Goofy ass thought but it possesses me: huffing and puffing your cheeks out in the nest or poly au or wherever bc sometimes you just wanna purr back at BB and you can't đŠđ
you try so hard. puffing your cheeks out and making this low rumbling sound in the back of your throat that sounds absolutely nothing like a purr, and everything like a small engine failing to start. your face is scrunched. you're concentrating. you're giving it everything you have and the result is a noise that a generous person might describe as a hum and a more honest person would describe as a broken refrigerator.
bb goes still. head tilted. eyes wide. processing.
and then the grin splits his face so wide the bobby-suit nearly cracks and he's on you. both hands on your cheeks, squishing your still-puffed face, pressing kisses to your forehead, your nose, your scrunched-up eyes. âyou're trying to purr,â he says, breathless with delight. âyou'reâoh, my love is trying to communicate with meââ
âi'm not trying toâit's justâI wanted toââ
he doesn't hear you. he's too busy smothering your entire face with kisses, cupping your puffed cheeks in his palms and pressing his forehead to yours, the purr rolling out of him is so loud and so happy it vibrates against skin. because you tried. you tried to speak his language. you sat in the nest and puffed your cheeks out like a chipmunk and made a noise for him. the cuteness aggression is hitting him so hard he might actually bite you.
he does bite you. your cheek. gently. then kisses the spot. then bites the other one.
you never live it down. you do it again next week because his reaction is worth the humiliation. every single time.
toji fucking you for so long that your poor pussy is a fucking mess. folds puffy, clit swollen, a combination of your juices and his sliding down between your thighs and onto the towel he has under you. you canât even bring yourself to hold onto him anymore because all of your limbs are numb.
your headâs a fucking mess too; your five senses have been dulled down to nothing but the feel of his fat cock sliding in and out of you with wet, sloppy plaps.
youâd think that heâd at least have the decency to try and orient you or hold your hands, but heâs a mess too. pussydrunk. heâs watching the way your pussy swallows him up with each thrust, your folds wrapping around his length and sucking him in deeper. little sprays of fluid come out of you when he drives inside too fast, and if he goes too slow, your pussy flutters around him so pretty. he canât decide which he likes better.
âyou like that dick?â he grunts thoughtlessly, moving one hand off your thigh in between your legs instead so he can rub harsh circles onto your clit. âyou like that dick baby? i think she likes it.â
âmnghâŚw-who?â you babble, bucking your hips into his hand while also fucking yourself onto him, chasing your fast approaching orgasm.
âyour pussy. fuck, she loves it. look how well sheâs taking me.â
you cry out and hook your legs around his waist, knowing that youâre almost there and that you want him to empty his load into you. nowhere else is satisfactory. âto-jiiiiiâ you slur, eyes rolling back into your head when he curves his body inward to drive impossibly deeper inside you, angling his cock to hit that sweet spot on your frontal wall. â âm cumming!â
tojiâs face scrunches up. he resorts to that fast pace that he was stuck on earlier, and pounds into you hard and fast, his curved length battering your soft insides with each wet thrust. he slams his hips into yours one more time, pushing his thumb against your bundle of nerves while your pussy hugs his cock, milking the cum straight out of him while you squirt on his dick.
the two of you let out the most vulgar of moans as he cums with you, emptying his heavy, thick load deep into your womb. his body collapses on top of yours while he keeps rocking his cock into you, making sure no part of your pretty pussy goes untouched by his cum.
Youâre humanâat least. Cursed with immortality and one goalâto die. Youâve tried every method imaginableâuntil you meet him.
The Angel Devil.
Would he be the one to finally fulfill your death wish?
AUTHORS NOTE: This is a draft, and I havenât edited this yet so excuse for any errors. Enjoy!
âDonât,â he warned, voice low. âYouâll die if you touch me.â
He was sitting on the couch when you swung a leg over him, settling into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. The room seemed to shrink with the movementâair thinning, light softening. That look in your eyes wasnât simple defiance; it was something wilder, hungrier. The kind of glint that made Angel realize you werenât bluffing.
âThen tell me something,â you murmured, leaning close enough that your breath stirred his hair. âIf I touched you first⌠would your lifespan drain, too?â
His wings twitched, feathers brushing against the couch before curling in tightâa response his body couldnât resist. He didnât push you away. Maybe he couldnât. You're close. Too close.
From this angle, he could see every detail: the half-healed gash on your neck, the faint tremor in your breath, the rising and falling of your chest.
He forced his gaze upward, meeting yours. The halo above his head flickered, light bending toward you. His own heartbeat felt misplacedâa rhythm he hadnât heard in centuries, echoing too loud for the first time.
You tilted your head, the faintest smile ghosting across your lips. He realized then how trapped he wasânot by your weight or your strength, but by the sheer unpredictability of you.
The air thickened, the space between you shrinking into something electric. Angelâs every instinct screamed to shove you off, to vanish, to put ten miles between himself and whatever madness gleamed in your eyes.
But then there was the other part of him. The one that wanted to see.
His mind told him no, sharp and sensible, but his gaze stayed locked on yours. You didnât blink, didnât hesitate. You looked at him like death wasnât a threat but an invitation, and fuck, that made him falter.
His wings betrayed him first. They twitched once, a nervous flicker. Then againâfeathers ruffling, half-spread, half-foldedâthe motion of someone caught between fight and surrender.
âYou really donât care what happens, do you?â he asked quietly.
You tilted your head, that soft, maddening smile returning. âI told you. Dyingâs the only thing that feels real anymore.â
The words hit him harder than he expected. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was recognition.
But then something else stirredâdarker, quieter, more human than he wanted to admit. The realization sank in: youâd give your life just to touch him.
His touch had always been a weapon. Deadly, inevitable. The reason for the gloves, the distance, the way he moved through the world like a ghost.
To be wanted despite thatâor worse, because of itâtwisted something inside him he didnât know still existed.
It didnât help that you were shifting in his lap, the motion small but enough to make him tense. His wings twitchedâcontrol over it grasping out of his hands. He could feel the heat from your skin, the faint pulse at your throat. The distance between you wasnât even air anymoreâjust danger wearing the shape of curiosity.
He wanted to move, to break the spell before it broke him. But the other whisperedâ
One touch, and it would all drain away. Your life. Your light. But you were immortal, werenât you? Thatâs why you disregard your life. You wanted this.
And fuckâhe wanted it too.
The thought alone was dangerous. His hands were clenched at his sides, trembling with restraint. The couch creaked beneath the weight of everything unsaid.
