This is for @crazytwentythrees because you wanted a 200 word flash fic and this idea was kicking around my head recently. Not a full post/fic per se but hey this is where I’m at tonight 😘💖💖💖
“I’d kill for you,” he promises one night.
This is the sort of untethered, unbridled, almost juvenile passion you’ve come to expect from him. He’ll be calm and quiet and gentle like this, his fingers trailing lightly down your waist and back up again, your head resting on his shoulder, your arms bundled against his chest, and then he’ll just say these things with dark, steady eyes like he’s speaking some natural truth into the world that he needs you to know, something fundamental and unyielding that works on him the same way gravity sinks him into the bed beside you. Immutable.
“I don’t want you to kill for me, Tom,” you smile patiently, taking a drowsy breath and settling closer into him. He’s unimaginably comfortable and your leg slides up his to rest on his hip, it’s hopelessly addicting to sleep pressed up against him like this.
“But I would,” Tom says quietly, his fingers brushing your hair.
“Don’t,” you murmur, sleep coming fast. “There’s about a billion better things you could do.”
“Like what?”
“Just live.”
There’s a second where, even with your eyes shut, you can tell that his brow furrows. “What?”
“Just live. Just you and me living. It’s enough.”
His head dips, his mouth presses to the slope of your shoulder, and when he takes in a long, slow breath you sink with his chest as he exhales. “I’d like to do more than that.”
“There’s nothing more than that,” you mumble.
Tom’s lips appear gentle against your cheek and you’re slipping into sleep, his hand glides up your thigh and he draws you closer against him, stomach to stomach, heart to heart.
Enemies to lovers type thing with Tom riddle where you’re forced to dance at the Yule ball together if you think you would enjoy writing that smut can be included if you want and could it have a happy ending I’ve had a rough week 🥲 thank you very much 💜
A/N: Y'all... no one @ me about this... 😳
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
The Deal
Summary: You're stuck with the arrogant, charming Riddle at the ball and you can't imagine anything worse. Riddle appears to be imagining something else entirely.
[AFAB reader ★ no pronouns ★ ambiguous house]
Wordcount: 6.7k
Content warning: SO MUCH EXPLICIT SEX OML. THE RAUNCHIEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN PROBABLY.
“Wait,” Chen say, looking like she’s barely containing laughter as she places her hands on the table on either side of her plate. “So… Dippet wants the prefects to set an upstanding example of conduct and demonstrate unity by all going to this thing together.”
“Yes,” you say in a clipped voice.
“And… and you’re all required to attend.”
“Yup.”
She presses her lips together, brows raising. It’s impossible to tell if she’s more amused or sort of incredulously sympathetic.
You exhale in defeat and your head falls onto the table with a thunk. “Go on,” you mutter, knowing what’s coming next.
“Eugene and Ruby have been together since the beginning of time,” Chen narrates to your crumpled form. “Mandeep’s already asked Rosalie, and the Gryffindors are all going together and Chell asked Roger the same bloody day the ball was announced…”
You groan weakly in affirmation, unmoving in your permeating dismay as she lists of all the other prefects. All of them except…
You fold your arms around your face, trying to block out the inevitable conclusion of her words.
“Which means…” she manages to say without laughing. “The only prefect left for you to go with is –”
“I’m going to murder him by the end of the night,” you say flatly.
Chen’s snickers spill over. You shoot her a look of deep betrayal and she manages to compose herself (sort of). “Look,” she says around her suppressed smile, “I know you hate him, but he’s really not that bad –”
“I would rather eat a Flobberworm whole than go to the Yule Ball with Tom Riddle,” you deadpan.
“Well,” comes Riddle’s smooth, irritatingly pleasant voice from behind you and you nearly break your neck turning to face him. He’s got that stupid amused expression on his stupid face, one brow raised, lip half curled like everything’s just a big stupid joke. You genuinely have no idea how everyone finds him charming. “It seems you’re doomed to a rather dire evening, indeed.”
“Riddle,” you say tartly, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t realise that you’d slithered up behind me.”
“Clearly,” he intones, seeming deeply unimpressed.
“What do you want? I’m busy.”
Riddle’s eyes slowly flick to your empty plate, the napkin you’ve folded into a very poor attempt at a swan, the two goblets you’ve managed to balance on top of each other, and Chen’s bitten-back smile as she pretends to read a book that you’re pretty sure she’s cracked open at random. “Yes, you look positively overwhelmed,” he says in barely concealed sarcasm.
“Most people actually enjoy spending time with their friends, Riddle, but considering who you fraternise with I understand if that’s a slightly baffling concept to you –”
“You must have noticed by now that we’re required to attend the ball together,” Riddle interrupts, looking across the Hall with a slightly bored expression as he clasps his hands behind his back. “I’m here to formally offer the invitation.”
“I’m formally accepting it,” you say colourlessly, “now can you formally sod off?”
His eyes narrow and Chen chokes on a laugh that she hides (unsuccessfully) behind her hand. “Of course,” Riddle says coolly, jaw lifting a fraction as he looks down at you, “I wouldn’t dream of taking up any more of your precious time.”
“That’s very good of you,” you say with no small amount of snark.
“I’ll be in the Entrance Hall at seven,” he says, tone ice hard. “Wear something nice.”
“You wear something nice,” you retort grumpily to his retreating form.
Chen arches a brow at you very pointedly, and you lean down on your arms again feeling extremely testy.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
The Hall looks stunning, ice crystals hanging in long spires from the massive, blazing hearths, dancing snow falling from the starry ceiling, and everywhere everything gleams and glitters and shines like the whole place is covered in an early morning frost. You and the other prefects on set up duty finish decorating with mere minutes to spare, and you dash off full-speed to your dorm to wrestle on your dress. You sit down in front of the mirror to fix up your face right as the clock chimes seven.
“Shit,” you breathe, seizing your wand and beginning to Charm yourself to glamour at a truly reckless pace. Ten minutes later you’re sprinting back to the Entrance Hall, heels dangling wildly in one hand and dress bunched in the other.
Riddle is leaning against the stone arch of the Great Hall, music and voices and clinking of glasses already pouring from the open doors. He catches sight of you racing towards him and watches blankly as you skid to a stop in front of him. “You’re late,” he says flatly.
“Yes, thank you Riddle,” you pant through gritted teeth, balancing a little precariously on one foot at a time as you wrangle on your heels. “God, whatever would I do without you.”
You stand and exhale sharply, trying to settle yourself. For the first time, you properly assess Riddle.
Typical.
Riddle looks gorgeous, the bastard, his black hair styled into very attractive waves, his robes simple but cleanly cut and maddeningly flattering of his lean, elegant form. At first glance they look black but upon closer inspection you realise he’s wearing an impossibly deep blue that makes his pale skin look smooth and creamy in the contrast. If you could have found him unattractive, you admit a little begrudgingly, you would have.
Riddle is looking at you, too, the dark angles of his brows pulling together in a slight but critical frown as he takes in your appearance. “I said wear something nice.”
“I hate you,” you say bitterly, turning towards the Hall. “Lets just get this over with…”
Dippet has the prefects on duty all night so you barely even have to see Riddle for the first two hours as you weave through the crowd snagging silver Shrinking Flasks of Firewhisky off rowdy seventh-years, re-Charming a long, tottering icicle before it impales someone, and rescuing a terrified-looking Ravenclaw fourth-year who had sprained her ankle and was promptly nearly trampled to death by the horde of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, who were dancing with such exuberance that they’d established a blast radius that no-one could enter without receiving at least one elbow to a soft body part.
You wearily push your hair back with a long sigh as you turn back to the crowd, the Ravenclaw girl limping away with the Matron behind you.
“Here,” Chen says dryly, handing you a drink in a wide-brimmed glass as she materialises beside you.
“Thanks,” you mutter, necking it.
“Rough night?” she asks, watching you with amusement.
You set the empty glass on the table and shoot her a look. “That Flobberworm is seeming mighty appealing right about now.”
She snorts. “Stop complaining. Half of this room would have torn limb from limb to go with Riddle, and you actually landed the date and you’ve not even spoken a word to him all night. It’s causing quite the outrage.”
You sigh in reluctance. “I suppose I actually have to dance with him at some point…”
“Well here’s your chance,” Chen smirks into her cup, turning away without another word.
Riddle comes to a stop in front of you and eyes your retreating friend. “Have I offended her in some way?” he asks smoothly. “She needn’t leave on my behalf.”
“But who would miss that chance?” you ask monotonously, looking around the crowd warily. “What is it? Is Diggory puking again?”
“No,” says Riddle with detached amusement. “I thought that you and I ought to dance at least once tonight.”
You suppress the urge to sigh again. “Yeah you’re probably right,” you mutter, stepping past him towards onto the dance floor, “right, come on then, don’t criticise my dancing, Riddle, I’m this bloody close to snapping and stabbing someone with an icicle.”
“Sounds like you’ve had quite the evening,” he smirks from behind you as he follows.
“Just be glad you were on planning and not set up,” you mutter, turning to him. “If I never have to cast another Frost Charm for the rest of my life I’ll be happy.”
“Such a low bar,” Riddle says softly, lifting his jaw slightly. “Though I suppose they say that simple things appease the very simple.”
You glare at him, but he just smirks at you again as he steps closer, and in one fluid movement he takes your hand in his and places his other on your waist. “You are such a prick,” you say brazenly, still glaring at him as you both step into a simple, muted dance that requires very minimal enthusiasm.
Riddle doesn’t look injured by this insult in the slightest. “You bring out the worst in me,” he says with disinterest.
You look away stonily. Now that Chen’s mentioned it, you suddenly notice the not insignificant number of slightly envious glares being shot your way now that you’re actually dancing with Riddle. “This is stupid,” you mutter, looking down, “I’m going to get absolutely strung up for being your date and I don’t even want to be here.”
“What do you mean?” he frowns.
You arch a brow, unconvinced by his confusion. “Don’t play dumb, Riddle, the list of people who wanted you to ask them to this thing was longer than the list of people who didn’t.”
Riddle’s expression slowly turns into amusement. He looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “Lucky you,” he says smoothly.
“Oh yeah, lucky me,” you scoff, returning your gaze to your feet. He’s an excellent dancer, the bastard, and you’re having to watch where you step just to keep up.
A stiff silence falls for several minutes during which you make more discoveries that make your blood boil. Riddle, apparently, has the audacity to smell absolutely incredible for one, and worse he actually dares to display something half-way resembling decency. When a very drunk Hufflepuff boy stumbles backwards into you with flailing arms, Riddle turns you so sharply that both of your feet leave the ground for a brief second to get you out of his way and prevent a slightly catastrophic collision. You stare at him in silent shock but he just looks away and neglects to comment.
Hateful boy, you think bitterly. If he had any real decency he’d be holistically unpleasant and let me dislike him in peace.
The moment the song changes, you pull your hand from his and step back. “Right, done,” you say dully, looking away. “Now I have to go find Diggory and make sure he’s not passed out under another table.”
“Diggory’s fine,” Riddle says smoothly, “I took him to the Hospital Wing an hour ago.”
“Chen, then,” you mutter, looking around the crowd for her.
His lips twitch in amusement again. “She appears to be rather preoccupied at present.”
You catch sight of Chen through the crowd. She and Jacob Steed appear to be attempting to swallow each other whole right there on the dancefloor. You give a long, weary exhale. “Well, I’m sure I can find something to do.”
“Dance with me again.”
For the second time, your neck just about snaps under the velocity of you looking around at him. “What?”
Riddle’s expression is curiously neutral, standing there among the throng of people with his dark eyes on yours. A long second passes, and then he looks away himself. “No matter,” he says in an absent sort of tone, like this is all very normal, “enjoy the rest of your evening.”
And he turns and weaves his way away from you, vanishing into the crowd in seconds.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
If you’d thought decorating the place had been rough, it’s nothing compared to the clean up.
“Go to bed,” says Professor Slughorn, waving a tired hand at the group of you a few hours later with bleary eyes and rumpled hair. “We’ll finish up in the morning… and well done tonight, all of you!”
You trudge out the door of the half-cleared Hall with the other prefects, your eyes drooping in exhaustion, and just outside the doors you stumble on your heels as fatigue gets the best of you.
A firm hand closes around your forearm and you look up at once, alert in an instant. You’ve not seen Riddle since the weirdness after you’d danced. “Careful,” he says smoothly, slowly releasing you once you’ve re-found your balance.
