#muggle au’s have me by the throat | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

luveline · 1 year

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losers | remus lupin

“Please.”

“Please?” he says back, mirroring your soft tone. “You think you need to say please?” His pinky bumps under the waistband of your trousers. There isn’t much give. He traces the lining to your zipper, fiddling with the small piece of metal as your eyes darken. “I should be the one saying it.” His voice keeps dropping, an utterance in the shell of your ear, his words for you and you alone. “I’m at your mercy, dove. Don’t say please with me. Okay?”

you find remus’ number on an abandoned motorbike. things snowball from there. [10k words]

fem!reader, fluff, first date, smut mdni, implied inexperienced!reader, almost rockstar!remus, mentioned that remus takes painkillers, muggle!au, early 2000’s au

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚ There’s a motorbike outside of the cafe.

It’s huge. Too heavy for you to move. Technically, you hadn’t found it at all, it was left there in the dead of night a few days ago and hasn’t budged since. It’s illegally parked, a fact that your manager won't stop muttering about while she’s elbow deep in latte foam and coffee cakes.

“I’m getting the bastard thing towed,” she grumbles that morning. “Let the police deal with it.”

That seems rather harsh to you. It isn’t necessarily in the way, and it looks well loved. Perhaps whoever left it can’t remember where they left it, having stumbled home on inebriated footing after one too many at the pub across the street. You think about how much it must cost to get your stuff back after it’s been towed, and though you aren’t sure of the specifics, you know it can’t be cheap. So, when your manager falls into conversation with a regular and your break begins, you creep outside to do some investigating.

It’s a hulking thing made of more black than silver. There are stickers across the left side of the body, weathered and peeling, though one is newer than the others and immediately draws your eye.

A phone number.

If lost, please call.

You take your phone out of your pocket, a flip phone with one dangling charm in the shape of a star. You click each faded button slowly. You're scared to talk to someone you don’t know, but relieved to maybe save the day.

It goes for ages.

“Hello?”

“Hey,” you say, dropping your voice into its sweetest tones, though nerves make you too soft, and you worry you’re hard to hear. “Hey, um, sorry to bother you. I work at The Mill, it’s a– a cafe in the city centre… Are you missing a bike, by any chance? A motorbike?”

“Oh, thank you. Yeah, it’s my friend’s. He can be… forgetful.” The voice that speaks is both smooth and gritty, impossibly, like whoever it is that’s talking smoked half a pack of cigarettes before he answered the phone. He clears his throat. “I hope it hasn’t been an imposition for you.”

“Actually, uh, my manager wants to have it towed. Like, now. I can try to fend her off but honestly she’s like, that physics law, um, unstoppable force? Uh,” —you’re stuttering, making it worse, because his voice is surprisingly handsome and you’re an idiot through and through— “yeah, so could you come and get it?”

“Yes! Yeah, absolutely, we’re on our way. Thank you.”

“Sure. Of course.”

You hear something not meant for you, the tail end of, “Sirius, get up. You better call Marl and—”

Phone back in your pocket, you take a quick glance around the street before reaching out to run your finger over the cracked leather of the motorbike seat. You’ve never ridden one before. You’ve never wanted to. The level of fearlessness one needs for it isn’t one you possess.

You’re the opposite of fearless.

The sun hides behind a wave of clouds. Your skin chills near immediately, your prim slacks and apron a worthless defence against the cold. It’s an average day here, grey and quiet. Occasionally a couple will pass you, hand in hand as they traverse the worn pavement. You smile at an elderly man and his dog as they shuffle across the street and into the cafe. Your smile fades as you tune into the fierce tones of your manager, demanding to know where you’ve gone. If your absence is what distracts her from calling the police, so be it.

You’re considering getting your phone back out to play Snake when a passing car slows beside you. You straighten up and out, feeling your spine click in more places than it should as the passenger door opens and an insanely attractive man throws himself out of it.

“My angel!” he cries, heading straight for you.

You take a panicked step backward. The man dives for his motorbike. You flinch, mystified by his enthusiasm and his opposite appearance. Short sleeves reveal arms full of dark tattoos, with one side marred by a brutally long scar from his elbow to the back of a ring-laden hand. You tear your eyes from him as a second door closes across the street, and feel all the air rush from your chest as a second man approaches.

He’s very pretty. It might be redundant to say it to yourself, presented as you are with an undeniable truth, but you think it anyway. Sandy brown hair, pale skin, and in enough layers to make up for his friends lack thereof, the second man ignores any dramatics and meets you head on.

“Hi,” he says, holding out his hand, “you’re the one who called?”

Closer now, you can see the scars on his face. They stretch over the ridge of his nose and into his eyebrow. A smaller one tugs as he talks against his top lip.

You take his hand and shake it limply. “Yeah, that was me.”

If he’s concerned with your nervousness he doesn’t show it. His smile doesn’t move. “He wants to say thank you. He will, once he gets over himself.”

“Thank you!” the dark-haired man calls. “She’s my everything. I’ve been sick with worry.”

“Have you?” the man in front of you asks, his voice steady, almost intimidating in its impassiveness.

“Yes, Moons, I have been… not that you’d know.”

“Some of us have real problems,” Moons snips, though he quickly looks at you like he’s embarrassed. “Sorry. He brings out the worst in me.”

“You must be good friends.”

You don’t know why you say it. He only smiles.

“We must be.”

The first man stands up from checking over his motorbike and beams at you. You suspect it’s an expression that works in his favour more often than not. “What can I give you, doll?”

“No, nothing. Please. I’ll just be glad to hear the end of it.”

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, really."

Your manager calls your name, clear as day despite the thick pane of glass and brick walls separating you.

"That's you?" Moons asks.

"That's me. Sorry."

"No, don't be. Thanks so much for calling."

You nod hurriedly, throwing them both a 'nice to meet you, I'm sorry for leaving so fast' kind of smile and head back inside.

You take a sneaky look back when you're behind the counter again. They’ve turned their backs to you, Moons' friend ruffling his hair roughly. After a minute or two, Moons gets back in his car, and the motorbike pulls away like it was never there to begin with.

What sort of name is Moons? you ask yourself. It's a question that stays with you for a few days. You find yourself hoping you'll see him again, or that his friend's motorbike will turn up outside of the cafe for a few long days and give you an excuse to call him. His number stays unsaved in your recent calls menu for a while. Eventually, you forget about him altogether; the motorbike, the call, the gentle wave of his hair.

You're hard-pressed to forget his voice, though. There'd been something familiar about it.

"Nice highscore."

You jump hard and wince as the metallic taste of blood hits your taste buds. To make it worse, you slam your phone up into the counter it was hiding under in shock. It makes a fatal crunching sound.

You shove it into your pocket and look up. Standing there, in all his handsome weariness, is Moons, sans friend. He's wearing nice clothes, clean and clearly ironed. You're immediately aware of your ratty uniform and your unkempt hair.

"Shit," you say, which is so fucking embarrassing, honestly, you could fall through the floor and stay there, "Sorry. What can I get you?"

His eyebrows inch up his forehead. "What's the easiest thing to make?"

That's not a question you get often. "Uh, regular black coffee, or tea, or, the uh– the hot chocolate's not that hard. But you should order whatever you like, of course."

Moons smiles at you. You're starting to understand the nickname (assuming it is a nickname). He has this odd but enticing presence about him, like that awestruck feeling of looking up at night and seeing all the teeny tiny stars and the moonlight that comes down with them, bright and somewhat daunting.

"Sure you don't mind?"

"I'm paid not to mind."

"Can I get the biggest cup of tea you can make? Milk and two sugars, please."

"Absolutely." You sidestep to the register and click a bunch of the wrong buttons. You're unprofessionally flustered. "Uh, three sixty five?"

He passes you a five pound note. Your tip cup is for the more generous type, and he has no trouble dropping his palmful of change into it. He barely looks. You're expecting him to take a seat but he stays standing, one arm pressed to the counter, the other held up. He scratches behind his ear absentmindedly, as though he has nowhere else to be.

"Are you in a hurry?" you ask, confused.

He stays quiet for enough time to shit you up. You're tipping milk over your hand and hoping he hasn't seen it when he says, "No rush. I'm here to see you."

You look over your shoulder at him. You can't help it. "To see me."

"Yeah."

You spin back to his tea. The counter is covered in spills and sugar, cup tops and wooden stirrers. You take them all in with wide eyes. Nobody ever comes to see you. Not your friends, not family (unless they want something). Especially not boys you met once for two minutes.

"Is there something wrong?" you ask.

You clip the lid onto his big tea and wrap it in napkins so it doesn't burn his hands.

"Nothing's wrong," he says kindly. "I wanted to apologise. Your boss was upset with you. It was Sirius' fault. We owe you for it."

"You really don't have to say sorry. She wasn’t that mad. No harm, no foul."

You put his cup of tea down in front of him and try to smile like girls do in the movies. Soft doe eyes, not too bright, not too awkward. You give up after a second and feel it twist into something regrettable.

His long silence makes you squirm.

"A thank you, then.”

He offers you an envelope. You take it.

The paper is crisp and thick. Your fingers are clumsy, and it takes you too many seconds to fold the envelope's lip and pull out the card stock inside.

You look up in shock. "I can't–"

He's not there. You look to the door, catching what might've been his hand as he walks out of view.

He's left you two concert tickets. You don't go to concerts. You might have, when you were younger, and had friends to follow. As it stands he's given you two seated tickets for a show in the Pointer Arena not far from where you work, for a band you've never heard of. The price on each is a solid £20, which is way too much repayment for ringing a number from a sticker. Worse, you're not sure you have somebody who can use the second one.

You hope he'll come back for clarification alone, and a little to see him, but he doesn't, and soon the date on the ticket matches the date on your calendar and you're standing outside of the venue with no clue how to hold yourself.

You stand in line for a while. It's a very long line made up of mostly younger women. You listen for the calling of a reseller and spot a group of young girls trying to haggle with them, reluctantly leaving your place in line.

"Hi," you say quietly to the one furthest from the epicentre. "I'm sorry if this is weird. I have an extra ticket tonight, and I was wondering if you'd like it? I know it's seated, but maybe you could use it to get in and then, uh, not sit? Or just sit." You could writhe around on the ground in shame. You hold out the spare ticket. "If you want it."

"Are you kidding?"

"No, seriously."

She takes the ticket and you walk away before she can try and give it back to you. Whether she uses it or not, it's no longer your problem to deal with. The lady who'd been standing behind you lets you back in line, for which you're extremely grateful, and you shiver your way to the front with nerves churning your stomach.

You've imagined being turned away twenty times by the time they usher you through the doors. The air is buzzing with excitement, enough of it to ramp up your nerves, and you smile weakly at the people who pass you on the way up to the seating area you've been designated. The Pointer Arena is a smaller venue with much more standing than seating capacity available. The seats are at the sides and back of the second floor, looking down at the pit with a safety barrier in front.

You slide into your seat and peer down at the crowd as it fills up one ant of a person at a time. You can't distinguish one person from another after a while. It’s a moving sea of dark clothes.

It takes a long time for the opening act to come on. You're not having much fun. You'd tried to use the computer in the cafe to research the bands playing tonight but the dial up hadn't been working and your manager hates when you take long breaks, so you aren't sure you'll even enjoy yourself. You're not sure why you came here — is it sad, to come here alone? It looks sad, you think, pathetic, but it doesn't feel sad. You're not very good at talking, anyways. It's so difficult. Or maybe you just make it that way.

This is why you regret coming. Any time spent by yourself is time to think. You hate thinking, but it's all you seem to be able to do. Think and think and think. Your mind runs in the same circles. Things you've done, things you wish you did, things you want to do so badly it makes you feel sick. You can't stand it.

The crowd begins to rise in volume. Cheers echo against the atrium ceiling, and you push yourself to the edge of your seat to see what's making them all so excited.

The opening band. They're too far away to see clearly. First on stage is a man with brown skin and a head of black curls, a guitar swinging from his neck, the body barely held as he waves to the masses. Next comes a paler man with hair tied up in a bun who sits down behind the drum kit and doesn't move much after that. A girl practically sprints to centre stage, scooping up a waiting guitar (or bass?) and strumming down the body appreciatively. She has purple hair, bright and choppy, particularly abrasive against the alabaster white of her skin.

And last on stage… last on stage is Moons.

You move forward suddenly, smacking your face against the plexiglass barrier and biting your cheek for the second time in a week. Used to your mistreatment, the poorly healed skin wastes no time splitting, and the metallic taste of blood makes you cringe.

That's Moons. There are two huge screens either side of the stage that magnify him. First his hand on the microphone, a scar coiling up from his wrist to his thumb purple against his skin. Then his face. You wouldn't forget what he looks like so soon, not when you've half obsessed over him for days with could-be's because he'd wanted to see you and you have a bad habit of inventing future's with people you don't know, but even if you did it wouldn't matter. You've never met anyone else with three scars as he has across his face, taking centre stage.

You hadn't realised the tickets were to see his band. It makes sense, now, why your seat is in such a quiet area, and why the people sitting close by aren't firecracker happy at the sight of them. They must've received their tickets in the same way, gifts or thank yous for small favours.

Your mouth dries as they begin to play. It's not what you're expecting. Of course, you haven't really had time to expect anything, and yet you're shocked when they start to play a slow song. He doesn't really look like a rockstar, but a heartthrob? You can see it easily. The long lengths of his lashes, and the dark honey of his eyes. His smile, so small but somehow piercing.

His voice is careful. He doesn't sing anything impressive —there's no belting or high notes— but you still find yourself wringing your hands together, entranced by his confidence. He dances around the melodies and fills up every space he can find between the beat of the drums and the searing guitar riffs that follow.

They only play five songs. By the time they've finished you're feeling sick to your stomach, and you can't get your heart to calm down. You hadn't known a word of the lyrics, but you'd felt them.

They're good.

Like, too good to be openers for long.

The crowd echoes your sentiment. They clap and scream and wolf whistle. The noise vibrates in the depth of your stomach. The cheering doubles when the headlining band’s techies emerge. The lights go down. Equipment begins to roll out.

You scrounge through your purse for a lip balm and think about heading downstairs to the concession stands for an overpriced bottle of water to wash away the unfortunate tang of blood. It aches to pay, but if you don't soon you might get nauseous, and that would be a real disaster, throwing up here of all places.

You hear his voice before you see him. He's laughing, talking to somebody about the set.

"It was great!" compliments a feminine voice. "I don't know what you were so worried about, Remus, you're really great. And if you weren't, Marl would've saved the day anyways with her gorgeous showmanship."

"Thanks, baby," says a second voice. Marl.

"Thanks, Mary," Moons says.

What had Mary called him? Remus? Odd, not quite as strange as Moons.

You try not to tense as footsteps approach.

"Can I sit?" he asks.

You look up too fast. He's a little damp, the hair closest to his face curled with it, but he smells good as he sits down. He must've washed up.

"I– I've been calling you Moons in my head," you admit, not sure what to say.

He's intimidating. You don't imagine he knows it. He sits in the chair without any fanfare, setting his forearm on the rest between your two seats and turning his face to you completely, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth, almost like he doesn't want to smile but can't help himself. His eyes are the slightest bit lidded, emphasising the brilliance (and unfairness) of his lashes, so thick and dark you wonder if he's wearing makeup.

"You can call me whatever you want to, but my name's Remus. I should've told you that before. I was… distracted."

He isn't being coy, you realise. He easily could be if he wanted to, but he was genuinely lost for words for a second.

"I didn't really tell you mine," you say, hoping to ease his gentle confusion.

He says your name like it's easy. Like he enjoys the sound of it. "Y/N. Do you like music?"

Is that a trick question? His eyes trace up to your eyebrows as they pinch together, but he doesn't amend his question. Not a trick, then.

"I like music,” you say.

"I realise it's brave to ask someone to come and see you on stage. And that I look like a tosser sometimes with the stage lights and makeup."

"No," you say quickly, "you don't. You looked just fine. You looked good. I bet it's hard getting on stage like that, and in front of this many people. And singing. You have a really nice voice."

His eyes soften. "Thank you. Do you wanna go get a drink with me? There's a bar. It's quiet."

Your elbow brushes against his long sleeve. "Yeah." You're not breathless enough to embarrass yourself, but it's a close call.