Humans were always stupid. Always reaching for what burned them, mistaking pain for proof they were alive. They chased danger like it was love, tragedy like it was art. Heâd watched them bargain centuries away just to feel something for one heartbeat longerâand yet, here you were, the purest form of that madness.
Every part of him was resisting. His body rigid, wings twitching in warning or something else, mind chanting reason like a prayer. But curiosityâfascinationâpulled harder.
Maybe, just once, he wanted to know what would happen if he reached back.
He swallowed hard, every nerve alive. âYou donât understand what youâre asking,â he said, though it sounded more like a confession than a warning.
But the way you smiled at him you already did.
âBut⌠will you let me?â
âNo.â His voice came out rough, lower than he meant it to. He wanted toâGod, he wanted toâbut he couldnât bear the thought of your life fading because you were stupid.
âPlease?â
Fuck⌠You were asking for it like a prayer. And thatâthatâdid something to him.
You were so desperate. So fucking needy.
âNo, no, no,â his mind screamed, but his body wasnât listening. His wings twitchedâonce, twiceâfeathers trembling with the effort to hold them back. They moved like they had their own language, one his mouth couldnât translate.
And when your fingers reached toward him, he flinched. He pressed his wings tighter to his back, trembling with the effort to hold them still.
âNo⌠please, donâtââ His voice broke, the words tangled between fear and yearning.
And then you did. Both hands met the curve of his wings.
Angelâs breath caught, body shuddering as a surge of sensationâsharp and weightlessârushed through him. His halo flickered once, gold light bending to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Your eyes widened, and his did too. Neither spoke. The world had gone soundless except for that shared, uneven breath between youâone giving, one breaking.
In an attempt to move away, his hips grinded into your core. He trembled at the contact, caught between fear and raw need.
âSo soft,â you whispered, fingers grazing the top arch of his wings.
He froze. The spot you touched was almost unbearably sensitive, nerves flaring in a way he didnât know how to handle. His wings shuddered beneath your hands, feathers rippling like they had their own pulse.
Color rose across his face, faint but undeniable. You were petting himâslow, deliberate, unbothered by the way he tensed under every stroke. It was humiliating, disarming, and something else he couldnât name.
âStop,â he managed, but it came out softer than he meant it toâmore plea than command.
And when you actually did, the silence hit like a wave. He drew in a shaky breath, chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes flicked to yoursâfilled with something he couldnât disguise anymore. Need. Confusion. Frustration.
âWhyââ he started, but your voice cut through him.
âHow many months?â
The question knocked the breath from him. âWhat?â
âHow many months had you taken off?â you pressed, gaze steady.
He hesitated, then swallowed. ââŚA year.â
The spark in your eyes widened, equal parts curiosity and danger. âEven better,â you murmured. âIâll keep going. But I want you to count.â
âCountâ?â he barely got the word out before your hands found him again.
The moment your fingertips brushed the edge of his wings, he gaspedâan involuntary sound, quiet and startled. His whole body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He shut his eyes, jaw tightening, trying to pull himself together. But the warmth of your touch, the softness in your tone, the impossible tenderness in the momentâit was all too much for someone whoâd spent centuries untouched.
âI canât hear you,â you warned.
He swallowed. âFive yearsâŚâ
Your hips shifted closed, fingertips brushing too close to his face. The motion alone sent his pulse racing; the air between you hummed.
âKeep going.â You leaned closer until your breath warmed his skin. One hand found the side of his face, guiding him to meet your gaze before tilting his head slightly. Your mouth hovered near his pulse, lips grazing but not quite touching.
âTen years,â he whispered.
His thoughts started to scatter. Every place you touched him burned soft and brightâyour hand tracing the trembling curve of his wing, the other cupping his jaw with impossible gentleness.
You pressed the lightest kiss to his throat, barely there, and his breath caught. His wings quivered, half-open like they didnât know whether to flee or fold around you.
âF-fifteen years,â
You shuddered at the countdown⌠pressing back against him and in turn, he leaned down to rest his forehead against your shoulder.
When you started to grind on him, his hands gripped its way to your hips. To his horror, he couldnât explain the recurring, indescribable, hotness hardening along his thighs, inching closer to the middle of your legs.
He breathed just as intensely as you were breathing. You felt Angelâs nose brush against your ear, whispering, âTwentyââ
You were observing the feeling of his lips trailing along your ears down to your neck, anticipating that he was going to kiss your skin when he nipped at your neck with his teeth.
Pressing your body fully against him prompted the winged man to grumble.
âJust a little more.â You grinded, feeling your heart swell and flip against your ribs. You saw how hard he gulped, as you continued to rub yourself on him.
His eyes widened in disbelief, seeing him so helplessly shocked only fueled your fire. This level of intimacy was something new to him. He couldnât organize his thoughts nor could he continue counting. He needed you to slow down.
And yet you slid against him again. And again. And again until he got the message. You werenât stopping.
You caught his reddening face while he chewed harder on his lip when you sank further into his lap.
Your touch was good, too good. The hardness trapped in his pants was beating with its own pulse and twitching so hard against your core it hurts.
He was impressed that he could hold out for this long. And you were unimpressed he stopped counting the moment you grinded on him.
He leaned back the instant you stopped, breath catching in uneven bursts. Color flushed across his face, a storm of restraint and wanting. He looked torn apart by it. And he was very, very desperate.
âKeep countingââ
You couldnât stop yourself from letting out a surprised gasp when he began to roll his hips towards you, indulging in each and every one of your reactions.
He cursed under his breath when he realized the clothing separating him from you. From all of you.
His hardness continued to twitch against you especially so when he pushed your hips down to meet his thrusts.
You glared, pushing him roughly back into the couch. His wings flared in surprise, eyes wide, breath sharp in his chest.
âI didnât tell you to stop counting,â you repeated.
He stared up at you with frustration, hands clenching harder against your hips, the faint sound of feathers brushing fabric.
âThirty nine years.â
A growl left him as he pushed your body closer to him. At the same time he moved his hips to imitate slow thrusts, searching for any sort of stimulation to fuel his release.
With each passing second, lewd sounds filled the room with the occasional gasps and groans. You watched him use your body like a desperate slut.
He threw his head back and you watched his throat work. He was such a messy, whining mess under you.
But he was starting to lose himself to your rhythm, drawn under by a pull he couldnât name or resist.
âAngel,â You smiled, âHow many years have you taken?â
The question snapped him back into his senses. He froze, breath caught halfway through his chest. For a moment, he didnât answer. His gaze flicked over you, wide-eyed, the dawning horror crawling up his spine as the realization sank in. He hadnât been thinking. He hadnât been counting how much you have left.
