pain. Do you know what my brother gave me? Do you know what it feels like to be left here, alone, for centuries, with nothing but the sound of the waves and the crying of the gulls and the knowledge that no one is ever coming for you?"

Jace's throat was dry. "Why did you not do it to me?"

"Because I thought you were different." Your voice was small now, so small it was almost swallowed by the shadows of the cave. "Because when I looked at you, when I held you through the fevers and listened to you talk about your home and your family, I thought—I hoped—that you might really love me." A tear slid down your cheek, and you did not wipe it away. "I thought you would stay."

The guilt hit Jace like a physical blow. You had hoped. You had let yourself hope, despite everything, despite centuries of betrayal and abandonment, and he was about to become just another name on the long list of people who had disappointed you. He was about to leave you, just like all the others. He was about to prove that your hope had been misplaced, that love was a lie, that no one would ever truly choose you.

"I am sorry," he said, and he meant it with every part of himself. "I am so sorry. I do not want to leave you. I want to stay. I want both things. I want to go home, but I want you to come with me. Can I not have both things?"

"No one ever wants both things." You pulled your hands away, and your expression was hardening again, the vulnerability sealing itself back behind walls of old resentment. "They want to leave. They always want to leave. As soon as they remember their old lives, they want to leave. And when they realize they cannot break the curse, they run. They all run. And I have to stop them because if I do not stop them they will leave me alone again, and I cannot be alone again, Jace, I cannot, I would rather die than be alone again—"

"What curse?" Jace cut through your spiraling words, his voice urgent. "You said they could not break the curse. What curse?"

"It does not matter," you said. Your voice was empty now, drained of all the fury and grief that had filled it moments before. "You are going to leave me too. You are going to try to break the curse, and you are going to fail, because no one has ever succeeded, and then you are going to run. Just like all the others."

"Tell me what the curse is. Please. Let me help you."

You stared at him for a long, long moment. The candles flickered in their alcoves, their flames guttering in a draft he could not feel. The armor gleamed dully in the shadows, the relics of a hundred men who had stood where he was standing now and made the same promises he was making. Somewhere far away, muffled by stone and distance, the pigs grunted in their enclosure. The men who had failed. The men whose love had not been strong enough.

"My brother exiled me here," you said finally. Your voice was flat now, reciting facts rather than feelings, as though you had told this story so many times that the words had lost all meaning. "Centuries ago. So long ago that the world I came from does not exist anymore, and when I disobeyed him, when I refused to do what he asked of me, he put a curse on this island as punishment. I cannot leave. No ship will carry me. No boat will bear my weight. If I try to swim, the sea itself will rise up and drag me back to shore. I am bound here, bound to this rock, until the curse is broken or the world ends."

"How do I break it?"

You looked at him, and your eyes were ancient and exhausted and utterly without hope. Jace felt his heart twist. You had been disappointed so many times. You did not believe he could do it.

"There is a cave," you said. "Behind the waterfall on the western cliff. There is a statue inside, a statue of me carved from black stone, wrapped in chains. I cannot enter the cave. It is spelled against me." Your hand rose unconsciously to your neck, as if feeling for the links of a collar that was not there. "If the statue is broken, the curse will be lifted. The chains will fall. I will be free."

"Then I will break it."

"It is not that simple." Your voice was quiet now, almost gentle, and there was something in it that felt like a warning, a kindness, an attempt to protect him from the disappointment you were certain was coming. "Only a man who knows my true nature can destroy the statue. Only a man who has seen what I am, what I have done, every monstrous thing I have committed in my long and miserable existence, and still loves me truly. Not charmed. Not tricked. Not fogged by the magic of this island. Real love. Clear-eyed love. Love that looks at the worst of me and does not flinch." You paused. "If his love is false, if it is only gratitude or loneliness or the lingering effects of my enchantments, the statue will not break. It will not even crack. And I will know. I will know that his love was a lie."

"I am not them," he said.

"You are. You are exactly like them."

"No." He stepped forward and took your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing the tears from your cheeks. "I am not them. I am going to break the curse. I am going to set you free. I am going to take you away from this island and give you the life you deserve. I swear it."

"You cannot promise that."

"I can. I am." He pressed his forehead against yours. "I love you. I know what you are. I know what you have done. And I love you anyway. I love you not despite the worst of you but because of it. Because the worst of you was born from pain, and I want to heal that pain. I want to be the one who finally proves to you that love is real. That you are worthy of it. That you have always been worthy of it."

You let out a sound that was half laugh and half sob. "You are a fool, Jacaerys Velaryon."

"Take me to the cave behind the waterfall," he said. "Let me prove it."

"Alright," you whispered, as if you had expected him to ask. "I will take you. But do not say I did not warn you."

