#also because I think the question of creating an Heir with that coupling has ENDLESS ROOM FOR DRAMA AND INTRIGUE | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

authoressofdarkness · 3 years

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I saw that you're taking prompts, from the dialogue list. Can I get number 20? “I’ve never had someone taking care of me before.” for starker obviously. I'm excited, I love reading your works. Thank you in advance!

Hi anon! That means so much to me and I’m v glad to be taking this as my first prompt. Thank you 💙

I kinda want to try some new things with some of these prompts, so I’m gonna go at this with omega Tony and alpha Peter and see where it goes. I hope that’s okay with you anon and that everyone likes it 😘

Same age college AU, omegaverse, alpha Peter Parker, omega Tony Stark, some angst and some fluff at the end.

—

It’s a well known fact that Tony Stark has a shitty family.

Well, at least to anyone who knows him, it is. They know how he’ll do anything to not be at home when his father is around, to get out of the endless pressures of social events and promotional things and questions of mating and management and all of the things that he hated about being born an omega and being attached to the last name Stark to top it all off—

For years, it was just him. Some flings, mainly to piss his father off, but he never had his attention for longer than the time it took to scold him or order him around, and his mother was never much help, either. He had precious few friends growing up, never really made any real ones until college when he met Rhodey and Pepper — an alpha and a beta respectively that helped him manage things there and that were the first people to truly understand the depths of struggles he had going on at home.

And they were great friends, still are, but there was never anything more there between them. They helped him float through the first year of school, and then—

And then came Peter Parker.

Tony doesn’t hate all alphas on principle, although he is often rather tempted to try to, what with how they were shoved in his face most of his life. They were great for a good fling but most of them were meatheads. As horny as Tony was, he couldn’t allow just anyone to be close to him, nothing too get to serious, because he’s got a lot of responsibility coming down to him and he needs the right partner — alpha or otherwise — to be willing to deal with that. Not that he’s particularly interested in mating right now but he also isn’t going to allow someone close enough to potentially mark him knowing the repercussions of that.

He’s the heir to Stark Industries, sure, but he’s still an omega. An alpha will have significant legal power over him once they’re mated. And he wants to be the one to run SI, to take on his legacy, to build, to create, and to run his business, and he’s not going to let anyone stop him, even if that means flings forever.

(Not that that’s legally going to fly because he can’t take over until he’s considered qualified which implies a certain amount of stability that translates into having an alpha that’s more than just a fuck buddy but—)

It doesn’t matter. None of it matters after he meets Peter.

Peter is a year younger than him in school, technically, but biologically they’re the same age. Peter just started a bit later than most — and for good reasons, as Tony comes to find out.

He’s in one of Tony’s engineering classes and his organic chemistry class and the omega would be lying if he said he wasn’t immediately taken with him.

He can’t help it. Peter is cute, with his overgrown curls and slim form and silky skin and shy little smile and—

The other man is all alpha, there’s no doubt about it. He exudes it without even trying, but there’s a shyness to him, too. He’s not a meathead; he’s a sweetheart. From day one he’s respectful of Tony in class, kind when he sees him around campus, and that makes them the perfect lab partners in chemistry, and after knowing that, it’s just the natural choice for them to partner for the project in engineering and then—

Then things spiral, and Tony doesn’t even care.

He’s seeking the alpha’s attention, and Peter, the innocent, shy thing he is, is happy to give, to dote on Tony in ways that he would resist if they were coming from anyone else.

They’re not even fucking, but it’s intimate, so intimate that he can’t even explain it, and he loves it, scarily so. It both soothes and sets all his instincts on edge at the same time.

By mid semester they both have keys to come and go freely from each other’s rooms. It’s more common to see them together than it is to ever spot one of them out alone. The whole school probably thinks they’re a couple, and even though they’ve never made it official — and he’s never allowed himself to even come close to considering it before — Tony can’t bring himself to mind.

As midterms approach, though, Tony locks himself in to focus on his work. He doesn’t mean to, really; it’s just that hours studying slip into full nights and then he hasn’t eaten and he hasn’t left the room, even missing one of his classes because he doesn’t realize the time.

Peter hasn’t come by in days and except for the occasional check in text, Tony hasn’t heard from him, either. But they’re both busy with midterms so he really isn’t surprised. In fact he barely has time to eat, let alone check his phone, so even if he was texting him regularly Tony probably wouldn’t be answering.

Except mid terms or no, of course Peter notices when Tony misses class. And when his texts go unanswered by the absorbed omega, he doesn’t hesitate to show up and let himself in.

Tony doesn’t even realize anyone is there until he feels a hand on his shoulder. He jumps so hard he nearly knocks the chair back, and when he turns around he sees Peter, stepping back and holding his hands up in the universal “I surrender” gesture, clearly not having meant to startle him.

“I’m sorry, I knocked but you didn’t answer so I let myself in. I just— you weren’t in class, and I was worried… are you okay? When was the last time you ate?” It takes all of two seconds for Peter’s sheepishness to melt into concern, and he steps forward again, closing the distance between them to tilt Tony’s chin up, looking at the shadow stretching across his jaw where he hasn’t shaved in a few days. “You’ve lost weight,” he murmurs, thumb brushing over Tony’s cheekbone tenderly — which, yeah, is definitely more prominent than it was at the beginning of the week.

Tony’s eyes flutter and he leans into the touch for a moment before refocusing and shaking it off. “I’m fine. This is normal, Peter. I know what I’m doing.”

“Do you?” Peter raises an eyebrow. “Do you even know what day it is?”

“It’s Saturday—“

“It’s Monday, Tony. 1pm on Monday, at that. You missed engineering this morning and you haven’t answered my texts all weekend.” Surprise flits across Tony’s face at that, because — yeah, last time he checked it was Saturday, and he had no new texts from Peter, so— “When was the last time you ate?” Peter continues to prod, voice gentle but insistent.

Both aspects only serve to spark irritation in him, though. Tony bats Peter’s hand away from his face, frowning. He doesn’t need to be treated with kid gloves. “I ate a little while ago. I’m fine.”

“You don’t even know what day it is—“

“It all kind of blurs together when you’re not doing anything besides working, okay—“

“Two days is a lot of blur, Tony—“

“And just because I need a shave doesn’t mean I haven’t left my desk or that this isn’t totally normal for midterms—“

“You’re the one saying you haven’t left your desk, not me—“

“That’s not what I meant! I’m just saying—“

“I’m just saying you need to take a short break, it’s not that big of a deal—“

“I don’t need a break, I know my limits—“

“Tony, I really don’t think—“

“Jesus fucking— You’re not my alpha, Parker, would you fuck off?”

The words come out before he can stop them, and he flinched himself at the hurt on Peter’s face, the way the alpha physically recoils, shoving his hands in his pockets.

“I’m not— god, I know that, okay? I’m just trying to help you, Tony. Please, this isn’t sustainable. You need to eat. Just— let me find you something, and then I’ll leave, okay?”

Leave? No, he doesn’t want him to leave. But the only thing that comes out is a quiet “whatever,” and he watches Peter escape to the kitchen with a ball of guilt growing in his chest.

Peter is just trying to help. He likes Peter and he doesn’t want him to leave, he just— he panics, and then he snaps.

Because what if Peter wants more? What if he really likes him? And Tony is a fuck up that does shit like this when he feels emotions and has so much baggage attached to being with him and—

And Peter knows that, at least some of it. It’s been a few months of seeing each other nearly every day, now, and his family situation was never a secret.

So why is he still here? Oh god, did Tony just ruin it?

The thought, for reasons that he’s refusing to immediately think about, is almost too much to bear. He stands up, fumbling his way out of the chair and into the kitchen.

The smell hits him almost as soon as he enters, and he sucks in a deep breath. His traitorous stomach growls, loud and demanding.

Soup bubbles on the stove as Peter works at the counter, chopping up some fruits and vegetables. He’s already managed to put a few little storage containers of food together for him, and something in Tony’s gut feels warm at the sight. But it also drops — preparing premade meals most certainly means that Peter isn’t intending to come back.

He looks up when Tony enters, expression wary. “The soup was the quickest thing you had, and since I had to be here for as long as it takes to boil anyway I thought I would just—“

“Peter.” His own voice sounds remarkable calm for how shaky he suddenly feels, lurching towards the alpha at the countertop. “It’s okay. I… thank you, for this. I’m sorry.”

Peter looks taken aback by the apology. “Tony, you don’t have to apologize. You’re right; I’m not your alpha and it’s not my place to give you orders. I just… I care about you, okay? I just want to help. I know you don’t think about me that way, and I’m sorry I overstepped, but—“

“You’re wrong.”

“What?” The words draw Peter up short.

Tony takes a breath, looking down. He focuses on the alpha’s hands, watching him chop instead of looking at his face. It’s easier. “You’re wrong. It’s not that I don’t think of you that way. The problem is… that I do. And I… I’m not used to this. I’ve never had someone take care of me before. Not really, not in any way that mattered. And what I feel for you… it scares me.” He takes a little breath again, looking down at his own hands. “I want you to be my alpha, Peter. But I’m not really a good omega, and I just have so much shit that comes along with being with me. The thought of asking you to do that… what that could do to us… I just don’t think I could handle that.”

He hears the knife ting against the countertop as Peter sets it down, and the pitter patter of footsteps as the alpha crosses the room. He’s suddenly being drawn into a pair of lanky but surprisingly strong arms, surrounded by the musky, relaxing scent of alpha, and he practically melts into it, nestling his nose into the spot between the collar of Peter’s sweatshirt and his throat almost automatically.

Peter’s hand running up and down his back is soothing, relaxing him the rest of the way, and the press of the alpha’s chin against his head is just the perfect weight to be comfortable, reassuring.

“Tony… I’m not an idiot,” he says gently. “I know who you are. What you’ve done, where you came from, what’s expected of you — and yeah, I’m sure there’s more that you haven’t told me and that’s not public, but— I get why this is a struggle for you, and why you feel the need to put so much pressure on yourself. There’s nothing wrong with you for that and it is most definitely not your own fault that you’re not used to being taken care of. And you’ve no idea how badly or how long I’ve wanted to be your alpha.” He pulls back a little to look down at him, fingers scratching Tony’s scalp gently as he works his fingers through his hair. “But that doesn’t mean that this kind of behavior — towards yourself or others — is good or acceptable. It’s okay to let me take care of you — at least in small ways. I know you’re scared of losing your independence, but that’s not what I want for you, either. I just want to help.”

“Help,” Tony echoes, eyes drifting to the pan on the stove and then back to Peter. “I… I think I’d like that.” He bites his lip, looking up at him. They’re about the same size and height, but this close, wrapped in the alpha’s arms and scent, with his steady gaze on him, he can’t help but feel small by comparison. “You really want to be my alpha?”

“Only if you want me to be, but…” Peter looks down at him and cracks his shy little smile. “I’d like to try, if you’d let me.”

“I’d like that,” Tony admits. He shifts to press up against him, putting a hand on his chest. “I’d also really like it if you’d kiss me.”

Peter looks a little surprised, but not unpleasantly. Still, he shakes his head, giving him a little push back. “Tony, you didn’t even know what day it was. God knows when the last time you brushed your teeth is. No offense, but… ew.”

Tony just laughs a little, unable to help himself. “If I brush my teeth…?”

“Maybe. If you eat your food as well.” Peter moves back to the counter, finishing up the container he was working on. “We can’t be doing anything that’s going to burn you extra calories when you don’t have enough to begin with, hm?”

Tony finds himself grinning. “That’s an argument I can get behind. Literally and metaphorically.”

Peter flashes a grin in return, voice back to that gentle but insistent tone that he knows so well when he says, “Go, Tony.”

And for once, Tony is all too happy to obey.

#starker #ironspider #peter parker x tony stark #tony stark x peter parker #prompting #my prompts #my writing #kris talks #kris answers #omega tony stark #alpha peter parker #starker omegaverse #fluff

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venusxxlangdon · 5 years

Text

Of Mice and Snakes

Pairing: Michael Langdon x fem!reader x Tom Riddle

Word Count: 12.3k

Warnings: crossover (Hogwarts AU), smut, threesome, dirty talk, anal sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, oral (male on female and vice versa), fingering, humiliation, choking, mention of blood as a part of a ritual. All characters are 18+ (the reader is the seventh year student)

Summary: AU where the reader does not know that curiosity killed the cat and agrees to a midnight rendezvous with the Slytherin Heir and his best friend Michael Langdon.