His mouth opened, the words scraping out like confession.
ââŚForty-six years.â
âThatâs almost half my life!â you said, smiling like it was good news.
He didnât answerâjust stared, terror hollowing the color from his face.
âShall we continue?â
âNo,â he said, the word quiet but absolute.
You froze, the smile fading before you could stop it.
âTell me to stop,â He offered, breathing deeply as he leaned down to speak into your earâcareful to not touch you.
He muttered again, âTell me to stopâbefore IâŚâ
It was unfair, how good your touch felt. It was unfair that the rough texture of his pants against your bare thighs was so fucking addicting. It was unfair how badly we wanted to feel you, but couldnât.
âOh⌠Angel,â You smiled nervously.
You studied him brieflyâthen filled the gap between you two. You welcomed his devilish lips without another thought.
It was hungry, desperate, and yearning. He almost couldnât keep up with you when your tongue slipped into his mouth.
âWe canâtâŚâ He whimpered, slippery tongue of yours sliding against his.
âWhy not?â
Your wicked tongue slid everywhere inside his mouth, but all he could think about was the seconds passing by and the years you have left before he drains you dry.
Tears welled in his eyes, his breath hitching as a broken sound escaped himâa pathetic warning he had left to give.
âNoâŚâ
Your mouth found the tip of his tongue as you went back to suck on that soft spot that made all his defences crumble. His heartbeat was pounding in his head, and his firm hold on you was starting to make you melt in his arms.
But this was him saying that he was afraid.
There was a thick line of saliva connecting to your mouths when you unlatched your lips from his.
His gaze lifted from your lips to your eyes just in time to see the light fade from them, the spark dimming into stillness.
Your pupils dulled, your breath stilled, and before he could reach for you, you went slack, collapsing against his shoulder.
Guys I wrote this at 3am so itâs mid-written. I canât wait to show you guys the final edit once iâm done. (Maybe in a week if im not that busy) Sorry for the wait but you wont be disappointed. Also thank you for the support! Itâs my first time publishing smth in tumblr btwđ
Youâre humanâat least. Cursed with immortality and one goalâto die. Youâve tried every method imaginableâuntil you meet him.
The Angel Devil.
Would he be the one to finally fulfill your death wish?
AUTHORS NOTE: This is a draft, and I havenât edited this yet so excuse for any errors. Enjoy!
âDonât,â he warned, voice low. âYouâll die if you touch me.â
He was sitting on the couch when you swung a leg over him, settling into his lap like it was the most natural thing in the world. The room seemed to shrink with the movementâair thinning, light softening. That look in your eyes wasnât simple defiance; it was something wilder, hungrier. The kind of glint that made Angel realize you werenât bluffing.
âThen tell me something,â you murmured, leaning close enough that your breath stirred his hair. âIf I touched you first⌠would your lifespan drain, too?â
His wings twitched, feathers brushing against the couch before curling in tightâa response his body couldnât resist. He didnât push you away. Maybe he couldnât. You're close. Too close.
From this angle, he could see every detail: the half-healed gash on your neck, the faint tremor in your breath, the rising and falling of your chest.
He forced his gaze upward, meeting yours. The halo above his head flickered, light bending toward you. His own heartbeat felt misplacedâa rhythm he hadnât heard in centuries, echoing too loud for the first time.
You tilted your head, the faintest smile ghosting across your lips. He realized then how trapped he wasânot by your weight or your strength, but by the sheer unpredictability of you.
The air thickened, the space between you shrinking into something electric. Angelâs every instinct screamed to shove you off, to vanish, to put ten miles between himself and whatever madness gleamed in your eyes.
But then there was the other part of him. The one that wanted to see.
His mind told him no, sharp and sensible, but his gaze stayed locked on yours. You didnât blink, didnât hesitate. You looked at him like death wasnât a threat but an invitation, and fuck, that made him falter.
His wings betrayed him first. They twitched once, a nervous flicker. Then againâfeathers ruffling, half-spread, half-foldedâthe motion of someone caught between fight and surrender.
âYou really donât care what happens, do you?â he asked quietly.
You tilted your head, that soft, maddening smile returning. âI told you. Dyingâs the only thing that feels real anymore.â
The words hit him harder than he expected. Maybe it was pity. Maybe it was recognition.
But then something else stirredâdarker, quieter, more human than he wanted to admit. The realization sank in: youâd give your life just to touch him.
His touch had always been a weapon. Deadly, inevitable. The reason for the gloves, the distance, the way he moved through the world like a ghost.
To be wanted despite thatâor worse, because of itâtwisted something inside him he didnât know still existed.
It didnât help that you were shifting in his lap, the motion small but enough to make him tense. His wings twitchedâcontrol over it grasping out of his hands. He could feel the heat from your skin, the faint pulse at your throat. The distance between you wasnât even air anymoreâjust danger wearing the shape of curiosity.
He wanted to move, to break the spell before it broke him. But the other whisperedâ
One touch, and it would all drain away. Your life. Your light. But you were immortal, werenât you? Thatâs why you disregard your life. You wanted this.
And fuckâhe wanted it too.
The thought alone was dangerous. His hands were clenched at his sides, trembling with restraint. The couch creaked beneath the weight of everything unsaid.
Humans were always stupid. Always reaching for what burned them, mistaking pain for proof they were alive. They chased danger like it was love, tragedy like it was art. Heâd watched them bargain centuries away just to feel something for one heartbeat longerâand yet, here you were, the purest form of that madness.
Every part of him was resisting. His body rigid, wings twitching in warning or something else, mind chanting reason like a prayer. But curiosityâfascinationâpulled harder.
Maybe, just once, he wanted to know what would happen if he reached back.
He swallowed hard, every nerve alive. âYou donât understand what youâre asking,â he said, though it sounded more like a confession than a warning.
But the way you smiled at him you already did.
âBut⌠will you let me?â
âNo.â His voice came out rough, lower than he meant it to. He wanted toâGod, he wanted toâbut he couldnât bear the thought of your life fading because you were stupid.
âPlease?â
Fuck⌠You were asking for it like a prayer. And thatâthatâdid something to him.
You were so desperate. So fucking needy.
âNo, no, no,â his mind screamed, but his body wasnât listening. His wings twitchedâonce, twiceâfeathers trembling with the effort to hold them back. They moved like they had their own language, one his mouth couldnât translate.