Remus leads you up and out of the seats. The venue is large in that it has just as many hallways and back rooms as it has places to watch the show. Remus’ warm hand catches your elbow, a friendly touch that guides you around the barrier and through a dimly lit hallway that takes you to the bar.

The bar overlooks the stage, but the sound of the band and the crowd is dampened severely, making for a sorely needed respite. VIP's mill around the room on plush leather sofas and cushy bar stools sipping from sweating glass bottles. Remus' hand moves up to your shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze as a familiar face waves you over.

"Hey, it's you!"

You smile at Remus' motorbike friend. You're a hundred percent sure his name is Sirius, but you won't say it aloud in case you're wrong. Beside him sits the other man you'd seen on stage with them, the guitarist with brown skin and a head full of thick hair. You look between the three of them in secret shock, wondering if handsome attracts handsome or if it's just dumb luck that they ended up together.

"James, this is the babe that found Stacia," Sirius says.

James wrinkles his nose. "Hi," he says, in a voice that sounds deeply apologetic, years of it like the rings of a tree. "How are you?"

"I'm good. Um, and you?"

"I'm good! Thanks, I'm good, it's nice of you to come see us. Did you like the show?"

"Yeah, I did. I had no idea you guys were musicians."

He splits his attention between you and his jacket. He pulls a glasses case out of his pocket, clicks it open, and straightens out a pair of wire frames.

"Couldn't tell from our baby boy's general demeanour?" he asks. "Hey, that's better, I can see you now."

"Sirius is the youngest," Remus says.

"And the handsomest."

"No, Marl's clearly the handsome one," James says lightly.

Sirius takes the rebuttal in good jest and brandishes his drink toward you like a toast. "Want a beer?"

"I'm getting her one," Remus says, "come on, give me a minute here."

Everybody laughs. You laugh too, turning your face into your shoulder to smother the sound.

"Well, come and sit with us, make yourself comfortable," James says, moving his jacket off of the chair in front of you.

Remus makes a small, apprehensive sound. "Drinks first." He looks to you for confirmation. "Yeah. We'll be back."

You follow him to the bar. Your shoes, a pair of dirty converse you wish you'd swapped for heels or something sophisticated, squeal against the hardwood floor. How were you supposed to know you'd see him again tonight? In what world does stuff like this happen to scruffy waitresses? You're starting to think he might be somebody.

Not that it matters if he is or isn't.

But if he is… This is embarrassing, right? Not knowing who he is.

There must be a couple thousand people here tonight. Then again, his band were the opening act, so it doesn't necessarily mean they're all famous or anything.

"Hey," Remus says softly, stopping your thoughts cold. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Sorry. I've never been in here before, anywhere that's like it,” you say.

"Venues are all different but the bars don't change," he says. "What do you like?"

"I'm not a big drinker."

"That's okay. I just wanted an excuse to be alone with you." He doesn't even give you time to recover. "Truth is, I wanted to ask you out. But between shows I couldn't find time, and next week I'm in San Marino."

What you mean to say is, you wanted to ask me out? But instead, you choke, "You're going to Italy?"

Remus pushes a seat out for you, helping you up with a solid hand, and, while your fingers are still warm from his touch, he says, "San Marino isn't Italy. I didn't know that 'til a few months ago. But pretty much."

"What's in San Marino?"

"A wedding." He climbs into the seat next to you, smiling.

The tan colour of his long-sleeves contrasts his pale hands. Your eyes flash to his ring finger. Not his wedding.

Remus isn’t easy to talk to. It's not wholly his fault. He doesn't force conversation, leaving you awkwardly searching for something to say. You're not the best conversationalist either. He clearly doesn't mind it.

You're in the midst of a clumsy retelling of a shitty customer service moment when he tips his head to the left just a touch.

"Maybe we can go on an actual date when I'm home,” he says.

He says it like he's talking about the weather. You'd be worried he was messing with you, but then he smiles again, flicking his index finger against your wrist mildly. "You don't have to answer me now. Finish telling your story."

"It was pretty much finished. And– and I'd like to. Go on a real date. I've never been out of the country, so you'll have to forgive me if I want to know everything about San Marino."

He looks at your lips. Says, "Good," and doesn't give any indication that he's noticed how nervous you are. That is, until he covers your trembling hand with his and presses it flat to the bar.

"You're really pretty," he murmurs. He takes a moment, and he smiles. "Come with me? If I don't give Sirius some attention soon he'll start showing off."

—

James is starting to wonder if he should invite you to San Marino. He's not that stupid; it would be a huge pain if you were standing in the middle of all his wedding photos and you and Remus don't work out. But, while he's certainly and majorly jumping the gun, he has a suspicion he’ll be seeing you again.

James has never seen Remus like this before.

His friend is usually quiet, quipping every now and then perhaps at Sirius' insufferable antagonism but otherwise brooding. He hasn't seen him smile this much, ever.

James is under no illusions — he knows Remus loves him very much. He knows Remus is happy, and not always healthy but managing. He knows Remus is pleased with their lives and ecstatic to have their music take off. But he also knows Remus won't let himself have a good thing, not really. Maybe that's why he's asked you out now, when in a week they'll be in San Marino, and a week after that they'll be in Cardiff to officially start the new tour.

He knows Remus, sweetheart, kind hearted, miraculous Remus, tends to let people down. He's a stickler for asking people out and cancelling the day before. It's how it always goes. James will ask how the date went and Remus will shake his head and say, "it didn’t work out."

He knows Remus doesn't mean to hurt anybody. He just… can't get close.

But he's trying, with you. A glass of cordial in one hand, the other behind your chair, Remus tells you one of his more embarrassing stories about how he'd taken a bad fall and ended up in A&E with half of an eyebrow. He doesn't mention the painkillers that made him woozy.

You've relaxed considerably since sitting down. James would be happy to report that you're having a good time. You have your own drink in hand, and your eyes are bright, with a receding space between your face and Remus' as the story goes on. It's like watching two magnets fight to hold themselves apart.

Matter of time, James thinks to himself smugly.

—

Honesty is important. You admit to yourself that you and Remus aren't exactly a perfect match. Both quiet, both not quite social butterflies, your conversations had occasionally been stilted and slow, but you've only met twice. Things don't have to be perfect, and more than that — there's a spark there. A twinge of a possibility. He'd liked what little he knew about you enough to ask to see you again, and you'd like what little you knew about him in turn to say yes.

It doesn't have to be perfect, you insist to yourself, a bundle of nerves. Nothing does.

He looks pretty perfect. Base of his palm pressed to the brick wall of the cafe, hand angled down as his fingers grasp the neck of a bouquet whose flowers have been shedding petals onto the damp pavement below. He holds his other hand against his chest, clicking buttons on his phone.

You approach from the left and watch him play a game of Snake.

"You play Snake?" you ask.

"Doesn't everybody?" he asks back, his smile softening what might otherwise feel like a chastisement. He doesn't look up from his phone.

"Woah, how long have you been out here?" you ask, eyeing his weirdly long snake.

Remus guides the snake into a wall on purpose. It dies, his high score flashes across the screen, and he aims an apologetic look your way. "Sorry, that was rude." He doesn't try to hide that he's looking over your face. "Thanks for coming."

He leans in and kisses your cheek. Delighted warmth curls in your stomach, worse when he passes you the bouquet of flowers. They've mostly survived his poor treatment, and there's a lot of them. He's left the price tag on and you're not sure if he's noticed. You pretend not to see it.

"Thank you…” You look away from the flowers, all whites and reds and baby’s breath, to ogle him as subtly as you can manage. “Wow, you've caught the sun. Was it lovely in San Marino?"

"I'll tell you all about it over dinner,” he says. “I thought we'd walk, it's not far." He holds out his hand. You wipe your palm against your side before you take it, worried you'll have clammy hands. He must guess, because he says, "Don't be nervous."

"I am," you say hopelessly. "I've never been on a date before."

"This is your first date?"

You feel a hot flush coming on. "I– yeah. That's embarrassing, I shouldn't have told you that."

"No, it's a good thing. Now I know it has to be extra special."

"It doesn't," you say.

"I was hoping it would be." He pulls you down the pavement and further into the city centre toward the main high street. "San Marino. It was beautiful, and I took a couple of photos but I didn't have room on my phone. Well, I could've deleted Snake–"

"Why would you?" you joke, grinning.

He laughs, and squeezes your hand slightly. "Exactly. I have priorities. It's a long flight, and looking over the photos can only take up so much time. No, but it really was… it was beautiful. I'd never given much thought to a destination wedding. They make sense, right? It's the best day of your life, why would you have it here?"

He tilts his chin toward the grey sky. You look up with him, feeling the cold wind kiss the sides of your face and pull through your hair.

"Come on, Remus, it's not that bad. If it's sun you're after, you could just wait for British summer time. You know, the whole three days of it."

He laughs — you've made him laugh twice already. This is going okay. Laughing while looking at one another, a bouquet in one hand and his hand in the other, you feel that curl of delight begin to bloom. It fills your insides up, has you smiling until your eyelashes brush in the corners.

"It was James' wedding. Do you remember which one that was?"

He asks so kindly. You don't doubt for a second that he wouldn't care if you forgot. It's refreshing, even if it's something you'd expect.

"I remember. I didn't realise he was getting married."

"Don't ever say that in front of him, he'll put himself on the cross." He swings your hand as you turn a corner. The Italian restaurant you'd agreed on winks from a distance.

"He's devoted," you guess.

"He's insane. He was worse when we were younger. His girlfriend– his wife," he amends, "Lily, she's really something else. Warm and funny, but she's been keeping him on his toes for years. She has family in San Marino, hence the wedding."

You listen to him talk eagerly. His voice is as handsome as his face, and the more he says the less stilted he becomes. There had been a strained quality to it before (strained, or restrained? something he wasn't saying) that's all but disappeared.

"It was like a movie. White linen, sand, crying."

"Did you cry?" you ask, expecting a puffed up chest.

"So much. Too much, maybe. I was half of the best man."

"Half?"

"We had to share, me and Sirius. They've always been…" Remus slows his steps. "Am I being boring? I'm talking too much about me."

"We have time. I want to hear it. I'd like to hear it," you say.

James and Sirius are brothers. Remus sees your surprised look and doesn't condemn you for it. Sirius is unofficially adopted. The Potter's fostered him from ages thirteen until he aged out, and though they tried to adopt him, Sirius was reluctant. Remus doesn't get into the reasons beyond that, and you don't ask. You suspect he's only telling you about it to drive home how much the Potter's love Sirius. How much James does.

Remus had been Sirius' friend from their very first year of comprehensive school. Sirius moved in with the Potter's, and, adoring as they were, they let him have friends over whenever he liked. James, Sirius, and Remus spent the next decade together like that, hiding in Sirius' room. Best friends, entirely inseparable, and all fiercely protective of each other.

"They've always been like brothers."

"But not…"

He understands what you're worried to say. "I think it would've been weird… I had a candle burning for James. For a long time."

Your jaw drops a little. "And you just had to watch him have the most romantic wedding ever," you whisper sympathetically. You're joking: it's clear the candle isn't burning now.

"Told you I cried," he says. "No, but you've seen him. He's a supermodel. It's awful."

"Remus, I think you might be underestimating how handsome you are," you say. You bite your lip and look at his chin rather than his eyes.

He's generous. He gives your wrist a tug and chuckles warmly. "I'm glad you think so. Tonight might have been awkward, otherwise."

You duck together inside of the restaurant, hands falling apart as Remus gives his last name for the reservation. Lupin. Your face has a mind of its own.

"Charming, isn't it?"

"It is," you say emphatically, denying his sarcasm. "I've never heard anything like that. Lupine, like a fox?"

"Wolf."

A server shows you to your table and hands you two leather covered menus. Leather, not plastic, a sign that tonight is going to be classy. You've dressed for the occasion in a smart blouse and slacks, too terrified of wearing a dress. Remus seems to have done the same as you, reaching for smart but dodging the mark in a button down and a casual jacket. When he takes off his coat, he looks perfect. He fits right in.

"Could we get a glass?" he asks the server. "For the flowers? If it's not too much trouble."

"No trouble at all."

You run your hand across the silken tablecloth and the space between you both feels somehow smaller than when you'd been holding hands. Outside, you could let your gaze drift to the pavement, the fenced in trees, the couples that passed you by. Here, you're forced to watch one another.

It's not so bad. It's agonising.

"This is weird," you say. You flinch when you hear yourself. "Sorry, not that you're weird! I'm weird. I've never ever done this."

"No, I know," he says, almost murmuring, "it's okay."

"I just blurted out what I was thinking–"

"I know." He sits back in his chair. His head tilts down, his eyelashes kissing the skin above his brows as he fixes you with a look. It has the intended effect, tension easing from your rigid spine and tight shoulders. "This is weird. But it's still early. It could get weirder."

You like that he says it as if it's a good thing.

You order the same thing he does, and you don't turn down his offer to get a bottle of wine, though it feels too grown up. You keep forgetting you're an adult, and that your life isn't on hold. Things can happen to you at any time.

"I want to address the elephant in the room," he says.

Not promising. "Okay."��

"Are we having dessert?" Remus leans forward on both forearms. Hair falls in his eyes. He's dressed nicely and he's handsome but there's something homespun about him, something golden. You can't help looking at him and thinking impossibly forward thoughts, cheesy waffle from the films. He's familiar. "Nobody ever wants to get dessert with me. It's actually a real issue for me."

"I'll get dessert with you." A smoother you with more confidence, who wore the dress and asked him to go to the Thai restaurant instead, would've said something more suave. We're having whatever you want, handsome.

Remus flips the menu to the very last page and reads the desserts aloud. For himself, it seems, half-muttered and apprehensive. "Chocolate cake from places like this will either be the nicest thing we've ever eaten or burnt in the microwave. And it's childish that I want chocolate cake. I should be spoon feeding you creme brulee. Or whipped cream and strawberries."

He tips his head back and rubs his eyes. It's a charade of feigned self loathing that makes you laugh.

"I'm a child," he laments, thumb and index finger pressed into his eyes. He checks to see if you're watching before doubling down.

"I like cake," you say, and you'd lie if you thought it was what he wanted to hear. Handsome, kind, and funny. Not to mention talented. He needs smart for the sweep.

Remus falls out of his dramatics. You mourn the loss, beggy a good look on him, but forget all about it when he slides his chair around the table to share the menu with you, your heads inclined as you read it together again. He smells woody. You hope he likes the jasmine of your perfume.

"It all sounds really nice," you confide, afraid to disturb the comfortable hush. "I haven't had gelato since I was a kid. Oh, did they have real gelato in San Marino?"

“They had a lot of stuff in San Marino… I want to hear about you.”

“What do you want to hear?”

The questions start and don’t stop. Where did you grow up? That’s the easy part. What did you study in school? Were you in sports? The art club? And what do you do now, when you aren’t working in the cafe? The more he asks, the easier it is to answer. He doesn’t slow when the waiter brings a glass for your bouquet, simply stands and places them inside with exceedingly gentle hands, smiling at you from between the stems. You eat slowly when the food arrives — you're busy talking.

It feels fucking amazing. To have someone want to know anything about you. And unless he’s an actor of the highest regard, he’s obviously enjoying your conversations, though they wilt and wane and wind around one another. You lose track of time and thread as the night goes on, distracted by the near unnoticeable asymmetry of his smile, and the way he laughs when you laugh, like an echo.

You get cake like he wanted. Triple fudge cake with buttercream thick but melting from the heat. It looks straight from the pages of a magazine, glossy and dusted with sugar powder, but he doesn’t seem to like it. He takes a couple of bites and leaves it alone. You don’t want to look greedy, so you do the same.

The date is suddenly over.

“Could I walk you home?” he asks, when you’ve both put your coats back on, and the damp roots of your flowers are leaving an imprint on your chest.

You nod rather than answer.

Things are good, not perfect. That’s what you keep thinking. There’s something he isn’t saying. Or, horrifyingly, something he doesn’t like about you. Still, the sky is velvet black and the air is crisp. Stars like needlepoints dot the air. Street lights work to hide them, casting a warm yellow glow over the pavements and your meandering shoes.

A brisk wind whips past you. You shiver and press your lips together hard, hands quick to rigidity. Remus looks at you sideways, and breaks the quiet. “Are you cold?”