A/N: this epos (lmao the smut is endless, so epos is the right word to describe this madness) is based on my Slytherin!Michael headcanon & the ask I have received the other day: Slytherin Michael and Tom Riddle seeing who can get you to squirt first and they just keep making you cum over and over and you’re so sensitive but they’re mean and have big egos so they keep going even if you’re crying. Just imagine. (wow, nonny, your mind!!!) Special thank you to my Slytherin binches @avesatanormalpeoplescareme & @ccodyfern who plotted the smut scene with me

In addition, this is such a Michael-centric fic even though it’s a threesome that I’m crying at how much of Michael’s binch I am

“To caress the serpent that devours us, until it has eaten away our heart”

– Voltaire

You knew you should not have kept a mysterious diary that you had found in your bag after Divination class. It appeared out of nowhere, and nobody seemed to know whom it belonged to. So eventually, you were sitting in the Slytherin common room, running your fingers along the hardcover of the notebook and contemplating if you could use it for your own purposes. It looked expensive. The cover was black, made of what it seemed like a snakeskin – you wondered if it was faux – encrusted with the copper fixtures on the edges.

O.W.L.s were approaching, so maybe having a spare notebook in your possession was not a bad idea, you thought to yourself, picking up a quill to put your name on the first page. When a thick drop of black ink fell on the sheet, you gasped in frustration, thinking that you must have ruined the blank surface. You wanted the very first note to be pretty, but instead, you had messed it up without even writing a single word! Suddenly your eyes widened at the sight of a fat smudge disappearing before your eyes as if the page was absorbing it like a sponge. You dipped the quill into an inkstand once again and wrote your first and last names.

The intricate handwriting faded away, and just a moment after, you saw some new words making their way on the yellow sheet.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle and Michael Langdon are honored to meet you Y/F/N/Y/L/N”

You were a reasonable witch and perfectly aware that the unknown artifacts were dangerous and should have been investigated before use; however, you licked your lips nervously and looked around in case any of the students or ghosts (Bloody Baron had a reputation of sticking his nose into everybody’s business) were watching you and wrote down:

“Who are you?”

The answer made you arch your brows in surprise.

“Slytherin students.”

There should have been a mistake because being a Slytherin prefect you knew everyone, or at least the majority of them. If there were someone who created such artifact, you would definitely know them. You frowned, and the thought of this whole thing being a prank crossed your mind.

“Your names don’t seem familiar to me,” you scribbled, impatiently waiting for the reply.

“We studied at Hogwarts long ago.”

“I found this notebook in my bag. Is there any way I can mail it back to you? I don’t want anyone’s things in my possession.”

It took a couple of minutes for them to reply. While you were waiting, you tore a small piece of a scroll off and wrote down “Michael Langdon and Tom Riddle” in order to check whom these people were later. When you glanced at the diary sprawled out in front of you, there was an answer:

“This diary is the memory of ours. It chooses its next owner by itself. This time it’s you, so there’s no need to give it back. You can use it.”

“But I technically I can’t use it for my notes. Whatever I write down disappears.”

“You are right, but you can also enjoy our company. The fellow Slytherins will always get each other’s back. Besides, we know all the secrets of Hogwarts.”

It was not a peaceful time for the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. After Mrs. Norris was petrified by the unknown creature and the threat of the Slytherin Heir being back written in blood was found on the wall, everybody lost their minds. Even though you really disliked Harry Potter who was believed to be in charge of consternation, you did not think it was his fault, neither you considered Malfoy being a part of it. Once you overheard him gossiping about it in the common room and trying to persuade Crabbe and Goyle that he was a self-proclaimed Heir. When he said that, you scoffed, hiding your grin behind the book you were reading and thought to yourself that the second years were absolutely insufferable. Draco’s bravado was the epitome of his youthful maximalism.

Curious by nature, you could not stand the idea of being unaware of what was going on around you. The floor of the crime scene was prohibited for students to enter until the investigations were over, so you dedicated most of your time to doing the research in the library, picking the information about the Chamber of Secrets crumb by crumb, and trying to complete the puzzle. Unfortunately, you had not been able to find much, and it was driving you crazy. In one particular book, you read a legend about a beast which of many fearsome monsters was the most dangerous one. Basilisk, or the King of Serpents, was believed to reach a gigantic size and live many hundreds of years. Its killing methods were wondrous from biting with its venomous fangs to murdering its victims with a stare. The last part seemed especially intriguing to you, and it was the reason why you concentrated your attention on this paragraph. On the one hand, it looked similar to what had happened to the cat, but on the other, Madam Pomfrey said it had been petrified, not killed, which made your assumptions false. Moreover, you really did not think that Dumbledore would have allowed a monster in the castle. The mysterious Chamber of Secrets seemed like an old fairy tale students would tell each other late at night for fun, but when Tom and Michael mentioned that they knew all the secret things of Hogwarts, you decided to try your luck and ask them about your conspiracy theories.

They found your Achilles hill without much effort. Your curiosity was stronger than your common sense, and maybe it was the reason why you still did not close the diary and throw it away for good in the Room of Requirement.

“Do you guys know anything about the Chamber of Secrets?”

You bit your lower lip in anticipation and rested your chin on your hand, staring at the blank page.

“What exactly do you want to know?”

Well, shit, did the Chamber actually exist? It was the moment when you could ask them anything, but all the thoughts turned into incoherent flux you could not form into a proper sentence.

Your handwriting became messier as you started writing, holding a quill tightly.

“Is it really in Hogwarts? Who is the Slytherin Heir? Does Basilisk exist? I have done some research, but I’m not sure if my sources are reliable.”

You put the quill aside and leaned back on your chair, placing your palms that involuntarily got all sweaty, on your uniform-clad thighs.

“Well, well, what an eager girl we got here. You have too many questions for us, Y/N...”

Crimson blush flushed across your cheeks at the pet name.

“Could you, please, answer them?”

You did not want to miss your only chance to find out the new information, even though it was obvious that you could not trust some random diary, which happened to be...only God knew what exactly it was. You figured that after you were done fishing for the new facts you would head to the library to check them out.

“...too many questions, perhaps, we could answer. Since you’ve asked so nicely, we think we can show you what we know.”

“Show me?”

You did not know what to expect, maybe an essay on the Chamber of Secrets that would appear on the page, but certainly not the following lines:

“As we have said, this diary is just a container of our memories. If you want us to answer your questions, tonight, at 1 a.m. you should go to the dungeon and bring it along with you. Open it on page twenty five and write “me videbunt*” in your blood.”

Your heartbeat sped up. Sneaking late at night was not a problem for a prefect, but you doubted if you really needed to get involved in this suspicious venture.

“Is it safe? I would rather prefer to find out who you two are before we could cooperate.”

“Then it’s a good thing that you have plenty of time till 1 am.”

You glanced at the big clock hanging on the wall with two snakes that represented hour and minutes hands. They showed 6:30 p.m. The reading room closed at 10.

“Section 53. Raw 11. Shelf 9.” were the last words Tom and Michael left for you.

xxx

Sixth. Seventh. Eighth. Ninth. Your fingers walked on the book spines looking for the one that could tell you about the mysterious Slytherin students. None of the books seemed suitable for your purpose. They were on magical creatures, charms, transfiguration, and...the Triwizard Tournament. As soon as your fingertips brushed against the hardcover of it, the copper ornament of the diary you were holding against your chest with the free hand, heated up and scorched your palm. You gasped and looked at the reddened skin in confusion. Having picked the book from the shelf you made your way to a long table occupied by some Gryffindor students who shot pretentious glares at you as soon as you approached them. Without paying any attention to them, you took a seat, placed your bag on a bench next to you, and opened the book.

The Tournament never really interested you. It was renowned for being extremely dangerous: champions had died while competing, and it was discontinued at some point due to the high death toll. However, it was revived in 1945 when wizards just like Muggles had to face the terror of WWII and needed something that would bring the most powerful Wizarding schools together and create the spirit of unity. You opened the table of content and scanned through the titles.

“Champions of 1294”

“No, it’s too early,” you thought to yourself, moving your finger down the page.

“Champions of 1494” Skip.

“Champions of 1792”Maybe? No, nothing.

“Champions of 1945” It was the last tournament so far. You flipped through the pages, looking for the familiar names, eyes scanning every line.

“Tom Marvolo Riddle, Slytherin champion, page 1055” and then “Michael Langdon, Slytherin champion. Disqualified. Page 1056.”

On the mentioned pages there was a column written by a journalist from the Daily Prophet with a huge headline “Hogwarts champions have not outsmart the Goblet of Fire.”

“Two seventh year students Tom Marvolo Riddle and Michael Langdon were so anticipated for the Triwizard Tournament that they decided to compel the Goblet of Fire for it to select them as Hogwarts Champions on September 25, 1945. Despite the outstanding performance of Confundus, only Mr. Riddle has been presented an honor to compete in the Tournament....”

You could not finish reading the article, being too fascinated with the picture of two young boys smiling and waving their hands at you. You glanced at the description to figure out who was who. They looked very much alike: both were tall, dressed in the perfectly ironed Slytherin uniforms, and looking way too happy for those whose plan had not worked out. Even though the picture was black & white you could tell that Tom had dark hair, and Michael was blond. A cheeky smile on Michael’s full lips made you blush, and you rolled your eyes at your own reaction. You traced your fingers across the page, contouring their silhouettes pensively. They were extremely good looking. Tom did not win the tournament that year, but he and Michael certainly got their dose of glory.

Did THEY really communicate with you via the diary? They mentioned that it was just a container of their memories, but how could it adapt to your questions if they had not been a part of the diary’s data?

“Hey, Y/N,” you lifted your head up from the book at Thomas Finnigan, a Ravenclaw Prefect.

“Yes?”

“We’ll start the evening checkup in 20 minutes, okay? You take the fifth and sixth floors.”

You blinked at him in confusion.

“Wait, what? What time is it?”

“Half past nine,” he curiously looked at the book you were reading, and you hurried to close it and put in under the Transfiguration textbook.

“I must have got carried away,” you mumbled, still surprised that time had passed so fast. It was weird, you swore that you had come to the library at least thirty minutes ago.

“Twenty minutes,” Thomas reminded you and left you alone with your thoughts.

As soon as he left, you opened the same page with a picture of Tom and Michael. Having made sure that nobody was watching you, you took your wand out and cleared your throat.

“Gemino,” and just like that, with a flick of your wrist, the photograph multiplied. You took the copy and hid it into the inner pocket of your robe.

Half past nine. You still had some time.

xxx

The best time of the day was when all students were in their common rooms, and you only had to stroll through the empty hallways checking if everything was alright. Your steps echoed in the distance, drawing the attention of the portraits who scrunched up their noses complaining that you were too loud, but you could care less. Being too caught up in your thoughts, you made your way to the moving staircases. You only needed to find Peter, the head of the prefects, fill out the daily report, and you would be done for the night. It felt like, with every step, the photograph in your pocket was heating up, sending the radiant waves of warmth down your spine, as a reminder that you were running out of time. Anticipation coiled in the pit of your stomach making you sick; you hold onto the staircase when it started moving in the direction of the fourth floor.

They said they were Slytherin students and you saw the uniforms with your own eyes, so theoretically, you could trust them because there was an unspoken rule of Slytherins unconditionally respecting their mates.

“The only person you should ever trust is yourself,” you whispered under your breath the reminder you and every Slytherin student lived by.

It was unsafe to sneak out this late when there was an unidentified entity that was petrifying students. Who knew, maybe in the darkness of the dungeons, it would attack you?

You went downstairs and stormed into Professor Snape’s office where every day from 9 to 11 p.m Peter Goldberg was of filling out the reports. He was sitting on a tall chair, scraping on a piece of parchment.

“Hey, Peter,” you threw your beg aside but did not pay attention to where it landed. By the sound of some pots falling over the table, you knew it was not going to be a nice morning for Professor Snape on the following day.

Peter tsked at you.

“Could you, please, be more careful for fuck’s sake?”

“Everything’s fine out there, where’s the report?” You ignored the question, hopping on a chair next to him. He nodded at a pile of parchment in front of him.

“If you manage to find it in this mess,” he waved his hand at the numerous papers flooding his desk, “you are welcome to fill it in.”

“Why don’t you make some freshmen do all the paperwork for you?” You asked, looking through the pile of endless notes, important documents, drafts and what not.