And when your fingers reached toward him, he flinched. He pressed his wings tighter to his back, trembling with the effort to hold them still.
âNo⌠please, donâtââ His voice broke, the words tangled between fear and yearning.
And then you did. Both hands met the curve of his wings.
Angelâs breath caught, body shuddering as a surge of sensationâsharp and weightlessârushed through him. His halo flickered once, gold light bending to the rhythm of his heartbeat.
Your eyes widened, and his did too. Neither spoke. The world had gone soundless except for that shared, uneven breath between youâone giving, one breaking.
In an attempt to move away, his hips grinded into your core. He trembled at the contact, caught between fear and raw need.
âSo soft,â you whispered, fingers grazing the top arch of his wings.
He froze. The spot you touched was almost unbearably sensitive, nerves flaring in a way he didnât know how to handle. His wings shuddered beneath your hands, feathers rippling like they had their own pulse.
Color rose across his face, faint but undeniable. You were petting himâslow, deliberate, unbothered by the way he tensed under every stroke. It was humiliating, disarming, and something else he couldnât name.
âStop,â he managed, but it came out softer than he meant it toâmore plea than command.
And when you actually did, the silence hit like a wave. He drew in a shaky breath, chest rising and falling too fast. His eyes flicked to yoursâfilled with something he couldnât disguise anymore. Need. Confusion. Frustration.
âWhyââ he started, but your voice cut through him.
âHow many months?â
The question knocked the breath from him. âWhat?â
âHow many months had you taken off?â you pressed, gaze steady.
He hesitated, then swallowed. ââŚA year.â
The spark in your eyes widened, equal parts curiosity and danger. âEven better,â you murmured. âIâll keep going. But I want you to count.â
âCountâ?â he barely got the word out before your hands found him again.
The moment your fingertips brushed the edge of his wings, he gaspedâan involuntary sound, quiet and startled. His whole body reacted before his mind could catch up.
He shut his eyes, jaw tightening, trying to pull himself together. But the warmth of your touch, the softness in your tone, the impossible tenderness in the momentâit was all too much for someone whoâd spent centuries untouched.
âI canât hear you,â you warned.
He swallowed. âFive yearsâŚâ
Your hips shifted closed, fingertips brushing too close to his face. The motion alone sent his pulse racing; the air between you hummed.
âKeep going.â You leaned closer until your breath warmed his skin. One hand found the side of his face, guiding him to meet your gaze before tilting his head slightly. Your mouth hovered near his pulse, lips grazing but not quite touching.
âTen years,â he whispered.
His thoughts started to scatter. Every place you touched him burned soft and brightâyour hand tracing the trembling curve of his wing, the other cupping his jaw with impossible gentleness.
You pressed the lightest kiss to his throat, barely there, and his breath caught. His wings quivered, half-open like they didnât know whether to flee or fold around you.
âF-fifteen years,â
You shuddered at the countdown⌠pressing back against him and in turn, he leaned down to rest his forehead against your shoulder.
When you started to grind on him, his hands gripped its way to your hips. To his horror, he couldnât explain the recurring, indescribable, hotness hardening along his thighs, inching closer to the middle of your legs.
He breathed just as intensely as you were breathing. You felt Angelâs nose brush against your ear, whispering, âTwentyââ
You were observing the feeling of his lips trailing along your ears down to your neck, anticipating that he was going to kiss your skin when he nipped at your neck with his teeth.
Pressing your body fully against him prompted the winged man to grumble.
âJust a little more.â You grinded, feeling your heart swell and flip against your ribs. You saw how hard he gulped, as you continued to rub yourself on him.
His eyes widened in disbelief, seeing him so helplessly shocked only fueled your fire. This level of intimacy was something new to him. He couldnât organize his thoughts nor could he continue counting. He needed you to slow down.
And yet you slid against him again. And again. And again until he got the message. You werenât stopping.
You caught his reddening face while he chewed harder on his lip when you sank further into his lap.
Your touch was good, too good. The hardness trapped in his pants was beating with its own pulse and twitching so hard against your core it hurts.
He was impressed that he could hold out for this long. And you were unimpressed he stopped counting the moment you grinded on him.
He leaned back the instant you stopped, breath catching in uneven bursts. Color flushed across his face, a storm of restraint and wanting. He looked torn apart by it. And he was very, very desperate.
âKeep countingââ
You couldnât stop yourself from letting out a surprised gasp when he began to roll his hips towards you, indulging in each and every one of your reactions.
He cursed under his breath when he realized the clothing separating him from you. From all of you.
His hardness continued to twitch against you especially so when he pushed your hips down to meet his thrusts.
You glared, pushing him roughly back into the couch. His wings flared in surprise, eyes wide, breath sharp in his chest.
âI didnât tell you to stop counting,â you repeated.
He stared up at you with frustration, hands clenching harder against your hips, the faint sound of feathers brushing fabric.
âThirty nine years.â
A growl left him as he pushed your body closer to him. At the same time he moved his hips to imitate slow thrusts, searching for any sort of stimulation to fuel his release.
With each passing second, lewd sounds filled the room with the occasional gasps and groans. You watched him use your body like a desperate slut.
He threw his head back and you watched his throat work. He was such a messy, whining mess under you.
But he was starting to lose himself to your rhythm, drawn under by a pull he couldnât name or resist.
âAngel,â You smiled, âHow many years have you taken?â
The question snapped him back into his senses. He froze, breath caught halfway through his chest. For a moment, he didnât answer. His gaze flicked over you, wide-eyed, the dawning horror crawling up his spine as the realization sank in. He hadnât been thinking. He hadnât been counting how much you have left.
His mouth opened, the words scraping out like confession.
ââŚForty-six years.â
âThatâs almost half my life!â you said, smiling like it was good news.
He didnât answerâjust stared, terror hollowing the color from his face.
âShall we continue?â
âNo,â he said, the word quiet but absolute.
You froze, the smile fading before you could stop it.
âTell me to stop,â He offered, breathing deeply as he leaned down to speak into your earâcareful to not touch you.
He muttered again, âTell me to stopâbefore IâŚâ
It was unfair, how good your touch felt. It was unfair that the rough texture of his pants against your bare thighs was so fucking addicting. It was unfair how badly we wanted to feel you, but couldnât.
âOh⌠Angel,â You smiled nervously.
You studied him brieflyâthen filled the gap between you two. You welcomed his devilish lips without another thought.
It was hungry, desperate, and yearning. He almost couldnât keep up with you when your tongue slipped into his mouth.