You turned and walked out of the cave, and Jace followed you, his heart pounding and his mind clear and his love for you burning in his chest like a flame that no wind could extinguish. He was going to save you. He was going to be the one. He was going to prove that love was stronger than any curse, stronger than any magic, stronger than centuries of solitude and betrayal.

He had to be the one. The alternative was unthinkable.

—

The walk was silent, you led him along the familiar path, the meadow with its strange flowers swaying in the breeze, the grove of fruit trees with their golden bounty hanging heavy from the branches, the rocky outcropping that overlooked the western shore where the sea stretched out blue and endless and utterly indifferent to what was about to happen. The waterfall was roaring louder than usual, or perhaps it only seemed that way. Perhaps it was the blood pounding in his ears. Perhaps it was the weight of what he was about to do pressing down on him like a physical thing, a stone laid across his chest that made every breath feel shallow and insufficient.

You stopped at the edge of the pool, where the water churned white with the endless cascade. Your face was pale. Your hands were shaking at your sides, the fingers twisting together in that nervous gesture he had come to recognize, the one that always made him want to pull you into his arms and promise you that everything would be alright.

"There," you said, pointing, Jace squinted through the spray. Behind the curtain of falling water, barely visible through the silver torrent, was a dark opening in the rock face. A cave mouth, smaller than the one you lived in, half-hidden by the cascade. It looked like something that did not want to be found.

"I cannot enter," you said, and your voice was quiet, almost reverent. "The spell prevents me. The moment I step through the water, I am pushed back. It burns." You wrapped your arms around yourself, your fingers digging into the flesh of your upper arms. The gesture was meant to look vulnerable, meant to make him feel protective. It worked. "You have to go alone."

Jace nodded. He had expected this. Of course he had expected this. The hero always had to face the trial alone. That was how these stories went.

"I will come back," he said.

You did not answer. Your eyes were fixed on the waterfall, dark and terrified, and your lower lip trembled just slightly, just enough for him to notice.

"Hey." He touched your chin, turning your face toward him. Your skin was cold beneath his fingers. "I will come back. I promise."

"Everyone promises." Your voice was barely a whisper, and there was something in it that snagged at his heart like a fishhook. "Everyone who has ever stood on this shore has promised to come back."

"I am not everyone."

He kissed your lips and for just a moment he felt something move beneath the surface. A flicker. A pulse. Something that was not quite human. Then the moment passed, and you were just you again, fragile and frightened and looking at him with those sea-glass eyes that held all the sadness in the world.

He turned away before he could lose his nerve. He dove into the pool, and the water closed over his head like a fist.

The cold was shocking. It was more than cold. It was the absence of warmth, the absence of life, a cold that sank into his bones and wrapped around his heart and squeezed. He surfaced gasping, his breath torn from his lungs in a ragged gasp, and swam toward the waterfall with strong, desperate strokes. The roar grew louder as he approached, a wall of sound that pressed against his eardrums until he could hear nothing else. The spray blinded him, stinging his eyes, filling his mouth with the taste of minerals and stone. The current tried to push him back, tried to shove him away from the cave entrance as if the water itself did not want him to pass.

But he kept swimming. He had promised. He had promised he would come back, he reached the rock face and pulled himself up onto a narrow ledge, slick with moss and running water, his fingers scrabbling for purchase on the wet stone. The cave entrance yawned before him, dark and silent and somehow hungry, as if the darkness itself was waiting for him to step inside. He looked back once. You were still standing at the edge of the pool, a pale figure in a pale dress, your hands pressed to your mouth. You looked like a ghost. You looked like a memory of someone who had died a long time ago.

Then he turned and walked into the darkness.

—

The cave was small, smaller than he had expected. The passage was short, barely twenty paces, the walls rough and wet beneath his trailing fingers, the floor sloping downward into the heart of the rock. The roar of the waterfall faded behind him, muffled by the stone, until the only sound was the drip of water and the soft scuff of his bare feet on the rock and the steady, insistent pounding of his own heart.

The passage opened into a round chamber no larger than your bedchamber back in the main cave. The walls were smooth and wet, glistening with moisture, catching the light and throwing it back in a thousand tiny reflections. The only illumination came from somewhere above, a thin shaft of daylight that pierced through a crack in the rock and fell in a single golden beam onto the center of the chamber. It was like something out of a sept, that beam of light. It was like the light that fell on an altar, or a tomb, or a place where something sacred had been buried and forgotten.

And in the center of the chamber was the statue.

It was you, smooth and luminous, carved with such skill that it seemed almost alive. The surface of the stone had been polished to a soft gleam, catching the golden light and holding it, and the details were so fine that Jace could see the individual strands of hair. The statue knelt on a stone pedestal, its head bowed in an attitude of submission or prayer, its face frozen in an expression of such profound sorrow that Jace felt his chest tighten just looking at it. The eyes were closed. The lips were slightly parted, as if caught in the middle of a sigh. The shoulders were hunched forward, the spine curved, every line of the body speaking of exhaustion and despair and the weight of an eternity spent alone.

