oneshots | ᴀꜱꜱᴀꜱꜱɪɴ!ᴛᴏᴍ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ
⚔︎ You Promised.
Short Summary: he is ruthless when he kills, doesn’t show an ounce of mercy. Cold and quick with it—if you are lucky. Because for most captured Order members, he likes to drag it out. Not because they are the only remaining resistance against his father. He’s stopped caring about that a long time ago. No. They took something from him. The only person he has ever truly cared about. You.
Warnings: 18+ only! angst, mentions of death, violence, murder. Tom is Voldemort’s son. dub con if you squint? brief rough sex, praise, unprotected piv, creampie
A/N: I think I bent the meaning of assassin a tiny bit. Anyway, this is my participation for week three of @acourtofchaos’ Festival of AUs!
wordcount: 3,1k
You were aware going out to hunt that one rare potion ingredient that night was a mistake. Yes, it was only available during full moon and then only for two to three hours—but you knew for a fact that you wouldn’t be the only one looking for it. And running into Snatchers really wasn’t something you wanted to risk.
But when Harry himself came asking whether you could look for them that night, you knew how urgent it was. The Order was so close to running out of healing potions, and if you denied—
You sighed and agreed.
Later that night, you and three others made your way to the Forbidden Forest, the only place nearby where you could find the rare flowers you were looking for. Not too deep into the forest, you find what you were looking for—blooming in bright purple, surrounded by fireflies.
The forest was eerily quiet at that time, except for the crunch of branches each time you took a step and the occasional screeches of birds nearby. Though, when you heard the distinctive sound of apparition somewhere not too far away, you stilled, froze. You tried to convince the others to leave, as you’d surely have enough for the month to come—yet nobody wanted to listen, there were more—just a few more—just a little further into the forest—
Until you were surrounded by the very people you warned them about before you left.
Outnumbered by at least five.
There was nothing you could do—your wand was taken faster than you could react. And without a wand—you were helpless.
—
Hours later, and you all find yourselves lined up in a basement—knees scraping against the cold, rough ground beneath you. Hands tied behind your back, scratchy cotton material secured over your head, blocking your vision.
This is it. You are going to die today.
Back when rumours spread that most killings are done by one single person, you didn’t believe them. Surely no human could muster up the strength to kill day in, day out.
Right?
Except—
No.
Tom wouldn’t.
Couldn’t have—
However, the longer you are left waiting, the more time you have to think about it all—you haven’t seen him since you left Hogwarts, since the war started. It’s been more than a year, and a lot has happened since. A lot has changed. He might have changed.
Then, your thoughts slip to just Tom.
How people, including yourself, would be afraid to even look at him—Voldemort’s son.
How he’d always be top of the class—except for that one time you were.
And the next time too.
How it would turn into a rivalry, a bitter fight over who would score higher on the next exam.
How most of your nights were spent in the library from that point on.
Tom would be there too. Never leave before you did.
How he would steal glances at you from the other side of the library.
How glances would turn into stares, stares that you noticed, that made your cheeks grow hot, that made you question whether you actually hated him as much as you told yourself you did.
And how that hatred turned into something completely different when you outscored him on a Defence Against the Dark Arts paper. His subject. The one nobody had ever even come close to him. When you smirked at him as soon as you realised, and he had this unreadable expression etched on his face.
How, as soon as that class ended and everyone had left, he pushed you against the cold stone wall of the corridor. Accused you of cheating. Accused you of Merlin knows what.
“I hate you,” he whispered, and then, just a second later—his lips crashed on yours. And it was even better than what you had imagined all these nights in the library—how your lips moved in sync with his, how eager he was to feel more of you, hands slipping under your blouse, leaving goosebumps in their wake. How you leaned into his touch as though this wasn’t the son of the most feared wizard of Great Britain, probably the entire world.
Fuck, you wanted this more than anything else.
And when you broke apart—both of you gasping for air—he would breathe a soft “Merlin, I hate you so much.”
“I hate you too.” You replied, a grin tugging at the corner of your lips.
And you’d kiss again.
How from that point on, you’d study together. You were just trying to help each other—that’s what you told anyone asking. Tom would always tell you how nobody could know.
Students started giving you strange looks. Because how could you possibly spend time with someone who seemed to care about no one and nothing except himself and his studies?
They didn’t know. It was better that way, you told yourself.
How, in free periods, he’d always come to find you. Push you into the nearest classroom, lock the door behind you. Lips on yours before you could even complain. Ripping your blouse open because he was too damn impatient to unbutton it—and you’d scold him for it every single time—and he would just do it again next time.
“There is a simple spell to repair it. There is no spell to spend more time making you feel good, sweetheart.”
And with his lips trailing kisses down your neck, sucking marks into your skin, right at the spot he knew would have your knees grow weak—any rational thought left your brain in an instant.
He’d kiss down the valley between your breasts, fingers slowly making their way underneath the lace of your panties, preparing you for him.