âWe canâtâŚâ He whimpered, slippery tongue of yours sliding against his.
âWhy not?â
Your wicked tongue slid everywhere inside his mouth, but all he could think about was the seconds passing by and the years you have left before he drains you dry.
Tears welled in his eyes, his breath hitching as a broken sound escaped himâa pathetic warning he had left to give.
âNoâŚâ
Your mouth found the tip of his tongue as you went back to suck on that soft spot that made all his defences crumble. His heartbeat was pounding in his head, and his firm hold on you was starting to make you melt in his arms.
But this was him saying that he was afraid.
There was a thick line of saliva connecting to your mouths when you unlatched your lips from his.
His gaze lifted from your lips to your eyes just in time to see the light fade from them, the spark dimming into stillness.
Your pupils dulled, your breath stilled, and before he could reach for you, you went slack, collapsing against his shoulder.
Content: suicidal/immortal reader x life sucker devil angel
Readerâs backstory
Makima found you in an alley slick with dawn rain. In the middle of an attemptâa devil appeared and finished the job for you, head cleanly severed before you could even blink.
For two seconds, the world was still. Then the devilâs neck got cut clean, head rolling on the floor, while yours stitched itself back together with a wet click, like a zipper pulled shut. You sat up, dazed, irritated, neck steaming, as the creature crumpled beside you.
Makima watched from the end of the street, curiosity curling through her calm. The girl was no devil. No contract aura, no lingering scent of pact or sin⌠Just a human who refused to stay dead�
When Makima approached, you met her eyes and said you didnât want anything. Makima offered a job with high rewards. You just shook your head. And when Makima offered what you truly wantedâa possible death (doing a job that might possibly finish you off) That made you pause.
By the end of the day, youâd signed her papers and joined Public Safety.
On your first morning, Makima smiled and granted your wish. She said sheâd assigned you to the âAngel Devilââthe being whose touch drains years from the living.
Somewhere between them, a question waited:
what happens when someone who canât die meets someone who makes death come faster?
Hi , I must say first that I love your writing and also there isn't a lot tom riddle x reader so having you writing for him is great . I was wondering if you could do something with Tom with a muggle s/o . I know it would be great because it's written by you . Love and thanks đ đ
Thank you so much, thatâs really lovely đ I looooved this concept!!!! I actually have a full-length fic that Iâve juuust about finished on ao3/ff.net about Tom and a Muggle s/o, so yâall should let me know if you want a link to that.
Didnât know if you wanted an established relationship or not so I just went with this, hope you like đ
ｼ ･ďžâ: *.â˝ .* :âďž.Â
Something Elegant
Summary: A very beautiful boy walks into Muggle Readerâs bookstore and wants to buy something - but he doesnât seem to know what. Reader is determined to crack the case, and best of all, the boy keeps coming back.
Word count: 3.1k
Content warning: none
ｼ ･ďžâ: *.â˝ .* :âďž.  Â
The job doesnât pay well, the shifts eat up almost all of your afternoons, the boss is a bit creepy, and Vauxhall Road is loud and smoggy â but working in Winstanley's Bookstore and Stationers has three main benefits. The store is beautiful, for one, filled from floor to ceiling with wooden bookshelves and prim, fresh texts with glittering silver and gold monogrammed titles. For another, it provides you with almost limitless time to read books on just about every subject imaginable.
The third benefit first walks through the door one gloomy summer afternoon whilst youâre lounging on the stool behind the counter, catching up on your English class summer readings.
âWelcome to Winstanleyâs,â you say absently, finishing your paragraph before looking up. âWhat can I do for ââ
You stop talking.
Standing before you is the most beautiful boy youâve ever seen in your life; tall and pale, dark hair that fell in distracting waves across his forehead, regal cheekbones, full lips, and a jawline that you didnât think possible. Luckily, he doesnât seem to notice anything strange about your abrupt silence, his dark eyes sliding around the store with a detached interest.
âAre⌠you looking for something in particular?â you force yourself to say in your best customer service voice.
âNo,â he says in a smooth, medium-toned voice that makes you blink in disbelief. Even his voice is beautiful⌠âNo, I was merely curious about the store.â
âRight,â you say awkwardly, âwell, let me know if I can help.â
The boy just nods and turns away, strolling deeper into the store and out of sight behind one of the shelves. You give a long exhale as you look back at your book, shaking your head slowly. Being that attractive shouldnât be allowed; he was most likely utterly insufferable because of it.
A few short minutes later the bell above the door tingles rapidly and you look up in surprise to see it swinging shut behind the boy. You had neither seen nor heard him pass you on his way out and you only just catch a glimpse of his dark head disappearing past the shop window and into the crowd on the street outside. You stare after him for a moment, feeling inexplicably disappointed, before frowning and returning to your text.
Two weeks later, he comes back.
âOh, hello again,â you say brightly at the sight of him pushing through the door.
The boy gives you a slightly sharp look like heâs surprised you remember him. âHello,â he says evenly.
âStill curious about the store?â you grin.
The boyâs attention has been caught by the glass cabinet of gleaming fountain pens. âActually, Iâm looking for something this time,â he says casually, leaning down to look at a very ornate golden pen that costs about two months of your wages.
âOh? What are you looking for?â
âIâm not sure,â the boy murmurs.
You blink, a little surprised by his response. âWell, what sort of things do you like?â you probe, trying to get on track.
The boy straightens and turns to you, his posture very formal. âIâd like something⌠elegant,â he says quietly. Thereâs something strangely heavy about his gaze that you canât place.
âElegant,â you repeat, frowning as you consider his request. âWell, thatâs a very elegant pen youâre looking at there.â
The boyâs expression darkens. âUnfortunately something that elegant is beyond my means,â he says coolly, looking away.
âThatâs alright,â you say quickly, feeling strangely embarrassed, âIâd have to sell a kidney to afford one of those, and to be honest with you, theyâre not even that nice to write with.â
âYouâre permitted to use these?â he asks sceptically, arching a brow.
You look pointedly at the gorgeous black and gold fountain pen in your hand that you were using to doodle stars on your notepad. âPermitted might be a liberal term for it,â you say wryly, glancing back at him. âI was never expressly told not to use them.â
The boyâs lips twitch into a smirk before he turns away, wandering over to the display of a hundred different art pencils.
âAre you an artist?â you try again, suddenly determined to find exactly what he wanted.
âNo,â the boy says frankly. âI dislike frivolities.â
You laugh once, very loudly, and the boyâs head swivels around as he fixes you with a very cold look. âSorry,â you mutter, quickly looking down at your notepad to hide your smile.