“Good idea,” you mutter, falling back against the stone wall beside the doors and lifting your shoe to finally remove it. “Stupid things… god my feet hurt.”
Riddle doesn’t reply, choosing instead to look around the empty chamber. Everyone has meandered off to the dorms, and there’s nothing for him to look at but utter silence.
You eye him as you fiddle with the strap of your other heel, leaning heavily on the wall behind you. “What are you doing?” you ask a little suspiciously.
He meets your gaze, seeming a little surprised. “Waiting,” he says with a small frown like it should be obvious.
“For?”
Riddle arches a brow. “Proof that you can walk straight.”
“I can walk,” you say, rolling your eyes, “I’m just tired.”
“If it had been possible to avoid asking you to be my date, I would have done so,” Riddle says suddenly.
You stare at him incredulously. It takes a long moment before you can gather yourself to reply. “Jeez Riddle,” you exclaim, “I get it, I’m repulsive to you, no need to go on about it –”
“I was more referring to your obvious displeasure,” he interrupts curtly, standing up a little straighter. “You were hardly subtle about the fact that tonight was less than enjoyable for you.”
“Oh yeah because you were such a joy to be around,” you shoot back, folding your arms, “I said wear something nice and all that –”
“That was clearly a joke,” he says coolly, eyes narrowing.
“Yeah it was hilarious. Was calling me simple a joke too?”
“And all of your insults?” he asks icily. "Jokes, are they?"
“I’ve cleaned up four different peoples’ vomit tonight and this conversation is honestly less pleasant,” you mutter, wrenching off your other heel. “Goodnight, Riddle, thanks for absolutely nothing.”
“You look very nice,” he says angrily.
You are once again rendered speechless by surprise.
“Is that what you want? Flattery?” he continues, waving at you furiously.
“I don’t want you to flatter me,” you scoff indignantly, “I don’t want you to do anything, Riddle, I don’t want anything to do with you at all.”
“Well my deepest apologies,” he replies in a cold, hollow voice, his dark eyes narrowing, “for depriving you of my absence for so long.”
He glares at you, and you glare back. You feel like you’re the only person in the whole school who can’t stand him, all his sickly charm and ease, his pretty face that makes people quite convinced that he can’t be part of all those nasty things his friends are rumoured of doing, his incredible grades, his ability to hold a conversation with literally everyone in the whole castle. He pivots so fluently from scene to scene that people don’t seem to notice that he’s doing it; bashfully modest and self-assuredly proud, soft-spoken and assertive, hard-working and effortless, popular and singular, charismatic and genuine. No one seems to notice that Riddle is everything at once. But no one is everything. Which means some of it, or most of it, or all of it is a lie.
You suddenly blink, coming out of your thoughts with a jolt and realising that you’ve both been stood there in conflictive silence for some time.
But Riddle has gone from a cold glare to a detached frown, looking at you with an expression that wouldn’t be out of place in an exam hall. It’s worse, somehow. You’re consumed with a slightly unhinged craving for him to go back to glaring at you, to go back to glaring at him yourself. But you can feel that you’re not.
You watch as his head tilts ever-so-slightly like he’s studying you, like he’s sifting through whatever he’s seeing on your face at the moment, because it suddenly feels like you have no idea what he’s finding there.
“What are you doing?” you ask quietly, and immediately resent yourself for not sounding angrier. For not sounding angry at all.
Riddle is silent for a moment. You wonder if he’s going to step closer. You wonder why on earth you’re thinking about him stepping closer. He swallows, and you adamantly keep your eyes on his to avoid looking at his throat. “Waiting,” he says just as quietly.
You’re tired. It’s been a very weird night. This is the longest you and Riddle have gone without insulting each other and that’s extremely disorienting. That's why this is happening. That’s why your nerves start tingling in your stomach, why your chest suddenly feels too tight. “For what?” you manage to ask without wavering.
He frowns slowly, thoughtfully. His dark eyes seem to have pinned you there against the wall. You wonder if you even could turn and leave right now of your own accord. “I’m not sure,” he says carefully.
Riddle is a liar. He’s an actor. He’s very, very good at presenting whatever will get him what he wants at any given moment. That’s what he’s doing now. You think it must be what he’s doing now, and the nervousness prickling under your skin is wiped away by the hot resentment that whatever he’s doing was working. It was working on you and you’re supposed to know better.
“Do you think you can just bat your eyelashes at me and make me fall for you like everyone else, Riddle?” you ask coolly, lifting your chin a little antagonistically.
He actually laughs, a very genuine-looking scoff of disbelief and surprise, shaking his head slightly as he looks at you. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asks, arching a brow in a sort of resigned amusement.
“Why do you even bother with me, Riddle?” you ask in exasperation, shoulders falling. “There’s about four hundred other people in this castle who would be happy to fawn over you all you like. Is it because I’m the only one here who genuinely can’t stand you? Are you such a bloody narcissist that you have to prove that you can collect everyone?”
Anger flashes in his eyes. “I wouldn’t presume to understand my feelings, if I were you,” he snaps, “I don’t presume to understand them myself.”
You blink. The admission seems to register with him a second later and his lips press together hard, looking away in visible agitation.
But he doesn’t leave. He’s bound his gaze to some shadowy part of the Hall behind you, and he doesn’t say a word. You study the expression on his face, the tension there, the way its twisted on his lips. He looks like he’s annoyed with himself. Or maybe he’s just pretending to be. How could you tell the difference? How can you ever know what’s real with Riddle and what’s not?
You sigh with resignment, fatigue, curiosity, and drop your heels to the ground with a clatter that echoes around the dark stone of the loft Hall. Riddle looks back at once. “What are you doing?” he frowns, eyes flicking to your shoes.
You give him a long look. “Waiting.”
He stares at you. Above you, the flames in the wall sconce flicker slightly like they’ve been swept by a breeze and the shadows play down Riddle’s face.
You almost feel a little triumphant when Riddle does indeed take a step closer, slow and measured, watching your closely, and when you don’t say a word, he takes another. He doesn’t touch you, the scant space that remains between your bodies the last sliver of an alibi, the eleventh-hour chance for either of you to turn away. You wonder if he’s faking it now, the heavy way he’s looking at you, the strangely guarded expression in his dark, watchful eyes like he thinks if he moves too quickly you’ll bolt like a wild animal.
You wonder what he’s thinking as he slowly leans down to you, still watching, still wary, and you take a breath to try to settle the butterflies that bloom instinctively in your stomach as you watch Riddle’s lips draw closer and closer to yours. He’s barely a centimetre away from kissing you when he stops.
You immediately look up at him.
He’s unbearably close, he’s the only thing you can see, his smell flooding your thoughts and his body just inches from yours. You watch with surreal fascination as Riddle’s eyes flutter shut and he takes a long breath, his forehead coming to rest against yours and it’s weird seeing him like this, not just that he’s so close, but that he’s seemingly so uninhibited, usually so calculated and deliberate and refined. Riddle draws closer like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, and when you feel his hands come up and rest on your hips you suddenly realise that you very much don’t care if Riddle is faking it or not.
You lean in and kiss him.
It’s soft and tentative and warm and Riddle is only barely returning it, like both of you are just trying to figure out if this should even be happening – but you’re rather convinced that it should be, because this barest press of his lips is sending waves of heat under your skin that pool wonderfully in your stomach, and you wonder if he hears the breath you draw in, if he feels it, if he knows how frighteningly good this feels, how much the desire feels like you’ve lost your balance all over again.
After a long, fragile moment, you pull back.
You catch his eyes opening slowly. Somehow your hands have ended up on his chest.
Riddle’s eyes flick between yours like he’s trying to find something in one of them, waiting, perhaps, for the return of your insults, or perhaps for something worse.
For a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat and the flickering flames above.
Both of you lean in again at the same time, lips meeting hard as his hands slip around your waist and yours lace around his neck, and this time it’s not tentative, this time it’s downright insatiable, hot and hungry and brazen, and your head is spinning so much that you forget to worry about someone walking in and coming across the two of you as you kiss him harder, and harder, and his hair is softer than you’d expected, his hands are warmer, his body firmer, and when his hand slides under your thigh and pulls it up against his hip to press in closer, you’re filled with such an intense hunger for him that you break the kiss, intimidated.
Riddle’s full lips are slightly parted and he’s breathing hard, staring at you. He looks very much like he wasn’t expecting this hunger either.
“I… I don’t think that we should…” you manage to say over your racing heart.
Riddle blinks and then lets go of your thigh at once, stepping back before you can even react. “Of course,” he says blankly, his eyes dropping with a frown, “my apologies, I didn’t mean to imply that –”
“Riddle,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes, “shut up, I was going to say that we’re being rather conspicuous and I’d rather not get interrupted by an unsuspecting ghost, they might die all over again from pure shock.”
Riddle either doesn’t know what to say to this or doesn’t think it even deserves a reply, because he just stares at you again.
You refrain from making some snide remark about this in favour of stepping forward, taking his face in your hands, and kissing him as hard as you can. There’s a broom closet on the other side of the hall and you very much intend to get him into it.
Riddle’s breath speeds up and he can’t seem to decide where he wants to touch you, your cheeks, your hair, your waist, your back, his hands dancing between them as you push him back across the Hall in long steps that he just barely stumbles on until finally his back hits the door of the closet. You kiss him deeper as one of Riddle’s palms come to rest against your jaw, and you realise he knew exactly what you were doing, what you were intending, because his other hand drops to the handle of the closet and the door springs open.
Riddle pulls you inside, slamming the door shut and pushing you hard against it, lips meeting yours in the dark so hungrily that you gasp right into his mouth without meaning to. Your fingers battle with the tie around his neck, pulling the knot apart and then moving on without hesitation to the buttons at his throat but Riddle doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. Something in him has snapped, all the hesitation and tentativeness and slowness has vanished, his lips are devouring yours, relentless and wild and full of craving, one forearm boxing you in and the other hand tangling in your hair to pull you closer still. The intensity of it isn’t frightening you anymore. Now it’s just making you very, very excited.
You finally shove his shirt out of the way and spread your hands across his chest, and in the darkness and the all-encompassing gravity of the way he’s kissing you, nothing exists but the way he feels, his warm skin, his body beneath your hands, the way Riddle exhales hard with something like frustration and slips an arm around your waist to pull you up, stepping in to pin you against the wall. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct and Riddle’s hand is sliding up your thigh again but you can barely keep track because his lips move to your throat and pleasure explodes across your skin. You push your fingers into his hair and hold him there as his mouth moves in that same insatiable way against your skin, looking up in the dark and seeing nothing but blackness as Riddle draws a moan from your lips that you would have been ashamed of if he didn’t feel so good.
“You’re making this very difficult,” he mutters against your skin, lifting his head and kissing you again, and your eyes flutter shut even though it makes no difference anyway. You kiss him back desperately, wrapping your legs around him tighter, pulling him closer, and it’s a long moment before you remember what he’s said and that you should probably figure out what he means.
“Making what difficult?” you breathe, leaning in and placing your lips against his throat yourself, dragging your teeth across his skin.
His hand curls hard in your hair as he takes a wonderfully sharp breath. “Resisting,” he says tightly.
You scoff and pull away. “Why on earth are you resisting?”
“I don’t know,” he says in a hollow tone.
“Well stop,” you murmur, placing your palms against his cheeks.
Riddle doesn’t say anything. The silence is suddenly as permeating as the dark, tenuous and deafening.
Slowly, you feel him lean in, you feel the warmth of his lips hovering right above yours.
“There are things I want to do to you,” Riddle says quietly. His voice has gone heavy and deep.
Heat flushes your face. You try to stop yourself from breathing harder, but you can’t. “Like what?” you whisper.
His mouth presses right next to yours, electrifyingly slow. He can feel the way your chest is heaving, he can hear your breath, and suddenly you’re wondering how dangerous it is that Riddle can tell exactly what sort of effect he’s having on you. “Things to make you feel good,” he murmurs, and his hand on your thigh is moving up towards your hip, pushing up your dress as it goes, his palm warm and his fingers splayed hungrily against your skin. You press your lips together hard. “Things to make you…”
You shift in anticipation, unable to stop yourself, desire pulling so hard at your body that it feels like gravity is tipping over. Riddle pulls away, his hand frozen on your hip.
You wonder what expression the darkness is covering on his face.