And the hands, the statue's hands were raised in front of its chest, palms facing each other, fingers slightly curled as if holding something invisible. And around those marble wrists, coiled so tightly they seemed to be part of the stone itself, were two snakes.

No. Not snakes. Bracelets. Golden bracelets, each one shaped like a serpent eating its own tail. But the serpents were not connected to each other. They were separate, independent, each one locked around a single wrist, each one devouring itself in an endless cycle of consumption and renewal. Their golden eyes gleamed in the shaft of daylight, bright and watchful and aware. Their scales were so finely detailed that Jace could count every one, each scale overlapping the next in perfect, reptilian precision. Their jaws were clamped tight around their own tails, and their bodies were wound around the marble wrists in coils that looked tight enough to bruise.

They were not chains. Not exactly. They were something worse. They were a trap that could not be escaped because there was nothing to break. The snakes held her wrists, and her wrists held the snakes, and neither could let go, and the whole thing was a perfect, closed loop of imprisonment that had no beginning and no end.

Jace stood in the darkness at the edge of the chamber, staring at the statue. His heart was pounding so hard he could feel it in his throat, in his temples, in the tips of his fingers. His hands were slick with water and sweat. The marble figure knelt in its beam of light, motionless and patient, and the golden snakes watched him with their glittering eyes, and the silence was so complete that he could hear the blood rushing through his own veins.

He bent down and picked up a rock from the floor of the cave. It was heavy, sharp-edged, big enough to do damage. He turned it over in his hands, testing its weight, feeling the rough edges bite into his palm. Break the statue. Break the curse. Simple. You had told him what to do. You had told him it was simple.

He took a step toward the pedestal.

"Are you quite certain about this?"

Jace froze, the voice was male. Low and smooth and echoing, seeming to come from everywhere and nowhere at once. It bounced off the wet stone walls, slid through the darkness, coiled around him like smoke, like water, like something that had been waiting in the shadows for a very long time. It was not a human voice. It was too resonant for that, too layered, as if many voices were speaking at once in perfect, dissonant harmony.

"Who is there?" Jace demanded. His voice sounded too loud in the silence, too harsh, too frightened. He hated how frightened he sounded.

No answer. Just the dripping of water. The distant, muffled roar of the falls.

"You should think very carefully before you do something you will regret for the rest of your life. Which, I should warn you, may not be very long."

Jace spun around, the rock raised like a weapon. The chamber was empty. The passage behind him was empty. The shadows pressed against the walls, still and silent and utterly unoccupied.

"I said who is there?"

"A friend." The voice was almost gentle now, almost kind. It was the voice of a father speaking to a wayward son, a mentor guiding a confused student. "Someone who does not want to see you make a mistake you cannot undo. Someone who has watched this same scene play out more times than I can count, and who is very, very tired of seeing young men throw their lives away."

Jace's grip tightened on the rock. The edges cut into his palm, grounding him. "Show yourself."

"I cannot. I am not really here. I am just a voice in the dark. A warning. A kindness, if you will let me be." The voice paused, and when it spoke again, it was softer. Sadder. "I am the only person on this island who is actually trying to help you, Jacaerys."

"Don't listen to it," Jace muttered to himself. He turned back toward the statue. "It's just another part of the curse. It's trying to stop you. She said there would be things trying to stop you."

"Is that what she told you?" The voice sounded amused now, deeply and darkly amused. "That the curse is the villain? That she is the victim? How very convenient for her. How very convenient that she has a story that makes her the helpless damsel and everyone else the monster. She tells that story very well. She has had centuries of practice."

Jace ignored it. He stepped closer to the pedestal. The marble woman knelt in her beam of light, motionless and sorrowful. The golden snakes glinted.

"She is very beautiful, isn't she?" the voice continued, and now it was almost conversational, almost casual, as if they were two old friends discussing the weather. "Of course she is. She's had centuries to perfect the act. The dresses. The smiles. The way she looks at you like you are the only man in the world, like you are the answer to every prayer she has ever whispered into the darkness. It is all very convincing. It is meant to be. She has been refining it for longer than your entire bloodline has existed."

"You do not know anything about her."

"I know everything about her." The voice was sharper now, the amusement draining away to reveal something harder underneath. "I know what she is. I know what she has done. I know how many men have stood exactly where you are standing now, holding a rock just like that one, thinking they were going to be the one. The special one. The one whose love was strong enough." A pause, heavy with meaning. "Do you know how many of them succeeded?"

Jace did not answer.

"None. Not one. In all the centuries she has been trapped on this island, not a single man has broken that statue. Do you know why? Because it cannot be broken. It is a trap. It is the bait, and you are the fish, and you are swimming toward it with your mouth wide open."