It doesnât work. âWhat exactly are you laughing at?â he asks sharply.
âNothing,â you snicker.
âClearly,â he retorts.
You chance looking up at him. âDo you⌠really think that art is a frivolity?â you ask slowly, failing to keep the amusement from your tone.
His eyes visibly narrow. âWhat else would you call it?â he demands.
You shrug and â biting your lip to keep the smile at bay â resume your doodling.
âThis was a ridiculous idea,â the boy snaps, wheeling around and striding across the store towards the door.
âNo â wait!â you say quickly, stomach dropping. âIâm sorry, I ââ
But itâs no use. The bell tingles loudly as he wrenches the door open and heâs gone. You fall back onto the stool dejectedly with a sigh.
It all makes you even more extraordinarily surprised when, a few days later, the same boy pushes open the door mere moments before youâre about to close up the shop.
âOh,â you say blankly, frozen mid-motion where youâre sliding the last of the new books onto shelves by the window.
A smirk briefly flits across the boyâs handsome features. âI trust youâll resist the urge to mock me today,â he drawls nonchalantly.
âDepends,â you say automatically.
His eyes narrow at you again. Kicking yourself, you swiftly turn back to the shelves and start stocking books at lightning speed. âAnyway,â you say loudly, âhave you decided on what you want?â
âNot a pen,â the boy says immediately. âI have plenty of⌠writing utensils.â
You shoot him a curious glance; the tone heâd said it in, and the ever-so-slightly strange phrasing almost made him seem like he was making some private joke. âRight,â you say clearly, âand no pencils either, of course.â
You canât quite keep the quip from your tone.
âDo you intend on being at all useful?â the boy asks stiffly, not seeming impressed at your continued ribbing. âOr are you here just to ridicule customers?â
âYouâre only a customer once youâre actually buying something,â you say with a grin, sliding the last book into place and heaving the empty wooden crate across the store to your counter. âUntil then youâre just some boy loitering about my place of employment.â
âWell I do intend on buying something,â the boy snaps.
âSomething elegant,â you nod, placing the crate beside the counter. âIâve been thinking about that.â
The boy hesitates, his dark brows drawing together. âYou have?â
âYeah, I had a few ideas,â you say absently, pulling out the little square of paper youâd been making notes on. The boy had featured rather a lot in your thoughts over the past few days, and youâd had plenty of time to write down ideas for his elegant something.
âLetâs see,â you frown, peering at your list. âOh! So, we got this incredible field guide in last month and itâs one of the most beautiful things Iâve ever seen in my life.â You being number one on that list, you add internally as you wheel around and beeline for the book on the far shelf. âHere,â you call over your shoulder, pulling it out. âIf thatâs not elegant, I donât know what it.â
The boy slowly approaches you, his eyes almost apprehensive as they fall to the book in your hands; pretty enough with crimson leather and gold leaf on the borders of the pages â but the real kicker was the cover. It had a circle of real semi-precious gems set around its title, gleaming and glittering colourfully under the lights of the store.
âWhat is it about?â the boy asks slowly.
âSixteenth-century Russian agricultural practices,â you deadpan.
He shoots you a glare, and you roll your eyes. âItâs about gemstones, obviously,â you smirk, cracking it open and showing him the gorgeous watercolours of amethysts and rubies on the first few pages.
The boy looks momentarily interested and your heart skips a beat, wondering if youâd hit the nail on the head on the first try, but â
âI would prefer something more utilitarian,â he says smoothly, straightening again. âIs there something useful on that list of yours?â
Thereâs something almost challenging in the smirk shadowing his face.
Itâs your turn to narrow your eyes, sensing a game emerging. âI see,â you say, suppressing a smile as you close the book and place it back on the shelf. âWell, what aboutâŚâ â you quickly check your list â âa letter-writing set?â
The boyâs expression falls at once. âNo,â he says flatly, looking away.
You blink at the abrupt change in his demeanour. âIs letter-writing also considered a frivolity?â you ask with a tentative hint of tease.
âIf you have no one to write letters to, yes it is,â he says icily, his dark eyes flashing to yours.
Your stomach falls.
âSorry,â you mumble, hastily looking back at your list just to avoid his gaze. âUm⌠well⌠we have these amazing pen cases, theyâre really quite beautiful,â you ramble, rounding on your heel to the display case behind you. âThat oneâs my favourite,â you say quickly, pointing to a gleaming copper case with a series of pens and pencils displayed inside. âI like the colour â and I reckon theyâre plenty elegant.â
The boy steps closer and you try not to notice his arm almost brushing yours as he stands beside you, examining the cases. âTheyâre too small,â he says softly.
You glance up at him and are met with the same challenging smirk re-emerging on his lips as he looks back down at you.
The game is back on.
He shoots down every single one of your ideas without fail. He doesnât like the rosewood ink stamps, he barely even glances at the little golden compass you show him, and he only gives you a very dry look when you suggest a gorgeous enamel-handled pencil knife.
âItâs very late,â he says suddenly, frowning at the darkened window as youâre showing him the blue leather-bound Shakespeare collection. âWhen does this store close?â
You look up at the clock above the door. âTwo hours ago,â you say casually, setting aside the books â he didnât seem interested in them anyway.
The boy stares at you, visibly surprised. You shrug again, leaning on your elbows against your counter. He frowns again, slow and pensive. âI should go,â he mutters, looking away.
âWell come back, then,â you say, pointing at him with mock severity. âIâll figure this out yet, youâll not get away that easily.â
And he does. He comes back three times, in fact, and each time you canât help but notice that he spends less and less time looking around the shop, and more and more time looking at you.
âAnother unsuccessful venture,â you sigh dramatically, leaning back against your counter as the boy (you still donât know his name, and at that point it felt weird to ask) takes slow steps towards you. âYou really are the worst sort of customer.â
âMy deepest apologies,â he smirks, âI didnât realise that this was so torturous for you.â
âMy boss thinks Iâm the best employee of the century,â you drawl, inspecting your nails, âhe canât figure out why I keep staying late without pay.â
The boyâs dark eyes fall reserved and distant, and he turns to look out the window and the summer evening outside.
âI never asked,â you say quickly, trying to coax him back, âwhy do you want something elegant?â
The boyâs attention returns to you, his dark, intelligent eyes surveying you for a moment before answering. âI like elegant things,â he says quietly, âthereâs something repugnant about the common-place.â
You wisely choose not to tease him about this comment.