“There’s a table beside you,” he says quietly, voice splitting the silence and sending shivers down your spine. “I’d like you to put your hands on it.”
You stare at where you think his eyes would be. It takes a second for your brain to catch up with the fire aching in your stomach. You look to the side, but you can’t see anything in the darkness.
Riddle suddenly moves, hands taking your waist hard and slowly he lets you down – but his hands stay where they are. He turns you to the side and guides you forward a few inches until – sure enough – you feel the edge of a wooden table pressing against your thighs. Riddle steps in behind you, hands still grasping your waist, and you try very hard not to gasp when you his mouth suddenly presses against your throat. “Go on,” he murmurs.
The darkness hides the way your fingers are trembling as you place them as he asked on the surface of the table. Riddle has not yet relented in his slow, torturous kisses down the slope of your shoulder.
“Do you want me to make you feel good?” says Riddle very quietly, right against your throat, his voice dangerously soft and smooth enough to make your stomach twist.
You exhale, closing your eyes tightly. Slowly, you nod.
“You do?” he says, smirk audible. One of his hands slides down your hip at a teasing pace and takes a handful of your dress.
You nod again, wondering exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into as Riddle’s teeth press against your skin and he draws your dress up again.
“There are things you want me to do to you too, aren’t there?” he says softly, and you have to consciously suppress a gasp as Riddle’s hand slides up the inside of your thigh. “Hmm?” he prompts with another kiss when you don’t respond, fingers sliding up your skin.
You nod, wishing you could say something but your throat has closed up and you’re barely managing to stay standing, let alone speak.
“Things like this?” he murmurs, and without warning his fingers brush against your underwear, feather-light but he’s been teasing you for so long that even that makes pure electric heat shoot through your body and there’s no stopping your gasp this time.
Riddle’s hand still on your waist tightens. “You want me to touch you, don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, his fingers playing across the surface of your underwear and making you very, very aware of how wet they are. Riddle doesn’t give you time to feel self-conscious about this. “Tell me,” he says smoothly and you shiver again at his voice, the way you can feel it in your chest every time he speaks, his lips pressing just beneath your ear as his fingers continue to dance. “I want you to tell me.”
You dip your head and you try to gather yourself, to focus on the cool wood beneath your palms, to think, but your whole body is aching with how badly you want him, the feeling pooling heavy and almost painfully beneath his fingers and you nod without meaning to. “Yes,” you somehow say, and your voice doesn’t sound like your own, breathy and hollow and full of wanting.
His lips stay on your skin as his fingers press harder and your hips shift at the heat that blooms with his touch, your lips part with a gasp, and Riddle’s mouth curves into a smile on your skin as he breathes a small, warm laugh. “Do you want me to take these off?” he asks you, sounding like he knows the answer as he curls a finger into your underwear.
Your head falls even more. “Yes,” you whisper.
He pulls at them gently and they’re gone, Vanished, and before you can react Riddle’s hand on your waist is tilting you forward a little more, making your palms flatten on the wooden table –
His fingers slide slick against you and every thought in your head disappears as electric pleasure explodes in your body. Riddle’s lips never leave your skin as he touches you slowly, ceaselessly, somewhere between gentle and ruthless. His free hand grips your waist so tightly you can’t help but like it, and inch by inch he goads more and more heat into your stomach, you’re leaning more and more on the table as you start to spiral.
Right as you’re on the brink of release, Riddle’s fingers come to a still and you let go of a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding, too caught up in the rise.
“Are you serious?” you gasp, panting.
He laughs again. “Yes,” he says softly, his hand releasing your waist and coming up to rest against your throat, gently guiding your face to the side as he presses his lips to your cheek. “I’d like to listen.”
And his fingers resume, slower than before like he knows it’ll be torture for you, and you force back a moan at the wave of pleasure that tears through you.
“Does that feel good?” he asks, lips a smirk on you skin.
You would have told him yes if you could speak but you’ve been wanting this for too long now, you body is on fire –
“There’s more I want to do to you,” Riddle whispers in your ear as he strokes you closer and closer to your climax. “Would you let me?”
“Riddle,” you moan, eyes shutting tightly.
“Would you?”
You think you know what he means. You don’t really care. You’ll let him do just about anything. “Yes,” you whisper, wondering if he means now or after he’s –
His fingers press harder and unbearable pleasure immediately blooms in your core under his touch. You fall fast, struck by your orgasm with such intensity that the breath is knocked from your lips and stolen from your throat, and Riddle’s fingers don’t still, he only holds you tighter as you moan. You’re gasping as you come down, chest heaving and an ache in your core.
“I’d like you to do that again,” Riddle murmurs, and then his lips leave your cheek and you barely have a second before his hand flattens against your back and he pushes you smoothly down onto the table. Your eyes fall shut and your pulse triples because you know exactly what’s about to happen, you feel him against you and it takes everything in you not to rock back into him but you don’t have to wait long.
In one unbroken movement Riddle pushes inside of you and your entire body comes alive with electric pleasure that has you gasping as he holds you there, as he draws back and pushes back in so hard your vision splits with stars and heat explodes beneath your skin. One of Riddle’s hands traces down your back as his other holds your hip tighter, and with gentle pressure he pushes you down a little more, tilting your hips in his hands and Riddle’s thrusts hit something inside of you that makes you choke on your moans, because you’re still so tangled up from his fingers teasing you that you’re close again already, and god he’s never going to let you live this down –
As you try to stifle the sounds he’s drawing from you each time his hips collide with yours, you hear him take a long breath, his hand tightening on your hip. “There,” he says quietly and his palm slides up your back, slipping across your shoulder and coming to rest very, very gently against your throat, too gentle to bear given how hard he’s gripping your hip, how relentlessly he’s fucking you – “You’re going to come for me again, aren’t you?”
You screw your eyes up tighter.
“Aren’t you?” he repeats smoothly, and he yanks your hips back an inch like he’s demanding you answer as he slams into you so hard that another moan is knocked from your lips and pleasure curls rebelliously in your gut.
“Yes,” you gasp.
“Good,” he says softly. Riddle suddenly pulls you up and you’re too malleable in his hands, you really are letting him do all these things to you, things you’re very much enjoying him doing, things he’s clearly thought about –
His hand slides up your throat to rest right under your jaw as he tilts your hips a little more, and your back arches even more, your head falling back against his shoulder as you open your eyes and look straight up into the darkness as heat and pleasure starts to well up in your stomach and your chest heaves harder and harder as you get closer and closer with each of his thrusts –
“You feel…” he murmurs, lips pressing hungrily against your throat, “very… very good.”
“Go on, Tom,” you say through your hard breathes, mimicking his own words from what feels like an age ago, “give me what I want.”
Riddle takes a slightly hollow breath, his forehead falling onto your shoulder, and there’s something a lot more uncontrolled about his movements that make a smile pull at the corners of your lips because you’ve just learned that for all his composure, Riddle rather likes someone making him lose a bit of control.
You’re right on the brink again, precarious before the fall, and the desperation and pleasure and heat spurs you on without a second thought. “Please, Tom,” you whisper, half just to see what he does. “Please, I want you Tom, I–”
Riddle turns his face into your shoulder as a sound half-way between a groan and an exhale falls from his lips, holding you tighter than ever and you tip straight into another orgasm as you feel heat burst inside of you, as his movements stutter and stop, as his breath comes hard against your skin, his arms somehow now wrapped tightly around you and holding you in place. You think it’s about ninety percent of why you haven’t collapsed by now.
You open your eyes, slowly coming back to your body and making sense of the world again. Both of you are breathing hard, and Riddle’s forehead is still slumped against your shoulder.
“Are you alive?” you ask in mumble, looking to the side as if you might look at him, your cheek pressing against his soft hair.
“I think so,” he murmurs, sounding very tired.
You breathe a laugh and push him away so you can turn to face him, sliding your hands up his chest and taking his face in your palms again. “Well what on earth happens now?” you ask, amused and tired yourself.
“I’m not sure,” he says in the same voice, leaning down and resting his head on your shoulder again. You suppress another laugh. Riddle likes closeness after sex, who bloody knew.
You lace your arms around his neck and he immediately leans in more, taking a very long breath that makes his whole body relax like its taking the last of his energy with it. “Are you going to go back to hating me?” he asks wearily.
“Probably. You are a bit of a prick,” you say against his hair, pushing your fingers through the soft waves.
Riddle hums and slides his hands around your waist, pulling you closer. “I suppose I better go back to hating you too, then,” he murmurs.
You smile, turning your face into the crook of his neck and closing your eyes. “Deal.”
Your writing is otherworldly btw~ I don’t know if you’ll go on with this, but would you consider making a tom riddle x y/n where tom’s diary got into y/n’s possession, and y/n starts writing to him and they just have deep conversations. And as time goes on, diary Tom just gets completely infatuated with her? But I’m not sure how the rest of the story will go on, contemplating the fact that he is in a form of an object but yee...lmao
A/N: So this turned out a lil angsty and a lil experimental but I enjoyed writing it and was already thinking about a pt 2, but we’ll see if y’all like it 😉
Thanks to @raven-riddle for beta-reading!! Ily bestie 💖
(OG GIF CREDIT)
Summary: You have a very curious diary in your possession. Or then again, perhaps the diary possesses you.
[GN reader ★ no pronouns ★ ambiguous house]
Wordcount: 2.1k
Warnings: none
Yeah. I remember heading back to the common room after dinner and then suddenly I was standing in my dorm and it was 3 in the morning and I was all cold like I’d been outside and there was mud on my shoes. I think I should go to see Madam Pomfrey, this is getting out of hand.
I will! I mean, I am that sort of person. I’ll make the potion, I swear. I can start next weekend when I’m in detention, I’m with Slughorn cleaning cauldrons so it’ll be easy to grab what I need from the storeroom.
It's so strange not being able to see you when we talk. I'd like to know what you look like.
𝓐𝖓𝖉 𝓘 𝛄𝖔𝖚.
I wish I could meet you for real.
𝓓𝖔 𝛄𝖔𝖚 𝖗𝖊𝖆𝖑𝖑𝛄?
Gotta go Dumbledore’s starting class, I’ll write later!
𝓤𝖓𝖙𝖎𝖑 𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖓.
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟖𝐭𝐡
Are you there, Tom?
𝚼𝖊𝖘 – 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙’𝖘 𝖜𝖗𝖔𝖓𝖌?
Why do you ask?
𝚼𝖔𝖚𝖗 𝖍𝖆𝖓𝖉𝖜𝖗𝖎𝖙𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖎𝖘 𝖔𝖋𝖋.
Should have known you’d notice.
𝓓𝖎𝖉 𝖘𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌 𝖍𝖆𝖕𝖕𝖊𝖓?
Well, you remember Malfoy the pureblood git from the other day?
𝓜𝖔𝖘𝖙 𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖚𝖗𝖊𝖉𝖑𝛄.
I may or may not have sent him to the Hospital Wing.
𝓘 𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖊𝖈𝖙 𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖈𝖔𝖒𝖊𝖘 𝖜𝖎𝖙𝖍 𝖆 𝖘𝖙𝖔𝖗𝛄.
We were practicing duelling in Defence Against the Dark Arts, and he was saying some really nasty things about this Gryffindor girl (she’s Muggle-born), so when it was our turn to duel each other I broke his nose.
𝚼𝖔𝖚 𝖇𝖗𝖔𝛋𝖊 𝖍𝖎𝖘 𝖓𝖔𝖘𝖊?
Got him with a modified Confringo Hex, if you add 'ostana' as a suffix it’ll shatter bone from beneath the skin. His whole nose turned purple and swelled up without a drop of blood to be seen. Snape gave me another detention but honestly I think he was sort of begrudgingly impressed.
𝓦𝖍𝖔 𝖙𝖆𝖚𝖌𝖍𝖙 𝛄𝖔𝖚 𝖙𝖍𝖆𝖙?
Confringo? It’s O.W.L. level.
𝓝𝖔, 𝖙𝖍𝖊 𝖒𝖔𝖉𝖎𝖋𝖎𝖈𝖆𝖙𝖎𝖔𝖓.
I made that up.
Tom?
𝓣𝖍𝖆𝖙’𝖘 𝖆 𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝖎𝖒𝖕𝖗𝖊𝖘𝖘𝖎𝖛𝖊 𝖈𝖚𝖗𝖘𝖊.
Are you surprised? I’m sure I’ve told you I like duelling.