“A little.” No point in lying when he can see you trembling.

“Do you want my coat?”

“No, no, it’s alright–“ You cut off as he steps in front of you, his hand vying for yours.

He tucks the flowers under his arm and sandwiches your fingers between his. He has short fingernails, and another scar down one pinky finger. How’d you get that one? you want to ask. How’d you get any of them?

His breath clouds the air. “I should’ve thought about the cold.”

“This is better,” you say. Than a warm taxi home. His thumbs brushing down the backs of your hands.

You walk to your flat building and hesitate at the foyer door. The potential for a kiss goodnight has flayed your thoughts. The image of his hands climbing your arms, holding you still, plays like a flickering film. You have no idea if he’s going to do it.

“How will you get home?” you ask quietly.

“I parked by the cafe, it isn’t far.”

“Oh…” The lights from your building paint him the faintest shade of pink. Your breath fogs out in front of you, as does his, and the warmth of walking will soon fade. “I–“

“Here,” he says, handing you the flowers again.

“Thank you. They’re beautiful.”

“Fits the recipient.”

It takes a second for you to get it. Oh, you think. You can hardly feel the cold now. Your heart hurts, and you’re begging him to want to take a step toward you. The silence goes for too long.

“I– I’d love to see you again,” you say. Love comes out funny. Maybe because you can feel his rejection coming.

“I won’t be here next week. Not for a long time. We’re touring properly, now.” He scratches the side of his face.

“Right. Right, of course you are. Um, good luck with that. And thank you for tonight, for dinner.” You wave your flowers weakly.

He looks at you. He takes a half step toward you. You can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows.

“You really are pretty,” he says finally. “Goodnight.”

He smiles quick and turns quicker. You watch him walk a few steps but ultimately can’t face it, pushing into the foyer of your building with a hardset frown. Your hands shake, minute abstractions of the sharp rejection panging in your chest. Your ears roar and then go quiet. What did I do wrong? you think, shocked and upset and trying to rationalise. He doesn’t have to kiss you. He asked you out on a maybe, and now whatever question he had is answered.

The door creaks open. You spin on your heel, too wrapped up to think about hiding your expression. Remus stands in the doorway of the porch, his arm pressed to the glass panel, the other held out to you.

"Come here," he says quietly. It isn't a question, but he's asking.

You step into his reach, letting him pull you by the waist against his chest. He leans down until his nose glances against ýours, and he starts to say something. You push your chin up in your eagerness and he doesn't try again. He kisses you, once, contrite, and he pulls back and his hand clasps your arm tight as he ducks in for another. His lips are fast to lose the cold of the weather, but his tongue is a hot shock at the seam of your own.

You go weak in his arms. The flowers between you crunch and smother themselves. You can’t think about it. Your hands are numb. He takes over every one of your senses until you’re more kiss than thought, reciprocating his slow, deep searching. You run out of breath.

He eases you backward, cupping the side of your head in his big palm.

“I want to see you again,” he says hoarsely. “But I– I don’t know when I’ll be back.” His hand adjusts against your cheek, like he’s worried you’re slipping out of his hold. “I don’t know what to do.”

“I can wait,” you say.

“I couldn’t ask you to.”

You rub your buzzing lips together, each heaven of your chest marked by the crinkling sound of cellophane.

“Do you want to come upstairs?” you ask.

He strokes the edge of your mouth with his thumb. “Are you sure?”

You kiss him. You don’t know if this will work, any of it, the broad stroke or this one night, but you want him.

—

Remus doesn’t know what he’s doing. He knows how to fuck somebody, that isn’t the problem. He doesn’t know what he’s doing with you. The same thing that made him walk away had pulled him right back in, had him skipping steps on the staircase up to your flat, drinking in the back of your head and roll of your shoulders as you’d made apologies for the mess inside.

He doesn’t feel like himself when he’s with you. He thinks of it like this — what he is, his pain, his wants, that’s all set in stone. Any change is an erosion, and little by little over the years he’s managed to whittle himself down into the smallest, cleanest version of himself. Then suddenly the band’s making money, people are listening to his voice on the radio in countries all over the world, and he can’t hide anymore. Maybe he hadn’t wanted to, after all. What else inspires a performer into the spotlight? The music, he thinks desperately, knowing it’s half a lie.

Isn’t it why he’d asked you to the show? Come and watch me sing. See me at my most impressive. My most curated.

And now he’s following you into your bedroom after one date, about to strip it all away.

“You didn’t have too much wine, did you?” he asks. You hadn’t really finished your first glass, but it won’t hurt to make sure.

You peel your jacket off and drop it over the back of a wide armchair. “I don’t think so. Did you?”

“No.” His head has never been this clear.

He thinks about what you said. This is your first date, and he’s not clueless enough to assume that never going on a date means never having sex, but he wants to be careful with you anyway. He wants this to last beyond a dinner date.

Which means he has to get out of his head.

Beyond all of his own mess, he really does think you're pretty. More than pretty. You’re beautiful, and your voice…

He wants to see what other sounds you make.

Remus gets his hands on you. Soft touches, his hands coasting from your elbows to your warming hands. He squeezes your fingers, leaning in for a quick kiss. He rests his nose against the skin beneath your eye. “Tell me if it’s too much?” he asks, a murmur of hot air.

“Yeah.”

“I’ll go slowly.”

“Okay.” Your voice is barely audible.

He pulls away to make sure you’re alright, and is surprised to see a glassy sheen in your eyes. He holds your face in both hands and works your lips open against his, guiding you backwards into the plush of your poorly made bed. He’s all sweet touches and eager kisses, cautious not to hurt you, or let too much of his weight press against your soft torso. His kisses follow to the corner of your mouth, the tip of his nose tender against your cheek. “You’re so quiet,” he says. He isn’t complaining, but he wants to hear your voice.

“I’m a bit preoccupied.”

He laughs into your skin, kissing down to your jaw. “You’re right,” he says, revelling in the goosebumps that rise under his hands.

Your shaking inhales cleave a pit in his stomach. He mouths at the side of your neck, half-kisses, tiny warning nips before he thumbs open the first button of your shirt. He meanders, dropping a path crescent moon kisses into your front until the fabric of your bra gets in the way. The soft hill of your breast staggers to a halt beneath him. He can tell that you’re holding deliberately still.

Kisses. You need more kisses, an absolution from any lingering nervousness. Your hands thread into his hair gently, your fingers raking wavy strands behind his ears as you give in. You melt into your sheets, your legs parting from the pressure of his hips.

Your hands fall from his hair to needle between your two bodies and undo the rest of your buttons. The fabric falls aside, your chest and tummy his to catalogue. He drops his hand against your stomach, smoothing a line down to your slacks. His lips ache against yours as he asks, “Can I?”

“Please.”

He smiles at your daunted expression. “Can I take these off?” he asks you, his fingertip running under the edge of your underwear. “Please?” he teases.

Your skin is a furnace, hot hot hot everywhere he touches as you nod your permission and Remus undresses you, one piece of clothing at a time. Your trousers, your shirt. Your bra, your underwear. His fingers slip in his ardency as he tears out of his own button down.

Your thumb traces a scar.

He looks up from your chest, startled, but you aren’t giving him anything he doesn’t want. There’s no pity in your gaze, no curiosity, no sadness. Just lust, your trembling hands pulling his slacks down the lengths of his thighs.

He pulls the condom from his wallet in his pocket and lets it fall to the floor.

Remus hooks his hands under your arms and urges you back against the headboard, a pillow behind your head, your thighs tipping open as his hand runs down between them. He grabs at them greedily, handfuls of fat that have his mouth dry as a bone.

“Has anyone ever done this to you before?” he asks. He needs to know.

You squeeze your eyes closed and shake your head.

Fuck. “Hey, look at me,” he says, waiting for your eyes to meet before continuing. “I just want to make you feel good. If I don’t, you let me know.”

He waits for you to answer aloud. “I will,” you say, your hand behind his back and urging him forward. “Please.”

“What did I say?” he jokes gently, letting his weight bear down on you again.

He closes his eyes, his lips in what feels like a new home at the juncture of your neck. His hands skirt dangerously close to your heat.

He’s gentle. He rubs a sweeping line against your cunt with the front of his fingers, heart hammering fast as a mouse’s when he finds the little button of your clit. You shiver and shudder and squirm as he toys with you, your fingers steadfast against the plane of his back while he opens you up. His lips part in tandem, not nearly as kind as his hands. His teeth scratch against your throat.

Your soft moans move through him as he hickeys over your pulse, chasing each capering thud of blood. He winds you up. You’re snug around his fingers, fluttering, and he knows he’s probed something sweet when your breath catches and you whine.

“Was that alright?” he asks.

You nod, heavy headed, and lick your lips as he tears open the condom and eases it onto his cock, one measured roll at a time.

“Can you– I want you to–” You turn your face from him, the line of your jaw kissed by the lamplight outside, and the rest hidden.

He drags you down to lay flat on your back and holds himself over you, nudging his nose against yours until you lift your head. Face to face, he gives himself time to adore the shape and colour of your eyes, the side of his hand brushing along your cheek. “Do you think you’re ready?” he asks sincerely. The slickness between your legs is obvious, but he doesn’t want to blindside you. “It will feel…”

You nod, saving him the explanation. It will feel weird. Good, but foreign. “Will you kiss me again?” you ask feebly.

He can’t stop himself. He kisses your lips sore, his hand behind the crook of your knee pushing your leg up toward your stomach as he slides into the space he’s made there. He breaks the kiss to listen to your breathing as he pushes forward.

Remus hadn’t been lying — he wants it to feel good. He takes it slow, his thrusting almost languid as you get to grips with the feeling. He pulls his bottom lip between his teeth and bites down hard, struggling to smother the moan that escapes him as he feels you clench around him. You gasp, your arms tightening around his waist, destroying any semblance of space between your sweat-damp bodies as you hold him tight. He murmurs praises in your ear, his forearms tucked beneath your shoulder blades, hands gripping your shoulders a touch too hard. He can’t remember the last time he was this close to somebody, can’t remember ever feeling so maddeningly lost, like he’s one good push from hurtling over the edge.

He kisses your cheek, calling you all the things he’d been too scared to say before. “Lovely girl,” he pants, “how’s that feel?” And, when you answer, “Yeah, you’re taking it so well, dove. Think you can take a little more?”

All that nervousness and desperation shrinks down to dust, and the smiling girl he’d been with at dinner comes to the forefront. There’s no mistaking it. You giggle something awful and turn your face into his, kissing him between sounds, dizzying him with the tender scratch of your nails down his back as he starts to move.

“There she is,” he says lightly, almost smirking. “Feel good?”

“Feels– oh,” —you shiver violently, filled all the way up— “feels good.”

Remus let’s his forehead fall to your chin, his eyes closed in pleasure, his cock to the hilt. Every move he makes evokes a near sinful sound from you, mewling, silvery whimpers and pleased little laughs when he angles his hips right. He’s a mess, desperate to cum from the second you touched him and running on stolen time as he presses you deep into your mattress. One of your hands flies backward into the pillows and scrunches up into a ball, the look on your face too tempting to ignore.

The first time you fuck someone — it’s never timed right. Remus knows he hasn’t quite figured you out, but he knows enough to get you where he wants you. He slides his hand between your bodies and your soft cunt to draw circles into your clit, entranced by your twitching lashes as the pleasure builds. You chase him with your hips, and he grabs your hand at the last second to stop you from covering your mouth, holding it above your head as you come apart.

He cooes at you. The sound you make — the breathless little cry that leaves you, your hips jutting up to meet him. He’s at your mercy, just like he said.

Remus fucks into the extra tightness, drawing your climax out for as long as he can. You’re smiling as you shove his arm away, a playful chastisement that wanes when you see the look on his face. “Are you close?” you ask, brushing a curled strand of hair from his eyes.

Close? Remus is fucked.

“You can go faster,” you say, “rougher, whatever you want.”

“Shit,” he hisses, leaning back.

His rutting hips slap the backs of your thighs. He squeezes your waist, his eyes fixed on your cunt as it pulls him in. One last wavering, “Oh, fuck,” from you is all it takes for Remus to lose it. White hot pleasure tightens his whole body, his abdomen aflame. You scramble to gather him back into your arms. You kiss him, swallowing his resulting string of moans.

He has to catch his breath afterward. You comb the hair back from his face, your eyes droopy with pleasure.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice stringy.

“Of course not.” You’re quickly losing your confidence. Remus hates it, but he understands. This vulnerability can only stretch so far.

“Let me clean you up,” he says.

“You look like you’re gonna fall over if you stand.”

He strokes your face with the back of his ring finger, his nail ghosting along the highest point of your cheek. “Funny,” he says dryly.

He gets confused in your bathroom, and you won’t let him towel you off, but when he lies down beside you with his boxers back in place you don’t push him away. You drop your face into his chest and curl up.

He drags the quilt over your naked back.

Was that okay? he wants to ask. “Sore?” he worries instead.

“Don’t think so.”

He chews his cheek. “You’re alright?”

You stir, looking up at him through your lashes. He thinks you’re the kind of pretty people might not always see. You’re clearly beautiful, but there’s something else to it. The way you move, maybe. The way your eyes smile before your lips can catch up.

“I’m fine. I’m good… Can I…”

He hums. “What?”

“Could I kiss you again?”

You speak so quietly, he hears the vibration in your throat more than the sound of your voice. It’s endearingly timid. He feels his attraction for you flare violently.

He wants to ask you to come with him to Cardiff. He knows he can’t. It’s yards too soon, but for a second he entertains the thought.

“Wait for me to come home,” he says. He’s still asking for more than he should. “I want to see you again. You can kiss me as much as you want, if you say you’ll wait.”

You nod immediately. Not a flicker of reluctance to be seen.

You lift your chin and kiss him. He tries to make it the kind of kiss worth waiting for.

˚ʚ♡ɞ˚

thank you for reading! i hope you enjoyed! if you did, please consider reblogging cos it helps more than you might think <3

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fatesundress · 1 year

Text

⭑ observations ii. tom riddle x reader

part i here.

summary. two weeks after your last encounter with tom shatters all of your previous observations, tensions are high, and eventually, something's gotta give. (it's tom. he’s giving head)

tags. smut (so. so much. minors BE GONE TO WHENCE YOU CAME!), fem anatomy + reader is referred to as a woman by someone, fingering, cunnilingus, piv, again implied tall!tom or short!reader (take it however you prefer), jealous tom does not understand friendship but then again neither does reader apparently, a little wine is had, the room of requirement is used shamelessly as a plot device, did i mention smut, i’ve lost my mind etc etc.

note. this is a part two, so go ahead and read the first part and come back if you'd like :) obligatory preface: it's safe to assume any smut i write within hogwarts is a university au — these people are all 18+ tyvm. also woahh was not expecting the love on my last post so thank you! i'm still trying to figure this whole acc out so support, questions, (requests? never done those before) anything is appreciated ♡

word count. 6.3k

The next two weeks are agony. You don’t, in fact, stop meeting with Godefrey to study, because you do, in fact, still need a good mark in Ancient Runes and for all his faults he can reach the tallest shelves and he’s a faster writer than you. Also, Tom Riddle is fantastic with his hands but this does not make him God.

You find pureblood politics a bit archaic. You find muggle courting a bit stifling. This leaves very little space for what took place between you and Tom in the middle of a corridor two weeks ago (you can’t stop wincing at how insane that sounds) and very little patience for his utterly original and not-at-all entitled request that you halt your studies with Godefrey. Godefrey doesn’t stick his hands up your skirts while the two of you are studying, doesn’t silence your gasps with a shush and a finger to your mouth, doesn’t — wouldn’t (you’re so imaginative when you want to be) — tell you to keep reading as his thumb draws circles between your legs, tell you to repeat the words that get caught in your throat, tell you how much he likes it when your eyes go dumb and glassy and all you can say is his name. So, really, Tom should have nothing to worry about.

“I swear,” Selwyn says, picking at a plate you don’t think she’s actually eaten anything off with how distracted she is, “he’s looked over here at least three times.”

You don’t dare glance at who you know she’s talking about. “You’re obsessed.”

Pot. Kettle. Whatever.

“Are you sure you didn’t do something to upset him in Potions? Didn’t botch something that might mar his perfect record?”