Peter tiredly rubbed the bridge of his nose.

“Because they are stupid and incompetent,” he said it as if it was the most obvious thing. “If you want something to be done right, you need to do it yourself.”

You hummed in response and spotted the corner of the sheet you were looking for on the opposite side of the desk. You leaned forward and took it out of the pile trying not to ruin it.

“Then don’t complain about it,” you noted as you put your signature next to your name. “Here, all done.”

Peter took the paper out of your hands and threw it on top of the folders. You watched him do it with your arms crossed across your chest, thinking it was no wonder that his desk was a mess.

“What are you up to tonight?” He wondered without taking his eyes off the parchment.

The question brought the thoughts of Tom and Michael back on your mind. In fact, they were always there, tempting you to say “yes” to the little rendezvous past midnight. You nervously chewed your bottom lip while taking a few steps towards your bag which was tossed on the floor.

“Most certainly, sleep. I’ve been studying for O.W.L.s all day, and…”

You turned your head at Peter who clearly looked uninterested, being completely absorbed in work. Before you walked out of the class, you took your wand out and whispered “Scourgify” placing the papers in order.

“No, no, no!” Peter shouted, his eyes wide open in terror, “these documents are charmed, they have to be sorted out manually, Y/N! That’s why I have been fucking with them all this time!”

A road to hell is paved with good intentions.

You did not know that, so you quickly stormed out of the classroom, giggling at Peter’s grunts behind the closed door.

“Sorry!”

xxx

Of course, sleep was the last thing on your mind when you were lying in bed fully dressed in your black skinny jeans and a turtleneck. You were thankful for the canopy hiding you from the eyes of your roommates because dealing with unnecessary questions was not on the bucket list. The diary was right next to your thigh, tossed negligently on the white linen sheets. Your fingers lingered against the fabric searching for the photograph. You brought it to your face, looking at Tom and Michael for the hundredth time. It was obvious that you had made your decision right after you came from your night patrol and instead of changing into your pajamas, you put on your casual clothes.

You: 0

Michael and Tom: 1

It was 00:45 a.m. when you sat up on the bed and carefully listened to the sounds behind the thick curtains. You pulled the canopy aside and whispered “Quietus”, aiming at the sleeping girls. You clapped your hands in order to make sure that the charm had worked, and after no one reacted to the sound, you jumped off the bed and headed out to the common room.

Sneaking on your tiptoes, you crept your way up the set of the stone steps to the door that was on the right side of the Entrance Hall (if coming down the marble staircase facing the front doors of the castle.) You gently pushed it, trying not to disturb the snoring portrait of the entrance guard.

The blood in your temples was drumming so fast, you thought it was so loud that it could wake the entire Hogwarts up. You crossed your fingers, hoping that Snape was asleep. Filch was not a problem at all. The old twat was scared to go to the Slytherin dungeon, especially after his bloody cat had been petrified.

It was so dark, almost impossible to see anything. You looked around and, taking a tight grip on your wand, whispered:

“Lumos minima”

A faint ball of light scorched at the pointy tip of your wand, lighting up your path. It was bright enough to see where you were going, yet dim not to attract attention. Your feet noiselessly glided along the stone floor. You did not know how deep you should have gone into the dungeon, so after you made sure that Snape’s classroom was left far behind you, you stopped and kneeled on the cold concrete. You slid the bag off your shoulder and took the quill and the diary out.

1 a.m.

You took a deep breath, and with slightly trembling fingers counted twenty-five pages. There it was. You smoothed the crispy sheet with your palm. Your hand sneaked onto the back pocket of your jeans, and you carefully drew a small razor blade out. Fuck. Did you really have to do it? You prepared the quill and closed your eyes.

One. Two. Three.

“Ouch!” You winced at the stinging pain when you slid the blade across your palm and a dribble of blood ran down your hand. You dipped the sharp point of the quill into the liquid and wrote down:

“Me videbunt”

You realized that you were holding your breath all the time. You inhaled a fetid air of the dungeon and leaned back on your hills. Nothing happened.

“Vulnera Sanentur,” You murmured, healing the stinging cut.

You heard your heavy breathing in the deafening silence, the drops of water dripping from the ceiling, and your mad heartbeat. The scarlet red inscription refused to disappear. You should have known better. It must have been a prank.

“Me videbunt,” you mocked yourself, growling the words out through your gritted teeth. What an idiot. Annoyed, you grabbed the quill and showed it back into your bag. Right when you were about to close the diary and leave for good, you noticed that the writing started fading away. You dropped your bag and leaned forward, your nose inches away from the page. You could feel the copper smell of it. Blood started eroding the yellow sheet, and soon a bright light filled up the cracks on the page. It kept growing, spreading out beyond the edges of the notebook, enveloping everything around it. Including you. Before you could even blink, you were falling into the radiance.

Boom.

Your back hit a firm surface of what felt like marble. A dull pain pierced through you, and you moaned, rolling onto your side. Your fingers brushed against the floor and you scrunched up your nose at the sight of a disgusting goo covering your digits. What the fuck was that? You propped yourself up on your elbows and looked around.

Your mouth fell open in shock. An enormous room sprawled out before you. A statue high as the Chamber itself loomed into view, standing against the back wall. It was ancient and monkeyish, with a long, thin beard that fell almost to the bottom of the wizard's sweeping stone robes, where two enormous grey feet stood on the smooth Chamber floor.* You could recognize the man in seconds. You had seen the portraits of him everywhere from history books to the packaging of chocolate frogs. It was Salazar Slytherin.

Suddenly the sound of somebody’s steps drew your attention. You turned your head and saw a silhouette of a tall figure approaching you. Instinctively, your fingers slid down to the waistband of your jeans where your wand was tugged securely.

“There’s no need to take your wand out,” a clear voice rang through the Chamber.

You narrowed your eyes, trying to understand who the man was. When he came closer, you gasped, realizing that he was the one you saw in the picture. His black hair was laid in short smooth waves in contrast with his pale, porcelain skin. Dark piercing eyes were drilling through you, and you could not help yourself but think that you had never seen such mesmerizing color before. Two pristine stones of onyx that looked soulless. You gulped heavily, tightening the grip on the handle of your wand.

“You’re Tom Riddle,” your voice sounded foreign to you.

He reached his hand out to help you stand up. His touch was cold as ice. Nearly stumbling, you got to your feet, without taking your eyes off of his chiseled face.

“What an honor to have such guest as you are, Ms. Y/L/M,” his full lips curled in a smirk.

You put your hands on your waste, massaging the bruised pelvis, and nervously asked:

“Where are we?”

“In the Chamber of Secrets.”

He let you take a few steps forward and whirl around to have proper look at the room. The Chamber looked fearfully impressive.

“I don’t understand,” you muttered. “Does the professors know about it?“

You looked at Tom, who was going around you in slow circles, like a predator hunting its prey, his eyes examining your body.

“Of course they do. Dumbledore is not a fool to buy the idea of it being a myth. Salazar Slytherin built this Chamber centuries ago. It was the legacy of our faculty, I thought you had already known it.”

“I didn’t know if I could take this information seriously. Nobody had been here before...”

You stopped talking when Tom let out a chuckle.

“Well, that’s where they have done their work,” his eyes twinkled devilishly, “they made sure to erase all evidence that two Hogwarts most talented students who made it to the Triwizard Tournament had opened the notorious Chamber of Secrets and awoken the beast.”

A shiver ran down your spine. You looked at the goo covering the floor here and there and assumed it was Basilisk’s traces. You should have left right at that moment.

“M-Michael did not make it as a champion,” you stuttered. Your intuition was particularly screaming that it was time to leave. Something was wrong about Tom and the way he stared at you.

“Please, don’t remind him about that. He’s still so pissed,” Riddle playfully rolled his eyes.

“What happened to you? Why are you here?” You were too scared to ask if he was alive. The icy touch of his hand left a weird sensation on your palm.

Tom put his hands behind his back and with an ostentatiously serious look on his face explained:

“Once upon a time,” you wondered if he ever talked without making everything sound so dramatic, “I had led a peaceful life as an average freshman of Slytherin, you know...pranked Gryffindor rivals, been the best student in class, “he winked at you. “Until one day, I heard a voice calling my name. Apparently, I was the only who could hear it, and at first, I thought I was mental... Little did I know that I was meant to understand Parseltongue, and it was Basilisk, calling for me, its only owner.” Tom grinned, showing his perfect white teeth.

You looked at him with wide eyes.

“But only the Slytherin Heir...”

“Can tame the beast,” Riddle was so excited he could not even let you finish the sentence. “Yes, Yes, Yes!”

Your head started spinning. The next moment you were aiming your wand at Tom.

“I want to get out,” you hissed.

Tom did not even move an inch. He glanced at your trembling hand and smirked.

“Where are going, love?” a fake pout touched his lips. “Don’t you want to meet Michael? You seemed so eager writing those silly questions in our diary.”

And just when he pronounced the last word, a loud crash roared through the Chamber. The stone mouth of the stature opened up, and you saw a large head of a snake crawling out of it. You cried out and backed off, moving your wand in the direction of the monster. The enormous serpent, bright, poisonous green, thick as an oak trunk, had raised itself high in the air and its great blunt head was weaving drunkenly between the pillars.** Fear, crushing onto your in destructive tides, made you numb and pinned you to your spot. You found yourself unable to move as if every muscle of your body was paralyzed.

You heard Tom scoff “What a showoff,” and saw that there was a guy sitting on top of the snake’s giant head. The beast was so big that it almost took half of the room. It whipped its tail across the floor and bowed its head, letting the blond man jump off and gracefully lend on his feet.

“I honestly think that he loves you more than me,” Riddle said, taking a few steps forward to stroke Basilisk’s scaly skin.

“Well, if you weren’t a dick and accompanied him for the hunt, he would not be so putty in my hands.” A deep velvety baritone infiltrated your body, making your insides shiver.

Michael Langdon was even more handsome in flesh than he was in the photograph. He was taller than Tom indeed, his long legs and broad torso resembled young Adonis. His jawline was so sharp that he could use it to cut your heart out of your chest.

“And here is our little pen friend,” he mused and approached you with long, elegant strides. When he reached out his hands, you doubted if it was safe to touch him. However, being raised as a well-mannered lady, you did not want to seem rude. You were going just to shake his hand, but he covered your small palms with his large ones, squeezing them. “Pleased to meet you, Ms. Y/L/N. We were afraid that you would not be able to bless us with your visit tonight.” The corners of his mouth twitched.

“Frankly speaking, I doubted it, too,” you mumbled.

“She had wanted to leave right before you came, Michael,” Tom scoffed, crossing his arms across his chest. Your eyes gleamed at him with annoyance. Riddle could have done better and kept his tongue behind his teeth, but he was a cheeky asshole who liked to exaggerate things.

Michael folded his hands neatly behind his back.

“Why is that? Has my friend treated you badly?” He tilted his head, amused by the way your cheeks turned pink.

“No, no, I just...,” your eyes traveled from Riddle to Langdon back and forth. “Tom told me he was the Slytherin Heir, but I had been thinking that this whole thing with Salazar Slytherin was just another legend.”

“We had always wanted to make it to the pages of the magical books,” he ran his fingers through his soft blond locks. “It was just the matter of time and our creativity how we would do it.”

“How did you find the Chamber? Why are you still here? How fucking old are you?” Your voice betrayed you and you almost yelled the last question at the top of your lungs.

“Basilisk showed me the entrance,” Tom explained. “I had to tell Michael after he had caught me sneaking out late at night.”

Langdon nodded.

“If you had not told me we would’ve never become immortal,” a self-satisfied smirk touched his lips when he noticed your reaction. “I was the one who came up with a plan to trap our souls here and create the diary as a messenger.”

“Why would you want to rot in the dungeons?” You asked confusedly.

“We are not rotting here if you haven’t noticed yet” his fingers danced across his smooth, porcelain cheeks. “It was for safety. If it had not been for Tom’s youthful soul in this Chamber, Harry Potter would have killed him on that night eleven years ago...”

Your heart galloped in your chest like a dozen of horses, eyes skimmed through the room, looking for the exit. Basilisk was too close, and Tom and Michael had wands, so it was difficult to escape.

“…now we can entice him just like you, end his pathetic life and come alive in our full glory.”

You had not even think your plan over when you shouted:

“Expelliarmus!”

“Protego Maxima!” Tom pointed his hand skyward, conjuring up an impregnable magical protection barrier that knocked you over in the blink of an eye.