Do you think it’s strange that the Wizarding world uses owls to send mail? We can Apparate, Floo, and even fly faster than it takes an owl to deliver a letter, if you’ve got the right broomstick.
Probably not more than a week if you paid extra shipping. Planes are pretty fast, Tom.
𝓘’𝖛𝖊 𝖓𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗 𝖇𝖊𝖊𝖓 𝖎𝖓 𝖔𝖓𝖊.
Well I have, and I think it’s a bit weird that the magical world’s sort of lagging behind a bit. Honestly I could just send an email and it would get to where I’d need it to go instantly.
𝓘’𝖒 𝖆𝖋𝖗𝖆𝖎𝖉 𝓘 𝖉𝖔𝖓’𝖙 𝛋𝖓𝖔𝖜 𝖜𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝛄𝖔𝖚 𝖒𝖊𝖆𝖓.
What year did you cast that Mirroring spell on your diary again?
𝟏𝟗𝟒𝟑.
Well, there’s all this new technology coming out that lets you communicate instantly with anyone else on the planet, so long as they’ve also got access to the internet. It lets you send messages, and photos, and music, and I think you can even use it for research since it can access papers and books and things. Sort of like me writing in this diary, but if you knew absolutely everything in the universe and I could talk to lots of different people at once.
Do you think you’re out in the world right now, Tom?
𝓦𝖍𝖆𝖙 𝖉𝖔 𝛄𝖔𝖚 𝖒𝖊𝖆𝖓?
Grown-up you. I mean if your Mirror spell caught a snapshot of you in 1943 you must have carried on here afterwards, right? The real you would have graduated and gone and done something with your life.
𝓘 𝖆𝖘𝖘𝖚𝖒𝖊 𝖘𝖔.
Maybe I’ll look up your name and see if I can find you, it would be funny to see where you ended up. Did any of the professors still here teach you, too? I could ask them about you.
𝓘’𝖉 𝖗𝖆𝖙𝖍𝖊𝖗 𝛄𝖔𝖚 𝖉𝖎𝖉𝖓’𝖙.
Why?
Tom?
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟐𝐭𝐡
I lost a few hours last night after we talked. Woke up in my dorm again, I was just lying on my bed. It was so weird.
Are you alright?
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟏𝟔𝐭𝐡
Hope you’re okay, it’s been a while.
𝐍𝐨𝐯𝐞𝐦𝐛𝐞𝐫 𝟐𝟑𝐫𝐝
I have detention in an hour… But at least I’ll finally be able to make that potion you recommended!
Wait. Did you misremember the effects, or is it unnecessary?
Hello?
𝓑𝖔𝖙𝖍, 𝖓𝖆𝖙𝖚𝖗𝖆𝖑𝖑𝛄.
That’s not ‘naturally,’ that’s a completely different point. Would it do more harm than good, or is it unnecessary because the problem’s already gone away? Which is it?
Want to tell me why you were trying to get me to make a Spirit Stifler, Tom?
𝚼𝖔𝖚 𝖑𝖔𝖔𝛋𝖊𝖉 𝖎𝖙 𝖚𝖕.
Yeah I did. Took a while, too, since you never told me its actual name. And you know, at first I thought it was really weird that I didn’t look it up when you first told me about it, but then I remembered that you told me you’d used it YOURSELF for sleeping issues and that I should just trust the recipe you gave me. ‘Misremembered the effects’ huh?
𝓘 𝖈𝖆𝖓 𝖊𝖝𝖕𝖑𝖆𝖎𝖓 𝖊𝖛𝖊𝖗𝛄𝖙𝖍𝖎𝖓𝖌, 𝖎𝖋 𝛄𝖔𝖚’𝖑𝖑 𝖑𝖊𝖙 𝖒𝖊.
I read that Spirit Stiflers can leave the drinker vulnerable to POSSESSION. Want to explain THAT?
Well how about you start here – I looked up Mirroring spells too, and there’s not a single book in the whole library that says you can use them to make something like this diary.
𝓟𝖑𝖊𝖆𝖘𝖊, 𝖏𝖚𝖘𝖙
Or perhaps you can explain why my SLEEP-WALKING seems to match descriptions of POSSESSION perfectly?
Could Tom and the reader study together and then one day she’s sick or doesn’t show up and Tom doesn’t really care(he does though) so he opens his book only to find a bunch of pressed flowers you always leave for him thank you I love you’re writing ♥️
This is such a cute idea I could not resist this little one-shot I am dying.
❀Presence❀
Summary: You give Tom Riddle a flower and it’s all downhill from there.
Wordcount: 1.3k
Content warning: none.
Thank you so so much to the two people who have donated to my paypal! I sipped a lovely coffee whilst writing this all thanks to you ♥️
[Gif credit]
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
It starts off very innocuously.
“Is that Phenomena of Dynamic Necromancy?”
Riddle looks up. He has three other stacks of books on his desk, but your eyes are fixed on the crimson-bound book open before him. “Do you need it?” he asks.
“Yeah, how long will you be?”
“A while,” he says with a small frown, looking back at it. “I’ve chosen Necromantic residuals for Hearthy’s assignment.”
“So have I.”
He looks up again. This time his gaze is a little sharper. “Are you willing to change topics?”
You arch a brow. “Are you?”
There’s a pause.
“Fair,” he mutters, nodding at the seat opposite him. “Sit down, we can share it.”
You take the seat opposite him and set up, pulling out the half-written essay plan and getting to work. He slides the text to you ten minutes later.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
“What’s a good word for describing the way Caprine’s text vilified Necromancy in the academic community?”
Riddle doesn’t stop writing. “Inordinate.”
“Too passive.”
His eyes flick to yours. “Slanderous,” he suggests.
“Stronger than that – the man ruined all chance of reputable research in the field for two centuries, after all.”
Riddle’s lips curl slightly at the corners. “Scurrilous.”
You smile. “Perfect,” you say quietly, writing it in.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
You sit down opposite him and pull out your things, still breathing a little heavily from running up the stairs from Herbology. “What’s up?” you frown as you unscrew your inkwell – Riddle’s brow is creased in some tense concentration and his jaw is set a little too tightly.
“Nothing,” he says quietly.
You’re sceptical, but you’re hardly close enough friend to push him for more. Wondering what else you might do, you glance down at your bag and an idea (admittedly a slightly ridiculous one) occurs to you. “Here,” you say, reaching down to pull out a sprig of blue lavender you’d pilfered from the Greenhouses and placing it beside his book.
Riddle stares at it like it’s a stain. “What is that?” he demands corrosively, eyes flashing to yours.
“That’s a flower, Riddle.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “Yes, thank you, I’m aware it’s a flower,” he says icily, “I meant, what exactly is the purpose of giving this to me?”
You shrug and get stuck into your work. A few moments later, Riddle’s vitriolic gaze relents and he returns to his writing, rather ironically seeming more tense than before.
“It’s a flower, Riddle, not a bloody wedding ring,” you say humorously. “I’m just trying to cheer you up.”
“I don’t need you to cheer me up,” he says woodenly, crossing out a mistake on his page with a single, sharp motion.
You roll your eyes.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
When you sit down next, you place the little sprig of wood sorrel down beside him without saying a word. He shoots you a look, but neglects to protest.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
It’s a buttercup the day after. Herb Robert after that. Marsh Marigold on the Monday, Stammerwort at the end of the week. He always stays later than you so you have no idea what he does with them after you leave – in your presence he ignores them completely, though he’s stopped glaring at you when you set them down.
You think that might be progress.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Snow falls outside the tall, leaded windows of the library as you throw your essay down on the desk in front of him, the O at the top of the page in red ink clearly visible. “Hearthy said my discussion was eloquent and meticulously organised,” you say, amused. “No doubt thanks to that final reshuffle you recommended.”
“It was a good essay,” Riddle says smoothly, looking up from whatever new assignment he’s already working on. “I assume you’re happy with the result.”
“I am,” you smile, placing the golden aster beside his inkwell. “Thanks for your help.”
Riddle looks at the flower, blank-faced.
You pick up your essay and turn to leave. “See you later.”
It’s only once you get back to your dorm that you realise you forgot to tell him that you’re about to head home for Christmas.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Tom could never decide if he likes Christmas or not. On the one hand the constant, inexorable fanfare grew tiresome very quickly and people were always driveling on about their plans and presents and other trite affairs. On the other, the two week window when everyone was finally gone for the break left Hogwarts mostly deserted, the corridors calm and quiet, the library near abandoned, the Great Hall subdued and palatable like it never was with the loud chatter and bothersome clamour of the term.
Hogwarts was his for two weeks. His to explore uninterrupted, his to wander freely, and he takes full advantage of it for nearly the entirely of the first half of the holidays until Christmas Eve arrives and he resigns himself to the library to fell the considerable pile of work they’d been assigned.
He sits down at his regular desk where his books for the Transfiguration assignment Dumbledore had given them still remain in neat piles and extracts his things from his bag; his parchment first, his quill next, placed dead straight next to his page, settling his inkwell in its slot and carefully uncapping it, resting the lid on the desk to its right.
Tom hesitates. He frowns at his things on the desk before him.
Something is missing. He knows it.
But nothing is missing, everything is exactly where it should be as it always is, and yet as he reaches for the Polliwog text on the top of his pile, the thought refuses to fully leave him alone, sitting stubbornly in his head like a stone in a shoe, distracting and irksome.
It’s only once his eyes fall on the empty seat opposite him that he realises exactly whose absence he’s inadvertently been discerning.
Tom glowers at the seat, unable to decide exactly at whom he’s more annoyed – you for having inflicted your presence on him long enough for its absence to be noticeable, or himself for having accidentally noticed it in the first place.
It was utterly inane, of course, continuing to keep your company during his study sessions, talking to you beyond what was strictly required, and especially those ridiculous, silly little flowers you kept bringing him, the unnecessary chore it gave him having to figure out what to do with them all. Really he should ask you to stop, all things considered, it was frivolous and without purpose, puerile, vapid –
Tom’s building scowl dissolves when he opens the Polliwog text.
Sitting on the table of contents is the delicate form of a pink and white Arctic Rock Laurel, a little purple Hellebore, Polyanthus of every colour, all dried and pressed flat, slipped between the cover and that first page of his book and left there.
Waiting for him.
Tom’s jaw tenses.
He reaches for his bag again, extracts his diary, and carefully moves the flowers to the pages at the back to join all the others, closing it and sliding it back into his bag and out of sight.
The empty seat looms opposite him and Tom can’t decide if he likes Christmas or not because on the one hand, everyone leaves and he’s left alone.
On the other. Everyone leaves. And he’s left alone.
is it possible if you do some Tom fluff/soft!smut where y/n stops touching him (like hand holding, hugging etc) because he doesn’t show any interest in it (always has a serious face & looks bored of her etc, when in reality he’s melting inside with butterflies and stuff). so he asks her why and she explains it and it leads to some smut, (only if you’re comfy if you’re not, some making out is fine). <33
Oh my god the second I got this I was like I HAVE to answer this immediately. Thanks for this awesome prompt!!! 💖
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Tactile
Summary: Affectionate Reader stops touching Tom because he never reacts to it, and when he asks why they stopped things get very, very heated (content warning: smut).
Word count: 2.3k
Content warning: explicit sex.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Tom had shown you the room about a week after you’d started dating. It was on the seventh-floor of the Castle far away from the regular foot-traffic, a smooth stone wall until you walked past it with a specific need in mind – then the door would appear, carved from the rock before your very eyes to reveal a room that gave you exactly what you wanted.
For him, it was always the same room; a small library so packed with books that the shelves curved overhead to form impossible arches, warm glowing lanterns that illuminated the space inside, and a broad fireplace in front of which sat elegant black couches with reading lamps and tables laden with yet more books. He’s yet to tell you exactly what he thinks of to make the library appear, but every time you go there with him, there it is again.
“Are you alright?” he asks suddenly one evening.
The two of you are on the couches before the crackling fireplace. Tom has an elbow resting on the armrest of the couch and a book in his lap, one long leg crossed over the other, looking at you where you’re sat opposite him. You’re curled up around an assignment with your feet tucked up underneath you and your inkwell balanced somewhat precariously on the cushion beside you.
“I’m fine,” you frown, rather taken aback. “Why?”
Tom is silent as he assesses you, looking uncharacteristically hesitant. You arch a brow and lower your quill, attention fully grabbed. “Tom?”