"You are lying." Jace's voice was shaking now. He hated that it was shaking. "You are just another part of the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."

"I am trying to stop you from destroying yourself." The voice was closer now, seeming to come from just behind his left shoulder. He spun around, but there was nothing there. Only shadows. Only the dripping of water. "Let me ask you something, Jacaerys. Can you remember your mother's name?"

He opened his mouth but nothing came out, the name was gone. It had been there a moment ago, he was sure of it. He could see her face, silver hair and sad eyes, could feel the shape of her in his memory. But the name, the name would not come.

"Your brothers," the voice continued, relentless and calm. "How many brothers do you have? What are their names?"

"I have brothers. I know I have brothers." His voice sounded desperate, even to his own ears. "Luke-Lucerys. And the others. The little ones."

"You are reciting words. You are not remembering. She has taken them from you, piece by piece, day by day. She has been stealing your memories since the moment you arrived. The food she feeds you. The wine she pours you. The herbs she puts in your medicine. They do not just heal your wounds. They erase you. They hollow you out. They make room for her."

Jace's mind was blank. Empty. There was nothing there but fog, thick and white and impenetrable, where his memories should have been.

"She has taken them from you," the voice said, and now it was almost gentle again, almost pitying. "Piece by piece. Day by day. Every moment you spend in her presence, she is stealing more of who you are. Your family. Your home. Your past. Your very self. And you call that love? You think that is what love looks like?"

"She saved my life."

"She kept you alive because she needed you. There is a difference. She needs a man to break the curse. She always needs a man to break the curse. That is how it works. That is how it has always worked. She lures them in with her beauty and her vulnerability and her sad, sad story, and she makes them love her, and then she sends them here to die. Because no one can break the curse. No one. The statue does not break. It has never broken. And when the man fails, when he realizes his love is not strong enough, she has her excuse. She was right all along. No one really loves her. So she turns them into pigs and waits for the next shipwreck, the next castaway, the next fool who will believe her lies."

He kept going "You think that is love?" The voice laughed, a soft and pitying laugh. "You think a woman who erases your past and steals your future and traps you on an island where you can never leave loves you? You think any of this is real?"

"I love her." Jace's voice cracked. "I know I love her. That is real. Whatever else she has done, my love for her is real."

"Oh, it feels real. I am sure it does. But do you know why it feels real?" The voice paused, letting the question hang in the darkness. "Because she makes it feel real. That is what she does. That is what the magic does. It wraps around your mind and makes you think you are feeling something true. But it is not true, Jacaerys. It is a trick. A trap. You have been ensnared since the moment you opened your eyes in that candlelit room and saw her kneeling beside your bed like a worried bride."

Jace's arm was lowering. The rock felt heavier now, so heavy he could barely hold it. His hands were shaking. His whole body was shaking.

"She told me you would say things like this," he said, but his voice was weak. Uncertain. "She told me the curse would try to stop me. She warned me there would be voices."

"The curse is not stopping you. I am not the curse. I am the only thing standing between you and an eternity of rooting in the dirt with all the other men who believed her lies." The voice was right next to his ear now, so close he could feel the cold breath of it against his skin. "Do you want to know the real story, Jacaerys? Do you want to know who she really is?"

He did not answer. He did not want to know. He wanted to cover his ears and run back through the waterfall and hold you in his arms and forget this voice had ever spoken to him. But his feet would not move. His body would not obey him.

"She is not a victim," the voice whispered. "She is not a lonely woman trapped by a cruel brother. That is a story she invented centuries ago because it makes men feel protective. It makes them feel noble. It makes them want to save her. The truth is much simpler, and much uglier. She is a goddess, a thing that was worshipped before your ancestors crawled out of the mud. And she was imprisoned here not as punishment, but as containment. Because she is dangerous. Because she feeds on devotion the way a spider feeds on flies."

"You are lying."

"Am I? If you break that statue," the voice said, "she will be free. And the moment she is free, she will have no more use for you. Her love for you, such as it is, will vanish. It is not real love, Jacaerys. It is bait. It is a lure. It is the promise of everything you have ever wanted, dangled in front of you to make you do what she needs. And once you have done it, once you have served your purpose, she will discard you like all the others."

"Stop." Jace's voice cracked on the word.

"That is the part she did not tell you, is it not? She did not tell you that her love is conditional. She did not tell you that it lasts only as long as she is trapped. The moment she is free, the magic breaks both ways. The chains fall from her wrists, and her love for you falls with them."

"You are lying." Jace's voice was a raw whisper, barely audible over the distant roar of the waterfall. "You are the curse. You are trying to stop me from freeing her."

"She told every man before you the exact same story. Word for word. The cruel brother. The lonely exile. The curse that can only be broken by true love. She told it to the knight in rusted armor whose bones are rotting in that cave. She told it to the merchant captain whose shield is propped against the wall. And you are just the latest audience."