He treated you like you were made of glass—which even surprised you sometimes. The quiet, nerdy boy who’d have witty answers to all questions. Who’d only have to look in the direction of students nearby to silence them, make them leave.
Tom was always careful with you.
Except if you outscored him on an exam. Then, he wasn’t as careful.
You didn’t mind that, though.
It all had to stay a secret, he liked to remind you of it. That nobody could know, not even your best friend, who would pester you with questions if you came back past curfew from one of your “study sessions”. You couldn’t tell her. Nobody. Not even your parents, who didn’t know anything about the wizarding world. You wondered if it was because of that. Judging by the way the corner of his mouth twitched whenever you mentioned your muggle parents, you had your answer.
Your love was forbidden—but so, so delicious.
—
You hear the door to the basement creak open, and what you guess to be five Death Eaters approach you with heavy footsteps.
You don’t know if you are lucky or unlucky when they pass you, instead start on the other side of the line.
Make you witness the death of some of your closest friends.
Their blood-curdling screams and unheard pleas as they are left bleeding to death on the cold, wet stone floor.
Because—whoever does the killings—and you are pretty certain it is only one of them—doesn’t use their wand, but a knife.
Too many killing curses are known to have long-term effects, after all.
But with each victim more—you feel as though they do it with pleasure.
And Merlin, you weren’t ready to die that way.
You don’t have much time left to think about it before a firm hand tugs at the material over your head, tilting your head backwards.
“Last one.” An unfamiliar voice remarks somewhere to the left of you, and not even a second later, you feel the cold, unyielding metal of a knife press against your throat.
You don’t want to give whoever it is the satisfaction of any reaction—but when the sharp blade scrapes against your skin, drawing the first drops of blood—you can’t help the soft, pained whimper escaping your lips.
As if stunned, the hand holding the knife stills, and they let go of your head.
Instead, the material covering your face is cut, and you blink a few times as your eyes adjust to the different lighting—and when they focus, your heart skips a beat.
You are met with a pair of dark brown eyes you would recognize under thousands of others—his.
Tom’s.
“Fucking hell.” He mutters under his breath and doesn’t waste another second thinking. He draws his wand and turns around. Spells fly in all directions, and you duck—the room lighting up in green, red, buzzing with electricity.
Then—silence.
For just a moment.
He takes your hand in his, and the next second you apparate away, finding yourself in a small, cozy place hidden somewhere in the woods. The wound on your skin burns, but he doesn’t let you touch it.
“Let me do this.” He insists, and with just two or three spells muttered, it stops bleeding and the pain fades.
You study him for a moment. It’s really him.
“Tom.” You whisper. Silent, careful.
He finally looks at you. Not like he did back at Hogwarts. He looks different now. Sharper features, older, more mature, with a scar right above his left eyebrow. You want to ask what happened, want to trace it with your finger, want to kiss it.
Kiss him.
His eyes are cloudy now, and he’s lost the spark he used to have whenever it was just you two. And—he has become what he promised you he wouldn’t.
Just like his father.
Maybe they were right, after all.
His grip on your shoulder tightens, and you wince softly as the rough wood bites into your back.
“You told me you wouldn’t take any unnecessary risks. That you would be careful.” He raises his voice, and it almost breaks. “Merlin, you fucking promised me.”
He sounds more disappointed than angry when he says it.
He’s right. You did promise him. Right before the war, you promised each other two things. One, you’d be careful, wouldn’t take any risky tasks, would do anything to stay alive. Two, he would come back for you. Would find you after the war. Although he was aware that the chance of both of you surviving was rather slim.
You shake your head softly.
“It was always supposed to be like this, Tom. Us. Enemies. We fight for two very different things.”
He scoffs softly at that.
“You think I still care about any of this? He’s ill. He’s dying. Barely gets up nowadays.” Tom takes a step back, and you swallow. “He has been using me for— this for months. And if you think—“ his hands clench into fists as the muscles in his fingers twitch at the mere thought, and he pauses briefly. “If you think I get any better treatment than others when they don’t act according to his instructions, you are mistaken.”
You sob.
“You killed them. All of them.”
He takes your face into his hands.
“They took you from me. They let you get these ingredients when they knew how dangerous it was. You almost died at my hands. Because of them. You left me for them. I offered you a safe house, far away from here. Yet, they convinced you to stay. If you believe even for a second that I would shy away from killing them— think again.”
Tears are streaming down your face by the time he is done.
“I chose this, Tom. Nobody forced me.” You hiccup. “This was my choice, and my choice alone.”
One of his hands slips to your neck. They are cold. Not warm like they used to be when they roamed over your bare skin. You miss the warmth.
He pulls you closer again, eyes narrowing at your words.
“And fuck— a part of me wants to hurt you for this. Punish you. But I— I can’t.”
His gaze drops for a second, and his voice softens.
“I missed you. I thought of you every day, wondered whether you were doing alright. Wondered whether you were thinking of me too.”
You exhale a shaky breath, trying to find the right words. Of course you did too.