“You’ve been acting differently,” he says smoothly.
“I have?”
“Yes,” he says succinctly, looking back down at his book. “More reserved.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you say slowly.
“You used to be very… tactile,” he says delicately, his long fingers sliding under his page and turning it very nonchalantly. “I’ve noticed that you’ve stopped.”
“Stopped touching you?” you say carefully, feeling more and more surprised.
He nods.
“Well it felt weird to keep doing it since you didn’t like it,” you frown, confused at why he’d even brought it up.
Tom’s eyes snap up to yours. “What do you mean?” he asks curtly.
You raise your brows at his reaction. “Where’s the point of confusion for you?” you ask dryly.
“Why did you think I didn’t like it?” he demands.
“Are you joking?” you deadpan, half-amused. “Tom, you’d just ignore me. I’d go to hug you, or hold your hand, and you’d just look so… bored. It didn’t take a genius to realise that you weren’t interested.”
Tom stares at you. Suddenly you feel a little awkward.
“I don’t mind that you’re not an affectionate person,” you say quickly, “I really don’t. I just felt sort of strange acting like that since it obviously wasn’t what you wanted.”
His jaw goes tight and there’s something almost agitated in the way he looks back down at his book.
“Are… are you alright?” you ask hesitantly, gaze lingering on his fingers that – despite his apparently casual posture – were now gripping the cover of his book so tightly that his knuckles were going white.
“Fine,” he says in a clipped tone.
“Well I’m convinced,” you drawl.
Tom doesn’t rise to your teasing. You frown and put your assignment aside. “Hey, what’s wrong?”
“I am perfectly well,” he says tersely.
“Is that why you’re about to rip that book in two?” you ask ironically, arching a brow.
Tom shuts the book loudly and tosses it onto the couch beside him. “What would you have me say?” he says in agitation.
“You’re rather obviously upset, Tom,” you say frankly.
“Yes and your observations are always so accurate,” he snaps caustically.
You frown again. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
Tom looks furious for a second and then glowers at the fireplace. Your thoughts whir. The only observation you’d made about him recently had been…
“Is this about me touching you?” you ask slowly, watching him carefully.
Tom looks at you again, tense and frenetic. He doesn’t say anything. Your stomach does a little flip, and you force your nerves down to speak again.
“…Do you want me to start doing it again?”
Tom’s lips press together, his eyes flicking between yours. After a long, silent moment, he nods.
You smother a smile and stand. Tom’s eyes follow you, looking ever so slightly alarmed at your movement – but the expression melts away as you approach him and very languidly rest your hands onto his shoulders, slowly leaning forward and straddling him on the couch. “Then why didn’t you say you liked it?” you say softly, sitting down on his lap and lifting a hand to push your fingers through his hair.
Tom’s gaze is unmoved from your face as his hands slide up your hips and come to a rest on your waist, his touch very reserved. “I thought you knew,” he says quietly.
“Not all of us are mind-readers, Tom,” you tease playfully, your fingers trailing down the elegant curve of his cheek. “Some of us have to rely on menial body language and verbal queues to understand each other.”
“My apologies,” Tom says softly as he leans closer. Your heart stutters despite yourself.
You meet his lips softly, just as warm and full as they looked, his mouth moving on yours deceptively gentle but with the dizzying promise of more to come. Sure enough, you feel his hands slide from your waist up around you as he pulls you closer to him, holding you tightly against him. Adrenaline is spreading like fire through your chest and – wondering exactly how much you can get away with – you slowly roll your hips against his. You hear him take a slightly harder breath and you pull back from the kiss to look at him.
Your stomach twists at what you see. Tom stares at you with something like hunger on his face, his eyes dark and intense. You can’t resist rocking your hips again just to see his reaction. Tom’s jaw goes tight and he leans in hard, his lips crashing into yours and moving ravenously, his hand curling into a fist of your hair and pulling you deeper into the kiss. Heat spreads through your body and grows hotter and hotter as it goes on and on, your fingers carding into the waves of his dark hair as you kiss him back as hard as you can, as you spiral from control and you’re barely able to think anymore.
Tom is pushing your robes off of your shoulders and you distractedly shrug them off as you lean into the kiss, your heart racing as his fingers slip under the bottom of your jumper and pull it up. You’re forced to break the kiss to let him lift it over your shoulders but he captures your lips the second it’s out of the way, his long fingers already on the buttons of your blouse. You can’t stop touching him, your hands in his hair, against his jaw, down his neck, and then he’s sliding his hands against your skin and your blouse falls to the ground behind you. Tom pulls you forward hard to bring your body flush against his chest, his tongue tracing your top lip and making you feel like you’re falling.
You can feel him hard against your core.
Body aflame with desire, your hands drop to his belt between your legs but Tom catches your wrists in one hand.
“Wait,” he says silkily, smirking.
Something aches in you so hard your vision reels for a second and you stare at him, unable to look away. He slowly lets go of your hands and his fingers are brushing against your thigh, slipping up and under your skirt. Your eyes close and your head falls onto his shoulder as his fingers trace the outside of your underwear, his touch burning and unbearably light. Tom gently presses his lips to your neck and shivers spread across your skin.
“God, Tom,” you breathe as his lips trail down your neck and his fingers stroke you teasingly.
Tom just breathes a laugh and the next second your underwear are gone, Vanished effortlessly. You only barely contain a moan as his fingers slide with ease and aching heat washes across your skin. “You want this so much, don’t you?” he murmurs against your neck.
But you can’t reply, blind at the pleasure of his touch. His fingers are slow and relentless, easing back and forth like he’s beckoning you further into desire, listening to you moan in his ear. His other hand curls around the back of your neck as he presses his lips up under your jaw, his teeth brushing your skin and making you gasp. “Does it feel good?” he murmurs, his soft words making tingles erupt down your neck.
“Yes,” you breathe, arms tightening around his neck
The pressure of his fingers increasing slightly and your breath hitches. “Are you going to lose control for me?” he asks softly.
“Yes,” you barely manage to say again.
Tom’s other hand cups your face and guides your face around to look at him, his lips hovering right against yours as his fingers stroke burning heat into you, agonisingly gentle, torturously persistent. “You’re going to come for me,” he whispers, “and I want to watch.”
You feel it bloom in you core as if by his command, and Tom’s lips curl into a smirk.
“That’s it,” he murmurs, pulling your forehead against his. “Just like that.”
“Tom,” you gasp as it starts to overcome you.
“Give me what I want,” he says softly, right against your mouth.
It hits you hard and you can’t breathe, can’t see, can’t even think as your heart races, as heat consumes you. Your head is spinning when it finally passes, your breathing ragged when you can bear to crack your eyes open.
Tom is right there, eyes black with desire as they roam your face with hungry scrutiny.
This time when your hands go to his belt, he doesn’t stop you, his hands dropping to your hips again. It only takes a second to pull the buckle apart and unbutton his trousers, and Tom’s hands immediately pull your hips forward, jerking you up onto your knees.
You tangle your fingers in his hair and lean down to his lips, kissing him deeply as Tom’s fingers tighten on your hips and slowly, firmly guide you down on top of him, your knees spreading out on the couch on either side of him as his tongue coaxes your lips apart. Your stomach twists at the feeling of him against you, as he slides into you easily without stopping, guiding your hips down more and more until you’re flush against him again and in one smooth movement his whole length is inside of you.
You cheeks are hot and your heart is going a thousand beats a minute as his hands grip you hard, as he rocks your hips against him, his tongue against yours making you dizzy all over again. He rocks you again, and again, hitting something inside of you that makes you break the kiss to gasp at the electric feeling spreading through you.
Tom stills at once, a crease appearing between his brows.
“Don’t stop, Tom,” you moan at once, leaning your forehead on his again and grinding your hips against him hard.
His eyes flicker and his hands tighten painfully on your hips as he resumes, making you grind against him over and over again until you can’t help the moans he’s drawing from you.
“You feel good,” he murmurs up against your lips, his voice turned low and husky.
“So do you,” you say breathlessly, rocking hard along with his hands and twisting your hips in the smallest circle.
Tom’s eyes fall shut and his head cants forward an inch as he breathes hard. Entranced, you chase the reaction at once, repeating the motion again, and again. Tom’s hands slowly loosen on your hips as you take over, grinding against him with desire aflame on your skin and in your core alike.
“Will you give me what I want?” you whisper, desire turning you reckless.
Tom looks up at you like he’s in pain, his hands resting gently on your waist as he watches you grind against him.
“Will you lose control for me, Tom?” you say quietly, leaning into his lips.
Tom’s hand is behind you neck in a flash, brows furrowing as he pulls you down against his lips aggressively, his grip painfully tight as you feel heat erupt inside of you, as you kiss him back and listen to his hard breathing.
He pulls away after a long, heated moment and cups your face in his hand, staring at you.
Slowly, you lift a hand and gently brush his hair off his forehead, watching his eyes flicker slightly at the touch.
“Can I ask you something?” you say quietly.
He nods silently, his gaze fixed on you.
“What do you think of? When you summon this room?”
Tom’s brows raise like the question surprises him. “That’s what you want to know?” he asks dryly, his lips curving into a smirk.
You nod, letting your fingers trail absently down his face.
Tom pauses for a moment, the smirk fading away as your hands rest against his jaw and your thumbs brush his cheeks softly. “I think about having a place where I can be myself,” he says quietly.
A warmth of a very different kind spreads through your chest, and you’re certain that he can feel your smile against his lips when you lean in and kiss him.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
To request sequels/being tagged in follow-ups, leave a reply in the notes! 💖
Can you write an X Reader story with Tom?, where Tom "falls in love" or is attracted to Reader, but she is dating someone else (a Slytherin boy maybe or... from another house) and tries to make she his even if he is rejected at first.
(Perhaps even try a more extreme approach, for example at Professor Slughorn’s party under the table while she is sitting next to him).
Can you write something fluff and smut? Thank you very much.
(sorry if I wrote something in English that is wrong...it’s not my language...I hope you understand). ★
First of all, your English is great, second of all, this prompt is amazing.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
Spoken For
Summary: You’re already spoken for when Tom Riddle asks you to Slughorn’s party, but luckily (or unluckily), Tom is hardly known to give up on anything he wants so easily.
Wordcount: 4.2k
Content warning: explicit sex.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
“No,” you frown, turning and striding away as quickly as you can, hoping he doesn’t follow but –
“Why not?” Tom says at once, falling in close step beside you.
“I don’t need to give you a reason to turn you down, Tom,” you mutter.
“But you have one.” His eyes are trained on your face, watching for anything he can glean.
“And why exactly do you want to go with me?” you say dryly, weaving through the students milling in the hall between classes and rather desperately hoping that he falters at the question and leaves you alone.
“You want me to list your virtues?” he asks in an equally sardonic tone and not shying away in the slightest.
Damn. The boy’s persistent. “I’m not looking for an ego boost,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “I’m just surprised.”
“Surprised that I want you to be my date?”
“Exactly.”
“Perhaps if you indulged me, the reasons would become clear,” Tom says delicately.
You shoot him a look. “Nice try.”
“You seem to have already made up your mind regardless,” he replies at once, eyes narrowing.
You exhale slowly, holding your books a little tighter. You hadn’t wanted it to get to this, but it looks like you have no other choice. “I already have a date to Slughorn’s party,” you say, frowning again.
Tom stops walking, catching your arm and making you stop, too. Your heart thrums nervously in your chest. “Who?” he asks quietly.
His expression has gone perfectly smooth, but you’re hardly fooled. It’s well known that Tom’s tenacity is rivalled only by his intolerance of failure, a combination that won him his place as the best student in your year – you can only imagine how he’s processing the fact that it hasn’t done him any favours with you. “That doesn’t concern you,” you say with deliberate sharpness, pulling your arm from his grasp.
His expression doesn’t change, his dark eyes levelled on yours with a heavy, inescapable scrutiny.
Your stomach twists with guilt and nerves in equal measure. The truth is that you’re (reluctantly) already spoken for, Axel Pembroke asked you out three months prior and you’d been on quite a few dates since. Whilst you aren’t exactly head-over-heels for the boy, your family adores him, he’s polite and innocuous, and he doesn’t seem to mind (or perhaps notice) your lukewarm feelings towards him.
Which is exactly why you’d tried to shut Tom down and get away so quickly. Intelligent and quiet, observant and shrewd, beautiful just to top it off; Tom makes you curious, you want to say yes to him, and that makes him more than a little dangerous to you.