"Stop."

"She does not love you. She cannot love you. She is not capable of love. She is capable of hunger, and she calls it love because that is what makes men stay. But it is not love. It has never been love. It is just need. Just appetite. Just the endless, grinding loneliness of a creature that consumes everything it touches and is still never full."

Jace opened his eyes. The statue knelt in its beam of light. The golden snakes watched him with their glittering, knowing eyes. The marble face was frozen in its expression of eternal sorrow.

What if the voice was right?

What if none of it was real?

What if he broke the statue, and your love disappeared, and he spent the rest of his life chasing a ghost?

What if he was just the next fool in line?

"Go back," the voice whispered. "Go back to the beach. Build your boat. Leave this place while you still can. While you still remember enough of yourself to want to leave. She will try to stop you. She will cry and plead and tell you she loves you. But it will be a lie. It has always been a lie. Go back, Jacaerys. Go home. Save yourself."

—

You had been waiting for hours. You stood at the edge of the pool, your bare feet sinking into the damp sand, your eyes fixed on the curtain of falling water. The roar of the waterfall filled your ears until you could hear nothing else, but you were listening for something beneath the roar. A shout. A crash. The sound of stone breaking. The sound of a man drowning.

Anything. Please, anything.

Jace surfaced at the edge of the pool, gasping, his dark hair plastered to his forehead, his skin slick with water and gleaming in the sunlight. He pulled himself onto the sand, his chest heaving, his arms trembling with exhaustion, and for a moment he just knelt there on his hands and knees, catching his breath, water streaming from his body in rivulets. You just stared at him, searching his face for some sign of what had happened, some clue in the set of his jaw or the light in his eyes. Was the curse broken? Had he succeeded? Had he been the one, the only one, the man whose love was finally strong enough?

"I did it," he said, and his voice was warm and triumphant and full of a joy you had never heard from him before. "I broke the curse."

You stumbled forward, your legs barely supporting you, your hands reaching for him before your mind had fully registered what he had said. "You—you did? It is broken? I am free?"

"You are free." He rose to his feet, still smiling, and opened his arms to you. "You are free, Y/N. We can leave. Together. Just like I promised."

A sob tore from your throat, raw and jagged and utterly involuntary. You threw yourself into his arms, your body shaking, tears streaming down your face in hot, messy rivulets. He caught you and held you tight, his hands warm on your back, his lips pressing kisses to your hair, your temple, your cheek, his voice murmuring reassurances that you could barely hear over the pounding of your own heart.

"I love you," you gasped, the words tumbling out between sobs, unstoppable, irrepressible. "I love you, I love you, I love you—"

"I love you too." His voice was soft. Tender. Everything you had ever wanted to hear. "I told you I would save you. I told you I was different. I told you I was not like the others."

He kissed you, it was a deep kiss, a passionate kiss, the kind of kiss that spoke of relief and joy and a future finally within reach. You melted into him, your body pressing against his, your hands sliding up his chest, his shoulders, his neck, tangling in his wet hair. The waterfall roared behind you, but it sounded different now, less like a threat and more like applause. The sun was warm on your skin, warmer than it had ever been. You were free. You were finally, impossibly free. After centuries of solitude, centuries of hoping and losing and hoping again, someone had finally loved you enough.

You did not notice anything until you felt the cold metal snap shut against your skin, you tore away from him, stumbling backward, your hand flying to your wrist. Something was there. Something heavy and cold and horribly, sickeningly familiar. You looked down, and the world stopped.

A golden snake. Coiled around your forearm, its tail clamped in its own jaws, its scales gleaming in the sunlight with a wet, organic sheen. Its eyes were bright and watchful and alive. It was warm against your skin, warm like something that had a heartbeat, warm like something that was feeding.

Identical to the ones in the cave. Identical to the ones that had bound the statue for centuries, the statue that was supposed to be destroyed, the statue that he had told you he had broken.

But the statue was not destroyed. You knew that now with a cold, creeping certainty. He had not broken it. He had done something else. Something worse.

"What—" Your voice came out strangled, barely a whisper, the words catching in your throat like bones. "What is this?"

Jace was still standing by the water's edge. His smile was gone. His face had changed, shifted into something you did not recognize. The warmth in his eyes had drained away, replaced by something flat and cold and terribly, terribly calm. He looked at you the way a scholar might look at a pinned insect, curious and detached and utterly without feeling.

He raised his own arm.

The matching snake was coiled around his wrist. Twin to yours. Identical in every detail, from the curve of the scales to the glint of the golden eyes. Linked by nothing visible. Linked all the same. You could feel it, the connection between them, an invisible chain that stretched from your wrist to his and bound you together tighter than any iron ever could.