You flick her forehead and she scowls. “I’m not an idiot, Selwyn. I handle myself just as well in Potions as he does — he wouldn’t —” Wouldn’t have complimented your rapport if that weren’t true, wouldn’t have said you communicate efficiently, make a good pair, probably wouldn’t have — fingered you in the hallway? — yes, that too. Slipped your mind. So easy to forget.

You take a long exhale, and smile impassively at her. “I didn’t botch anything, trust me.”

She finally takes a bite of food. “Maybe I did something…”

And then she’s lost in thought again, eating now, at least, and you shake your head softly as you watch what are likely a million different theories flitting through her head.

“Morning,” Tom says to you when you enter Potions after breakfast, a delicate smile tugging at his lips.

You have, of course, trained for this.

It’s your fifth — sixth? — time sharing a table with him since that night and it is somehow easier by nature and harder by anticipation (of what, you have no idea) every time. The first was terrible. Unsalvageable and without a silver lining. It had taken almost an hour that morning to charm the violent hues of red and purple spanning the column of your throat, and ultimately, the marks were so persistent you’d forgone the glamours and decided to just wear a turtleneck. You’d been fortunate it was completely inconspicuous to wear such a thing in December, but that was about all there’d been to be grateful for. You hadn’t been able to look at Tom all class and his hand had brushed yours once to take a phial from you and you’d flinched so sharply it would have shattered on the floor if he hadn’t caught it. And he’d smiled, like he’s smiling now, a soft, “Careful,” that honestly, for a short moment, made you want him dead.

Now you could speak just fine, look him in the eyes in practised intervals, and almost, impressively, make articulate conversation with him again. Make stupid comments about Slughorn and Lestrange and bear the weight of his grin knowing it was there for you.

His, he’d called you. A very funny thing.

“Morning,” you answer on a smiling sigh, sleepy but jovial all the same.

You deserve applause for this.

“Tired?”

“Mhm — Essays for Ancient Runes are due Friday and it’s been keeping us up all night.”

His eyes flash with something you’ve yet to ascertain. Your research has been put temporarily on hold, scattered and splintered by the revelation that your first observation was, admittedly, a little bit off, and you have no means of figuring out a look like that when you can’t even begin to figure out anything else.

“Has it?” he asks, a tinge less friendly.

“Well,” you say, grinding the lacewing flies, “that’s commonplace, isn’t it? You take all sorts of advanced classes, I’m sure you understand the work it takes.”

“...Hm.”

That’s it. That’s all you get from him.

And if Selwyn’s concern over you botching your work in Potions wasn’t already, obviously dispelled, the glee on Slughorn’s face as he assesses your and Tom’s cauldron should do it.

“Brilliant! Just brilliant!” He claps a hand over Tom’s back, regarding you both with pride so thick it clouds his eyes, like he's drifted into a revery of the future (you and Tom, you expect, are his most prized graduates, making history under his name, proving his immense wisdom) before he appears to return to Earth. “Ten points between the two of you, hm? Very, very good — though, of course, no surprises there!”

He chuckles to himself as he evaluates the other students, and you catch a horrified wheeze of Godefrey’s name (bless his heart) as one of the cauldrons in the back begins to sputter and froth.

You look to Tom with some droll little comment at making it to the end of term with top marks, but his gaze is burning into Godefrey’s table in such a way you wouldn’t be surprised if it was what was causing his cauldron to boil.

Well. Perhaps not, then.

You and Godefrey hand in your essay that Friday with more relief than apprehension — you both decide it’s quite good — and you laugh loudly and breathlessly as he picks you up and thanks you a thousand times, spinning you until you’re dizzy. You refrain from making any promises to attend his Quidditch games, but he vows to let you have the snitch he catches.

And Slughorn, you come to find, was not exaggerating his elation at your skill. After trotting after you on your walk back from Ancient Runes to invite you to the last Slug Club dinner of the year, your spirits are high with the blissful satisfaction of a job well done and a night to celebrate it with.

You can breathe, finally, when it’s the last week of school before Christmas break and Selwyn’s zipping the back of a last-minute dress you purchased in Hogsmeade.

“Gorgeous,” Selwyn says with a grin. “Wish this school would have a bloody ball so I could really dress you up.”

“Buy a doll, Selwyn; you can dress them however you like.”

“You are such a —”

You burst into laugher, swatting her wand away as she pokes your side with it.

“Just — go then, before I hex you.”

“All right, all right!” you concede, arms raised in surrender. “Don’t ruin all your hard work now.”

“Oh,” she calls on your way out the door. You turn and there’s a mischievous look in her eyes as she tucks her wand back in her pocket. “And do tell me before I leave tomorrow if Riddle stares at you all night.”

You groan as if it’s a truly abominable thing to imagine. Riddle, staring with those dark eyes of his? You, the centre of his attention? Ghastly. You daresay you’d never recover from the horror of it.

“Don’t leave before I tell you how remarkably uneventful a night it was,” you say with a sidelong glare, and leave before she can edge in the final word.

You have no idea what a Slug Club supper typically consists of, but you imagine for Christmas he’s gone a little further with his festivities. His office is glittering in hues of green and red and fleecy, snow-dappled gold. The lights overheard (some similar charm to the one in the Great Hall but a tad less complex, you think) drip and then vanish into the air like squeezed berries, and the berries — served with pastries and ice cream — taste like they must be enchanted with something.

Selwyn was right that the standard dress isn’t quite formal enough for a ball, but it’s… formal. The boys are in clean-cut dress robes and the girls are in fine gowns of different lengths. By the overwhelming number of them you recall being archetypes of Slytherin pureblood fanaticism, it makes sense how expensive they all look. You yourself brush up nicely, if not a bit more frugally, but you haven’t been to an event like this at the school yet, and that’s exciting on its own.

It’s another degree of training (is there going to be a marathon? Are you at war?), a step up from your preparations before Potions every other day, to be ready when Tom Riddle enters the room a respectable five minutes late with a gleam about him more captivating than any of the lights.

“Ah, Tom!” Slughorn exclaims, and ushers him into a seat you remark before Tom is even in it is discomfitingly near to yours. “We’re all here at last… Supper, then? Hope you aren’t too full already, I’ve got the House Elves running laps!”

You’re spared Tom’s closeness by a Ravenclaw couple sat in the chairs between you, their hands clasped under the table while they sip wine from their goblets, and you only realise the length of your observation when Tom glances at you from the spot over, and you startle yourself into reaching for your own goblet and pretending to enjoy Slughorn’s bitter wine.

You eat. You listen to cluttered, unending tales of Slughorn’s time at school and how he earned his post. You drink, and then you regret not drinking before eating because there’s only a very light, very nice buzz that warms you when you finish your cup, and the Ravenclaw couple is — oh, wait, it isn’t just them — they’re standing up to dance as a gramophone sparks to life and a low, dulcet instrumental begins to play. There are now two notably empty seats separating you from Tom.

What had you said this night would be? Blissful satisfaction?

You couldn’t blame Selwyn for suggesting you’d blundered Potions — you didn’t feel exceptionally smart right now.

“I didn’t know you would be here tonight,” Tom says, pulling the chair beside you.

Where is the bottle of wine? No. Nevermind. You behave regrettably enough sober.

You manage a simple, “And yet.”

“...And yet.” His lips quirk before he takes a drink from his goblet.

You lament for a second that you’ve only actually kissed those lips once. They spent a great deal longer on your neck.

“Will you be here over break?” he asks, and it isn’t an unreasonable thing to ask, you suppose.

“I think so. Why?”

“I’d like to know whether to expect you or not.”

Expect you… No, yes — revert to observation two: unusual is not an apt enough word for him.

It takes you a moment to conjure a response befitting polite dinner conversation. That is, after all, still what this is.

“I suppose you can. I’ll be busy, of course.”

Well, you didn’t say you conjured something good. It’s a big fat lie. Placating, vague, empty. And you suspect Tom knows that.

“Pity.”

Yes, he knows. He’s all quiet amusement again.

You stare off, satisfied to be left alone —

"And what is it that'll be taking so much of your time?"

“Well, I'm —” And now you have to build the lie — “I’ve told Godefrey I’ll attend to his Quidditch practise. Since the pitch isn’t in use.”

God, it’s so stupid it’s almost impressive — you don’t even know if Godefrey will be here over break, and you could have chosen any number of excuses that would pique Tom’s interest less than it’s apparently consistently piqued by the mention of your study partner.

There’s that strange, indecipherable look again. Riddle is a perfect surname for him, you decide then, and you almost laugh at yourself for it, but that would probably not go over well should he ask what’s so funny.

“Have you, now? That’s very kind of you.”

“It’s hardly charity.”

“Hm, it’s kind of you to think so.”

You huff, tipping your goblet back to swallow the last meagre dregs of your wine.

“You look lovely.”

It’s just a little bit — just a tiny, straggling little bit of elderflower that captures your throat — and you cough into your goblet. “Thank — thank you.”

And, well, he looks lovely too. Obviously. Sickeningly so. You know little about his personal life but you’re positive he’s at least a half-blood, if not muggle-born, and it makes you wonder the influence of his renownedly plain black suit in a crowd of neat, long robes.

He manages with little effort to look better than all of them at their best.

His eyes drift over you appreciatively, quick enough not to be rude but — enough. (Enough that you daresay you might never recover from the horror of it.) You adjust under his gaze even when it’s situated on your face, far too heavy a thing for you to carry. “Does Godefrey call you lovely?”

What?

You blink at him, your mouth is probably open and you probably look stupid but he’s so… irritating. Yes, of course Godefrey calls you lovely. Godefrey tells you you’re the smartest woman he’s ever met (after his mother), and he drowns you with sherbet lemons at no cost, and he writes at the speed of light to match the quickness with which you recite your textbook, and none of it means anything. Tom is just —

“Unbelievable…”

He quirks a brow. “What was that?”

“I said you’re unbelievable, Riddle. Is it impossible for you to comprehend that I might have friends? That Godefrey is my friend?”

“Well, memory serves me right that you seemed a bit confused on the conventions of friendship last you mentioned it. Do forgive my uncertainty.”

He — that was —

“Well, that’s because we are not friends.”

“No.” He leans in. “We are not.”

You push your chair from the table with all the grace you can manage for such an abrupt thing: a tight, impersonal smile on your face as you walk away and approach Slughorn, only realising when you get there that your empty goblet is clutched in your hand like you’re trying to strangle it.

Whatever he sees on your face, he isn’t drunk enough not to frown at. “Ah, our newest gem — hardly seen you all night! Not leaving already, are we?”

You glance at the clock. It isn’t as though you’re being impolite by abandoning his party in the middle of the event. It’s quite late, the servers are stuck to the walls with little to do, and most of the room has divided into waltzing pairs.

“I’m taking my friend to the train station tomorrow, sir. Unfortunately I need to be up quite early.”

Yes, yes, it’s all so tragic. You’re depressed to go.

“Such a shame,” Slughorn frets, wobbling a tad and balancing himself on the wall. “You’ll be all right getting back? Not at all dizzy, are you?” His laugh is cleaved by a loud hiccough, and then he laughs even more. “My, well, I myself will need to be carried!”

“...I’ll be fine, sir. Thank you.”

“Oh, no trouble at all — there’s — hm… ah, Tom!”

No, no — is it bad you almost reach over and slap your palm over your professor’s mouth? Is it at all impressive that you don’t? You should look on the bright side in moments like these. You should admire your restraint.

But of course, Slughorn’s eyes don’t fall upon Tom for nothing. He's halfway across the room already, and Slughorn must have spotted him approaching to achieve this brilliant solution. “Tom can escort you back, no?”

Tom (unforgivably) is beside you now, a very mean, very pretty smile on his face.

“Not too much to ask, I should think? You know the castle best. Head Boy — sometimes I still can’t believe it!”

You look up at Tom and your jaw is clenched where you’ve since put down your goblet. There is too much tension in you to know what to do with, and he looks positively thrilled.

“It’s hardly charity, sir.” He holds out his arm.

You wonder what spell would catch him most off-guard if you were to blast him in the face right now.

Slughorn claps his hands together. “Ha! Yes, well… perfect, then! Off now, the two of you, off now. Do have a good — ” He hiccoughs again — “rest!”

You don’t even bother the diplomacy of smiling at Slughorn as your arm loops through Tom’s and you’re exiting the party.

Neither of you say a word on the journey, and that’s very well.

If you could just get back to bed without speaking to him you may still consider it a good night. You may be able to push his strangeness and his entitlement and the annoying way his hair falls to another day, when he pesters you about Godefrey’s nonexistent Quidditch practise, which — come to think of it — you do think he told you he'd be headed home for the holidays. You really fumbled that one.

And then Tom’s thumb is brushing the bare skin of your arm and your walk stutters a bit. But he doesn’t mention it, and so neither do you.

And then he’s drawing down your elbow to your forearm so softly it almost feels like he isn’t touching you at all. He doesn’t mention it. Neither do you.

And then your arm, without really meaning for it to, is slipping from his and his hand is holding yours instead, feather-light as his fingers clasp yours and your breath is not the same as it was when you left.

He doesn’t mention it. He just keeps going.

His fingers work back up your arm and you shiver as they drag across your shoulder, gaze searing your neck as the soft digits find their way to your jaw, and you get the sense he’s remembering just how much he liked the taste of it, and you’re… you’re allowing it all again. You’re leaning in, you’re seeking him out, you want him flush against you and even that might not be satisfactory.

You are, in the end, a half-decent observer and a terrible liar.

You’re grabbing his hand with a small amount of direction and a great deal of meaning. You suppose it's because, historically, you’ve proven to have trouble with words in moments like these, and you don’t really know where you’re taking him but god, you know where you want him. Somewhere soft, this time, thick enough that you can fist your hands around it and melt. Somewhere he can hover over you, maybe hold you down a little, just until — maybe, miraculously — you might make him break a little too. Clamber over his lap. Make him yours.

“Tom,” you mouth, some question in the way your eyebrows knit.

The moment you say his name — the instant — he’s pulling you in, crushing his mouth against yours. And, ah, right, that’s what his lips feel like. You’d almost forgotten.

This kiss is not chaste, hardly tender. It resists in that it asks you to push, to plead, to take this for yourself to prove how badly you want it, and he smiles into it when you do. And then, sated by your efforts, he lets you have him. You’re gripping the collar of his suit in your hands as his wander appreciatively over the back of your dress, pulling you into him as the kiss deepens. He’s savouring you like you’re something religious that’s been offered to him, and there’s the taste of wine on his tongue and you’re still here, aware enough that the symbolism isn’t lost on you.

“I've been thinking," he says between kisses, “about the way you felt when I touched you. I've been thinking about how long it might take before you need it again."

You gasp at the sensation, and god, god, you've been wondering too, haven't you?

You’re pulling him impossibly closer and something hard is pressing into your hip and you clutch tighter onto his shirt as you moan into his mouth. You need it off, you think, and — has your dress been clinging to you like this all night? You need that off too. You need skin on skin. You careen him backwards without aim, your mind a muddled mess of all the many things your body is screaming it needs, like this is fucking imperative; to give it up would be catastrophic.

You suppose, based on what you’ve read, that that’s how the Room of Requirement works, but it’s still funny to think it would apply to this.

It hurts to remove yourself from him to watch in dumb awe as the door forms in the stone (to see the dark, languid shape of his eyes bearing down on you, the wet, stained pink of his lips), and Tom seems to recover from the revelation much faster than you.

His mouth is on yours once more, a hungry kiss; his free hand at your waist, guiding you through the door and shutting it carelessly behind him.

He’s like fire against you, radiating as he presses down on you, his hand tangled in your hair and his hips flush against yours. You shiver as his mouth starts to move down (a cheap trick — he hasn’t forgotten how much you liked it the last time) from your jaw to your throat, as his lips trail down your chest and you're shivering into the warmth of him.

You’ve heard it said before, in some romantic sense, that it’s sometimes hard to tell where you end and someone else begins.

This is not like that.

You've never been more aware of anything than the point where you and him meet.

You’re tugging at him blindly again, trusting in the nature of the Room like this isn't the first time you've been in it, and then you're stumbling down onto a bed you're quite sure wasn't there a moment ago (people say magic is a neutral force but evidently this is not the fucking case), fingers carding through Tom's hair as his body pins you into the mattress.