So here you are, turning him down so abruptly that it must be fairly easy to interpret it as callousness.
“Tom,” you say quietly, “I… maybe if I wasn’t… already…”
He blinks, his attention as unrelenting as ever, but you’re suddenly wondering what people would say if it got out that you’d told him such a thing whilst dating Axel.
“I should go,” you say hastily, forcing your eyes away from him. “I hope you find another date.”
You hurry off, and thankfully this time Tom doesn’t follow.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
In retrospect, you should have known he wouldn’t give up that easily.
The dinner party is a long, tedious affair made all the worse by the fact that Axel is too busy discussing the merits and flaws of the Holyhead Harpies line-up for the coming Quidditch season with the boys next to him to have spoken much more than two complete sentences to you all night. His attentiveness to you, you’re learning, is apparently extremely fickle and entirely dependent on whether or not he’s around his friends. Even worse, the seat beside you is empty and you’ve been forced to spend the evening in silence as you pick at your food at the end of the table, wishing time might pass faster.
Around seven-thirty the door to the chamber swings open and everyone looks up as Tom walks inside, dressed in smartly-fitted but simple black dress robes and looking so strikingly handsome that you catch several people at the table trade furtive glances with each other. “Apologies, Professor,” he says with a polite nod at Slughorn, “the meeting with the Headmaster ran overtime.”
“Not to worry, Tom my boy!” Slughorn says jovially, leaping to his feet and sending his napkin flying into Phoebe Minks’ soup. “Take a seat! The night is still young!”
Your blood runs hot and electric under your skin. There’s only one seat left at the table and it’s next to you.
“Of course, sir,” Tom says smoothly, eyes flicking to you with humour as he approaches.
You avert your gaze, trying (completely in vain) to catch Axel’s attention – he’s half-turned from you so as to better hear some fifth-year Gryffindor’s rundown of the previous season’s highlights and is not paying you any attention in the slightest.
“Good evening,” Tom says softly as he takes the seat beside you.
You nod silently, suddenly very preoccupied with refilling your goblet.
“Tell us about this meeting then, Tom!” Slughorn calls from the other end of the table.
“Dull affairs, I’m afraid, sir,” he says back with a good-natured drawl. “I’m due to supervise the third years on their first trip to Hogsmeade next month.”
“Oh? Nothing else?”
“No, sir,” Tom says with a razor-sharp smile, “I’m sure whatever you were discussing before my arrival was of infinitely more interest.”
Slughorn chortles but returns to his conversation with the aristocratic-looking Ravenclaw seventh-years beside him. You glance desperately at Axel. Please turn around, you will him, please turn around so that I don’t have to talk to –
“The aforementioned date, I presume,” Tom says softly.
And you can’t avoid turning to him. His elbows are resting on the table before him, slowly tilting his crystal goblet in small circles and watching the liquid shift inside. He’s not looking at you but it’s obvious where his comment is directed.
“And yet you end up beside me regardless,” you mutter.
“Funny, isn’t it?” Tom says, giving you a delicate smile.
Your eyes dart across his face suspiciously, but his smile doesn’t budge.
“Your chemistry is overwhelming,” he says smoothly, nodding at the back of Axel’s head. “I can see the appeal.”
“Stop it,” you mutter pointedly, frowning at your goblet again.
“No, I’m quite serious,” he continues, smile widening, “your rejection makes perfect sense, now, how could I possibly compete with such enamoured affections?”
“It’s not usually like this,” you say quietly, embarrassed.
“Oh?” Tom asks, lifting his goblet to his full lips and watching you closely. “Normally you’re utterly infatuated, are you?” He takes a slow sip, not looking away.
Damn him, you think angrily, wrenching your eyes off his beautiful face and feeling heat on your own. He knows exactly what he’s doing.
“Well, in the absence of your date’s conversation, perhaps my own might suffice as an adequate substitute,” Tom says smoothly, lowering his goblet and setting it down on the table before him.
“And what would you want to talk about?” you ask with an unmissable brush of sarcasm.
“Oh Quidditch, naturally,” he says with a smirk, glancing briefly at Axel again.
You shoot him another look but his amusement doesn’t falter. “You’re hilarious,” you drawl.
“Well what would you like to talk about?” Tom asks quietly, tilting his head and giving you a strangely penetrating look.
You blink. Something about his demeanour makes the question very easy to answer honestly. “I’d rather talk about anything other than Quidditch.”
Tom breathes a small laugh and he turns towards you. “Well in that case, I’m very well prepared to please you,” he says very smoothly, “I know next to nothing about Quidditch and I’m quite determined to keep it that way.”
You laugh too, and then get very annoyed at yourself for doing so. “This isn’t a date,” you tell him quickly, leaning in a little closer and speaking as quietly as you can.
“Of course not,” Tom replies smoothly, his lips curving into a smile as he lifts a hand to his cheekbone and leans against it thoughtfully.
“Just a conversation,” you continue very intently.
“Naturally.”
“It’s normal to converse with other people at a dinner party.”
“Utterly commonplace,” Tom smiles.
You hesitate, suddenly wondering exactly which of you you’re reassuring. “Alright,” you say slowly, lifting your goblet. “Let’s talk.”
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
You’re hardly surprised when he’s sitting next to you at the next Slugclub dinner party, too. And the next. In fact, Tom is mysteriously beside you at every one of Slughorn’s gatherings all term, and you’re quite certain that Axel might have drawn issue with someone talking to you so much if he’d bothered to turn around even once.
Not that he has any reason to be bothered, of course. They’re just conversations, nothing more. Maybe Tom’s dry, bitingly observant sense of humour makes you laugh more than anyone else ever has, and maybe he asks questions with direct, astute candidness that make it unavoidably obvious that he’s paying very close attention to your answers, and maybe he’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen in your life – but they’re just conversations.
“Slughorn is having another dinner this weekend,” Tom says casually as he falls into step with you in the Charms corridor.
“Is he now?” you say wryly, trying to ignore the excitement curling in your stomach.
“Go with me.”
Your smile fades and you stop walking, looking up at Tom in surprise. He stops too, his regal features settled into something serious and impenetrable as he looks back at you.
“You mean… sit together?” you ask carefully.
“No,” Tom says plainly, “I mean as my date.”
You blink, glancing around nervously. “Tom, you know that I’m going with –”
“If Pembroke paid you any less attention you could strangle Slughorn to death right on the table and he still wouldn’t stop talking to Blakeslee and Dunn about which broomsticks the Americans are using this year,” Tom interrupts, arching a brow.
“He’s my date,” you say coolly.
“He’s not your date,” Tom retorts immediately, all humour vanishing as he steps closer. “Don’t insult yourself by considering that a date.”
“I told you that we’re just having conversations, Tom,” you whisper angrily.
“Oh? Are they just conversations?” Tom breathes.
But all you can do is stare at him as the hours you’ve spent talking to him in Slughorn’s parties swim across your consciousness and you realise with mounting horror that no, no they were not just conversations. You swallow hard and look away. “I don’t want to have to turn you down again,” you say through gritted teeth.
“Then don’t,” he says bluntly, not moving away.
“Tom.”
“I know you want to choose me.”
You shoot him another look of warning. “Stop it,” you hiss.
“Stop lying to yourself,” he hisses back, leaning closer.
“I won’t throw Axel under the bus just because I have feelings for you, Tom,” you say angrily.
Tom immediately stands up straighter, triumph glittering in his eyes as he looks down at you and you realise exactly what you’ve just said. Horror washes over you in a cold wave and you turn on your heel and flee, barely paying attention to where you’re going in your haste to get away from him.
You’re already dreading the coming weekend.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
You seriously consider not going until Axel starts getting suspicious as to why you’re so reluctant and you’re forced to swallow your mumbled collection of excuses, put on a nice dress, and follow him to the party. Tom looks up from where he’s sat at the far end of the table when you enter and you quickly avert your eyes as warmth erupts on your skin, giving Slughorn a very forced smile at the head of the table.
“Excellent stuff in the last match, Pembroke,” Slughorn winks, “I’ll have to have a word with Begonia Pincushion from the Wimbourne Wasps – old student of mine, you know –”
Axel immediately starts gushing in excitement and walks off without you to sit next to Slughorn, leaving you quite alone and without an open seat beside him. You blink, embarrassment filtering through your chest as the other party-goers awkwardly look between you and Axel – now so engrossed in his conversation with Slughorn that he hasn’t even noticed the whole room staring at you standing by yourself.
“There’s a spare seat here, if you’d like,” a Hufflepuff girl you don’t know offers quickly, smiling at you as she gestures at the chair beside her.
Your eyes drift unbidden to Tom at the end of the table and find him already looking at you, composed and inscrutable. His group of Slytherin fanboys fill the seats around him, but there’s a space. There’s a space on his right. You don’t think for a second that it’s just by chance.
“Thank you,” you say to the Hufflepuff girl, feeling brazenly reckless, “that’s very kind, but I think I’m spoken for.”
And you resolutely turn and make your way over to Tom, ignoring the way his lips slowly curl into a knowing smile as you approach, the way the other Slytherin boys immediately turn away and fall into deep conversation with each other, they way they don’t look at either you or Tom again.
Tom turns to you as you sit down, lightly resting his head against his hand the same way he had the very first time you’d talked to him, his expression somewhere between satisfied and amused. “Hello,” he says dryly.
“Don’t push it,” you mutter, seizing a goblet and filling it.
He breathes a laugh. “Did I just witness the final straw?”
“I’d rather not talk about it,” you frown, glancing down the table where Axel still hasn’t noticed your absence.
Tom’s amusement slowly fades as he looks at you, his own brow furrowing. “Are you alright?” he asks quietly.
Your eyes flash to his, something thrumming unignorably in your chest. You nod and force yourself to take a sip of your drink.
“You look beautiful.”
You blink, something fragile fluttering in your chest as your face floods with heat as you stare at his calm, attentive expression, his posture unmoved.
“Am I allowed to say that now?” he asks smoothly, smirking slightly.
“I think that counts as pushing it,” you mumble, knowing he’s bound to have noticed your blush as you look away.
“You’ll have to tell me when I cross the line,” he says softly.
“You’re relentless.”
“I am,” he smiles, lifting his goblet.
You try to smother your own smile with very dubious success, having to hide it behind a sip of your drink instead.
“So,” Tom says a good two hours later, setting down his empty goblet, “I think it only fair that you give me a definitive answer, all things considered.”
“An answer?” you echo, arching a brow.
“Are you going to be my date?” he asks lightly, looking at you.
You falter, eyes darting to Axel at the front of the table. Most of the dinner guests are a little tipsy on the heavy wine Slughorn always serves, and loud, boisterous conversation fills the room – though nothing can drown out Axel’s brazen lack of acknowledgement that you’ve been sitting with Tom all evening. “I… don’t know…” you say, frowning.
“You’re not seriously going to consider him after this, are you?” Tom says at once, leaning towards you with a dangerously sharp look in his dark eyes.
“What do you want me to do, Tom?” you breathe. “Our families get on, he’s not horrible to me –”
“He’s not horrible to you,” Tom repeats, scathingly unimpressed.
“I have no good reason to end things with him!”
Tom’s eyes flash and his hand is suddenly on your thigh under the table, his fingers pressing hard into your skin and your heart just about stops. “No good reason,” he echoes softly, gripping you tighter. “Is that true?”
“Tom,” you whisper, frozen in place.
“Is it?” he asks silkily.
You can barely breathe. Tom’s grip is loosening but not to let you go – his hand is moving, agonisingly slowly, relentlessly, sliding up your leg. “Tom,” you say again, barely audible.
“Have I crossed the line?” he whispers, his palm pushing up your dress as it slides higher up your thigh.
When you don’t reply, Tom’s lips curve into a smile and he turns quite casually back to his plate, hand still on your thigh under the table as he reaches forward and lifts his goblet. “You did agree to tell me if I did,” he says softly, his fingers grazing up the inside of your leg and making you supress a shiver.
And you beg yourself to tell him to stop, to ask him to take his hand away, but heat is flooding your stomach and his hand is warm and firm on your skin, and there’s a burning look in his eyes when he glances at you that makes something between excitement and desire spark in every part of your body.
Tom’s hand moves higher and you lean your elbows on the table in front of you, staring unseeing at your plate as his fingers brush the hollow where your leg meets your hip.
