#gothic intimacy

[croobsboob]

His hand found her waist first.

A question.

Still willing?

The second slid higher. Gentle.

And covered her eyes.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t see.

She didn’t move. The chamber shifted. His breath was copper—

memory and hunger.

He whispered in Parseltongue.

Not to her. To the thing that watched.

Her spine pressed to his chest.

His fingers spread across her stomach. Not restraint.

Possession.

The serpent moved. And she felt it—

Not on her skin.

In her blood.

—

Tom Riddle doesn’t touch without purpose.

Solene Selwyn doesn’t flinch.

This isn’t seduction.

It’s invocation.

The serpent listens.

The chamber breathes.

And she’s already part of the ritual.

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