His mouth is molten hot as you squirm and pant beneath him, your breath coming faster than it ever has. Everything feels sharper and deeper and more intense under his touch, every sensation heightened until it's almost impossible to tell pleasure from pain, his tongue from his teeth.

How did it take you this long to do this again? To need him like this?

And his — you should really have the mind to see the mistake in all of this but perhaps that's for later — his fingers are pulling your sleeves down, propping your back to arch as he reaches under you to unzip your dress, apparently too impatient to sit you up and take it off properly so he just bunches it around your waist instead. There’s a moment where he stops to look at you, your chest exposed to him in the dim sconce-light, and then his mouth returns to circle your breast and you're biting down on a pillow to hold back the whimpering gasp that seeks to escape you. He hums around your flesh, and then he’s at your sternum, kissing a stripe to your belly button before pushing past the dress he's left ringed around your abdomen.

You shimmy under the weight of him to prop your head up — to see past the mass of silk that obscures his face from you as moves lower and lower, hands spanning your hips to keep you still.

His face hovers above your thighs, and he doesn’t move.

“Did you enjoy my fingers?" he asks.

At that you freeze, thighs pressing together to bury the hand that's rising between them.

Tom smiles. “Hm, you did."

And then he spreads your legs apart, one hand pushing your underwear aside and regarding you with delicate, shameless appetite — something that might even be adoration: like this is all he ever wanted you to want.

“Do you think you'd enjoy my mouth, too?"

Words are gone. There's nothing left in you.

His head moves happily between your knees, holding them apart, pressing kisses to the base of your thighs. Your hands flail from the sheets, desperate to grip something else and you hold back a sound that feels like irritation and need at the same time. You need him closer, higher than this. He knows. You can feel his smile biting into your skin.

And then you manage a nod though you're not even sure he's looking at your face anymore (and what a picture to imagine he is) and you worry momentarily it won’t be enough for him — that he’ll ask you to be nice and say it out loud for him — but he hums with something merciful, and — his chin dips. You catch the smallest glimpse of his tongue before it’s on you, wet and slow and unrelenting and you say his name, but it’s a mewl; you choke on it. It sounds like a cry.

Pitiful, needy, undone. Just how he wants you.

You think all efforts to remain even remotely composed are thrown to the wind as soon as his tongue is lapping at you, fast and then slow, everything you want and not even remotely close. He sinks all his weight down as if he can predict the moment you'll writhe before you do — and you do. And with his grip he tells you to endure it. You only need him to say it with his hands and his mouth but he breathes back, licking his lips and he actually says it. “Be good.”

That makes your breath hitch and your cheeks swell impossibly hotter, and reality is a small glint in your peripheral where everything else is burning red. “Y-you’re—”

His mouth returns to you, tongue catching your clit in a drawn-out, agonising motion, and you gasp and lurch forward to inch through the sensation, craving more, more, more. Reason is lost on you, a throbbing familiarity forcing you to grind your teeth down on the pillow to stop yourself from telling him to — you don’t even know. Finish you. Abandon all reluctance. Just let you come as hard as you know he wants you to.

But he pauses, observant as he starts to work his fingers against you. Watching how your slick coats them like it’s the most enthralling sight he’s ever witnessed. Slowly, ever so slowly, he starts to push one inside of you, hearing your breath catch above him and the moan that comes tumbling out of your throat, pillow be damned.

You do your best to breathe through it, and you know he knows how to make you unfold like this, so the meticulous lightness of his ministrations tells you he’s trying to keep it from you now. You’re almost embarrassed about the fact that you’re dripping onto his hand regardless; his lips puffy, his gaze unnervingly, dizzyingly carving you in two.

“Just,” you rasp, clutching desperately at his wrist. “Tom, please.”

Your begging must be music to his ears. (It’s a rare, unplanned fifth observation: that you think he’ll never get tired of hearing you say his name like that.)

He adds a finger. It’s encircling you, first, and no amount of restraint can stop the harsh gasp that leaves you, but then it’s his tongue and two fingers and he’s pushing into you how you wanted, and he makes a pleased sound against you, gripping you tighter with his free hand, still not allowing you movement and fuck, are you trying. What you're feeling now — the need, the want, everything — is more than rational thought. Your mind goes blank, and all that matters is this, him, right here and now; nothing else exists, not even for a second. You moan, a low, throaty noise that's a little too loud, a little too intense; you can't recall if anything has ever come from you quite like it and Tom devours you at the sound.

More, you agree; it's almost an obsession in you now; more, more, please, anything and everything.

It’s the precision of his touch — not some bored, hurried transgression — that brings your hands helplessly to his hair.

“Tom,” you whine, holding him tight, and the purr of his mouth finding you again is something destructive.

As soon as you feel another swell of something deep down, your mouth is dropping open.

His tongue is sliding through you, fingers curling, and then your clit is in his mouth, and he’s watching you between your thighs as your eyes clench shut, and you’re coming.

Your voice breaks somewhere in the catastrophe of it. Your body spasms, electric down to every atom, and he pins you down through it. He doesn’t grant you the reprieve of escaping the frenzied, glorious torture of it. His mouth still lingers. His tongue moves thankful and unrelenting.

He takes all of you, and you think this is destruction — creation — both. How terrifyingly similar they suddenly feel.

His lips are swollen and slick when he finally detaches them from you and you want to kiss him, but he’s leaning back to admire his work. You swallow, unable to blame him for it because you look down at yourself and — this is something else. You’re dripping down his chin. You're shaking. Your legs are still clenching around his torso. They’re holding him so tight you can’t imagine it doesn’t hurt.

But he just rolls off of you. Adjusts his trousers and your abdomen flutters and you think, don’t.

You don’t even realise you’re reaching for him until your hand is around his wrist and you’re still fucking sighing through the come-down, panting into the hot air.

He presses a kiss to your forehead, fingers damp on your chin as he holds you. You make a note that that’s the second time he’s done that. That you thought it was strangely intimate the first time and nothing’s changed other than how much more you like it.

And it doesn’t really feel like you can help it but crawl with gooey, trembling legs onto his lap. Doesn’t feel like you can help it when you lean in and capture his lips with yours, moan unabashedly into his mouth at the stiffness that presses against your core when you do, steal his tongue and the taste of you on it.

When he pulls away he’s looking at you like he doesn’t think you can actually do this. Like you’d just crumble the moment you tried.

A low, determined protest rises in your throat and you’re kissing him again. You’re unbuttoning his dress shirt, you’re trembling to reach for his trousers.

When you can finally shrug his shirt off, press yourself against him, feel that skin on skin you wanted so badly, you find it somehow even more suffocating than its absence. You��re left wanting a more you aren’t able to even conceptualise, but you’re grinding involuntarily against him and his teeth are scraping your neck and he's hissing at the sensation, and — yes, there’s more.

Your breath is staggered when your hips stutter into a roll and you — fuck. You’re tugging desperately to remove his belt and he smiles against your throat as he takes your hands and guides them to him. You can feel his bulge against your thigh and you’re spreading your legs to usher him where you want, clawing at his chest without even meaning to.

Tom’s taking off his belt, and he’s pulling down his trousers just enough to bare himself to you, and maybe he’s right that you can’t manage it yourself but he stops his assistance like the intrigue of finding out is too good to resist. There's something both intimate and imperious, in a way, about the way he's looking at you now; it's a kind of focus and intensity and withheld hunger just for you; and you're more than happy to give yourself over to it, to let his hands and his eyes and his mouth claim you for his own. To claim him for yours, at last.

You do. You struggle for it. He’s very patient.

But then it’s there — more — as you finally sink down on him and bite his shoulder and he shudders a low, pained exhale, his hands clutching your waist.

There’s a silent, suspended moment where neither of you move. The room feels entirely still.

Your lips quiver over his pulse, and your stomach flips at the intensity of it, the undeniable rate of his desire beneath you. You smile against him now, like he always does to you, conscious enough to mumble into his neck, “Mine.”

Tom stutters inside you, fingers gripping you impossible tighter as you dare to think he even gasps. You dare to think he likes it.

And then one of his hands grabs your jaw and his kiss is searing. He thrusts upward and you cry into his mouth, searching to match his pace in a way that you appreciate, for once, he seems unlearned in.

It’s all a bit messy, a bit new, palms in fists, in skin, in hair, digging for every part they haven’t already taken from. The sound in the back of Tom’s throat is divine, the feeling of him inside you as he slips his hand back between your legs — like he needs everything, like he knows you do too — it’s ineffable. It coils somewhere deep, touches something you didn’t know existed. Your hips are rotating, thighs still soft and slack from coming apart on his tongue, but you’re determined. It feels like finding even ground. It feels like something you deserve: to make him feel how you did.

Your head rolls back, eyes pinching shut in bliss, but Tom is there at your jaw again, forcing your blurry gaze back to him.

His hips are inching even further, the intensity of his pace as he adjusts to you making you dizzy. You think, realistically, there’s sound coming out of you, but you aren’t entirely sure when it’s so close to him, when your mouth is between his fingers and your ears are ringing and he’s looking at you like you’re made for him.

“Mine.” And it isn’t a dismissal of your own claim but a confirmation that one will not be without the other. His voice is raw and breathy and something about the way he says it makes you contract inadvertently around him, hands swatting his chest like they don’t know what else to do. There’s just too much.

You recognize you’re trying to say something. Some plea, a moan, his name (is there anything else left?), but you’re just babbling into his mouth and he holds you there. He doesn’t kiss you. It’s your failing words against his lips. He swallows whatever syllables try to shape them.

It’s there again when you need it most; the heavy, swirling feeling inside you as he snaps his hips, his fingers returning to your waist with punishing firmness. His breathing accelerates, low in his throat, and you push harder against him. Your vision is gone again, head held in his hands to keep from rolling back so that, you suspect, he can watch defeat split you down the middle again — not over your shoulder, not with his head between your legs — with his eyes on yours, with every broken moan you let out so close to his face he can feel the breath of each one.

You’re grappling desperately at skin that doesn’t feel like enough, even though he’s rocking inside you, and you see the insanity of it, you see that it isn’t logical. Too much and not enough at once — you’re smart enough to know that doesn’t work, but it just is.

“Please,” you manage in a voice you don’t recognize. “Please, Tom, pleasepleaseplease —”

Had you said before it was foolish to call him forgiving? You take it back. He’s very eager to oblige you.

He finds some place inside of you and you don’t know quite what it is that he changes but it's new, uncharted, and you break there. You dissolve. You’re liquid in his hands as you sob, stuttering around him, trembling like you didn’t know was possible, and you swear — you swear you’re going to take him there with you. It isn’t that you could stop yourself if you tried but your body is gripping around him, fingers carving halved spheres into his skin, and you’re pushing down on him through the ecstasy — you’re forcing your eyes open so he can see you break, watch them flutter back all soft and pretty.

And you're sated by your ruin when it ruins him too.

The sound he makes is ragged. Undone. He can only bury it halfway with a kiss you think is actually more of a bite, twitching inside you as he fucks you through it.

You’re both lost in each other for a moment that feels detached from time, feeling his hips stutter to a halt, feeling your body soften. And he’s pulling out of you like it hurts, mouth falling open as he does. You wince at the loss, the sweet soreness between your legs, and you’re held only by the weight of him. You think — and you actually sway like the mere idea is too strong — that if it weren’t for his hands, you’d fall flat off the bed.

But he sort of lifts you off him, lays you down and watches you for a long time as if to decide something important before he's laying down beside you. You watch him too. His fingers brush your hair out of your face, and when there’s not a single curl left clinging to the sweat on your skin, he continues anyway. You let him trace your lips, your jaw, your nose, and somehow, a bit terrifyingly, your final observation: nothing about it feels unusual at all.

You did say he was yours.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle smut #tom riddle x y/n #tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle fanfiction #tom riddle oneshot #NO LONGER!#but it is only a two-parter sorry. this is it #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world

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mangomonk · 9 months

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i caught myself

↳ summary: remus goes to a coffee shop for the first time ↳ content: fluff, oblivious idiots x idiots, coffee shop au, rock band!muggle ↳ a/n: i wanted to write something fun and i've been listening to too much of my punk rock playlists from when i was 15. feel very free to listen to "i caught myself" by paramore (or any paramore song) while reading..! i love portrayals of remus as an earnest loser where the reader/sirius is ridiculously infatuated with his endearingly awkward ways. in other news, i've given up on using 'y/n,' it killed me every time i had to type it so i just chose a random name, feel free to make a mental edit to 'y/n' if you're more comf with that.

It's rush hour when she first sees him. She almost doesn't — it's just her and her coworker today and her eyes are only moving from the cash register's buttons to each cup as she hastily scrawls names and orders onto the plastic.

"Hi, what can I get for you?" She asks half-distractedly as she finishes writing Mocha Cookie Crumble Frappuccino before sliding it over to her coworker with an apologetic look. Frappes are the worse to make, and it doesn't help that the line is nearly to the door now. She almost doesn't look up but the silence to her question is a little too long, so Winnie darts a quick look up, hoping to see no one standing there.

What she's not expecting to see is a man with wide brown eyes and equally brown hair squinting at the menu above her head. Winnie thinks he's the most good-looking man she's ever seen. As she tries to recap the Sharpie, she stabs her own hand. "Shit," she mutters automatically.

"Sorry?" The ridiculously good-looking man asks politely, his gaze flickering from the menu to her. His eyes are the same color as caramelized sugar and Winnie thinks he looks just as sweet as she watches him pull at the frayed collar of his knitted jumper.

"Nothing, nothing," Winnie says with a dismissive hand as she puts on her best customer-service-smile. "What can I get you today?"

His brows furrow as he turns his gaze back to the menu. "What—" he begins, drawing out the word slowly. Winnie takes his hesitation to steal another appreciative glance at him — he's tall, his frame somewhere between lean and lanky, though it's hidden by a jumper that's clearly been knitted to be a few sizes too large for extra comfort. "—would you recommend?"

"Well, what do you normally like?" Winnie asks, casting a glance behind him. As much as she'd love to talk to this cute stranger for the rest of her shift, the line has started to wrap around.

The man rakes a hand through his hair, tousling already-tousled waves of brown. He looks sheepish and a little panicked. "I've never really had coffee before," he admits. A little strange, but Winnie's not one to judge, especially when he's looking at her with deer-in-the-headlight eyes.

"How about I get you my favorite drink then?" She suggests, already reaching for the sharpie and another cup. It's a trick she's learned from working in the coffee shop for the past few months — customers are less likely to be unhappy with their surprise drinks if they think it's your favorite drink.

The man nods, his shoulders sagging with apparent relief. Matcha latte, she scribbles before looking up at him again. "Can I get a name?"

"My name?" He repeats, looking dumbfounded as if she had just asked for his number.

She lifts the cup and shakes it a little to draw his attention to it. "For your order."

"Remus," he says, straightening. He clears his throat. "Remus Lupin."

"Got it," she says as she writes it down. Remus Lupin. She's never had a customer give her a full name before, but Winnie doesn't have time to ponder it as she slides the cup to her coworker. "That'll be $4.50."

He fishes out a $10 and when she tries to hand back the change, he shakes his head with a soft, polite smile.

"Come again," she calls after him, pleased, before turning back to the monstrous line that had managed to form behind him. "I can help the next customer."

— — — — —

The next time she sees him, it's just her behind the counter. Since the rush died down an hour earlier, she's been leaning over the counter squinting at an eight count that she can't quite get right. When the door jingles, Winnie puts down her pencil and moves back behind the register.

"Hi! What can I get for you today?" She asks before she properly looks up. It's the fluffy-haired man from last week. Today he's wearing a scarlet and gold jumper bunched at his wrists and slacks the same brown as his eyes and hair. She doesn't recognize the lion emblem embroidered on his chest — it doesn't match any of the mascots of the nearby universities. When he unwraps his scarf, she can see that his cheeks are flushed red from the cold. It's a good look on him. "Cold outside?"

"Getting there," he says with a soft sigh.

"I can't wait," she says conversationally. "I love autumn."

"Hm," he says, ending the conversation rather abruptly.