You heard an audible noise that resembled a loud crack, and suddenly a pair of strong arms wrapped around you and wrestled your wand out of your hand. It was prohibited to apparate within Hogwarts until the Headmaster decided otherwise. What sort of dark magic Tom and Michael possessed?

“Why don’t you want to play nicely?” Langdon whispered in your ear, wrapping his hand around your neck, nearly suffocating you; you desperately clang on his arm, trying to break free, but it only made him press his fingers tighter, leaving crescent marks on your tender skin.

“This is not the right way to treat your fellow Slytherins,” Tom hissed, removing the bright shield.

“I think we should teach her a lesson.”

Michael’s body was pushed against your back; the dark lapels of his robes enveloped your limbs like a midnight mist, and your mouth hanged open when he rolled his hips, giving you a hint on what he had meant by his suggestion to teach you manners.

“Do you think they still have fun like we used to, Tom?” he asked cheekily, his hand sliding down your head, petting you almost lovingly, and then tangling his fingers in your hair. He brushed the strands into a loose ponytail and yanked your head back, bringing it close to his lustful mouth. Plush lips pressed soft, teasing kisses and then moved behind your ear, leaving burning kisses along the way, making your pussy throb and a burst of your juices soak through your panties. No fucking way. You gasped in shock, being embarrassed by the reaction of your body.

Riddle smirked. He stood several inches away from you, admiring the way Michael pinned you to your place like a lepidopterist who collected the finest butterflies. You were their butterfly indeed. Young and beautiful. They would make sure to rip your wings off. He traced his pale, slender digits along the waistband of your jeans and hooked the wool hem of your turtleneck, untugging it from your pants. The muscles of your lower abdomen tensed involuntarily in a weak attempt to refuse him from the touch.

“Oh, I don’t know, Mikey,” he slowly sunk to his knees, putting himself to the same level with your clothed crotch. He rolled your top up and slid his palms down your sides, countering every curve of your feminine body. From this angle his face looked sharper, the hollows of his cheeks were ethereally deep. “Let’s ask our lady, shall we?” He pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses to your belly, nuzzling into soft, warm skin. You gasped; bucking your hips forward, but Michael grounded you with his hands that he put on your pelvis.

“Do you, little sluts, still sneak into the boys' dorms to play truth or dare, and then blow them when you get a dare, honey?” Riddle mewled and looked up at you with a carnivorous smile on his face. You did not even listen, being too caught up in a torturing discrepancy of muttering silent “no’s” to them and leaning into their arms at the same time. Michael trapped your earlobe between his teeth and cupped your face in his hands, petting your cheek with a thumb.

“He asked you a question, doll,” he slightly bent his knee and you gasped in shock when he spread your legs with it and made you straddle his thigh. His kneecap was pressed several inches away from your aching center. You clothed your eyes and threw your head back, resting it in the crook of his neck and moaned as Michael started slightly rocking you back and forth.

“I don’t know...oh,” your eyes fluttered open, when Tom cupped your sex with his left hand, applying just enough pressure to your clit, making you bolt up in Michael’s arms. He arched his brow at you, urging you to speak up. “W-we don’t do that,” you gasped and turned your head at Michael, nearly bumping noses with him, when his fingers unbuttoned your jeans and pulled the fly down. Looking at him pleadingly, you shook your head, but he only winked at you and maneuvered his hand under the waistband of your panties.

“Oh my God,” he raised his voice a few octaves higher in a mocking manner, swiping his digits along your wet folds, collecting the wetness. From that moment you knew it was useless for you to try to say no. Your body betrayed you. The tip of his finger circled around your center, almost entering it and then pulling away teasingly to stroke your labia. His left arm was wrapped around your waist possessively, holding you in place. You bit your lower lip and hang your head low, letting your hair cover your flushed face that was burning with humiliation and embarrassment. “Look at it, Tom. She is practically soaked.” He removed his fingers with a sloppy, obscene sound, and you whimpered brokenly at the loss of contact, not being able to believe that you were THAT aroused. Michael showed Riddle his index and middle fingers, parting them to demonstrate the thin threads of your juices sticking to the tips of his digits.

Tom tsked, tilting his head to the side. He raised from his knees and harshly grabbed you by your chin, forcing you to look up at him. Silvery tears blinked in your doe-like eyes making them look even bigger, even more innocent.

“Don’t even try to persuade us that you aren’t enjoying this,” he hissed, and for a brief second he resembled a snake with his narrowed eyes and flared nostrils. The Slytherin Heir indeed. He held your chin so brutally, you were sure it would bruise afterwards. “Pretty little slut, it’s a shame you haven’t been gang banged before. Our legacy has been failed,” he pouted, gliding his thumb against your lower lip. As he started undoing his belt, Michael’s hand slid back into your panties.

“We like destroying pretty things,” he whispered in your ear while massaging your clit in lazy circles, the back of his hand outstretching the thin lace. His luscious lips moved down to your neck, and you whimpered when he bared his teeth and playfully nibbled on your skin, velvet tongue immediately licking the bruised spot. “And you are very pretty.”

He removed his slick-covered hand and traced it up to your breasts, rolling your turtleneck up higher to expose more of your skin. He tugged your bra down and brushed his thumb over your sensitive nipple. You moaned and bucked your hips forward to get some friction against his thighs, but as he ground his cock against your ass, you involuntarily motioned back to meet his thrust.

“Just like that,” he cooed, teasingly slapping your right breast. “Good girl, keep rutting your hips, baby.”

His hand fell down on your abdomen, and he pressed you against his stomach, making you feel every inch of his erection. It was the point of no return. You wriggled your hips and spread your legs a bit wider, so your pussy would get more contact with the fabric of Michael’s slacks.

“See? She’s turning into an obedient little slut,” he chuckled and turned his head at Tom, who was watching you and Michael while stroking his cock that he pulled out from his pants a moment earlier. Chewing his bottom lip, he savored every movement of your hips, looking at you hungrily. There was always an unspoken competition between him and Michael, even though they were best friends. When Tom had become one of the Triwizard Champions it was not only his moment of glory but his time to outsmart Langdon who had always seemed to have the best girls, grades, and what not.

“At least he’s not the Slytherin Heir,” he used to tell himself when another group of girls was whispering about Michael being “insanely good in bed” in the common room where Riddle was trying to study.

“Enough of that,” he growled in annoyance, and with the snap of his fingers, a thick white mattress appeared on the floor before you. Tom stood on it with his polished shoes and nodded his head at Michael. “Put her on her knees. I want her to blow me.”

Michael put his large hands on your shoulders and firmly guided you down. Your legs felt weak from the sensation Langdon had been causing to your clit, so you nearly stumbled when he forced you to your knees; the mattress dented under the press of your weight. You instinctively put your hands forward for leverage, placing yourself on all fourth. Tom’s long, hard cock with a bright pink head glistening with pearls of precum was inches away from your lips. He put two fingers under your chin, making you look up at him. His stare was so intense that you found yourself opening your mouth as if you were hypnotized, which he used to his advantage and ran the tip of his shaft along your parted lips.

“If you bite me or don’t try your best to please me, I’ll feed you to Basilisk,” your eyes wandered to the side in the direction of the large snake curled up several feet away from you. “Understood?”

You gulped heavily and nodded. Starting off slowly, you gave him the first kitten licks, tasting the salt of his foreskin on your taste buds. You wrapped your lips tightly around the head and gave it a gentle suck, hollowing your cheeks to create a vacuum. Riddle hissed at the warm enveloping sensation covering his cock with each bob of your head. You continued sliding down, trying to fit as much of him as possible, but you had to stop mid-way to help yourself with one hand, stroking the impressive length, and went back to his tip, swirling your tongue in the same rhythm you were jerking him off with. You pulled away to pay attention to his shiny slit and softly brushed it with your thumb, smearing his arousal.

Meanwhile, Michael pulled your panties to the side and blew on your aching core, making both of your holes clench around nothing. He parted your folds, dipping his long fingers into your wetness, before he thrust two of them inside you, making you whine around Tom’s cock. It was so unexpected that you slightly brushed your teeth over his sensitive flesh, and the next moment you knew he slipped his dick out of your mouth and gave you a hard slap across your cheek.

“Watch your fucking teeth!” He looked at you with so much rage and anger in his eyes that your insides flattered in fear. He slapped your lower lip with the tip of his cock and then traced it to your flushed, crimson cheek.

A loud “smack” accompanied with a wet, obscene sound of the mix of your saliva and Tom’s precum made your head dizzy. Tears started streaming down your face, and you tried to blink them away, and what was more important, not to meet the heavy gaze of Riddle’s jet black eyes.

Michael seemed to know what exactly he was doing. Tom and he had always been different with girls. His friend liked it hard and rough, while Michael could perfectly do both: edge a pretty girl from dusk till dawn until she was a whining mess under him or fuck the living shit out of her. It was all about his mood. That was why before you appeared in the Chamber, they had agreed that he would do all your preparation. Michael watched Riddle and you attentively, noticing the way your shoulders trembled as you took Tom back into your mouth, how you instinctively parted your legs and pushed your pussy out on a full display for him.

He slid the panties down to your ankles, where your jeans were pooling and spread your ass cheeks. His soft, velvet tongue licked a wide stripe from your puffy clit to a clenched, puckering asshole, making you shift forward and choke on Riddle’s cock. It fell out from your mouth, and your head nearly banged against the mattress. You whined, shaking with every cell of your body, when Langdon’s tongue swirled around your clit as if he was licking off the tastiest weep cream, and then his lips closed around it, sucking gently. Your nails dug into the mattress, and you closed your eyes shut in a pathetic attempt to stay in this reality and not to drift off into the sea of pure, electric pleasure. You could not let yourself do that. Not when Riddle was still before you, waiting for you to recollect yourself and finish him. But Michael was so good. He was lapping up on your dripping pussy, drinking from it as if your juices were the sweetest nectar and your wet, puffy folds — the ripest peaches he was glad to savor.

“Oh my God,” you cried out when he added two fingers at once while still sucking on your clit. He pumped them in and out a couple of times and then crooked them inwards, brushing right against the spongy spot inside you. It took Michael mere seconds to figure out how exactly you liked to be pleasured. He spread his fingers like scissors and used the heel of his palm to press it against your clit — each time he moved his digits, it stimulated your bundle of nerve. His flushed cock that was laying heavily in the crease of his pelvis, twitched at the sound of moans you were producing.

The ticklish sensation in your stomach became almost unbearable. You tried to hold it back in order not to give Michael and Tom the pleasure of mocking you for cumming from there manipulations, but you knew you were destined to lose. Feeling the pressure unwinding deep inside you, you hurried to stuff your mouth with Riddle’s cock to silence your loud scream. Moaning around his length, you let go off your orgasm, letting it break through the dam and flood you with an earth-shattering pleasure. Your pussy quivered around Michael’s fingers, hips bucked in convulsions as you exploded into million pieces under him. Of course, it did not go unnoticed.

“Such a good girl,” Langdon hummed approvingly and pulled his fingers out. Tom beckoned him and looked down at you, admiring the view of your flushed face and a fucked out look in your eyes. He took his cock out of your mouth, and let Michael bring his finger to your puffy, abused lips.

“Suck,” he ordered, and the blond man shoved his digits into your mouth, your tongue instinctively wrapping around them. You looked at Tom with wide eyes, but you did not really see him. You felt like floating, euphoria fogged your mind and did not allow you to think straight. Riddle thought if he had slapped you at that moment you probably would not have reacted.

Michael bent over, pressing his bare torso against your back to make sure he got a full view of your eager mouth tasting your cum off his fingers. He shoved them down your throat and outstretched your cheek with his thumb just for the sake of seeing how much of him you could take.

“The wetter they get, the less it’s gonna hurt,” he whispered in your ear. You sucked harder, coating his pads with your saliva. The taste of your own juices, Tom’s cock, and Michael’s skin was extremely arousing. You felt the wetness pooling between your thighs again and mentally slapped yourself for being such a whore. Even the fear of anal did not stop you from secretly wanting it.

When Langdon decided it was enough, he removed his fingers from your mouth and got back to his position behind you. He gently pushed on the small of your back, making you arch your spine a bit more. While you were still relaxed and pliant from your orgasm, he used this opportunity to bring his fingers to your tight asshole and slowly massaged it. You whined and covered your burning face with your hands, trying to hide the embarrassment.