"I could not break the curse," he said. His voice was calm. Too calm. The voice of a man who had made a decision and was at peace with it. "The statue would not break. I struck it with the rock, and the rock shattered. I struck it with my fists, and my knuckles bled. I threw myself against it, and it did not even crack." He paused, his dark eyes fixed on yours, unblinking. "The voice, your brother, he told me the truth. He told me what you really are. He told me what you have done. He told me what you would do to me the moment you were free."

"No." You shook your head, backing away from him. Your wrist was burning where the snake touched your skin, a cold fire that spread up your arm and into your chest. "No, Jace, whatever he told you, it is a lie. It is always a lie. He is trying to trap you, he is trying to turn you against me—"

"Is it a lie?" He tilted his head, regarding you with that terrible calm. "He told me the curse made me love you. He told me you have been feeding on my devotion since the moment I opened my eyes. He told me you would leave me the instant you were free."

"That is not true!" You were screaming now, your voice raw and cracking. "I love you! I have never loved anyone the way I love you! You have to believe me!"

"Then why can I not remember my mother's name?" His voice cracked on the word mother, just slightly, and beneath the coldness you saw something flicker. Something wounded. Something that still hurt. "Why can I not remember my brothers' faces? Why did I wake up this morning and realize that I could not recall the sound of my father's voice, or the color of my brother's eyes, or the name of the dragon I rode into battle? You took everything from me. Everything I was. Everything I loved. You hollowed me out and filled me with yourself, and you expected me to believe it was love?"

"I did not mean to!" You were sobbing now, the tears hot and bitter on your cheeks. "I did not want to take your memories, i loved you so much i did not want you to leave me."

"You loved being loved." His voice was flat. Final. "There is a difference."

You stared at him. Your chest was heaving. Your wrist was throbbing, the golden snake pulsing against your skin like a second heartbeat. You could feel it now, the thing that bound you together. It was not just a chain. It was a tether. A leash.

"The statue forced you to have a physical body," Jace said, and his voice had shifted again, becoming almost conversational. Almost pleasant. "You are not mortal. You are not human something that was bound to this island and trapped in the stone. The chains kept you here. The statue kept you solid. Touchable. Real." He paused. "Without the statue, you would have no body. You would be nothing but mist and memory. Is that not what your brother wanted? To keep you contained? To keep you in a form that could touch and taste and take?"

You did not answer. You could not answer. Your throat had closed around the words.

"I could not break the curse," Jace said, and he took a step toward you, his bare feet silent on the sand. "I could not destroy the statue. But I could transfer it. I could take the chains off the stone and put them onto something else. Something living. Something that could carry them." He raised his arm again, showing you the snake coiled around his wrist, and his smile returned. It was not a kind smile. "You are not bound to the island anymore. You are bound to me."

The world tilted. The roar of the waterfall seemed to fade, replaced by a high, thin ringing in your ears. The sun was too bright. The sand was too soft. The golden snake was too warm against your skin.

"You—" Your voice would not work. "You did not—"

"I did." He was still calm. Still cold. Still looking at you with those eyes that used to be so full of love. "The voice told me it was the only way. The only way to make sure you could not leave me. The only way to make sure your love was real. The only way to be certain that when I woke up tomorrow, you would still be there, and the day after that, and the day after that."

"You trapped me."

He laughed. It was a soft laugh, a quiet laugh, but there was nothing warm in it. "I freed you. You can leave the island now. The chains that bound you to this rock are gone. You can walk onto a ship and sail away and see the world again. Is that not what you wanted? Is that not what you have been begging me for since the moment we met?"

"You bound me to you!"

"And you bound me to you first." His voice sharpened, the calm cracking for just a moment to reveal the fury underneath. "You made me love you. You made me forget my own mother's name. You drugged my food and whispered in my ear and wrapped yourself around my mind so tightly I could not tell where you ended and I began. You trapped me on this island long before I ever trapped you. The only difference is that my chains were made of kisses and lies, and yours are made of gold."

"I loved you!" The words tore from your throat, raw and ragged. "I loved you! Everything I did, I did because I loved you!"

"You made me forget my mother's name," he said again, and his voice was quieter now, almost sad. "Do you understand what that means? Do you understand what you took from me? She is out there somewhere, fighting a war, grieving a son she believes is dead, and I cannot remember her name. I cannot remember her face. I know I love her. I know I owe her everything. But when I try to picture her, there is nothing there. Just fog. Just you."

You opened your mouth, but no words came. What could you possibly say? What defense could you offer that would not sound hollow and selfish and monstrous?

"You stole my memories and drugged my food and lied to me for months," Jace continued, and now he was walking toward you, closing the distance between you with slow, deliberate steps. "You let me believe I was going home. You let me build a boat I was never going to finish. You let me dream of a future that did not exist. And when I found out the truth, when I confronted you in that cave full of dead men's armor, what did you do? Did you apologize? Did you offer to help me leave? No. You cried. You made yourself the victim. You told me how lonely you were, how sad you were, how much you had suffered. You made me comfort you. You made me feel guilty for discovering your lies."