“Are you going to choose?” he asks quietly, watching you.
You look up across the table in fear that someone, anyone might have noticed – but no one is paying you any attention in the slightest, the rambunctious conversation drowning out Tom’s words and the wine blurring their awareness of everything else.
Tom lifts his goblet, his eyes fixed on your face. “Tell me to stop,” he says softly, sliding his fingers across your underwear and making you grit your teeth to stop yourself from reacting.
“Tom,” you try again, barely audible.
“Tell me.”
His fingers are playing with the top of your underwear, and you look over at him, arousal and fear and nerves and excitement tearing in your chest. Tom’s eyes are alight with amusement, his attention still on your face as he smiles, brings his goblet to his lips for a slow sip that you watch him take, captivated.
You grit your teeth again and say nothing.
Tom’s smile grows and suddenly his hand is gone. You blink, cheeks flooding with sudden embarrassment and dread at what has just occurred, wondering if he’ll tell people what you’d let him do, wondering if he’d done it all just to mess with you –
“Make your choice,” Tom says smoothly, leaning back in his chair very languidly.
“You’re seriously trying to seduce me?” you manage to say under your breath.
“It appears to be working,” he smirks, glancing at you.
Your blush returns and Tom’s eyes roam your cheeks looking very pleased with the reaction, when he suddenly stands. “Some music, perhaps, sir?” he asks Slughorn with an unaffected smile.
Slughorn is delighted by the suggestion (of course he is), and in mere minutes the dinner party is milling around the room in small groups of conversation, reedy music blaring loudly from a large golden gramophone by the fireplace.
“Axel,” you say quickly, approaching him where he’s talking to three other boys you don’t know very well.
“Oh – haven’t seen you much tonight,” he says casually, glancing at you.
“No – listen, do you want to dance?” you offer, nodding at the small group of other couples a few feet away. Please say yes, please say yes, please give me a single reason to choose you, please do something –
“I’m in the middle of something,” Axel says distractedly, turning back to the three boys, “maybe later.”
He’s already back in conversation before you can reply. You stare at him, your disappointment almost as potent as your absolute absence of surprise.
A hand around your wrist makes you jump, and you wheel around to find Tom already insistently leading you towards the back of the room. “What are you –”
But Tom just casts one last look over the party before he tugs you into a very small, shadowed alcove behind a large wooden column out of sight and pushes you hard against the wall. “You’re going to have to be very quiet, can you do that?” he asks softly, resting a forearm on the wall above your head as his other hand slides up your leg again – though this time the touch is anything but slow.
“Tom,” you gasp, looking back out of the alcove – but no one is there. No one can see you.
“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again as he leans down. Your breath catches in your throat and suddenly Tom’s lips are pressed against your neck and his hand is sliding teasingly along the band of your underwear again. Anything you might have said dies in your throat.
“Go on,” he murmurs against your skin. “Tell me to stop.”
“Tom,” you breathe again, your hands lifting without conscious thought and lacing around his neck.
You hear his little laugh, feel it brush warm across your neck, and he’s pulling your underwear down, and with a touch that feels like fire he slides his fingers against you. Your moan barely slips out from between your lips before Tom’s arm drops from the wall above you and his hand presses firmly over your mouth. “Didn’t I say to be quiet?” he tells you softly, but his fingers are stroking at you and you can barely breathe, your eyes closing tightly as dizziness and pleasure storm in your body.
You hold onto his arm just to stay grounded, his hand over your mouth stifling the noises threatening to escape as his fingers send pleasure coiling low in your core, his lips teasing your neck and making heat spread tingling across your skin.
Tom lifts his head and looks down at you breathing hard beneath his hand, his fingers making you shift with pleasure. “Can you be quiet for me?” he murmurs.
You nod. You would have agreed to anything he’d asked you in that moment.
Tom’s hand vanishes from your mouth and he’s kissing you, soft lips, tongue hot against yours, and you’re dizzy and delirious, kissing him back without thinking, without caring about anything else –
“Look at you,” he murmurs against your mouth, “legs spread for me, so wet for me –”
“Tom,” you moan, whisper-quiet.
“Say it again,” he commands softly.
“Tom.”
He kisses you hard again and you feel the pleasure in your gut start to build and build. “There,” Tom murmurs, pulling back, “there it is. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”
“I…”
“Ask me for it,” he says softly.
“Tom, please –”
“Tell me you’re mine.”
You look up at him. Tom looks back with his burning dark eyes, his hand cupping your jaw and pulling your closer to his lips barely breath away from yours as his fingers keep building the smouldering pleasure in your core. “Tell me,” he whispers.
And you nod.
“Say it.”
“I…”
His fingers slow against you and your head falls back against the wall in frustration, your eyes falling shut.
“I want you to say it,” he murmurs, tilting your face up to his again.
You look up at him, and for a second you just stare, watch his eyes drag across your face, drinking in your expression. You try to focus, try to ignore the achingly slow caress of his fingers between your legs, the pleasure right out of your grasp, the dark heat in Tom’s eyes that’s making you crave giving in, making you wonder why you’ve been resisting at all.
“I’m yours,” you whisper.
Tom’s lips curve into his most dangerous smile as he leans back in, kissing you very softly as his fingers press a little harder, as you breathe harder, your arms wrapping around his neck again and he’s not slowing down anymore and you’re right on the edge, feeling yourself start to tip –
“You’re mine,” Tom says softly, and it breaks over you so hard that his hand smothers your mouth again, holding you tightly as you shift and writhe beneath his touch, unable to stop the moans.
Somehow, no one notices the two of you slipping back to the main party, no one comments on it, and for the first time, you’re glad that Axel pays you less than no attention because your absence passed him by entirely without detection.
“Time to go?” Axel asks you near ten o’clock, shrugging his coat on.
“I’m afraid you’ve lost your date, Pembroke,” Tom says smoothly from where he’s standing beside you.
Axel blinks at him, and you expect that a similar expression is on your own face, too. “Excuse me?” Axel says disbelievingly.
“Perhaps you might be more attentive, next time,” Tom continues casually, offering you his arm. “Very rude of you to ignore someone for weeks on end, you know, and that unpleasantness when you arrived tonight… shameful…”
You don’t hesitate before slipping your arm through Tom’s, and he immediately gives you a heated, knowing look that makes you smile up at him reflexively.
Axel’s gobsmacked gaze turns to you. “Are you serious?”
You shrug lightly, feeling strangely empowered.
“Goodnight, Pembroke,” Tom says very pleasantly, stepping towards the door and leading you with him. “Do find a new date to the next gathering, won’t you? Mine is spoken for.”
love your last story!! please can you try one where they have a fwb relationship but the reader wants more but Tom doesn’t so she tries to date someone else and Tom is jealous so he has to prove that he has real feelings for her
OMG SO. I got… EXTREMELY carried away with this aaaaand it sort of became a miniseries. I’ll be posting it in a few parts over the next day or so 😉 Thanks for this awesome prompt!!!
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The Last of Your Rules
Part 1 ★ Part 2 ☆ Part 3 ☆ Part 4
Summary: Reader figures out a set of rules to survive navigating their FWB relationship with Tom Riddle, which goes great until he starts breaking them one by one.
Wordcount: 2.7k
Content warning: explicit sex, oral sex (female and male receiving), language.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
“I’ve been looking for you.”
The voice makes you glance up from your Transfiguration essay to find Tom Riddle standing above your desk, exactly as tall, refined, and composed as ever. Next to you, Felicia and Opal descend into giggles.
“Yeah?” you ask, even though you know what’s coming next.
“Would you care to study tonight?” he says casually, not making any acknowledgement of the girls’ giggling. “I would very much like to see what you’ve made of Slughorn’s moonstone assignment.”
“Sure,” you smile, “I’ll see you later, then.”
Riddle nods politely and leaves, and your friends round on you at once.
“You’re so lucky,” Felicia whispers, “how in Merlin’s name did you get to be Tom Riddle’s study partner?”
You shrug and manage to keep the amusement off your face as you return to your work – there was absolutely no chance that Riddle wanted to study.
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You only just close the door of the broom closet before his hands are already on you, wheeling you around and pushing you back against the wall. Riddle kisses you hard, his hands sliding down your body as you lace your arms up around his neck.
It had been like this for nearly a year now, beginning (like how most things were with Riddle) strangely and with very little explanation. You’d been working in the library late one night and had caught sight of Riddle still at his desk, too, and (being tired, stressed, desperate) had very spontaneously wandered over to ask him how he’d finished up the hellish Charms essay you’d been slaving over. He was the best student in your year, after all.
And later that very night (after entirely too many hours working on that damn essay) he’d just said it, so candidly, so without pretence that it was difficult not to respect him for it. It had surprised you, of course, Riddle had always struck you as far too uptight for anything like that – but you’d liked the honesty, the simplicity of his offer.
“Would you care to enter a mutually beneficial arrangement?” he’d asked smoothly, his quill scratching ceaselessly against his parchment.
“‘Mutually beneficial arrangement?’” you’d repeated, smiling in amusement. “What do you mean?”
“Sex,” he’d said calmly, looking at you.
You’d blinked, very taken aback. “You want to have sex?”
“Yes,” Riddle had said, tilting his head. “Don’t you?”
You’d looked at him a moment, trying to assess his intentions. “Are you going to tell everyone and ruin my life?” you’d asked dryly.
He’d laughed quietly. “No, I have very little interest in your life, let alone in ruining it.”
You’d quirked a brow, deeply amused at his candidness. “Noted. Why are you asking me?”
“I felt that you would understand what I’m offering,” Riddle had said, looking down at his essay, “you would understand that it’s nothing more. I haven’t had that assurance before now.”
“You barely know me at all, Riddle, how can you be so sure?” you’d snorted.
Riddle had glanced at you. “Am I wrong?”
He wasn’t. You’d thought about it for a moment, considering him too. It wasn’t like the offer wasn’t appealing.
“Alright.”
Riddle’s hands pull up your skirt, his fingers sliding into your underwear and then he’s touching you, slow and insistent, and you can’t stop your head falling back onto the wall as you bite your lip. Riddle leans in closer, watching you with interest. He likes to watch you – you think that it might be a power thing, that he likes seeing the effect he’s having on you. He likes watching you when you’re on your knees for him, too.
He’ll approach you once or twice a week, sometimes in person, mostly with notes, always under the polite pretence of study, and no one ever glances twice – Riddle is a prefect and a perfect student, every Professor loves him, and he’s the very epitome of responsibility. In fact, the only response you ever get about your ‘study sessions’ is (like Felicia and Opal) gushing over how lucky you are to have garnered the absolute privilege of catching Tom Riddle’s attention.
It’s sort of amusing to you how ridiculously popular he is, considering he never speaks to anyone and doesn’t seem to have any real friends. He’s popular the same way a movie star is popular; beautiful and distant, the perfect creature upon which everyone could build their ideal fantasy. No one seemed to notice that he’s strangely empty, like a shell.
You’re burning beneath his fingers in mere moments, gasping as the feeling swelled and swelled, and Riddle’s attentive gaze is fixed on you as it breaks over you like a wave and sends you into white oblivion. When you can finally open your eyes, Riddle is right above your lips, his dark eyes still heavy on your face – but he doesn’t kiss you. You don’t expect him to. It would be breaking one of his rules. Riddle has a lot of strange, silent rules, so much so that you’d made a mental list of them during those first few weeks and followed them ever since.
You drop to your knees before him and quickly undo his belt, pushing aside his trousers and leaning in to close your lips around him.
Rule One: kissing before and during sex was okay, but never afterwards.
Riddle’s fingers slide into your hair and you know without looking up that he’s watching you closely. He knows that you enjoy doing this.
He rests a hand on the wall above you, and you look up at him as you twist your tongue around him, meeting his heavy, heated gaze and feeling his grip in your hair get tighter.
Rule Three: Never talk to him outside of your meetings.
You keep looking up at him as you hollow out your cheeks, holding back a gag as you press deeper, watching Riddle’s eyes flicker darkly.
Rule Four: He asks you to meet, and never the other way around.
When you smirk up at him, he exhales hard, his eyes finally falling shut, and a low, unimaginably arousing breath falls from his lips as he finishes, his fingers in your hair curling so tight that it hurts in the best possible way.
And then there’s Rule Five…
You stand, adjust your uniform, smooth down your hair, and pick up your bag. “See you in class,” you say, glancing at him.