“Relax,” Michael playfully tapped your ass cheek and in circular motion penetrated your entrance to the first knuckle. Just a tip to start with. You involuntarily clenched around him, not being able to relax. Every muscle of your body was chained to anticipation and fear of the unknown. Was it going hurt? Tom and Michael were big, and you doubted that your tight little hole could handle them both.

“I said, relax,” he used the rest of his fingers to reach to your clit and tease it. Your body reacted immediately, visibly relaxing from his touch.

Tom who was stroking his cock in front of your face, chuckled amusingly.

“Why don’t you occupy her? If you keep her distracted, she won’t clench that asshole.”

You hated that they spoke about you in the third person as if you were not there, as if you were nothing but a fuck toy for them. Your head flew up when you felt the tip of Michael’s cock against your pussy. You looked over your shoulder to meet the stare of his icy blue eyes.

“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” he mused, rubbing the head along your sensitive folds.

Without taking his eyes off of you, he slipped inside your heat with his finger still buried in your asshole. He went past the first rim of your sphincter and froze for a second to let you adjust. You could swear there were stars before your eyes. Never had you ever felt so full in your entire life. His cock, judging by the feeling of it, was as big and Riddle’s one, deliciously stretching you out with every inch of its lengh.

“That’s it,” Tom grinned and sank to his knees before you to cup your face in his hands, lifting it up from the mattress. “Relax, little slut. Let him fill you up nice and hard.” He dropped his one hand to get a grip of his cock. Stroking it lazily, he started jerking himself off to the obscene sound of Michael’s flesh slapping against your ass.

Langdon snapped his hips forward and started building up a steady rhythm of thrusts and his manipulations with your asshole. You were taking him so well, he spread you out for him to watch his cock disappearing in and out of your pussy, claiming it as his. Each roll of his hips hit right at your sweet spots. When he slowed down to give you especially deep thrusts, you lost your mind. You cried out and shook your head so violently that Tom had to let go off of your face. Tears spilled out from the corners of your eyes, and you cried out a loud “Michaeeeeel,” at the top of your lungs. You felt so week that you did not even have the strength to clench the tight ring of muscles when he added his middle finger. Working his way, Langdon never stopped the movement of his hips, drawing loose figure-eights and swaying them back and forth.

Tom’s hand, wrapped around his hard-on, was sliding along his shaft with a sloppy sound; he stroked the underside of it where a thick throbbing vein was located, and a low groan instantly fell from his lips. He closed his eyes in pure bliss and threw his head back, messing his short raven hair up. His agonizingly beautiful face was contoured in pleasure as he drove himself closer to his orgasm.

“Open your mouth,” he ordered and stood up on his feet. Somehow, you managed to obey and did as he had told you, sticking your tongue out for him. Your breasts bounced vulgarly with every thrust of Michael’s cock. The fact you were still half-dressed (in tugged turtleneck and jeans around your ankles) and thus looked like a filthy whore who was ready to be fucked wherever and whenever Langdon and Riddle wanted to, was driving you crazy. You watched the way Tom’s cock with a purple tip throbbed and twitched in his palm, indicating his upcoming release.

Everything happened simultaneously. Michael’s free hand covered your clit and rolled it between his fingers, his digits in your ass massaged it in a matching rhythm with his hips, sending you to the edge in seconds. Right at that moment, when your pussy started pulsing around Langdon’s cock, Tom came with a loud moan, painting your face with white ribbons of his cum. Some of it got on your tongue and lips, but you did not dare to lick it all off without his command. His hand yanked your head back roughly, and he made sure that cum covered not only your mouth but your prominent cheekbones as well.

“Drop dead gorgeous,” he praised and gave your wet, cum-stained cheek a light slap. He collected the pearly beads with his thumb and pressed it against your tongue. “Here, have a taste.”

You felt extremely sensitive, it was almost painful for you to take Michael who sped up his thrusts. Sucking on Tom’s fingers as if they were a fucking pacifier, you wriggled your hips, trying to give him a silent hint that it was all too much for you, but ended up taking him even deeper.

“Fuck,” Langdon swore, and with the last sway of his hips, he spilled inside you. You felt his cock pulsing, and even though you had already finished, your pussy clenched around him one more time, squeezing every drop of cum out of him. Sweat beaded on your forehead, the remains of clothes stuck to your body like the second skin. Michael’s load filled you up to the brim, and when he finally pulled out, it was dripping out of you slit down to your thighs, covering your skin like shiny pearls. He removed his fingers from your asshole as well, leaving you undeniably open and stretched out for him.

As soon as he loosened the grip on your pelvis, you fell onto the mattress, breathing heavily. Lying there like a useless toy with your arms and legs bent outwards, the only thing that you wanted was to go back to your dorm and sleep for days. Exhaustion crushed onto you like a tsunami, destroying the remains of your pride and dignity. Your limbs were numb, jelly-like, and you winced at the dull ache in your core when you tried to close your legs.

A pair of strong arms scooped you from the mattress and forced you into a sitting position as if you were nothing but an obedient puppet. You scrunched up your nose, a broken, disappointed moan slipped off your lips, as Tom grabbed the hem of your turtleneck and pulled it up to take it off completely. At least, it became easier to breathe. You ran your fingers through your hair, trying to brush the combs, but soon realized that it was a waste of time. Your hand dropped helplessly on your thigh where numerous purple bruises from Michael’s grip started to bloom across your skin. Riddle’s cum mixed with your tears began to dry on your cheeks, giving you an unpleasant tingling, and you tried to wipe it off with the back of your palm. What a mess.

Michael gracefully dropped on his knees. He grabbed your left foot in his hand and gently traced his fingers up from your toes to the area between the heel and the ball, stroking you and moving up to your ankle. He helped you get rid of your jeans and tossed them aside on the cool floor of the Chamber.

“Please, I can’t do this,” you whispered, shaking your head. They clearly were not done with you, but you were afraid that you would eventually pass out if they continued assaulting your further.

Langdon leaned forward and sensually caressed your cheek, running his fingers along your jaw until he reached the velvet of your lips. You looked up at him through hooded leads and sighed. It was the first time when he actually kissed you. His soft, plush lips brushed against yours passionately, he grabbed you by your chin and slightly tilted your head to deepen the kiss. His tongue slipped into your mouth, tasting you. He caught your lower lip between his teeth and playfully bit on it, drawing a couple of drops of blood and immediately licking them off. Having spread your legs with his knee, Michael nestled between your thighs and pulled away from you with a barely audible moan. He was good at playing the game where he soothed, deceived you and made you think he was going to be nice with you, but then ruined you completely.

“You can and you will, baby,” his beautiful blond hair was disheveled, pupils blown and obscured with lust and desire. He palmed your breasts and looked down at them to enjoy the way they bounced in his hands.

“As if she has a choice,” Tom scoffed, positioning himself behind you. “C’mon Michael, we need to hurry, otherwise, you will have to finger her ass again.”

“Not that I would mind,” a cheeky grin spread across Langdon’s lips, and he placed an open-mouthed kiss on your cum-stained cheek before he leaned back on his heels to give Tom more space.

Riddle wrapped his left arm around your shoulders and used his right one for leverage when he lied back on the mattress and brought you closer to his chest. He bent his knees and plant his feet on the soft surface to not only help himself balance, but also position himself more comfortably behind you. When he was steady, he spread your legs wider, putting his erect cock right at your clenching entrance. You were on a full display for Michael who was standing right between your things. A blush bloomed across your cheeks when you saw the way his lips curled into a smirk at the view of your glistening slit and loose asshole. You wished the cool floor of the chamber could swallowed you up in flames from how embraced you were. A shiver jolted through your spine when you felt the head of Tom’s cock pressing against your little hole. You held your breath and looked at Michael with wide eyes.

“All the way in,” he said in a sing-song tone, watching how marvelously your body was adjusting to Riddle’s size. You gasped and closed your eyes shut, gripping at the mattress beneath you so tightly, your knuckles turned white. Despite that fact that Michael had prepared you, it still hurt like hell. You cried out, and Tom let go off your hips for a second to take his time and spit on his palm. Having smeared the saliva all over his cock and your opening, he proceeded to penetrate you. You trashed and wriggled your butt on top of him, making it almost impossible for him to thrust up.

“Keep fucking still,” he grunted in your ear and then sank his teeth into the soft flesh of your shoulder, leaving a burgundy red print. It was a lost battle from the very beginning. You knew it was over for you when Michael shifted towards and wrapped his fingers around your ankles like shackles.

“Shhh,” he cooed and leaned forward to give your nipples small kitten lips. He looked at you through his curly fringe, catching your gaze, and swirled his pink tongue around your hardening buds. “Be a good little slut, sugar.”

“This is too much,” you sobbed, throwing your head back on Tom’s shoulder. His hair was tickling your ear every time he shifted, trying to find the right position, and you could feel his chest rising and falling with every rapid breath.

“You can complain all you want,” Michael arched his brows. “Look at yourself,” his slender fingers traced from your chin down to your sharp collarbones, tense stomach and lower, to your pussy. “He has penetrated you with just a tip of his cock, and you are already wet.” And just to demonstrate the shameful truth he collected the wetness of your slit and showed it to you.

“I’m not even surprised, Michael...oh, fuck,” Tom moaned as he continued sinking into your asshole. “Whores like her would sell their souls to the Devil for a chance to be split on a good, fat cock. And you, sweetheart,” he emphasized the pet name with a thrust of his hips, bouncing you on his length, “have the privilege to take two at once, so if I were you, I would be more appreciative.”

When he bottomed all the way down, Riddle stopped to brush his wet hair off his forehead and take a breath. He started off slowly, rolling his hips in lazy circles. Michael’s fingers were nothing in comparison with the feeling of a real cock in your asshole. The dull pain started to fade away, and the first moan of pleasure escaped your throat, when Tom bucked his hips up, going a bit deeper.

Langdon could not take his eyes off of you two. You were a panting mess in the arm of his friend who was doing his best not to let go of all his self-control and fuck the living shit out of you. Michael knew Tom was going to snap soon. He licked his lips and helped you bring your knees up towards your chest and rest your feet on the tops of Tom’s knees for extra support. This position allowed the Slytherin Heir to enter you at a particularly sharp angle and brush the tip of his cock against all the sensitive spots inside you. His hand reached down to his cock, and he pulled it out but just to thrust his shaft right back in.

“C’mon, dude, stuff the bitch up,” he growled, his hand cupping your breast and squeezing it hard.

Riddle did not have to repeat twice. Michael aligned himself with your entrance and filled you up in one swift motion. Your eyes rolled back into your head, and the scream that tore up your chest was so loud that even Basilisks shifted in his spot. Tom and Michael moaned in unison, thriving off your whimpers and pleas. Their hands roamed over your body, playing with oversensitive nipples, pulling your hair, griping on your sides and trembling thighs. They were everywhere. The air was thick and smelled like sex, suffocating you. Your head was spinning.

Your mouth fell agape when you looked down and started watching Michael’s cock thrusting in and out of your throbbing core, feeling you to the brim. Your muscles were sore, and if it had not been for him and Tom holding you firmly, you would have already collapsed. When it was clear that you were no longer hurting and moans of pleasure rang through the room, bouncing off the stone walls, they started fucking you like two animals, devouring your insides. You felt dirty: the sloppy sound that was filling the Chamber was the result of Michael’s cum, your arousal and so much saliva that it was drooling down your thighs on the mattress. Red, white and back dots danced before your eyes, as you orgasmed around two pulsing cocks with a cry. It hit you so unexpectedly that for a second you stopped breathing and wrapped your arms around Michael’s neck with such strength he had to hiss at you in a warning.

“No, no, no more,” you begged as he covered your clit with his hand and started rubbing on it harshly.

“Keep milking my cock, slut,” Langdon pulled away, unlocking your embrace, and laced his hand around your neck. He kept slamming inside you at animalistic speed, and Tom was trying to match the pace. You were clenching around Riddle so violently that he was on the verge of losing his mind. He ground your hips against him, making you take him and Michael as deep as possible. The more they pushed your legs towards your chest, the shallower the penetration was. Their long, hard dicks hit all the perfect sports at once, and if you had not already been so oversensitive, you would have found it enjoyable, but since three groundbreaking orgasms had pierced through you, you were a goner.

They did not listen to you at all. Competing who would bring you to your fourth orgasm of the night, Tom and Michael went all the way in. Langdon towered over you, his nostrils flared with each thrust of his hips, blue eyes stared right through you. Every moan they elicited from you stroke their egos and urged them to go deeper. Harder.