“Tom, I—“
The corner of his mouth twitches.
“You have moved on, haven’t you? Found someone else.”
Your heart aches at his words.
“No!” You gasp, shaking your head. “I didn’t. I wouldn’t—“
Then, without letting you finish your sentence, he pulls you closer to kiss you. Soft at first—giving you space to draw back—but when you don’t, he holds you close, kisses you like it’s the first time all over again.
When you separate, there is this all-too-familiar fire behind his eyes—the one he used to have. And as much as you wanted to—
“We have a lot to talk about.” You try, but he merely shakes his head.
“That can wait. Let us have this.”
Before you get to object, his lips are on yours once more, and he guides you towards the bed in the centre of the room without once breaking the kiss.
Shirt torn open, button of your pants clinking as it drops to the floor.
Old habits.
“I hate you,” you murmur against his lips, and his mouth lifts into a smirk. “I hate you so much.”
It all happens quickly after that. Moments later, you are on the bed and he’s on top of you, trailing kisses down your neck—just like he used to do.
Then, you feel him pressing against you—already hard, tip swollen and leaking. You gasp when he swipes through your folds and instinctively squirm at the contact—but Tom is quick to reposition you, pinning your hands above your head with ease.
“No. You don’t get to run from me anymore. You’ll stay right here and take it. Take it like the good girl I know you are.”
He doesn’t wait much longer. He’s been waiting too long for this, and now that he’s finally got you back—he is going to utilize every single second he would get to spend with you before he’d have to leave again.
He pushes inside with one singular thrust. Doesn’t give you time to adjust.
And God—it’s been a while. You forgot how big he is—the burn of the stretch so overwhelming that your nails dig into his back and your breath catches in your throat.
He doesn’t feel you tensing beneath him. Doesn’t spot the strained look on your face. Instead, he has already set a rhythm. Hips slamming against yours so harshly, the headboard hits the wall with each thrust.
You don’t want him to stop. You really don’t. But when he shifts his angle to reach even deeper—a strained whimper slips from your lips, and you squeeze your eyes shut.
The moment Tom hears the soft sound spilling over your lips, he lifts his head and stills inside of you.
“Am I hurting you?” he asks, concern visible in his eyes as they search yours. “I am sorry. I shouldn’t have— I will stop.”
You hold onto his arm when he begins to pull away, shaking your head no.
“No. Please don’t. Please don’t stop.” You plead as his eyes scan your face. “Just don’t— I haven’t— you know.”
Tom gives you a tight nod, taking it slower with you after that. Carefully giving you inch after inch, kissing along your jaw. Praising you for how well you are doing for him.
“Forgot how amazing you feel wrapped around me like this,” he mutters, pressing a kiss to your shoulder as his hips stay flush against yours for a second—before he continues his slow and steady thrusts.
His hand slips between the both of you when he feels your walls flutter around him, rubbing your clit in tight circles—just how he knows you like it.
“Tom— Tom, please—“ you moan against his lips, and he rests your legs on his shoulders, allowing him deeper, brushing against that one sweet spot that has you see stars with every single thrust of his hips.
“Come for me, pretty girl. Let it all out.” He tells you, and that’s all it takes to push you over the edge. You whimper-moan as the knot in your lower abdomen snaps, eyes rolling to the back of your head as your walls pulse, clamping down tight, drawing a low groan from him.
He helps you through it, prolongs your pleasure for as long as possible—then, gently, shifts your legs to either side of him, allowing him to lean in close once more. And when he’s close, cock twitching inside of you—
“Where— where can I—“ he rasps, hot breath against your neck, and your legs lock around his waist, keeping him pressed against you.
“Inside. Inside, please.”
“Fuck— so long— been waiting so long for this— “ he drawls, and with one more rough thrust, he spills inside of you—deep, painting your walls white with his release.
His body rests on top of yours after, catching his breath. None of you talk, not until he rolls off to lie beside you, and he takes your hand in his.
You look at him when you feel the muscles in his fingers spasm.
“Cruciatus Curse? Have treated many people with the same symptoms.” You say softly, thumb easing along his index finger.
“I told you. It doesn’t matter to him.” He retorts, voice calm as though it were the most normal thing in the world.
“Oh, Tom. I am so sorry.” You whisper, pressing a soft kiss to his temple. You rest your head on his chest, feeling his heartbeat beneath you—eyelids slowly fluttering closed as his fingers brush through your hair.
It’s not long until he wakes you, though.
“I am being called,” he tells you, sitting up after placing your head on the pillow next to you, and your gaze drops to the mark on his arm. “Means they found the bodies.”
You too sit up, taking his wrist in your hand as you look up at him. “Please don’t go. I don’t want them to hurt you because of me.”
“If I don’t, they’ll be here within the next five minutes. Neither you nor I would want that. You will stay here.”
Your hand grips his tighter.
“You’ll be back?”
He gives you a nod. “Yes.”
“Promise?”
He smiles softly, pressing a kiss to your forehead.
“I promise.”
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