âThere isnât a lot of elegance where I live,â he continues stiffly, turning away again, âthat is, where I live during the summer. Iâd like something to have with me whilst Iâm here, a vestigial piece ofâŚâ
âOf?â you prompt gently after he trails off.
His jaw tightens. âThank you for your assistance,â he says formally, giving you a curt nod as he makes for the door.
âSee you later,â you call after him hopefully â but once again, heâs gone.
Itâs the last you see him in a very long time. A full month goes by and the store gets busier and busier with students purchasing their school supplies for the coming term, and despite the influx of customers, you canât stop the little swell of disappointment every single time the bell above the door chimes and itâs not him.
You can barely believe your eyes when you look up to find him standing by the door the Monday before school begins.
âHello again,â he says evenly, making no acknowledgement of your open shock as he approaches your counter where youâre once again doodling with the expensive fountain pens.
âYouâre back,â you say, astonished.
âI never did purchase anything,â the boy says casually, reaching out a hand and spinning the cap of your fountain pen around on the counter with his long fingers. âAnd Iâm about to return to school, so this may be my last chance.â
You stare at him, frozen in place. Heâs just as beautiful as the first time youâd seen him, but you canât help but notice a strangely drawn, shadowed look to his face, like he hasnât been sleeping. Suddenly, you jolt and throw down your pen.
âIâve got it!â you shout, just about falling off your stool as you tear around the counter to the backroom. âWe got them in yesterday!â
You yank the box from the cupboard and crack it open, grinning at the contents in excitement. Surely this was it. Surely heâd like this.
âHere,â you say triumphantly when you return to him, thrusting out your hand.
The boy arches a brow at what youâre holding out to him.
âA diary?â he asks cynically.
You roll your eyes. âJust take a look,â you say, holding it out a bit more.
Heâs still for one more second, and then reaches up and takes it, flicking through the pages with an attentive eye. The diary is bound in black leather with golden corner-protectors, its edges clean, its pages ruled and cream-toned with simple, refined dates printed on each one. âItâs nice,â he says quietly.
The feeling of triumph swells larger â itâs the most positive response heâs had to anything youâve ever showed him. âYou can take that wherever you need a bit of elegance,â you say softly.
The boyâs eyes snap to yours in an instant, and your heart skips a beat.
âIâll tell you what,â you add quickly, hoping that youâre not blushing, âIâll even emboss it for you for free. Donât tell my boss.â
âEmboss it?â he echoes curiously.
âYeah,â you grin, holding out your hand for the diary and leading him into the backroom after he hands it to you. âGold or silver?â
âGold,â he says immediately.
You nod and begin setting up the machine with a sheet of gold foil. âWhatâs your name?â you ask, trying to sound nonchalant.
The boyâs eyes linger on your face for a long moment, making your heart stutter a bit when you finally look up at him.
âTom,â he says quietly. âRiddle.â
Tom.
Trying to ignore your racing pulse, you start picking out the right letters and arranging them in his name on the table when suddenly Tomâs long fingers close around your wrist. âWait,â he says sharply. You freeze in place, heat erupting across your skin. âAre you going to put my name on it?â he asks, eyes fixed on his name laid out on the table.
âYeah,â you stutter. His fingers havenât released your wrist, his grip warm and firm.
Tomâs expression turns dark. âI donât want that name on it,â he says caustically.
âWhy not?â you breathe.
Something works in his jaw as he glares at the letters, but he doesnât reply.
âDonât you like your name?â you ask quietly.
âNo,â he says icily. âI donât.â
âI do,â you say thoughtlessly.
Tom looks at you. Thereâs a horrible second of silence.
âDo you,â Tom says quietly, not phrasing it like a question. You can feel your pulse under your skin as you stare back.
Suddenly, Tom exhales sharply and looks down at the box of letters on the table beside you. His fingers finally release your wrist and he deftly picks out a series of letters and adds them to his name.
âTom Marvolo Riddle?â you read out once heâs finished. âThatâs what you want?â
He nods.
You give him one last curious look before you set the letters into the machine and slide the diary into place, bringing down the handle of the machine and stamping his name into the black leather of the book.
You brush away the excess gold and turn to hand him the diary â only to stop still. Tom is still right beside you, much closer than youâd realised, his gaze dark and heavy again as he looks down at you. The backroom suddenly feels about a hundred times smaller.
âYou know,â you whisper, âyouâre a lot less insufferable than I thought youâd be.â
His lips quirk into a small, dry smile. âYou thought Iâd be insufferable?â
You nod. âBeautiful people are often pretty insufferable.â
Very slowly, a small crease appears between his brows. The sight makes you realise exactly what youâd just said, and your eyes widen in horror.
âIâm sorry,â you say hastily, thrusting the diary into his chest and stepping away. âI â I donât know why I said that â Iâm sorry ââ
But Tom catches your wrist again, stopping you from slipping away. You watch, still wide-eyed as he gently pulls you back to him. âInteresting that you apologise for the compliment, and not for the implication that Iâd be insufferable,â he says softly, looking amused.
âIâve been insulting you since day one,â you manage to say, âcompliments are new territory.â
Tom hums, his eyes roaming your face thoughtfully. Heâs so close that your head is filled up with the way he smells, warm and musky and stupidly intoxicating, and youâre having to deliberately avoid leaning in closer. âPerhaps Iâll take the letter-writing set, after all,â he murmurs.
You blink. âI thought that letter-writing was a mere frivolity,â you say, lips quirking in a tentative smile.
âOnly when you donât have anyone to write to,â Tom says quietly.
ｼ ･ďžâ: *.â˝ .* :âďž.
To request sequels/being tagged in follow-ups, leave a reply in the notes! Â đ Â
Okay so I read Seven devils by sunder-soul in like 2022-2023 and I canât believe I didnât know she had a tumblr. I remember entering a depressive episode when that book ended. Like it took a big chunk of my soul. đ¤Łđ But really I love that book and took the opportunity to read it again after seeing a Tom Riddle edit on Tiktok.
For a request would love to have tomâs pov of the holidays such as the missed kiss and when charlie asked about his feelings and when he found out they actually werenât dating
Sequel Snippet Spree: Seven Devils
A/N: [I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN ABOUT MY 2K EVENT FROM 100 YEARS AGO, I JUST FOUND THIS SITTING IN MY WIPS FOLDER AND WAS LIKE OMG I SHOULD SIMPLY POST THIS] Also I'm already writing Tom's pov of Charlie's 'confrontation,' and the Christmas night by the fireplace as well bc the angst is simply SO FUN TO WRITE MY GOD THIS MAN I love making him this fucking dramatic, I just really wanted to post this now bc I like it :) [GIF CREDIT!]