The sensation of two cocks moving inside you, stuffing you to the hilt was indescribable. When Tom pulled out and spread your ass cheeks to demonstrate Michael his stretched out you were, you nearly blacked out.

“You were fucking born for this,” Riddle praised you, venom dripping through every word.

You knew they were getting close by the way their movements became more hectic, uneven, they started to slow down and switched to deliciously long, hard thrusts. You gritted your teeth and with a deep sigh gathered the remains of all your strength. You were going to hold on and let them finish.

Michael pelvis rubbed against your clit as he kept pounding you, and although you thought it was impossible for you to cum one more time, the build-up pressure was about to unwind.

Three. Two. One. And that was it. The pressure of their cocks inside your ass and pussy became unbearable and you exploded into million pieces, quivering around them so hard that Tom and Michael followed you right after. Hot loads of cum were shot inside you, filling you up and spilling out, running down your thighs. You saw Michael’s face contorted in bliss, and the thought of how painfully beautiful he looked at that moment made you shiver and bite the inside of your cheek in order to suppress another moan.

“Don’t pull out,” he told Tom while looking down at your core. They stayed inside you for about a minute, which seemed like an eternity for you, ignoring your whines. Michael watched the mix of their cum dripping out of your folds in awe.

They pulled out carefully, trying their best to keep the liquid inside you. The sudden feeling of emptiness was extremely uncomfortable.

“Close your legs,” Riddle whispered, and you obeyed, clenching your thighs to make sure that every drop of cum was secured. He rolled you off himself, and you tiredly sprawled out on the mattress with your hands between your legs, sighing under your breath at how wet and sticky you were.

Your throat was burning from your cries, an extremely rough blowjob, and dehydration in general. As soon as your cheek touched the soft material, you closed your eyes and wished upon solitude and peace. At that moment you did not even care if they killed you. Being too fucked out, your brain was unable to function, and your sore body refused to feel anything but numbness. You heard them saying something, but you were not sure if they were addressing you. Everything was spinning. The dark colors of the Chamber swirled around you, turning into one dark spot, which enveloped you like an abyss, shutting off your ability to see or hear anything. It was only you and darkness that you were thankful for, because it wrapped you in its arms and kissed your temples, dragging you deeper into oblivion. Away from Michael and Tom.

xxx

“Y/N, wake up! Wake up, you are gonna be late for Transfiguration!”

“Is she dead?”

“Shut up, Pansy, of course, she is not. Wake up, sleeping beauty!”

You slowly opened your eyes meeting the worried stares of your roommates. The girls stood around you in a small circle, the look on their faces showed their surprise that you, a Slytherin prefect, had overslept for the first time in ages.

“I-...” you licked your dried lips and cleared your throat, wincing at the burning pain in your throat.

“Are you alright? Do we need to take you to Madam Pomfrey?”

You shook your head at pulled the blanket up higher to cover yourself up. The memories of the previous night flashed before your eyes, and your hands flew up to your cheeks, searching for the traces of cum. The skin was smooth as silk.

“Yes, thank you, I am fine… I just overslept” your voice sounded low and raspy, but you managed to give the girls a weak smile, and soon enough they left you alone, so you could get dressed.

It took you a couple of minutes to calm down your mad heartbeat and lift the covers up to look down at your body. The ache between your legs and the overall feeling of exhaustion indicated that the view was not going to be pretty.

“Oh my God,” you gasped at the sight of your stomach that was blooming with purple irises of hickeys and bruises. They were all over your breasts — and you were sure the neck too — abdomen, and thighs. You spread your legs carefully and touched your core with your fingers, moaning at how puffy and sore your folds were. You pressed your head into the pillow and let out a muffled groan. It was not a dream after all. The presence of their cocks inside you was as tangible as ever.

Your legs felt like jello when you slowly put them on the wooden floor. Closing your eyes tiredly, you shook your head, letting it fall down in your palms. What were you supposed to do? Tell Dumbledore? Tom and Michael were two psychopaths, and whatever the plan they had, it was not going to turn out good for any of you. The first thing that seemed right to do was to take a shower and wash the ghost of their touches off your body.

The water was soothing, sliding down your sides, and with a deep sigh, you sank to your knees on a tile floor. You could not tell anybody because in that case, you would also have to confess what a filthy whore you had been when you had cum on both cocks.

After a long hot shower, you wrapped your body in a soft, fluffy blanket and made your way to the empty dorm. You needed to get rid of the diary, just throw it away into the depth of the Room of Requirement, and forget the entire experience like a bad dream. “Well, not so bad,” your heart skipped a beat at the thought, and you groaned at your own ignorance.

xxx

“Out of sight, out of mind,” you murmured, standing in the Room of Requirement with the diary in your hand. The cover was warm, and when you smoothed it with your fingers, for a second it seemed like the notebook was pulsing, as if it was a living creature.

You closed your eyes and turned around, so your back would face the numerous piles of the things students had left in the room throughout the years. Your unclenched your fingers and threw the diary as far as you could behind yourself. It landed somewhere with a thud.

“That’s it,” you stormed your way out of the Room, and headed to your next class, trying not to limp and considering if Obliviate would be the best charm to perform in order to forget that night.

But did you really want to erase Riddle and Langdon from your mind? The blond and the brunette. They were like coffee and milk, enigmatic, and incredibly dangerous. You definitely needed some time to recover before you could think straight again. For the rest of the day, you were completely zoned out.

xxx

“Excuse me,” a high-pitched tone interrupted your conversation with Winona Flint who was a sister of Marcus, a Slytherin seeker. You turned your head at the intruder to see a second-year boy who was holding a package in his hands.

“Hey, what’s up?” You wondered, and raised your finger up, asking your friend to pause the story she was telling you.

“I was told to give this to you,” he handed you the package, and you took it from his hands with a frown.

It did not have any address on it, just a plain wrapping paper; the gift was anonymous. You quickly tore up the packaging and almost dropped it on the floor when your fingers brushed against the familiar hardcover.

“Who sent you to me?” your voice cracked.

“Y/N? Are you alright?” Winona asked, having noticed your reaction. She curiously looked over your shoulder to examine the gift. “What’s that?”

“Tom Riddle and Michael Langdon,” the boy answered. “They said it was yours.”

You were in for one hell of a ride.

*Let me see (Latin)

**J.K. Rowling Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets

Taglist: @divinelangdon @ms-mead @kaigitana @sebastianshoe @omgsuperstarg @langdonsdemon @iloveziggystardust @chaoticevillangdon @sojournmichael @sammythankyou @sloppy-little-witch-bitch26 @babypinkstyles94 @theghostoflangdon @americanhorrorstudies @bbyduncan @ticklish-leafy-plant @1-800-bitchcraft @wroteclassicaly @starwlkers @nightsblackroses @micheallangdons @langdvnshepherd @ccodyferns @ritualmichael @isoldedax @coloursunlimited

#michael langdon smut #michael langdon fanfic #michael langdon x reader #duncan shepherd smut #ahs apocalypse #michael langdon #slytherin!michael #duncan sepherd x reader

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redriotess · 5 years

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Don't fall for the "Free hearts and tickets!!" Scam

This is a long post. It is meant to help you understand why hacking tools and heart/ticket generators do not work. To get the TL;DR version, scroll down to the paperclip.

We've used our last bit of money to pay the electric bill and now there's nothing left over to buy a small pack of hearts. But our favorite route just came out and come hell or high water, we WILL be playing that route with heart options to read about sexy times.

We decide to do some online searching because the Lovestruck app is a piece of software and software can be hacked!!

Next thing we know, we come upon a promise of endless tickets and hearts!!

All we have to do is use this online tool!

No downloading necessary! We can have as many as 999,999,999 hearts in under 5 minutes!

We test out this tool and realize that for some reason it doesn't work. Huh. Weird. Ok. Forget it. There is a whole row to try! The next one just says fill out a survey and we'll instantly have 10,000 hearts added to our account!

Happily, we answer our 2 question survey, fill out our email, phone number, and mailing address?

Hm, ok. Whatever.

We get a pop-up that says: "You are super close to your reward, just answer this one last question!" What's one more question?

Click.

We're asked to enter our email one more time, you know, for verification purposes. Another pop-up appears asking us to select two free prizes!!

Awesome! We get free hearts and two free prizes! We select our prizes. Where should they ship our brand spanking new frying pan and magazine subscription that we never knew we needed? We enter our mailing address, phone number, email...

Another pop-up. "CONGRATULATIONS! Enter this sweepstake to win an all-inclusive vacation to Hawaii for two!!! Just enter your email and phone number!"

Forty-five minutes later we close out all the pop-ups and try to get back to our original window. WTF?? Where did it go? Where are our 10,000 hearts?? Nowhere of course. "But thanks for your information!"

Meh. Let's try this other link.

Oh, snap! This one comes with a YouTube video SHOWING us that it works!! We watch the video, we SEE it with our very own eyes. The guy on the video obtains 100,000 hearts and 50,000 tickets!!

This is it! This is the winning lottery ticket!

We click the link under the video, which redirects us to the "tool". We follow the steps to a T. Why isn't it working? We did EXACTLY what the guy did in the video.

Let's contact the guy! He can help us. We email him, explaining exactly what we did. He gets back to us right away and tries to troubleshoot with us. After a couple of back and forth emails, he tells us: "It must just be your phone. Sorry, I can't help you."

We decide to give up. We resign ourselves to reading our favorite route without sexy time. Life sucks.

...

Two weeks later we come home to a mailbox overflowing with sweepstakes, advertisements and letters from strange companies.

Ignoring the pile of junk, we decide to check our email. 1,478 new messages including an urgent message informing us that due to recent political conflict in central Africa, the secret Rwandan treasure with a monetary value of 100,000,000 US DOLLARS must be immediately transferred to a bank in the United States of America. WE have been found to be the only surviving heir of King Kigeli V Ndahindurwa. Prince Emmanuel Bushayija has been found to be unfit and therefore we must reply to this email immediately providing our name, mailing address, phone number, bank name, account information and last four of our social so that the money can be transferred quickly and safely. We must also provide a small fee of $6,000 to aid in the transfer. But what's $6,000 when we are going to receive $100,000,000.

The next email states that we are wanted by the IRS for tax fraud and must send a payment IMMEDIATELY or go to federal prison. We can send the payment of $10,000 via Western Union to a location in the Ukraine where the IRS has recently relocated.

...

Given this incredibly long post, you should realize by now how these heart generating tools work. They don't. They are there to gather your information or send you on an infinite loop of surveys.

📎 So why aren't there hacking tools? Well, for one thing, they are unethical and take away from the paychecks of the artists, writers, production team, programmers, etc for the game we all love. Outside of that, the biggest reason these tools don't work is that the game is server side. Have you tried playing Lovestruck in airplane mode or without internet connection before? It doesn't work, right?

Your account is part of a database that rests within the Voltage server. When you purchase a pack of hearts, they are added to your account on the SERVER side. The hearts are not stored on your phone memory or locally in the Lovestruck app.

This is also the reason why you can't just add a bunch of hearts in. You'd have to hack your way into the Voltage server, find your account and manually enter the amount of hearts and tickets that you desire. To hack into a server is not an easy task. If you did manage to succeed, Voltage would be able to see any changes that were made on the server and roll these changes back. In other words, you'd just lose all the hearts that you dishonestly gained. Server breaches are flagged almost immediately and have shutdown safeguards in place.

Hoping to breach a server, find your account, add hearts and then read an entire route is close to impossible. You also risk losing your entire account by being banned.

To sum things up, stay away from these hacking tools and empty promises of unlimited hearts and tickets. The only legitimate way to acquire hearts is by buying them, participating in the weekend challenges and winning them through the daily puzzle system.

And if you think about it, why would you want to cheat the system? By buying hearts, you are supporting the fantastic team that is creating these amazing stories FOR YOU. Remember, they have electric bills, mortgages and groceries to pay for too.

I know this was a long read.

I hope that those who have read this entire article have learned a little something.

If nothing else, take-home points:

1. if it's too good to be true, then it probably is.

2. don't support cheating, support the hard work of the Lovestruck team.

I wonder whatever happened to that frying pan...