Winnie tries not to grimace at the awkward silence as she pulls out her sharpie from the pocket of her apron. "So, what can I get for you today?" When he hesitates for a moment too long, his gaze darting back up to the menu behind her, Winnie tries for conversation again. "How was the matcha latte last time?"

Remus hesitates, his gaze darting to her. "It was very green."

The response is so unexpected that Winnie barely bites back a bark of a laugh before she catches herself. She wasn't a gifted conversationalist, but Remus was making her seem like a total extrovert. "It was," she agrees, smiling now. Up close, she can see shadows below his big eyes. Maybe he needed an espresso? Or less coffee and more sleep. "I'm guessing it wasn't to your taste? I'll let you order today—"

Remus seems to catch himself because he straightens hurriedly. "No, I'll have a matcha latte," he says firmly, already fishing out five dollar bill.

Winnie punches the numbers into the cash register and nods him along, but he hesitates, looking at her expectantly. "Don't you need my name?"

"Not unless it's changed from Remus Lupin," Winnie chirps cheerfully, biting back a smile as he blinks at her rapidly. "Has it?"

"No," he says, clearing his throat. "It's still Remus Lupin."

"Coming right up, Remus Lupin," Winnie says with a mini salute as she turns to start making the drink.

After he leaves, she notices a strange looking coin in the tip jar that hadn't been there before. When she squints at it, she can make out the carved word, Sickle. With raised brows, Winnie slips the strange coin into the pocket of her jeans.

— — — — —

The next time she sees Remus Lupin, he's wearing a long coat over a sweater vest. Winnie thinks he looks like a cute little professor.

"Hi, how's it going—" she's beginning to say just as Remus says choppily, "It's cold outside. Now."

They both blink at each other for a moment before Winnie grins a little, inwardly pleased that he remembered their last conversation. "Yeah?" She turns to squint critically out the window. "On a day like this, I'd kill to be in bed with a warm cup of tea."

Remus nods thoughtfully before pausing. "Not matcha?"

"Matcha strikes me more as a spring-summer drink," she muses.

He nods again, eyes darting to the menu above her head. Winnie is used to this now, so she waits patiently for his order. To her surprise, he looks at her again tentatively, his brown eyes startling bright. It feels as though she's been sucker punched.

"I'm not much of an autumn or winter person," he says. It takes her a moment to realize that he was still referencing their previous conversation. "The cold gets to my joints," he adds, looking a little sheepish.

"Ah," she says dumbly, nodding, before blurting, "Well, did you know that matcha has antioxidant and anti-inflammatory effects?"

Remus blinks at her as though she's clubbed him over the head. "Anti-ox-i-dant," he repeats slowly, as if saying the word for the first time.

Winnie inwardly grimaces. Why was she still talking about matcha? She had been so caught off guard that he was continuing the conversation and that his eyes were stupidly pretty that she had fumbled a little. "Er, so what can I get for you?"

"A cup of matcha then," Remus says, fishing a five dollar bill from his pockets. "For it's anti-ox-i-dant effects."

Winnie's cheeks burn a little as she waves him off. "It's on the house today," she says.

Remus looks surprised as he hesitates. "No, I can pay—"

"No, no, it's on the house," Winnie says firmly, thinking inwardly, For my piss poor attempt at conversation. Before he can insist, she takes her Sharpie and writes Matcha latte, even though it's only her behind the counter today. "Name?" She asks, half-teasing, half-hoping to distract him from trying to pay.

He blinks, looking startled. "Remus Lupin," he answers automatically, straightening.

"Just making sure it hasn't changed," she hums, smiling a little as she gets started on the latte.

To her surprise, Remus laughs, the sound low and rich and warm. "It hasn't yet," he says, glancing down at her name tag for a moment before looking back up at her, his brown eyes wide and bright as he drops the ten dollar bill into the tip jar. "Thank you, Winnie."

Winnie is too stunned by his laugh to complain.

— — — — —

Remus starts to come by more frequently. She can never quite figure out his schedule — it's sporadic, sometimes during rush hour where they can only exchange a few words, but mostly when the coffee shop is empty. She's grown so accustomed — and perhaps, has quickly begun to look forward — to seeing him that she can't help but look up hopefully when someone comes in.

Their conversations at the counter gradually grow less halting. She makes a point to always ask his name and Remus dutifully plays along each time, his lips twitching each time he gives her his name.

"You're always working on music," he observes one day. He must have come in without her realizing because when she looks up, she finds Remus nodding down at her paper.

"I am," she agrees mournfully. "I study music at the local university," she tells him, straightening her apron.

"That suits you," he says with the soft smile that she's grown terribly fond of.

Pleasure warms her chest as she tries not to beam at him. Though their conversations are mostly quiet and simple, it feels as though she's always trying not to smile a full-teeth smile at him.

She learns that he's only recently graduated from some sort of private boarding school. From his vague references, it sounded like one of those preparatory schools for gifted students. It doesn't strike her as much of a surprise — from his responses, Winnie can get a sense for how knowledgeable and bright he is, though to be fair, he always seems to bring a new book in when he visits. It might also explain how awkward and closed off Remus is, Winnie decides — she thinks public schools build thick skin. Winnie doesn't really mind the occasionally halting conversations though — Remus, for his credit, is a wonderful listener and always asks her questions when she talks about her band. And something about the attentive way Remus looks at her makes her feel comfortable about talking. She's almost worried that she talks too much — it's a welcome reprieve from the quiet slowness or the repetitive "Hi, how are you?'s" of the coffee shop.

"Sorry," she says one day when she brings him his drink. "I realize that I talk your ear off whenever you're here and I'm sure you've got things to do, books to read."

Remus shakes his head, sending his fluffy brown hair falling against his brow. It's gotten longer since the first time she's met him, the ends beginning to curl down the nape of his neck and around his ears. It's a good look on him, though admittedly, Winnie finds herself thinking that whenever he comes in.

"It's no problem," Remus says easily. Winnie nods, about to return to the counter when he clears his throat. "I... enjoy your company," he says with an impossibly tiny smile. At the sight of it, Winnie wants to fall to the floor, but she hasn't mopped it yet, so she opts to stand perfectly still instead. "If you ever feel inclined to take a break to chat, the chair is always open."

Some days when the shop isn't too busy, she takes him on his offer to sit and chat. Some days their conversations are long and winding, about nothing in particular, and on some days — mostly the days where he looks strangely exhausted — they both sit in a comfortable silence with Remus reading his books and Winnie laboring over her music.

One day when she's put all her focus on composing, Winnie nearly jumps out of her skin when Remus speaks up. "New song?"

Winnie looks up from her sheets at his question. A little thrill runs through her body when she sees that his book has been discarded to the side as he looks at her curiously. "Old song," she sighs. "I've been trying to finish these lyrics," she says, giving a frustrated glare to the paper. "I wanted to finish it in time for my band's next show, but I can't seem to get anywhere good with it."

Remus hums thoughtfully. "What's it about?"

"It's a love song," Winnie says before thinking. She darts a quick look at Remus as her ears burn, but fortunately, he's looking down at her lyrics thoughtfully. To be fair, she reasons with herself, she had started writing it before meeting Remus. "I've been stuck for ages now though."

"Hmm," Remus hums, leaning back in his chair to stretch his lithe limbs before letting his arms settle on his head. It's an effortlessly attractive motion — Winnie tries not to stare. "I'm sure you've tried already, but maybe you can draw inspiration from experience?"

Winnie clears her throat. "Oh, er, well, I actually don't really have..." She falters, feeling her cheeks burn. She's undeniably red now. "—experience in that realm," she finishes lamely.

"Ah," Remus makes a sound, his eyes widening a fraction as he re-rights himself to sit up straight in his chair. "Sorry, I just figured that you... That there'd be..." He stops himself, looking sheepish.

"That I what?" She presses, arching her brow to deflect from her reddening face.

"I just thought that you'd have experience in relationships," Remus coughs, his cheeks pink now. It's cute enough that it nearly distracts her from the mortifying conversation they're having.

"Ah, no," she says, swallowing. Then she adds hurriedly, darting a glance at him, "It's not that I don't want to date. It's just the type of guy I've attracted in the past has always been—" Winnie cuts off her rambling abruptly as Remus leans forward, brown eyes trained on hers.

"Has been what?"

"Oh, I don't know," she mumbles, scrubbing a hand over her face, grimacing. "You know, tattoos, eats cigs for breakfast. Maybe my nose ring gives the wrong impression," she lets out an embarrassed laugh, wishing that the ground would open up and swallow her whole to stop her nonsensical babbling.

"I see," Remus says slowly in a tone that very much sounded like he didn't.

"What about you?" She blurts. Remus looks startled, so she shoulders onwards. It feels as though she has nothing left to lose, anyways. "I'm sure you were popular in school."

"Ah," he says, making a noise at the back of his throat. He rubs the nape of his neck, looking embarrassed as he looks down as his discarded book. She bets he wished he never stopped reading. "Not really," he says. "I was always busy with school and, er, other things, so I never..." He trails off, making a vague motion with his hands. "Yeah," he finishes lamely.

"That's a surprise," Winnie says, inwardly relieved that he wasn't dating anyone. "I'm sure you had plenty of admirers."

Remus smiles at her wryly, a flash of embarrassment flickering across his face. "My mates had plenty of admirers," he says, though not enviously. Winnie waits patiently for him to continue — one thing she's gathered from Remus was that he often deflected talking about himself through talking about his friends. Sirius, Peter, James, she had learned were their names. "Sirius, in fact, was plenty popular." He darts a strange look to her, his brows knitted together and contemplative. "You'd get along well with him, I reckon."

— — — — —

Another day, during rush hour. She can see him waiting in the long line stealing glances at her that sends her heart stuttering. When their gaze meets, she offers him an apologetic smile. Remus just returns her smile and shakes his head, sending his hair down across his brow.

When he finally reaches the counter, he doesn't leave her any time to say hello. "I have a mate," Remus starts, pausing long enough for her to raise a brow.

"A mate," she drawls, trying to decode the peculiar expression on his face. He's visibly hesitating, his brow furrowing and relaxing as if he's overcoming some inner dilemma. Winnie waits patiently.

"A mate," he says again, rubbing the base of his neck. "That wants to learn how to play the guitar."

"I see," Winnie says slowly, patiently.

"It's Sirius — my friend that I told you about before," he adds, not quite looking at her but not quite looking away either. "Obviously, you can say no, but I thought that since you played the guitar, that maybe you'd...?"

Winnie thinks about it for a moment, an idea forming in her mind. She felt a twinge of guilt briefly for having an ulterior motive, before reasoning with herself that she was about to give a free guitar lesson. "I can give him an intro lesson," she says. "But only because he's your good friend."

Remus relaxes, his face breaking into a smile that only makes her feel better about her choice. Lord, she thinks, her eyes tracking his dimple. She thinks if he smiled like that at her, she'd do anything. "Brilliant," he beams.

A customer behind him clears her throat meaningfully, jolting Winnie out of the conversation. She had entirely forgotten she was working.

"So, a matcha latte?" She asks loudly. When she looks back at him, she's expecting him to sport his normal embarrassed half-smile, but she's caught off guard to see him grinning at her roguishly. Remus never fails to surprise her.

Remus nods, clearly trying not to laugh as he fishes out a bill. Winnie goes through the motions of punching in the numbers and preparing the cup. "We can do it at my flat, I have an extra guitar," she tells him as she finishes his order.

Remus smiles and nods, turning to leave when a thought occurs to her. "Oh, and Remus?" She calls after him.

He whirls around, brows arched and eyes wide and attentive. "Hmm?"

"You'll be there right?"

"Me?" Remus blurts, looking startled.

Winnie bites back a sigh. As she expected. Doubling down, she nods. "I'm not going to let a random man into my flat," she tells him, brows arching. She tries to ignore the customer behind him huffing impatiently.

Remus hesitates. "Sirius isn't a random man." Despite herself, Winnie likes this stubborn side of him.

"I've never met him," she sniffs, jutting her chin out mulishly.

"So you'll feel better if there's two random men in your house?" He counters archly.

But Winnie had been expecting this. She gives him a smile. Remus blinks, looking startled as any semblance of resistance dissipates. "You're not just a random man," she says meaningfully.

Remus blinks again. Then he turns, clearing his throat as he begins wrapping his scarf around his neck. Winnie thinks she can see a pink flush crawl up his neck before he covers it with a scarf, but she might just be seeing what she wants to see. "I'll be there," Remus says gruffly with a stiff nod.

Winnie mimics his stiff nod and bites back a smile.

"Thank you for waiting," she says to the next customer with her best customer-service-smile.

Before Remus returns for his drink, Winnie makes a split-second decision to write her number on a napkin. The idea has her stomach doing a dangerous, giddy flip in her stomach, but she does it anyways and slips it under his drink waiting on the counter.

— — — — —

The next three weeks is grueling for two reasons. The first is that she doesn't see Remus once, despite taking extra shifts. The second is because she waits for a phone call that never comes.

She's never given her number to anyone before so she doesn't quite know what the socially acceptable amount of time is before getting a call, but after the first five days of radio silence and his absence in the coffee shop, she's sure that she's made a terrible mistake.

She feels embarrassed and a little foolish, wishing she hadn't gotten swept up in her hopes and his stupid brown eyes. She had been silly — she was just an overly-chatty local barista and he was just a nice customer with a nice smile and nice eyes and nice everything who put up with her rambling. It's a little mortifying to think back on, so Winnie tries not to think about it, though every time the door's bell jingles, she's caught in a vicious cycle of hope, disappointment, and embarrassment.

She reckons that if he did ever come back, she'd either just pretend as though she never gave him her number or she'd hide in the storage room. The latter option sounded the most appealing the longer she went without seeing him.

She's closing up the shop one night when the door bursts open, the bells jingling loudly. Startled, Winnie nearly drops the bucket she had just finished mopping with. Her heart drops to her stomach.

"Hi," Remus says, pink-cheeked and breathless. "Are you closed?"

Winnie stares at him wide-eyed. She has a brief irrational flash of self-consciousness as she holds a mop and bucket in her hands, her hair and makeup unruly after a long shift. "I—" Winnie bites the inside of her cheek, looking at the clock. She was just a local barista, and he was just a customer, she reminded herself, swallowing back the growing burn of embarrassment in her belly.

As if sensing her hesitation, Remus straightens, clearing his throat. "I mean, you don't have to make a drink or anything actually, I just—"

"I can make a quick drink before I close up," Winnie says hurriedly, not quite able to look him in the eyes as she moves behind the counter. Memories of her giving him her number is seared in memory and it takes all her willpower not to crumble in mortification in front of him.

"No, it's alright," Remus says hurriedly, following her. "I'll help you close up."

"No, go sit over there," Winnie says, her voice a little too clipped. Remus hesitates, floundering before stubbornly following her again. Too close. She whirls around on him, exasperated and embarrassed. Pride wounded. "Remus, I'll make your drink just—"

"Winnie," he cuts in softly, his eyes tracking over her face carefully, quick to pick up her emotions. Winnie diverts her eyes mulishly. "I didn't actually come for a drink today," he says in a patient tone that only amplifies her growing embarrassment that she hides under irritation.

"Then I'm guessing you came to mess with a small local business," she grumps unfairly to herself, stomping behind the counter to drop the mop and bucket into the storage closet. Remus follows her doggedly.

"No, that's not why either," he says, huffing out a good natured laugh. Winnie ignores how smooth and honeyed it sounds.

"Then why'd you come so late? Seeing as how you haven't come in the past three—" Winnie cuts herself off, mortified, before stalking past him to busy herself with wiping down the counter.

"That's exactly why I came," Remus says from behind her. "I haven't seen you in three weeks and I wanted to see how you were doing."

Winnie swallows, caught off guard by his straightforwardness. And then she continues to scrub the counter aggressively, refusing to turn around and be swayed by him, though she could feel her grievances begin to dissipate. "Well, you could have called," she grumbles pointedly.

"I, er, don't have a telephone."

"You don't have a telephone," Winnie repeats automatically, before turning to balk at him. He looks embarrassed, his fingers fidgeting compulsively with the sleeves of his lumpy cardigan. In disbelief, she squints at him suspiciously. "Listen, Remus, I really won't be offended if you weren't interested, so there's no need to make up an excuse—"

"It's not an excuse," Remus interjects, straightened. He looks visibly affronted, his lips twisting into a slight frown. "I don't have a telephone."