He stopped in front of you, close enough that you could feel the heat of his body, close enough that you could see the pulse beating in his throat. "And I did feel guilty," he said. "I felt so guilty that I almost forgot what you had done. I almost let myself believe that you were the victim. That I was the one who had wronged you by wanting to go home. That is how good you are at this. That is how deep your hooks go."

"Please." Your voice was barely a whisper now. "Please, Jace, I am sorry. I am so sorry. I never meant to hurt you. I only wanted to be loved. I only wanted—"

"I know what you wanted." He reached up and touched your face, his fingers gentle against your tear-streaked cheek. The gesture was almost tender. Almost loving. It made your skin crawl. "You wanted someone to stay. You wanted someone to choose you. And now someone has. I have chosen you. I have chosen you over my family, over my throne, over my memories, over everything I ever was. I have given up my entire life to be with you. Are you not happy? Is this not what you wanted?"

"You have made me your prisoner."

"I have made you my equal." His thumb traced the curve of your cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "We are connected now. Bound together. What happens to one of us happens to the other. If you leave, I will feel it. If you try to run, I will know. And if you try to hurt me—" He shrugged. "The snakes will not let you. They protect what they hold. That is what the voice told me."

"The voice. He told you to do this?"

"He gave me a choice. Break the statue, free you, and watch you leave me the moment we set foot on the mainland. Or bind you to me, keep you close, and never wonder again whether your love was real." His smile returned, and it was the saddest smile you had ever seen. "It was not a difficult choice. I love you. I cannot lose you. So I made sure I would never have to."

You stared at him. The man you loved. The man who had just destroyed you. The man who had looked at your chains and decided to put them on himself rather than break them, because he could not bear the thought of you walking free.

"This is not love," you whispered. "This is possession."

"Is there a difference?" He tilted his head, his dark eyes glittering. "You tell me. You have been doing this for centuries. You tell me where love ends and possession begins. You tell me whether what you felt for me was really love, or just the desperate hunger of a lonely creature who needed someone, anyone, to fill the void. You tell me whether I am any different from you, or whether I am just the first man who was willing to sink to your level."

You opened your mouth. Closed it. The words would not come.

"Exactly," Jace said. "You cannot tell me. Because you do not know either. Because you have been confusing love and hunger for so long that you cannot tell them apart anymore. And now I am the same. You have made me the same." He leaned closer, his lips brushing your ear. "We are equals now. Partners. Two monsters bound together for eternity. Is that not romantic? Is that not what you always wanted? Someone who would never leave you, never abandon you, never choose anything over you?"

"You are insane," you breathed.

"I am what you made me." He pulled back and looked into your eyes, and his expression was unreadable. "You wanted me to stay. I am staying. You wanted me to love you. I love you. You wanted me to be different from the others. I am different. I am the one who did not run. I am the one who looked at the chains and chose to wear them. I am the one who gave up everything to be with you." He cupped your face in both hands, gentle and terrible and utterly inescapable. "Why are you not happy? If you really loved me, you would be happy. This is what you wanted. This is what you have been asking for since the moment we met. Someone who would stay. Someone who would choose you. Someone who would never leave."

He kissed your forehead, and his lips were warm, and the golden snake pulsed against your wrist like a second heart.

"I am going to build us a boat," he said. "A real one this time. One that can carry us both back to Westeros. And you are going to meet my mother, and I am going to take back my throne, and you are going to be my queen. Just like I promised. Just like we planned. The only difference is that now I know you will not leave me. Now I know your love is real. Because it has to be. Because you have no choice." He pulled back and smiled, and his smile was beautiful and broken and utterly terrifying. "You are free now, Y/N. Free from the island. Free from your brother's curse. Free from the statue and the chains and the centuries of solitude. You can go anywhere you want. You can do anything you want. The whole world is open to you." He took your hand, the one with the golden snake coiled around the wrist, and pressed it to his chest, over his heart. "As long as you never leave my side."

You looked down at the snake. At his hand holding yours. At the invisible chain that stretched between you, unbreakable and eternal.

"You are a monster," you whispered.

Jace smiled. "Now you know how it feels."

[tshyn]

every night is fanfic night if you're a whore like me

[b44byfr0g]

“Owww, kinktober is over 😔😔😔”

AS IF YOU DIDN’T READ SMUT ALL YEAR ROUND, YOU WHOREEEEEE

[slavery]

[macbethz]

Fuck I’m at a fencing tournament and literally a minute after I reblogged this my dad told me that he talked to the point people and I’m probably going to win a medal.