#lovestruck #voltage usa #supportartists #supportwriters #don't get scammed #havenfall is for lovers #love and legends #starship promise #gangster's in love #castaway #villanious nights #sweet enchantments #astoria fate's kisses #astoria lost kisses

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its-btrz-blog · 7 years

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Throne of Glass (by Sarah J. Maas) Series Review

Throne of Glass is an on-going fantasy YA series, with currently 7 books (Throne of Glass, Crown of Midnight, Heir of Fire, Queen of Shadows, Empire of Storms, Tower of Dawn, Book #7) on the main series (5 have already been published, there's one being published this year and another next year), published by Bloomsbury since 2012. The author, Sarah J. Maas, has another on-going series on the same genre, A Court of Thorns and Roses.

What made me want to read it:

Since, well, fantasy is my favorite genre, Goodreads has been recommending me this since I created an account (almost 4 years now). It has a really, and I mean really, high rating on every book, lots of 5-star reviews and it seemed like I was missing out on such an AMAZING series. Its books have been nominated for the Goodreads Choice Awards since 2012. Also, the premise is really just that: amazing.

What is it about (no spoilers):

Celaena Sardothien (she'll be C. from now on, I can't write this name) is, at 18, the best assassin in her land. However, she has been captured and spent the last year of her life as a slave in the salt mines. Now, to win her freedom, she has to win a competition to become the King's Champion. For that, she is supported by the Crown Prince and trained by the captain of the guard. As the competition begins, the other candidates start dying, and it seems like C. will end up as another victim if she can't figure out who is killing them.

What I thought about it (spoilers after marked as such):

I'm going to start with the most important thing. The whole premise of this is that C.'s like the greatest assassin ever (she says it multiple times in every book, everyone else keeps saying it, also multiple times, it's really shoved down your throat). Great. Except, that's the biggest lie ever told. The whole premise of this character is false, as soon as you start reading. She doesn't act like an assassin. She's not smart, she's not strong, all we have to rely on is what she keeps telling us (which is, that she is the best). And it doesn't get better as the series progresses. She's described as knowing how to use all these weapons, she goes out full of hidden weapons on herself and super cool armor but then… that's about it? We barely see her acting as an assassin. Also, for someone who kills people for a living, she sure objects to it a lot. And it's not a great moral objection. She just wants to kill people she doesn't like (rich and powerful and evil people, really).

Then, of course, she's also the most beautiful woman ever (and best at everything else she does), and EVERYONE keeps remarking on that. I lost count of how many times we are told about her golden hair, her weird colored eyes, her slim body full of womanly curves with her perfect breasts that hang beneath her tunic. Of course, every time she changes clothes, we also get at least a paragraph describing color, cut, fabric, accessories and hair style. We spend more time hearing about her, how amazing she is, how pretty she is, how pretty her clothes are, that actually seeing her do something. Also, every other time she eats, we need a full description of how hungry she is and of what she's eating.

To make matters better, she's not even likable. She loves books, she loves reading, she loves candy. OK. She also loves boasting and making (empty) threats. And throwing temper tantrums. And thinking about how handsome her love interests are. She is a huge hypocrite, too. (Oh, how awful these wealthy people are living in luxury while people are being made slaves! Oh, let me buy the finest clothes I can and then burn them in rage.) That's a consistent trait she has throughout the whole series. And vain. (I’ve been imprisoned one year but my boobs aren’t big anymore! It’s not like I’m out of shape for this tournament thing or anything) Great personality there.

As for the story. It's fairly generic, I think. It doesn't get better than that. There's only a small percentage of each book actually dedicated to some sort of plot. The rest is padding. I'm serious, the books are huge, but if we're talking about the substance in each one, you could probably stuff it in half the books with half the length. At some point (after the second book I think), the direction of the series changes completely. Of course, the world building is mostly made up along the way. I never got a sense of what kind of world they were in to start with. The mythology and magic stuff is just kind of there, but never expanded upon. When it's necessary, something really convenient and never mentioned thing was already there all along. There's some gods, some named whenever it comes up, I don't know what the belief system is, there's some Christmas holiday that isn't really explained, I don't know how they worship, (aside from a vague ceremony in which she’s half asleep) there's some ancient runes, and there was magic once and magic creatures but they aren't talked about until halfway through the first book, and even then, it's like the bare minimum. So, confusing. Also, I was never really sure where they stand in terms of technological and scientific development. There's a coexistence of really medieval things with more advanced stuff and it's not addressed and I don't know what is supposed to be available.

The construction of the society is also somewhere along these lines. There's a king, he's evil, he's a conqueror, he rules all. Great. And there's a foreign princess from a country that has a name and that's barely it. There was a map, but I felt it was useless, mostly.

As for narration, these random in-chapter point of view changes are so annoying. They hinder the reading, they make me get lost. Either stick to one character per chapter, or mark the changes properly. And the writing… What is this? It's so flowery, it tries so hard! Every other sentence is written like there's some deep meaning in everything. So many trying-to-be-badass quotes. It's so tiresome, I can't even keep track of what's happening. Of course, to remedy that, the narration keeps telling me very important stuff, like how awesome C. is.

Lastly, there's the love triangle. You can spot it instantly. Two very handsome teenagers are presented. Wow. What could this mean? Also, a person cannot possibly be in love, if they don't mention at least twice per chapter how beautiful and amazing their love interest is, and how much they are attracted to them. It gets old. It doesn't make a well developed romance. Both Chaol and Dorian (captain of the guard and prince, respectively, and the first two love intererests) are also very incompetent at their posts. Maybe because they spend so much time thinking about C.? This sort of applies to other characters too, since everyone who doesn't think C. is the greatest person to walk the earth is shown as a bad person.

[SPOILERS AFTERWARDS]

About plot. There's this huge feat of writing that features in these books. It's called: you're in the protagonist's head half of the time but she has this huge secret/secret plan that she somehow never talks about until it is revealed for the other characters! Seriously? Lost princess fae never thinks about it? Ever? Those secret allies you have about whom you've never talked about that will save the day?

You know, part of the enjoyment of reading is seeing the characters planning and doing the small things and seeing how it plays out in the end. None of this here.

Then we have the huge shift that happens between books 2 and 3. We were following the story of a supposed assassin who wants to overthrow the evil king and suddenly we are following the story of a lost Fae princess (even though we are told almost nothing about Fae before this) who wants to take her kingdom back and improve other kingdoms by conquering them and killing the evil entities and her evil relative. And those two protagonists are the same person, but are written as if they were two separate persons. They're not. She's still selfish and a hypocrite. (She's also given a new magical love interest to match her new persona. Of course.)

Continuing with C./A./her 100 out-of-nowhere titles, apparently being born a princess and being raised as a spoiled “assassin” gives her all the qualification she needs to rule a kingdom she has never cared for. And of course, to start colonizing other countries once she's queen. You know, the same thing the EVIL VILLAIN does? And anyone who questions her right to rule is immediately painted in a bad light, and threatened by good queen A. and her “court”. Great way to show the rise of a dictator.

[END OF SPOILERS]

The supporting characters, of course, all adore C./A and see no faults in her. Conveniently, they are all being paired up with each other, so we'll have a nice group of couples by the end. We don't see these romances develop, they just happen. As with the main romance, only with less endless paragraphs of love and lust declarations.

I'm really not liking the direction these books are going.

Conclusion:

I have rated every book in this series with 1-star. This has been my greatest disappointment lately, since I've been exposed to its good publicity for years. So, no, I don't recommend it. In fact, even though opinions are always subjective, these books get a lot of compliments and attention I feel they don't really deserve. I didn't get what I was promised. I've only kept reading because I'm incapable of leaving series unfinished.

[My individual reviews for each book are here, here, here, here, and here.]

The short stories:

They exist to, you know, reassure us of how amazing C. is, like we need it. And to show is this “epic” romance between C. and her previous boyfriend that she keeps mentioning was the love of her life until the REAL one appears. Oh, and some character is introduced, that then appears out of nowhere in a later book to simply save the day. I don't think they had anything important to add, really.

#throne of glass #sarah j maas #breviews #series reviews #reviews

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6dogs9cats · 6 years

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It depends on what you mean by “better off” and what matters to you.

If you are Vladimir Putin, you are delighted with Trump (in fact, you helped elect him). Your objective was to make people doubt democracy by driving division within our country. Your goal is swiftly being attained.

If you are one of the top 0.1% earners in this country or you have assets you want to hand over to your heirs of $22 million, you are thrilled with the new tax cut.

If you are a bank or a payday lender or a business that takes advantage of those who don’t have much or need a hand, you are thrilled that he is decimating the Consumer Financial Protection Bureau.

If you own a lot of stock, you will be seeing the benefit of the corporate tax cuts. CEO’s are planning to buy back shares and increase dividends (not create jobs) with their windfall, so you will be happy.

If you believe that three line phrases are good substitutes for policy(“Build a wall,” or “lock her up” or “drain the swamp”) you are satisfied.

So the bottom line is if you are a rich white man who looks a lot like Trump, cares little for the collective good and are not bothered by hate speech bullying and long term responsible policy, you are probably better off with Trump.

But is America better off? Consider this as you contemplate this question:

If you care about the planet, the United States is no longer part of the Paris Climate Agreement. However, thanks to the leadership of many cities, states and companies, many will voluntarily do what’s right for the greater good despite this decision which was made by the President with no basis in science, evidence, or push back from businesses worried about the economic impact.

If you voted for Trump because you thought he was a good businessman, you are in for a nasty surprise. The Republican tax package may give you a little more money in your paycheck in February, but it also adds $1.5 trillion to the deficit which means our children will have an even bigger debt burden and for many of us, Social Security and Medicare are in jeopardy. Trump claims to be making the economy better but he has only been president for three of them, and the economy has been improving since 2008.

If you are an employee at Carrier who thought Trump was going to save your job, you’re probably disappointed. He was so quick to announce his “great”: deal (which came at a high cost to Indiana because of the tax incentives thy had to give the company) yet it has failed to manifest itself in jobs for Hoosiers.

If you are a coal miner, you might be better off in the short term since some of the mines are open again. But if you get black lung or need health insurance or believe you are being treated unfairly or wanted to find hope and a future in a different industry, you are probably not better off.

If you are A Mexican who thinks you will be respected in this country and by this country (which you are by most of us, by the way) and you heard the President call your culture names and disrespect a judge just because of his Mexican heritage you’re probably more than disappointed.

If you are a Gold Star family who paid the ultimate price and made such a sacrifice for this country, my guess is you probably think you didn’t lose your son or daughter to support values that the President demonstrates (he seems to care only about himself, his family, and how many things he can sign whether he understands them or not).

If you are one of over a billion Muslims in the world who saw America as a shining light of hope and opportunity, when the President said through his travel ban you are not welcome here, you are probably not so happy, and you may be really angry. And add to that the negativity he is casting upon Muslims by connecting a faith with causes which hijacks the faith for evil.

If you are a Christian and you see Trump endorse a child molester like Roy Moore and you see Mike Pence enable the President, deny his wrong-doing (bragging about sexual assault, turning a blind eye to the poor and needy, etc) and claim that God “loves this President” you are rightly disgusted at his hijacking of your religion and you are probably not better off.

If you are a Palestinian, who believes the President made a decision about the US Embassy moving to Jerusalem for no strategic reason and more for ego and appearance, you are probably not better off.

If you are Republican who believes in moderation, decency, character and integrity, and you see how Trump is now the clear leader of your party, you are not better off.

If you are a woman the list of ways you are not better off is endless: the assault by this President on reproductive rights, access to care, support for domestic violence programs, the personal attacks (on the likes of women leaders like Elizabeth Warren, Hillary Clinton, Mika Brzezinski, Kirsten Gillibrand and so many others) and the proud way he bragged about his own sexual assault behaviors on the Access Hollywood tape mean you are far less better off.

If you are part of the LGBTQ community, your rights have been questioned, your job choices have been limited (transgender in the military) and you have been disrespected in more ways than I can count through the choices of people Trump puts in leadership positions (asking Jeff Sessions Attorney General and choosing Mike Pence as the VP candidate are both incredibly insulting to the LGBTQ community). So you are not better off.

If you are a member of the press, you have been subjected to personal criticism, ignored, your search for answers and the truth have been insulted and you are continually disrespected and lied to by the White House Press Secretary, you are not better off.

If you are a member of the intelligence community, the President has insulted you, your agencies and your job performance. You are not better off.

If you needed health insurance and got it through the Affordable Care Act, as you watch the Republicans under Trump destroy the ACA piece by piece you are not better off. And if you already had health insurance and are looking at the next couple years of your budget, you know you will see significantly larger cost increases, so you’re not better off either.