"Oh," Winnie says dumbly, her voice small. And then she frowns, still skeptical. "How do you get into contact with your friends? Carrier pigeon?"

Remus lets out a huff of a laugh, mirth flickering in his brown eyes. "You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

For some reason, she believes him, so she drops it. It's probably the warm fondness in his eyes that neutralizes her. "I see," she says finally, unsure about whether to feel disappointed or relieved.

Remus seems to notice because he clears his throat. "I would have called you, really," he says. He's looking at her with those brown eyes again, big and earnest, and Winnie can't help but stare.

Flustered with the way he was looking at her, she turns to grab a tray of milk cartons. "I thought you were ghosting me," she grumbles. "I mean, I give you my number, you don't call and stop showing up. What's a girl supposed to think?"

Remus follows her, even closer now, close enough that she can smell his cologne — he smells good, she notes distractedly — and gently takes the tray of milk cartons from her hand, his big hands enclosing over hers briefly. Winnie nearly drops the whole tray. "You're not getting paid for that," she says, flustered and embarrassed and—

—and Remus is smiling at her with an impossibly patient and endeared smile, the sort that softens his eyes into little half-moons. Lord, Winnie thinks, her mind going unhelpfully blank as any memory of her mortification fades quickly.

"I would have called you," he says again, turning to look at her properly. He clears his throat, his eyes snagging on to hers intently. "I wanted to call you." He's holding the tray of cartons and she's trapped in the corner and the whole thing feels a little ridiculous, especially with the way her heart is stuttering under his gaze. He steps closer, his shoulders curving over slightly as he tries to match her height to appear less imposing. "I'm sorry for not giving you a heads up — I got swept away for work, but I'll let you know next time that happens."

"There's no need," she mumbles, flushing now. God, he probably didn't even know what he was doing. "It's not like we're..." The words die on her lips. She doesn't really know what she wants to say. Were they friends? She sure hoped so, but she could see how she was just a local barista and he was just a regular.

Remus ducks his head a little so that they're looking at each other properly again. They're close enough that Winnie can see his long lashes fluttering across his cheeks. She can see the splay of freckles across his tan skin. The thin shadow of a scar across the bridge of his nose. It's like she can't escape as her mind goes unhelpfully blank again. His eyes are warm and apologetic and earnest and Winnie feels like she's being seen right through. "How can I make it up to you?" He asks, looking entirely sincere.

Winnie's mouth — her heart — moves before her mind does. "My show," she blurts.

His brows furrow ever so slightly. "Your show?" He repeats, understandably not following because she was barely coherent.

"Yes," she says, straightening and doubling down. "I'm having a small show. With my band. This weekend. You should come." God, Winnie thinks, grimacing at how choppy her words were. Remus is looking at her with those distractingly pretty eyes again, so she steels herself, taking a steadying breath. "I mean, I'd love it if you came."

Remus nods, his lips twitching as if she hadn't just given an awful word-by-word monologue. "I'd love to."

— — — — —

The venue isn't terribly large, but even on stage staring into a dark crowd of faces, Winnie can spot Remus immediately. That's how she knew she was in trouble. Well, maybe she had already known she was in trouble the first time she heard Remus laugh properly.

She's had shows before, but this one feels different. It feels as though it's only her and Remus. So as Winnie plays her guitar and sings her songs, she gives in to the enamored thrill blossoming in her chest and pours it into her music. She hopes he can hear it.

The show passes by in a euphoric blur. All Winnie can really remember is Remus beaming at her from the crowd — and her beaming back — but she thinks it went well. Backstage, her bandmates are energetic and grinning widely, clasping each other on the back. "One of our best," their drummer proclaims, cheering.

Winnie tries to smile and listen, but the excitement of the show has started to turn into a bundle of growing nerves as she waits backstage with her bandmates.

"Waiting for someone today?" Doreen, their bassist, asks astutely as she starts moving some of their equipment.

"No," Winnie blurts unconvincingly, only gathering delighted hoots from the others.

"I knew this one felt different for a reason—" Doreen shouts gleefully, before falling silently abruptly, her eyes falling on someone behind Winnie. It takes all of her willpower to look casual and not whirl around. "Oh. He looks like he should be in a band," Doreen's voice drops into a hushed whisper. "Can we please add him? He can... play the triangle or something. He can be the face of our band. Our new mascot—"

At this, Winnie frowns and turns around. She wouldn't exactly say that Remus, with his soft jumpers and fluffy hair, looked like he'd be the face of a rock band—

"Hi," A voice, smooth and pitched low, says. "Winnie, right?"

Winnie stares at this stranger uncomprehendingly. He's strikingly handsome, his eyes the color of mercury and his hair the color of ink. He's all sharp angles and perfectly unruly curls and devilish smile, the type that Winnie has seen before. It comes with the crowd a rock band attracts, though this man in particular looks as though he was carved out of marble with his aquiline nose and high cheekbones.

Winnie blinks at him. "Yeah," she says uncertainly, scratching her cheek. "Er, do we know each other?"

"Winnie, this is Sirius," a familiar voice cuts in from behind the dark-haired man. Winnie straightens, her eyes snagging immediately on him as he steps out from behind Sirius.

Unlike Sirius's leather jacket and tattoos, Remus looks so painfully out of place in his sweater vest and slacks. She's impossibly endeared at the sight — in fact, all she can really do is stare dumbly at him. He's holding a little bouquet of yellow flowers. Her heart gives a dangerous squeeze.

Doreen clears her throat, jolting her out of her fixation. Winnie tears her eyes away from him to give his friend a polite smile as she shakes his hand. "Hi there." Distractedly, she turns back to look at Remus. "I didn't know you were going to bring a friend—"

"We love friends," Doreen says brightly. Winnie bites back a laugh at Doreen's lovesick scheming as her gaze snags on to Remus again. "Friends are always welcome here."

"I've heard loads about you," Sirius says smoothly, flashing her a charming smile. She swears she can hear Doreen faint next to her. "Remus, in fact, doesn't ever stop—"

Winnie's stomach does an Olympic-gymnastic-level flip as she watches Remus indiscreetly dig his elbow into Sirius's ribs. Sirius seems unbothered, but he stops and gives Winnie a smarmy grin.

"How was the show?" She asks, her gaze darting to Remus. It's like she can't stop looking at him.

"Brilliant," he blurts, beaming. "Absolutely brilliant. You were amazing," he says, eyes bright. "I mean, I knew you loved music, but seeing you in your element..." He stops abruptly, looking embarrassed. She isn't sure if it's the lighting, but his cheeks look pink. Or it's a reflection of how red her face has turned. Pleasure blooms in her chest so violently she feels a little dizzy.

"I'm glad you liked it," she manages, uncharacteristically bashful. She can feel her bandmates staring at her, slack-faced, and forces herself to ignore it. "I wasn't sure if it would be your type of music, but..."

"No, it was," Remus says hurriedly, turning to look at Sirius. "Right?"

Sirius nods, looking between the two of them with great interest. "Remus was practically on his knees—" Another jab into his ribs.

Winnie bites back a laugh, flushed and pleased, before nodding down at the bouquet in his hands. "Are those for me?" She asks, half-bluntly, half-hopefully.

Remus looks down at his hands as if he only just then remembered what he was holding. "Oh, yeah, yeah," he says. Winnie thinks she's dreaming for a moment, until Remus thrusts it into Sirius's hands. "They're from Sirius."

She blinks. Sirius blinks, an equally baffled expression on his face though he covers it up quickly. "Oh," the dark-haired man says slowly, his silver gaze flickering to his friend. "I guess—"

"—as a thank you for agreeing to the lesson," Remus cuts in hurriedly as Sirius hands it to her uncertainly.

Winnie takes the bouquet, bewildered now, but she plasters a polite smile on her face. "Er, it's no problem at all," she says, unsure about whether to say that to Sirius or Remus.

Sirius takes it in a stride though. "I would kill to play the guitar like you," he says, voice dripping with charisma. "How'd you—"

"You can try my bass, if you'd like," Doreen interrupts from behind her. Winnie's jaw goes a little slack — Doreen's the most protective with her bass — but her bandmate shoots her a meaningful look.

"Brilliant," Sirius says brightly. Winnie turns to watch Doreen in disbelief as they disappear into the backroom.

"Now he's not a random man, right?" Remus murmurs to her, his breath coasting against the shell of her ear. She nearly jumps out of her skin at the proximity.

"I suppose not," she says, trying to keep her cool but Remus is looking at her with bright eyes. It doesn't help when his lips quirk triumphantly, smugly. "But—" she interjects before it can widen any further, "—if it turns out that your friend is horrendous at the guitar, I think it's only fair if you also have to suffer through it."

Remus's brows shoot up. "And if he's good at it?"

"Then you get to witness my masterful teaching."

He huffs out a laugh, a little disbelieving, a little amused. "Fine," Remus sighs, but he's clearly trying not to smile. She finds herself wishing that he did. "I'll be there."

— — — — —

Sirius, as it turns out, is awful at the guitar. Winnie tries to chalk it up to it being his first time trying it out, but even then, he seemed... challenged.

She had been teaching him for an hour now — her sitting on one of the kitchen stools she had pulled into her flat's shoebox of a living room-bedroom situation, Sirius sitting on the couch with her old guitar precariously balanced on his knees. Remus tried to excuse himself once he realized his friend was musically challenged. Feeling merciful — and also realizing that Remus's presence was making her too nervous to focus on teaching Sirius — Winnie nodded him towards the kitchen. She had spent all morning meticulously cleaning her flat — even she knew she was being a little ridiculous and overly nervous when she started scrubbing at the oven — in preparation for the session. Even then, the knowledge that Remus was in her flat filled her with a different type of nerves.

"Let's take a break," Winnie huffs finally, setting her guitar down.

Sirius rises to his feet and stretches, looking relieved. "I'll get some water for us?" He offers, already making himself at home. Winnie nods, waving him off as she tries to fight back the incoming migraine from stressing over Sirius snapping her strings. At the reminder of his hand-eye coordination and all the glass she has in her cupboards, she springs to her feet quickly.

"Maybe I should just charm the guitar," Sirius is murmuring when she walks in to the kitchen.

"No amount of charisma will charm the guitar," Winnie says, amused. The boys straighten, looking strangely guilty.

"But Sirius is particularly charming," Remus supplies abruptly, darting a quick look to Sirius, who just looks startled by his friend's sudden proclamation.

"I see," Winnie says slowly, exchanging a baffled glance with Sirius.

"Right, well, I ought to practice some more then," Sirius says, giving a salute as he leaves the kitchen.

"Is he that bad?" Remus asks once Sirius leaves.

"It's like he's never used his hands before a day in his life to do anything," Winnie whispers to Remus with a solemn nod.

Remus makes a choking sound as though he's trying not to laugh. Winnie wishes he did. "You don't know the half of it," he huffs, lips curling as if he's sharing a secret.

"He's not really not very good with his fingers," Winnie admits honestly, lifting her cup to her lips.

"That's not his reputation among the girls," Remus blurts.

Winnie chokes on her water and starts coughing violently. Alarmed, Remus reaches out and pats her on the back. "What?" She rasps around a sore throat as she turns to give Remus an incredulous look.

His expression is too carefully neutral as he shrugs at her. "Sirius has always been Hogwart's most sought after bachelor," he recites, as if she's supposed to know what this meant.

"What's going on, Remus?" Winnie questions, her brows shooting up higher. "You've been acting strange recently. It's like you're trying to sell me this poor boy or..." She falters, turning to look at Remus. To his credit, he looks sheepish as he looks away to inspect her cabinets. "Remus," she begins, her voice dangerously low. "Please tell me you're not trying to set me up with your friend."

Remus goes pink in the face and it's all she needs to confirm her suspicions. Inwardly, her heart drops a little, but outwardly, she just stares at him, waiting for a proper response. As if realizing there wasn't a way of getting out of this, the brown-haired boy sighs a little, raking a hand through his hair. "I just thought you two would get along well together," he says, looking at her with earnest eyes.

It hurts. Much more than she cares to admit. Trying to swallow back the disappointment, Winnie turns so that he can't see it on her face. So that's what this has been about. "For how long?" She asks, her throat dry. She can feel a headache coming on.

"How long what?" Remus asks. He sounds confused.

"How long have you been thinking about setting us up? Did he even want to learn the guitar?" Winnie thinks back to Remus's reluctance on coming to her flat. She thinks back to him bringing Sirius along to the concert. She thinks about how much she likes Remus and how she thought he felt the same way. So it had all been one sided. Humiliation burns in her stomach as she stares down at her hands.

"No, he did, he did want to learn how to play the guitar," he says quickly. "Or, er, he was interested in learning after I told him about you. Sirius is a great guy, really!" Remus, all too late, seems to sense something amiss when she doesn't respond. He straightens, an expression of growing alarm on his face. "Are you... upset?"

"No," Winnie says. She wasn't, for once. In fact, she just wanted the ground to open up and swallow her hole. "I'm just..." She trails off, pinching the bridge of her nose before exhaling quietly.

"Sirius is a great guy, I promise," Remus says again, slowly as if not to spook a wild animal. But Winnie has already been spooked.

"Yeah, he is," she says, her voice pitched just slightly too high and just slightly too clipped as she turns to flee the kitchen. "But not very great at the guitar, so I'd better go check up on him. I suspect he'd find a way to set fire to my flat with just a guitar."

"I'm an idiot," she mutters to herself, closing her eyes for a moment.

A cheerful voice chirps up from the couch. "So, when can I join your band?"

— — — — —

Winnie doesn't go to work for the rest of the week. She asks her coworkers to cover her shift with a fake cough and a groan of a headache. The headache part isn't really a lie — ever since her conversation with Remus in her kitchen, she's felt a dull ache drumming behind her eyes. So she's holed herself in her apartment — specifically her bed, under lots of blankets — sulking and moping by herself.

By the fifth day, Winnie realizes bitterly that she can't keep this up. She has rent to pay. On the day that she's decided to come back into the coffee shop, her phone rings. "Winnie, are you coming in today?" her coworker asks.

"Yeah, I'm feeling better," Winnie lies as she stuffs her apron into her bag.

"Great," her coworker says before pausing. "There's been a bloke coming by asking for you."

Winnie can feel the headache come back full force. "A bloke," she repeats, knowing full well they both knew who she was talking about.

"Tall, brown hair. I told him you've been out sick, but he seems worried, so you ought to give him a ring."

To her chagrin, Remus is there the first day she comes back.

"Hi, welcome," she says, her voice tight. Winnie plasters a too-bright smile on her face to compensate. "What can I get for you today?"

Remus blinks. "A matcha latte. How have—"

"Coming right up," she says, punching in the order with rapid speed. Still smiling brightly. "That'll be $4.50—"

Remus hands her a five before she can finish.

"Here's your change, sir—" Winnie tacks it on at the end of the sentence before she can help it. Remus's face crumples in confusion for a moment, his brow furrowing together as he watches her for a moment longer. It feels as though his eyes are burning through her.

"You can keep the change," he says softly, still looking at her.

Winnie forces out a thank you. She feels as though her smile is starting to look like a grimace. Her cheeks are hurting. He's still looking at her with those stupidly pretty brown eyes. She knows he's waiting. She forces herself to look back down at the register before straightening. "Next in line, please."

— — — — —

To her relief, she's not on cash register duty the next time he comes. Winnie ducks her head with forced concentration as she makes an order. She's definitely too concentrated on making the drink that she doesn't notice the way his face brightens again when he sees her as he nears the counter. She's definitely too concentrated to hear her coworker take his order of a matcha latte. She's definitely too concentrated to feel his eyes on her as she busies herself behind the counter. She definitely wasn't paying attention.

This game of concentration can only go on for so long, Winnie realizes belatedly after she finishes making his drink. She stares down at his name on the cup glumly for a moment before putting her best customer-service smile back on. "For Remus," she calls out without quite looking up. Though she knows that he's sitting patiently at his normal table.

When he comes, Winnie puts a straw on the lid, trying not to look as tense as she feels.

"Hi," he says, looking at her fully in the face.

"Hi," she says back, not quite looking at him, but also not quite looking away. This time, there's no line and nowhere to escape to.