ｼ ･ďžâ: .â˝ . :âďž.
âđđŁđđđđđđĽ đđđđđđ¤đĽ (there are serious issues with the tagging system atm and idk how to fix it sorry, I tried for like half an hour đ)
He slept badly, of course. He always slept badly. The storm woke him before dawn with the first gust of heavy-handed rain on the windows and he knew the second his eyes had opened that he wouldnât be able to fall asleep again. Rain like this always made his stomach sink. At Woolâs it had always meant cold, damp nights followed by cold, grey days, too much noise trapped inside with too many people. Waking warm and comfortable with such a storm outside was still surreal.
Very suddenly Tom remembered the previous night and instantly all remaining hope that he might rest a little longer disintegrated. He didnât know what it was about the darkness that had made it so easy to say things heâd never say in a well-lit room, telling her about the fear heâd felt seeing Marina at Voldemortâs mercy in the Manor, admitting how much he still thought about it, asking her about her own night terrors â
Tomâs eyes fell shut in embarrassment and he took a long, regretful breath. He shouldnât have asked her that. Not so indelicately, not without some indication that she even wanted to tell him.
He pushed himself up and swung his legs off the couch, rubbing the sleep from his eyes and then let his hands fall limp off his knees. He didnât like how they looked, the hands of a stranger suspended on the ends of his forearms. Fatigue clouded dully behind his open eyes and with it, the bitter desire that for once he might wake feeling like heâd ever slept at all.
He looked at her.
The nascent grey dawn painted him a faint picture but he could still very easily make her out, her gold hair across the pillow, the thick quilt half-covering her sleeping face. She was completely still. He couldnât even hear her breath. Tom grit his teeth and looked away, his stony gaze falling back on his fingers. Heâd been extraordinarily stupid to think he could do this seamlessly. Heâd been extraordinarily stupid in a number of ways when it came to Marina, actually, stupid in ways he could hardly bear to think about. Thinking things were different to the way they were. Thinking she might be coming to feel things for him that she clearly didnât.
Misinterpreting things.
He would happily call it âhumiliating,â were his pride wounded more than his hopes â but he wasnât so lucky. âDisappointingâ was far more apt, though it fell stratospherically short of describing the feelings that had taken hold of him seeing Charlie lean down and kiss her, and realising exactly how extraordinarily stupid Tom had really been. He stood in silence and turned for the kitchen, leaving Marina sleeping quietly behind him without allowing himself to look at her again.
He should have known better. Marina had met him at his worst, sheâd known the depth of his true ugliness right from the very beginning, the selfish, ignorant, ridiculous child heâd been seven years prior. It had been monstrously vain, deluded of him to think that she might come to see him as something⌠else.
He should never have entertained the notion in the first place, that she might be looking at him the same way heâd found himself looking at her, or that she might feel as he felt when he touched her. The bitter embarrassment overtook him again, the thought that heâd misinterpreted his own feelings as something palpable between them, some corporeal presence or understandingthat she sensed too. It was so shamefully naĂŻve.
Tom angrily yanked the cupboard open and seized a mug, and only just caught himself from slamming it onto the counter in the last second lest he wake her. He placed it down carefully and then stared at it in deep resentment.
He knew he was being ridiculous.
The knowledge did very little to sooth the acidic disappointment seeping out of some fissure that had opened up deep in his chest. He couldnât stop thinking about Charlieâs arm around her on the couch, her leaning against his chest, their natural playfulness and the seamlessness of how she touched him. It had been an unforgiving reminder that Marina wasnât like him, she didnât hoard herself away like he did, and it seemed so painfully obvious to him now that she should be with someone like Charlie, someone like her, who laughed loudly and smiled openly and moved easily.
God, he should have known. Thatâs what made it even more unbearable. Heâd seen the way Charlie had said goodbye to her before theyâd left for Azkaban, the fierce concern, the tight hug, the familiar touch. Heâd wondered at the time, she and Charlie had been at the Burrow together for months by that point after all, but heâd been so staunchly confident that the feeling prickling across his skin had been surprise, or simply embarrassment at witnessing a moment of someone elseâs intimacy, or even (as he had really managed to convince himself one night as heâd laid awake thinking about it) that it was simply surreal to see Marina in someoneâs arms just because heâd known her for so long.
Ridiculous, the things heâd tried to tell himself.
It was envy. He knew it now of course, and really heâd known it then, too, in some reserved and much ignored part of his mind. Why else had he offered her his hand like that to Apparate? Just to see what sheâd do, how sheâd react, if sheâd be so at ease with him, too â and heâd turned her reaction over in his mind like a puzzle for too many a night afterwards, the way sheâd stared at him in something a little more pink-cheeked than just surprise, how sheâd tried to play it off but how sheâd not quite met his eyes when she took his hand. That had been his downfall, he thought, that heâd really managed to delude himself into thinking that perhaps it was a lack of ease, not the presence of it, that betrayed Marinaâs feelings.
And God, Greece.
Tom exhaled grimly and waved his wand at the silver coffee pot, dispassionately watching his mug fill.
He couldnât even count all the things heâd misinterpreted in Greece.
Not fully paying attention, Tom spooned too much sugar into his cup and stirred, the crisp little sounds of the silver against the ceramic seeming very far away. Yesterday morning Marina had told him sheâd forgotten about Lovegood like she was confessing a long life of stomach-turning sin, like sheâd expected him to be disgusted, or at least furious. Heâd seen the weariness of it all on her face before sheâd rested her head on his shoulder, just like the night after theyâd gotten back and sheâd fallen asleep against him and heâd not been able to bear moving and waking her â
Shame swallowed him fetid and hot, and Tomâs head hung, his fingers gripping the counter hard. Yesterday Marina had been frighteningly listless, visibly guilt-ridden and exhausted beyond recognition, falling against him like the magnitude of telling him those things had cost her the very last of her energy â and heâd still not been able to stop himself from thinking of how good sheâd felt leaning against his shoulder, from wondering if it meant she might feel something for him, from misinterpreting it through his own selfish lens and the thought of it now made him sick.
âIdiot,â he muttered in disgust, before remembering she was only around the corner. His lips pressed together hard.
Just for that he deserved it all, having to watch her and Charlie be together when heâŚ
When he what, exactly?
Tom laced his fingers around his mug, not caring that it was still far too hot and his skin prickled uncomfortably at the heat.