If you are a racial minority in America, this is a President who denied the existence of the KKK and believed there were “both sides” in Charlottesville. He has failed to speak up or speak out for civil rights and he is working to suppress voting rights through by appointed Kris Kobach. He insults people if they are minorities (Myeshia Johnson, Congresswoman Frederica Wilson, Ken Frazier from Merck, Khizr Khan, Gonzalo Curiel, and on and on) and he is now returning to his birtherism conspiracy. You are definitely not better off.

If you are an ally of America, a member of NATO or a country who has partnerships with the United States, the inconsistency and the double talk has got to be confusing. No, you are not better off.

If you are a parent, the damage Trump and his followers are doing to this country, in terms of leading by racism, misogyny, xenophobia and general ignorance and arrogance about policy are a danger the future generations. Hate crimes have increased. Unthinkable disrespect and bullying come directly from the President on twitter on a regular basis. Hate speech is not just allowed but used as a technique to win. Blaming someone for all the problems we face (usually a minority or a different religion) has become common place. No, we are not better off, nor are our children.

As an American who believes in less government, free markets, choice, reproductive rights, equal protection under the law, public education, lending a hand to a person who needs it, a strong military, common sense gun control, tax reform, infrastructure investment, freedom of religion, freedom of speech and freedom of the press, I believe the country would not only be far better off in the long with Hillary Clinton but it would also be far better off under one of the many good and decent Republicans who ran against Trump (like John Kasich or Jeb Bush).

So while rich people enjoy short term benefits from tax cuts and a strong stock market, I think these gains are very short-sighted. In the coming years, the middle class will see taxes go up, 13 million people are estimated to lose health insurance, and healthcare costs will spike for all. Immigrant families will continue to be ripped apart. The Republican party has been gutted of values and character, Voting rights are being stripped away and America is an increasingly isolated laughing stock on the world stage.

Trump’s failures of character and integrity and judgment are not because he is a Republican. Ignorance and arrogance, intellectual laziness, racism and sexism, bullying and immaturity and selfishness and taking advantage or other people are not partisan. And in this combination, they are uniquely Trump: he is the most dangerous person to ever inhabit the Oval Office. Which means yes, America - and the world - would be far better off if he were not the President.

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kraaks-avant-guardian · 7 years

Text

Henry Andersen

Henry Andersen is a Brussels-based visual artist and composer. Trained as a minimal and reductionist composer under the wings of Peter Ablinger, he moved from music into visual art, writing and sound performances.

His debut vinyl is a recording of the piece ‘Stanzas’ or ‘the Law of the Good Neighbour' (K095). On each side, a pair of his friends reads simultaneously from a list of words. The list is an unfinished result of a word game Andersen has been playing for several years. Stanzas… seems to be a precise text-sound composition, a liquid and elegant piece of concrete poetry that reveals the individual qualities of the voices and their interpersonal relation.

— Niels Latomme

But what sounds like a hardcore conceptual and idealist composition has a lot more to it. As an heir to a playful and prosaic Cagean and Ashleyan tradition, the list of words is a score that acts as a field for an infinite amount of possibilities.

Andersen documents some of these many possible outcomes, expressing an urge to be a human body in space, interrelated with others. The composer reveals on the record another face of conceptualism: as a material, personal and truly moving beauty.

NL: Henry, what I like about the record, is that it seems to fit in into a whole body of work?

HA: Thanks. I like this about visual art. I’m coming from a composition background where you write something for an ensemble and performers. You’re dealing with that as a dispositif. So each time the piece starts with a request to write for a certain set of instruments. As a composer, I had the impression that every time I had to start from scratch. It felt like every project was dislocated. I wanted to reuse material more often and to develop ways of working that would enable me to build on stuff that I’d done before.

&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;a href="http://kraak.bandcamp.com/album/stanzas-or-the-law-of-the-good-neighbour"&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;#39;Stanzas&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;#39; or &amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;#39;The Law of the Good Neighbour&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;#39; by Henry Andersen&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;lt;/a&amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;amp;gt;

This list of words is maybe the first attempt at this. Collecting this index of words is an activity that I have been working on for a couple of years now. I try to do it without thinking about a particular outcome. When there is a chance to present the work, I adjust it to the circumstances. It has been a record, an exhibition, a performance, a publication… Its public face changes every time.

I like to think of the list as a kind of liquid that chances its shape to fit the container.

NL: The list functions as a score that conducts action. How do you write the list? Why these words?

HA: Each word should sound like the word that came before it. Other than this very simple rule, the choice of words is pretty freely associative. Its the words I know and that I like. It’s way to think about my relationship to language, how it changes. The most obvious changes are of course the foreign words, according to the place I live. When I was living in Berlin for instance, there are more German words. When I moved to Brussels, I started to learn French, and so French words start to appear in the list. There is also a section in which the word ‘Molenbeek’ appears several times. I was writing this just after the Brussels attacks and this word was very much ‘in the air’. Aesthetically too, it’s a really beautiful word for a non-dutch speaker.

NL: How so?

HA: I don’t know. It has at the beginning these soft ‘m’ and ‘l’’, but at the end it has the hard ‘k’. It’s an interesting formation of sounds. I wouldn’t have thought about it necessarily except that it was so much in the news and in conversations with friends. I think the list is a way of tracking how I’m dealing with language, and also a way of tracking the contexts I’m circulating in. That is the private activity of it. I organise private or public readings together with friends, so in that way these readings become another way of archiving, of tracking the people I’m spending time with. I moved cities in the meantime, so I had to start my social circle more or less from scratch.

Even if these elements don’t necessarily translate to the listener, I still think they are an important part of the piece – at least for myself.

NL: How does it relate to other works, like the room dividers?

HA: That installation is modelled on room dividers developed by the architect Eileen Gray. She uses room dividers a lot in her designs as a way of playing with the ambiguity of public and private space. I was interested in them on a theoretical level, but also how these objects become bodies in space. You have the idea of shiftable architecture, but also of someone standing in the room. I am making bootleg copies of her designs, rendering them with MDF and acoustic foam, so that they become sound baffles. They are objects that I can apply to different contexts, always in a kind of ‘dialogue’ with some kind of sound material. It’s about the idea of playing and changing a space at will. It has not direct link to the list necessarily, but that would be one possible material I could pair them with.

NL: The parallel is that in both works you aim for a versatile approach with different outcomes?

HA: Yes. It’s about a performative architecture, rather than about entering a space and accepting it as being given.

NL: You could be described as a conceptual artist, although you have a very material and tactile way of working. For instance you choose to work with friends, instead of working with professional performers. It speaks of a heightened awareness for the individual qualities of bodies and how they produce specific sounds.

HA: Conceptualism has to do for me with understanding how structures work in terms of form and meaning. To generalise, the first generation of conceptualism was maybe about uncovering these structures and using them as forms in themselves. It was about communicating on the level of structural meaning rather than at the level of a material meaning. Today these techniques have been developed, and I think it’s now fair game to use them ‘impurely’, as a way to deal with material or with bodies for instance.

I think these artists in the 1960s were working very much with a metaphor of language. Now I think its maybe time that the metaphor shifts and it becomes again interesting to look at material and bodies in terms of these conceptual structures.

NL: Why is that?

HA: In that traditional sense, language was a seen as antithetical to the body. It was seen as something that happens in the realm of thoughts, the structures, the ideas and the mind; not in the body.

I think it’s interesting to see language as a something that intersects and interrupts the body.

So for example with Stanzas…, the only material is language, but its my impression of performing or hearing the piece that I pretty quickly lose the possibility to focus on the words themselves. The language ends up being more like an interface to think about the voice of the readers and the relationship they have to one another. Its a way of inserting myself into this interaction.

NL: But in a historically sense, why you feel the need to focus on the body and materiality?

HA: I feel like the body is a big part of contemporary discourse today, in part because of stuff like feminist and post-colonial theory. There is a question here, against the universalism of conceptual art or structuralism, of thinking about the differences between individual bodies. Or that’s at least one reading.

For myself, I don’t know. It’s an urge to be a body, to interact in a kind of essential way with my surroundings. A lot of my work is about giving language a body. I think that’s why I’m dealing with handwriting, with accent or voice. The question always is to think about how language enters space, and how it interacts with bodies.

NL: Johns Lunds told me that “he wants that you can hear the exhaustion and the spit of the playing”. He uses a more ‘pure’ or physical and bodily approach to extend the instrument. Which seems to be a paradox, as disembodiment through technology is a more obvious way to extend music. It’s something you see with a lot of artists, using a more pure, limited approach in order to overrule the limits of music, instead of using the endless possibilities technology proposes. Why this need to limit yourself, like your need to give language a body?

HA: Well, I think everything is technology. The urge give language a body is not about returning to a more pure state; it’s way of locating yourself. Even when your using technology, surfing the internet or something, you still are still a body, and this awareness of materiality and the body, is a way of find and place yourself in this context. A body is always specific. This body is Henry’s body, and that’s is Niels’ etc.

For me to work with different friends to do the readings, I select people quite carefully, based on a certain character or a certain voice. I’m not interested in them being interchangeable bodies. Every different pair will produce a different result, there’s always a fair amount of chance. Which is interesting, because it creates moments that I could not have designed, or written down on a score.

NL: When did you start the list?

HA: A couple of years ago, in the summer of 2015, when I was living in Germany. I continue the list intermittently, there’s no strict rhythm to when I work on it. I’m not so disciplined to be able to write every day, for example. It started out as fun game for myself one night, with some rules about how to get from one word to another. I first showed it publicly with the ensemble Arcades, in Berlin. Back then, it was part of a series I was writing where all the pieces were called ‘Stanzas’. Each piece was made of two opposite materials that would play simultaneously, without attention to the other. Within the series, it was also possible to mix and match materials from other pieces. It was a bit of a response to the way I saw the people around me dealing with counterpoint. Everyone in the scene was writing these pieces about sounds interacting to create beat frequencies or something, where each voice exists only to interact with the other. It all felt a bit co-dependant somehow. I wanted to think about two voices that would be independent enough to function alone, but when you brought them together something unpredictable would happen. Like how objects relate to one another in a room. The list was first just one part of that series but it was the strongest part so it kept coming back. I still pair it with other material sometimes, like with the white noise when I performed in Brussels a Huis 23.

NL: How come you moved from music to a more wider approach, to performance, visual arts and writing?

HA: I started playing music in bands as a teenager and I was always the guy wanting to add strings, trumpets and so on to the tracks. That’s why I began to study composition. In Berlin, I studied with Peter Ablinger, who works with very minimal, reduced materials. He applies a lot of metaphors from conceptual art. At the same time I fell into a circle of friends who were visual artists, and I became interested in what they were doing. I didn’t have money or access to a piano, so I wasn’t able to write in the way I was used to, by using a piano to find sounds that would go together. So I developed ways to generate material conceptually. Language has a sort of economy to it. It’s a cheap tool.

NL: Talking about economy and art, do you think your music is political?

HA: Maybe. I think there is an important difference between art that is political in terms of its content and work that is political in terms of its production or its forms or whatever. I think choosing to make art is already political in a way.

In terms of the list piece, there is no deliberate politics in the choice of words, but I think of the way it is produced as practicing a kind of politics – to work with friends and to treat this as important and generating its own sense of value. Its another economics. Thats for me the politics of this piece, spending time with people around me. The sound itself is just an off-shoot of the interaction between people.

NL: The result is documenting human activity, functioning as a personal ethnography?

HA: I think so. There are a lot of recordings that have never been made public, that were more about the activity. They don’t need to be shown. I think it’s important not to be result-oriented all the time. Often, I do these readings with couples, at their apartments, and the recordings document the micro-politics happening between two people. They hint towards small things, like if one of them is nervous, or needs support from the other. Theoretically, someone could write all these little changes and delays into a score, but it becomes quite boring. I think its much more interesting that the imperfections become a way of revealing something about the readers.

NL: That’s Lacan all over again.

HA: laughs.

NL: How is Henry Andersen present in it?

HA: I think of myself as the person who proposes the readings… at least for Stanzas. For a long time I was very occupied by the idea of being physically absent from my work, and trying to be present in other ways. Like in the script or the choice of people who read or something. I’m less and less concerned about it. I don’t mind so much to appear now. Maybe I’m getting more confident…

#nr9 #henryandersen #nielslatomme

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