[seananmcguire]

BURN BAGEL BURN

[gothiccharmschool]

OH WHY NOT?

[harukami]

I need to follow up to say I reblogged this last night, and this morning I got some of the best news of my life, like, a life dream come true news thing.

Bagel what are your powers

[acabosetotal]

FUCK, I though it was just another lucky meme but LISTEN. Since a week ago I was waiting a phone call to confirm me if I got a job or not in my university. I reblogged this yesterday’s night “just for fun and because I don’t want any bagel to be mad with me”, and today’s afternoon, while I was losing my time as always, the professor I was supposed to work with called me and asked me for my personal information to start working with her.

THE BAGEL POWERS ARE WAY TOO MUCH FOR THIS WORLD

[token-white-friend]

I GOT A JOB THE DAY AFTER MY QUEUE POSTED THIS THE FIRST TIME AND I JUST REALIZED IT WHEN I SAW IT AGAIN HOLY GOD

[noodle-dragon]

The bagel hasn’t let me down yet!

[tentacles-and-coffee]

Let’s see what you can do bagel

[lapsangsouchong52]

Why the heck not. Best case scenario? Good news. Worst case scenario? Followers see a weird bagel pic. 🙂

[hiddinginmyroom]

me with you guys (yes you) simping over hot men

[moth1ka]

Me after clicking a p link thinking it was a fic rec.

Jumpscare.

[queen-mihai]

It's Juneteenth yall. And I'm not letting this day go unmarked.

Black people fight for everybody. We stand in solidarity with women, lgbt people, poor people all over the world of every skin color and background. Every religion and nationality.

Today, stand with us. Be with us. Tell a black person you love them. Hug a black person (with consent). Ask that hot black girl out today. Make a black person smile. Black lives matter to everybody and you matter to us.

Stand with us on Juneteenth like we stand with you all year round, and I hope a happy Pride month continues for all of us

💝

[queen-mihai]

Obligatory self reblog because Tumblr doesn't ever let anybody see my stuff unless I literally post it repeatedly

[queen-mihai]

I'd love if you'd reblog this and keep it moving, with love

[mysticsongs]

VIGGO MORTENSEN as ARAGORN The Lord of the Rings: The Two Towers (2002) dir. Peter Jackson

[lottie-starling]

Starving Faithful

Time Princess - Shadows of London

7 chapters so far - WIP, actively being written

An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works

In this story, we revisit the events of Shadows of London from the points of view of Edward Grey and Vincent Savile.

The dynamic between a vampire and a hunter is always compelling to me - so I wanted to explore the two characters in a bit more depth, and see what might happen if they interacted more between the night at the theatre and the showdown in the graveyard.

This work will refer to canon events and conversations... until it doesn't. There is some significant canon divergence largely because I started writing this before I knew what Ch 2 and 3 included, and by the time I'd caught up I was... not happy with the directions things took.

Additionally - being a Brit who lives close to London, with friends and relatives who've lived there; I have renamed certain things from canon to be more accurate; and I have also fleshed out certain locations. You can find any changes in the author notes in each chapter - as well as any tidbits of information.

I really hope you enjoy!

[wallflowerwithessays]

tired law professor core:

(ignore the fact i added a green board with mathematical lessons chalked on. i couldn't find anything else that suits him because i think he is the most annoying old-school professor on campus that would insist on traditional teaching modes even if the white chalk smudges on his suit. (but then i see him taking off his blazer and rolling his sleeves up to his forearms) he feels more emotion and control in aggressively writing on the board than in sharpie pens. i dont think he particularly cares if it fucks up his leather shoes tho as long as his students UNDERSTAND the material.)

chalk tosser? indirectly. He'd make someone else do it. Especially if the student is sleeping his class. (At the same time I don't think anyone really can...primarily because i think he'd actually be an amazing lecturer and an admirable educator but also REALLY intense instead of sleeping you'd just want to drop the class.)

[voldemortcest]

irritates me to no extent when ppl make fun of snake-like voldemort and give him ridiculous nicknames on my blog like no this is not a safe space for you to hate on my man bc it’s still tom irregardless of his looks

[inthedepthofsoul]

Who made the Dark Lord angry?

[fawningfay]

I’m #wet

[viperify]

Tom Riddle who eats you out immediately after he came inside—just to spit his cum back into your mouth and watch you swallow greedily :3

[voldemortcest]

❝𝐒𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐅𝐀𝐋𝐋❞

───⟢ tom m. riddle x reader

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.

You smiled dreamily.

Tom was right.

You had seen the stars tonight.

And they were beautiful.

[eternallyniah]

maybe i'm just overly horny

[th3m3rcurygirl]

When my tumblr decides to randomly refresh and I lose the most peak fanfic of all time

[noonecareslol]

When it hits 9 pm and I pull out this combo:

Ps: I have severe writers block. Help