Riddle nods wordlessly, turning and leaning back against the wall, still breathing slightly heavily. You open the door and slip out, trotting off towards your common room. You still have a Transfiguration essay to finish.
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The next morning, a piece of parchment appeared on your Charms textbook. You pause for a second and then reach out to unfold it.
Riddle’s perfect handwriting is unmistakeable.
Tonight, after dinner.
You blink, surprised. Him asking to meet again so soon isn’t necessarily weird, but usually it took a few days before you heard from him again.
You look over your shoulder to find Riddle’s eyes on you, watching for your response, and you nod silently. He just returns his attention to his notes and keeps writing, expression unchanged.
That evening you arrive at the dungeon broom closet first and let your bag fall to the ground with a thump, waiting for him. It doesn’t take long.
The door swings open and slams shut again, and Riddle throws his bag to the side before taking your face in his hands and kissing you so hard that you’re pushed backwards. Your back hits the opposite wall and several brooms clatter to the floor as you bury your hands in his hair, his lips ferocious and his grip like iron.
He’s like this sometimes. Insatiable.
Riddle pulls back from the kiss and immediately lowers to his knees, his hands sliding up your legs as you try to keep breathing normally. His hand has trailed up behind one of your thigh and he lifts it effortlessly, rests it on his shoulder as he pushes your skirt up, his fingers tugging down your underwear, and then he’s leaning in and pressing his lips against you. You can’t hold back a gasp and you hear him breath a laugh at your reaction before his tongue traces out and the world starts spinning. He strokes at you again and again, hot and slow and wet, relentless, patient, impossibly soft despite his fingers gripping your thigh hard. Time dissolves and soon you’re dizzy and trying to remember how to breath, heat coiling in your stomach, your fingers curling into his dark hair as your eyes close –
Your breath catches hard in your throat as your entire body descends into pleasure, nothing keeping you grounded other than the waves of his hair twisted between your fingers and the distant pain of his grip into your thigh. It’s a long moment before you can open your eyes, chest heaving and sweat on your brow.
To your surprise, Riddle is still kneeling before you, and your heart skips a beat as you meet his eyes, burning with such an intensity that it makes you freeze. He doesn’t look away from you as he slowly lets your thigh slip from his shoulder, as he stands smoothly, looming over you again, close enough that you can see his pupils blown out with desire.
Unable to look away, you blindly reach for his belt, undo it quickly and tug him closer. Riddle lifts you quickly and pins you against the wall as your arms lace back around his neck and your legs wrap around his hips, your eyes fluttering as you feel him pressing against your core, the anticipation aching so hard that you can barely breathe, and in one, smooth moment Riddle slides into you, watching you closely again as your head falls back against the wall, another moan coming from your lips at the electric feeling exploded through you. Riddle immediately presses his lips against your exposed neck.
“God Riddle,” you choke out, eyes falling shut as he pulls back slightly and thrusts into you.
He breathes another laugh, pressing his teeth gently against your skin and making you squeeze your eyes together. He thrusts again, and again, and you quickly realise that you’ll be finishing twice because you can already feel it building low in your core. It’s right in front of you, each of Riddle’s thrusts inching you tantalisingly closer and closer, and you can barely think with how badly you want it, when finally the heat suddenly breaks over you again in a blinding wave and you hear Riddle let out a hard breath, his head falling onto your shoulder as it takes him, too.
For a moment you stay there, Riddle’s face buried in your neck, both of you panting slightly, sweaty and hazy. When your thoughts clear, you take one long breath to ground yourself and slide your arms down from around his neck, leaving only your hands on his shoulders. Riddle lifts his head and looks at you – but there’s something strange in his dark eyes.
“Are you alright?” you frown.
The look in his eyes vanishes at once and he nods, gently letting you down. You’re both ready to leave mere moments later.
“Oh – hey –” you say before he vanishes out the door.
He hesitates and glances at you, expression very reserved. “Yes?” he asks evenly.
“Do you have a good source for the differences between Transfiguring blood compared to other liquids?” you ask, slinging your bag over your shoulder. “I can’t find one.”
Riddle’s gaze is measured and composed. “You should check Persimmons’ work,” he says smoothly, “Blood, Bone, and Body Transmutation.”
“Thanks,” you say sincerely, giving him a significant look, “I swear Dumbledore’s assignments are going to end me long before I even get to the exam…”
His lips quirk politely, and he leaves without another word.
Only once you’re alone do realise that you’d broken Rule Two. You’d not left immediately, you’d lingered, you’d even tried to talk to him.
Kicking yourself, you wonder if it’ll be another month before you hear from him again, just like every other time you’d broken a rule – that’s how you’d figured out all those bloody things in the first place, after all.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
To your utter amazement, another note appears on your desk in Potions the following afternoon.
Tonight, 7pm.
You stare at Riddle’s gorgeous script for a moment in shock, and then look over to where Riddle always sits. He’s watching. Of course he is.
You nod slowly, and this time when he looks back at his notes, you stare a moment longer, watching him write with that utterly composed expression and formal posture of his. Three times in three days? What on Earth is going on?
Presumably sensing your eyes on him, Riddle glances over at you again and you turn away quickly. He wouldn’t like you staring at him with other people around to notice.
At quarter to seven, you creep out of the common room and skip lightly down through the dungeon corridors to the broom closet where you Riddle always met. When you open the door Riddle reaches for you at once, his lips crashing into yours as he slams the door shut behind you. You’re surprised at his intensity after your misstep the previous day, but you’re hardly unwilling. He has you gasping his name in seconds, and you enthusiastically drop to your knees afterwards to return the favour.
When it’s over, something very, very strange happens.
You’re adjusting your skirt to leave when Riddle steps closer again, taking your chin in his long fingers and lifting your face slowly but forcefully. You look up at him in shock but he’s already pushing you back against the wall again, crowding in closer, his other hand sliding up your thigh in a way that makes your stomach twist.
“Riddle,” you breathe, bewildered. What in Merlin’s name happened to leaving immediately afterwards…?
He hums, his fingers pushing into your underwear as his head tilts, watching your expression shift with desire at his touch.
“What… are you…” you try to ask, but Riddle’s fingers are circling you, slowly, ceaselessly, achingly –
Riddle leans forward, his forehead resting on yours as you writhe beneath his touch, as heat starts building, as he doesn’t relent for even a second –
You finish hard, gasping against Riddle’s lips as your hands curl into fists of his robes, your back arching, his eyes burning on your face even as his expression remains perfectly composed.
You fall back against the wall, panting again, staring up at Riddle in surprise and confusion. His eyes are heavy and dark, and neither of you move an inch, the moment dragging on and on.
His lips are right there in front of yours.
You try to gage his expression, wondering if you’re imaging the tension between you, the way his eyes drop to your mouth. But no, you’re not imagining it, because impossibly, impossibly Riddle is leaning closer, his gaze even and unmoving as he closes the minute distance between you, and all you can think about is Rule One, no kissing afterwards, never afterwards –
Riddle’s lips meet yours so softly that warmth erupts on your cheeks, the softest he’s ever kissed you. Without even really thinking about it you’re kissing him back, tentatively, not really sure what’s happening but Riddle immediately steps in closer. His hands slide up your body as your arms wrap around his neck, and then he’s cupping your face in his hands, tilting your head to kiss you deeper as his body presses against yours, his lips wiping every thought from your mind.
His attentions are usually driven, purposeful, ravenous – but this was… different. Slow, and hot, and something else you can’t bear to name. It goes on and on, minute after minute, delicious and satisfying in a way that the sex never was, and it’s painfully obvious that neither of you are willing to stop.
When you finally break apart the kiss lingers softly, and you both pause, lips almost still touching. You stare at him in shock, and Riddle is looking right back, something in his eyes that you can’t pin down, and then –
Riddle steps away, straightening his robes like nothing weird had happened. “Do have a pleasant weekend,” he says politely as he opens the door, and then he’s gone.
You stay there for a moment, leaning against the wall.
could you write a little something where Tom finds the reader injured (you can decide how <3) and becomes and protective trying to find who hurt them n stuff as well as making sure they're alright in his own TMR kinda way
This was super inspiring omg. Hope you like!
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A Lot of Blood for a Prank
Summary: Tom finds Reader injured and helps in a very Tom way. Sort of implied dark!Tom, and Muggleborn Reader.
Wordcount: 0.7k
Content warning: blood.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
“Oh no,” you groan, leaning heavily against the wall of the empty corridor.
Your shoes had just grown fangs that had sunk deep into your feet. Blood was oozing from every seam, every step was agony, and the teeth were so embedded that you couldn’t pull your shoes off. Worst of all, it’s dinner time and everyone is downstairs – the corridors are abandoned, and no one is around to help.
You manage to hobble a bit down the corridor but the pain is so intense that tears bud in your eyes and you start considering swallowing your pride and crawling the rest of the way to the hospital wing.
“What are you doing up here?”
You look up in alarm to find Tom Riddle standing beside you, clearly having stopped mid-stride upon seeing you. “Why aren’t you at dinner?” he continues curiously, tilting his head.
“I, uh…” you grimace, looking down at your feet.
Tom’s eyes drop to your blood-soaked shoes and linger there, his face going utterly blank. “What happened?” he asks quietly.
You shrug, unwilling to explain. “Stubbed my toe,” you mumble unconvincingly.
Tom’s gaze has followed the line of bloody footprints trailing behind you. “Is that so,” he says in an inscrutable tone.
“Listen – do you think you could…” you trail off awkwardly, unsure how to phrase the question. “Help… me…?” you mutter, unable to meet his eyes.
Tom is silent for a second, and then he steps closer to you. “Give me your arm,” he says quietly, holding out his hand.
You blink, and then slowly extend your hand. Tom takes your wrist in his long fingers and guides it over his shoulders, slipping his other arm around your waist as he lifts you from the wall. You wince as you take a step, but it’s immediately a lot more manageable.
With his help, you manage to hobble down the first corridor mostly in silence, biting your lip to stop yourself from exclaiming in pain.
“What happened?” Tom murmurs as you painstakingly take each step down the stairs.
“I already told you,” you mutter.
“Don’t lie to me,” he says calmly.
You glance up at him in surprise. Tom’s tone was commanding and unyielding, but not hostile, his gaze even and unmoving on your face. Something about it makes your skin feel warm, and you’re suddenly hyper-conscious of his hand resting on your waist and just how close your faces are. “I’d rather not say,” you say sheepishly, looking away.
“Why not?” he asks with the same relentless patience.
“You’ll think differently of me,” you say, frowning at the stairs.
“What makes you say that?”
“Jeez Tom, lay off the interrogation,” you mumble.
“Perhaps it would feel less like an interrogation and more like a conversation if you actually answered the questions,” Tom says breezily.
You smile despite yourself, turning your face to hide it from him.
As Tom carefully lifts you down the last step and onto the final corridor, you give a sigh of resignation. “Sometimes… certain people play pranks on me,” you admit nervously.
Tom’s attention immediately goes to your face and lingers there appraisingly. “Pranks,” he echoes.
You nod.
“That’s a lot of blood for a prank,” he says colourlessly.
“Topical, then,” you say with a slightly bitter humour. “They don’t like people of my… heritage.”
Tom goes quiet, and you feel your cheeks burn. It was no secret that Tom’s group of Slytherin boys were infamous blood-purists, and although no one had ever heard him repeat those beliefs himself, it wasn’t hard to imagine that he might feel the same.
“You’re Muggle-born,” he says quietly, looking up at the corridor ahead.
You nod, wishing you could sink into the floor. The remainder of the limp to the Hospital Wing passes in tense silence, and by the time Tom finally lowers you onto one of the beds, you’re half-wishing he’d left you upstairs and you’d just crawled there yourself.
“Thanks,” you mutter as the matron hurries over and starts tsking loudly at the state of your feet.
Tom nods slowly, looking down at the trail of smeared, bloody footprints. “You should tell the professors about this,” he says blankly.
You shrug again. “We’ll see.”
His head swivels back around, his eyes narrowing. “You’re planning on keeping this to yourself?” he asks sharply.
You arch a brow. “This is fairly normal, Tom,” you say, “I’ve told the professors before. Nothing changes.”
Tom hesitates, his brow furrowing as he stares at you. “We shall see,” he says quietly.
You frown, peering at him curiously – but Tom only gives you a long, inscrutable look before turning on his heel and following your blood-stained footprints back out the door.
･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.
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