Remus fiddles with the straw wrapper slowly. "How..." He falters, his eyes imploring as he tries to catch her gaze. His brows are furrowed slightly. "...have you been? They said you've been ill?"

"Ah yeah," Winnie says weakly, busying herself with tidying up the straws and napkins by the register. "Caught a cold."

"It's not Dragon Pox, is it?" He says, his brows furrowing even further, a crease of concern between them.

Winnie blinks at him. "Dragon Pox?"

Remus blinks back at her. "Oh, maybe not then," he murmurs hurriedly before clearing his throat. "Er, if you're still feeling ill, I have this—" He reaches into the pocket of his long coat and pulls out a small vial. Winnie stares at it blankly. "—that helps with cold symptoms."

She squints at it, dubiously. "Is that medicine?"

Remus fiddles with the little glass vial. "Something of the sort."

"You just carry that around... in your pocket?"

"Well no," Remus says, looking embarrassed now. He clears his throat as his eyes dart down to the vial. "I wanted to give it to you, but I thought that dropping it off at your flat might be too much."

"Oh," Winnie says dumbly. Her stomach does a traitorous flip and she forces herself to also look down at the vial as her last defenses against him begin to crumble. She should've known this was going to happen. "That's sweet of you."

"It's nothing," he mumbles, setting the vial on the table. "Er, are you busy today?"

Winnie swallows. "Yeah, I've been out, so I ought to pull my weight around here," she says, though she thinks the both of them knows that it's a lie. The coffee shop barely had anyone else in it. But Winnie doesn't look up at him to see his face fall — she knows that if he just flashes her his doe eyes, she'll be back at square one. She forces a smile on her face.

Remus nods. His disappointment is clear on his face as he stuffs his hand back into the pocket of his coat. Winnie tried not to think about it. "Right, well, I'll be over there if you need a break."

— — — — —

Her landline rings again for the third time in the past fives minutes as she tries to get the chord progression correct. Though she's been trying, she's hit an even bigger music-block recently. Winnie squints at the number — it's the same one that's been trying to dial her. With a frustrated sigh, she sets her guitar to the side and picks up the receiver from the landline with a little too much vigor. "Hello?" She asks, the irritation in her voice cutting through clearly.

"Winnie?"

She pauses, taken aback. "This is she," she says after a moment. Who would be calling her nearly at midnight?

"Sorry, were you sleeping? I just got a telephone and I wanted to call, but I didn't realize it was this late—" The person on the other end sounds a little out of breath.

"Sorry, who is this?" She asks, bewildered now.

A pause. "It's Remus."

Winnie nearly drops the phone. "Remus?" She repeats.

"Yeah," he says uncertainly. "Remus Lupin," he adds, as if that'll help.

"Of course I know who you are," she says, a little disbelieving.

"You didn't sound like you did a few seconds ago," he says good-naturedly.

"Well, I wasn't expecting a call from someone without a phone."

He huffs out a laugh, soft and quiet. Hearing it close to her ear through the receiver makes a warmth spread through her chest. This was dangerous. She settles back on the couch as Remus continues talking, his voice soft like he's trying not to wake up his flatmate. "Well, to be fair, I did just get it."

"I never thought I'd see the day," she murmurs despite the danger bells tolling in her head. "What made you take the technological leap?"

Winnie can almost hear his eye roll through the receiver. "Well, I may have offended a girl at this coffee shop I frequent by not having one. Thought I should right my wrongs."

Her heart stutters dangerously in her chest. She's glad he can't see her because she can feel a pleased warmth flushing across her face as she lies down on the couch and kicks her legs over the armchair. She wants to scream from the giddiness. And then scream again for having no dignity. The thought that he had gotten a phone to call her is entirely absurd, but Winnie almost lets herself believe it. "I see," she says after she collects herself for a moment. "Sounds noble." A pause. "So you kept my napkin."

"No," Remus says automatically. "Sirius threw it away."

Winnie frowns, her brows furrowing. "Then how'd you get my number?"

"I memorized it."

She nearly falls to the floor at that, the phone rubbing against the couch as she sits up swiftly.

"Hello?" Remus's distant voice calls uncertainly through the speaker. "Winnie?"

"Hi!" Winnie chirps into the phone quickly, too brightly. She's beyond glad Remus can't see her face — she knows she's bright red now. And she's trying hard not to grin ear to ear. "Sorry about that, poor connection," she fibs.

Remus pauses. She can almost hear the frown in his voice when he speaks up again. "Is it my phone? The man at the store said it might—"

"No, no, that was on my end," she says quickly, fanning herself now. She needed to calm down. Immediately. "So, why did you call?"

A pause. She can hear him shuffling like he's sitting down. "No reason," he says. "I just wanted to hear your voice. I like this. It feels like I can hear you smiling."

To hell with calming down. She was getting no sleep that night with the way her heart was palpitating. "Holy hell," Winnie murmurs out loud, very sure now that Remus was trying to kill her. Death by heart attack. Remus Lupin, the secret ladykiller.

"What was that?" Remus asks through the phone.

"Nothing," Winnie mumbles, closing her eyes.

They both fall silent, though Winnie is sure he can hear her thumping heart through the receiver. "Er, Winnie," Remus speaks up finally. "The other reason I wanted to call was I suppose it had felt like it's been ages since we last spoke and I missed talking with you."

Winnie's heart does a dangerous quiver. And then she catches herself, all too soon, and all too suddenly.

Even after the past few weeks of trying to get over her unrequited crush, all it took was a few sweet words from him for her to cave and start at the beginning again. She couldn't keep being pushed and pulled and pushed and pulled. If she wanted to properly move on, she needed distance. Proper distance.

As if sensing something, Remus speaks up again hesitantly. "Did I do something?"

"No," Winnie says, closing her eyes. She can almost hear him breathing on the other end of the call. This would be easier to do over the phone, when she can't see his big brown eyes staring back at her earnestly — although she feels as though she's committed it to memory and can imagine it. "It's me, I— It's nothing that you've done or anything, I just need space."

"Space," Remus echoes quietly.

She tries to let out a light laugh. "Yeah, I've just got a lot on my mind recently. It's nothing you've done."

Remus is quiet for awhile before he speaks up again. "I'm here to listen if you ever want to talk through anything," he says softly. "We're friends, after all, right?"

"Friends," she murmurs to herself before straightening. "Right, of course."

More silence. "Well, it's late so I'll let you go." A pause, as if he's waiting for a response. Waiting for her to keep talking like she always did. Waiting for a reason to keep talking.

"Good night, Remus," she says instead, her fingers tightening around the receiver.

"Good night, Winnie." Winnie can hear the disappointment in his voice and lets it sink into her like a dagger. She needed to remember it to move on. Then maybe they could properly be friends. Winnie hangs up the phone first.

— — — — —

"Morning, Winnie," a bright voice chirps.

Winnie looks up, startled to see a pair of striking, but familiar gray eyes peering back at her. Sirius Black is standing in front of the counter, grinning at her widely. "Sirius," she says, surprised. "What can I get for you?"

Sirius gives the menu a cursory glance. "Huh, matcha," he says to himself thoughtfully.

"That's what Remus normally gets," she offers, trying to be helpful.

Sirius looks back at her, his eyes bright and startling astute. "You know," he says, dropping his voice to a secretive murmur. Despite herself, Winnie leans closer curiously. "Remus thinks matcha tastes like grass."

Winnie recoils, bewildered. That wasn't what she was expecting to hear. "Grass?" She repeats, a little affronted now. "It does not taste like grass—"

"Winnie," he says again, arching a delicate brow at her. "Remus thinks matcha tastes like grass."

She shoots him a baleful glare that goes against her customer service training. "Okay," she exhales. "So what drink would you want then?"

Sirius sighs as if she's being terribly daft. "What I'm saying is that Remus hates the taste of matcha but comes here nearly every other day to drink it. Isn't that strange?"

Winnie blinks. Once. Twice. It's as if Sirius can see the thought forming on her face because he starts to grin. "But," she says stubbornly, mulishly. Sirius's grin falters. Winnie takes secret pleasure in that. "—he drinks it every time."

Sirius's expression goes slack, but Winnie refuses to be deterred. She had already tricked herself twice into thinking that there could be more between her and Remus, she wasn't going to put herself through that again. "Merlin," Sirius exhales, scrubbing a frustrated hand over his face. "You both are so bloody stubborn—"

"No, he doesn't," a voice cuts in from behind her. Her coworker steps in with an equally exasperated expression. "Winnie, I'll be honest with you, he only ever drinks it when you make it. Whenever I hand it to him, it just sits there."

Sirius's grin returns, full force, as he nods excitedly. "I'm only telling you so that you can both stop dancing around each other. And so he can stop playing your bleeding cas— casserole... Merlin, what are they called? The little magical music squares?" Sirius flounders and turns to her coworker for help.

"Cassettes?" Her coworker supplies uncertainly.

"Cassettes!" Sirius agrees, looking relieved before he rounds on Winnie again to continue his berating. "So he can stop playing your bleeding cassettes around the flat!" And then he pauses. "Er, no offense, your music is great, but I just can't keep listening to the same album—"

"He has my cassettes?" Winnie whispers, wide-eyed.

Sirius stares at her like she's being impossibly dumb. "Yeah," he says, solemnly. "Everyday I'm a little tempted to throw them—" He seems to catch himself because he shoulders on smoothly. "Anyways, while he's been sulking around the flat, I finally found out that Moony was being ridiculous and was trying to play cupid. He can be incredibly dense for someone so smart," Sirius sighs, grimacing. "By the way, I actually was interested in learning the guitar."

Winnie stares at him dumbly, a little shell-shocked. "Oh," she says as Sirius gives her a wink.

"He's coming by later," he says as he turns towards the door.

"What?" She blurts. Remus hasn't come by or called her ever since she had asked for space, expectedly. She had been ignoring the empty feeling since then, reasoning it to be a necessary development for her to move on.

"I told him you had called on the — what's it called? — phone-tele saying you wanted to see him."

"What?" Winnie exclaims, but Sirius is already fleeing through the door. Dimly, she thinks that he didn't even order a drink.

"Go easy on him, sweetheart! He likes tea!"

— — — — —

"One matcha please."

"Name?"

A small, uncertain smile. A hesitant hint of a dimple. Her heart quaking again. "Remus Lupin."

"Coming right up."

Winnie tries to still her shaking hands as she makes him a drink. It doesn't help that she can feel her heart bursting through her chest. She takes a steadying breath and rakes a hand through her hair before taking the drink to his table. "For a Remus Lupin," she announces, setting the cup down in front of him. It's near closing time and there's no one else in the coffee shop.

Remus looks up, his brows shooting up below his waves. "What's this?"

"Earl gray," she says, matching his gaze.

His brows furrow. "But I ordered matcha."

"It's a personal recommendation from the kitchen," she says, nodding down at the tea. "I heard that matcha tastes like grass."

Remus's face pales, but he manages to cover it up with a nervous laugh that only confirms her suspicions. And her hopes. "Matcha doesn't taste like grass—" he begins, but his voice falters when he catches sight of her smiling.

"Remus," she says brightly, her smile broadening. "I finished the song."

"The song," he says blankly, looking startled as if he's trying to keep up. He blinks at her rapidly.

"The love song I've been stuck on," she reminds him impatiently.

"Oh! Oh! See, I knew you'd be able to finish," Remus says, still looking bewildered.

Winnie smiles at him. "It was inspired by you."

"Inspired by me," he parrots for a moment, nodding, before his eyes widen fractionally. "Inspired by me?" He blurts.

"What I'm saying is," she begins, folding her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. "I like you."

Maybe the only way to move on was to be properly rejected. Or maybe the only way to move on, Winnie thought selfishly, was to give in to the hope that Sirius had planted.

Remus's face goes slack. And then, wonderfully, a soft pink flush begins to crawl up the nape of his neck, dusting his cheeks in two brilliant splotches. "I— Winnie— But you're—" he flounders, mouth opening and closing repeatedly. Dimly, Winnie thinks it's a little unfair how adorable he looks flustered. She also thinks that she wouldn't mind always seeing him flustered.

"But I'm so what?" She asks, tilting her head to the side casually, despite her thundering heartbeat.

"But you're so, so—" he's stammering now, flushed and a little wild-eyed. "—incandescent."

Winnie thought she had control over the conversation, but at his admittance, she feels a little dizzy. "Incandescent," she repeats in a wide-eyed whisper. In that moment, she knew that no boy would ever call her anything as meaningful. That there would be no other boy that would mean anything to her.

Remus's face only turns a brighter scarlet as he backtracks. "I mean, you're you and I'm— I'm Remus," he says nonsensically.

"Remus Lupin," she corrects with a weak laugh, heart still thumping dangerously.

Remus nods earnestly, as if that's supposed to make any sense. "Yeah," he says, throat bobbing as he swallows. "And, and you could do so much better." Winnie's heart clenches a little at the way he can't meet her eyes. "I'm— I'm not good with people— I wouldn't be good for you."

Winnie chewed the inside of her cheek uncertainly. "Remus, I can't tell if you actually think that or if you really don't like me and are just using that as an excuse because I'd rather it if you just rejected me outright—"

"Of course I like you," he blurts a little frantically with a disbelieving laugh. Winnie's heart trembles so violently that she thinks she needs to take a seat. Remus, on the other hand, pales a little at his outburst as he scrubs a hand over his face. "I mean, anybody would. But you could do so much better. I mean, I'm not good with people or talking and I don't—" She can see that he's begun to work himself up into some sort of frazzled frenzy. "I don't have tattoos or eat cigs for breakfast," he blurts.

Winnie does a double-take. "I know?" She says, bewildered. "Where is this coming from?"

"You said the type of guy you're attracted to has tattoos and eats cigs for breakfast."

Winnie balks at him for a moment before she realizes what he's talking about. She wants to laugh but instead holds it in as she stares fondly at the man in front of her. "Remus," she sighs again, stepping closer to him. The knowledge that he liked her back sends thrilling waves of adrenaline through her. Even though he's taller than her, she feels as though she's the one towering over him.

Emboldened, Winnie takes a deep breath, rises to her toes because he's so bloody tall, and grabs him by the cheeks. Remus's mouth clamps shut as his eyes widen. She wishes she could pour all her emotion into her palm and just press it against him so that he would understand.

"I said that those were the guys I attract, not that I'm attracted to. And I think you're lovely, to say in the least. You're kind, brilliant, a wonderful listener. I think your eyes and your smile are stupidly distracting— Actually, I think you're just the prettiest boy I've ever seen. And I wish you could see these things for yourself, but if it means that I have to love you for the both of us, I would be happy to. If you'd let me."

"Oh," Remus blurts, two bright scarlet splotches flushing on his cheeks. Up close, Winnie can see the way the light catches like gold in his brown eyes.

"Sorry, I'm always talking your ear off," she whispers, her fingers curling a little in the waves his hair. His skin is soft and warm beneath her fingers. "It's fine, really, if you want to reject me. But it's not fair for you to make the decision based off what you think I should want. Because I know that I want you and that's enough for me, yeah?"

Remus parts his mouth and Winnie is so sure that he's going to say something stubborn again.

"Can I kiss you?" He murmurs, brown eyes blown dark and wide as they dart to her lips.

Caught entirely caught off guard, all Winnie can do is make an assenting sound before his head is dipping down towards hers swiftly, as though that was all he was waiting for.

There's no soft, chaste exploration she had expected — instead, Remus kisses like he's burning up from the inside, like he's melting into her. His mouth is warm and sweet — he tastes like the earl gray tea she had made — and his lips are soft as one of his hand rises to catch her jaw, his other hand slipping gently to cradle the back of her head, his long fingers in her hair, as he tilts her face up.

Winnie's mind went blank the moment his lips slotted against hers, but she's rendered entirely useless when his teeth tugs at her bottom lip gently. All she can do is cling onto his neck and shoulders — she doesn't even know when her hands had moved from cupping his face — as Remus tries to guide her even closer to him. Winnie doesn't even have the capacity to feel embarrassment at the appreciative sigh that's pulled from her lips when he deepens the kiss.

To her mingled disappointment and relief — because she's started to run out of air and was feeling light-headed — Remus pulls back just far enough to peer at her with wide eyes. "Sorry, was that too much?" He whispers, voice wonderfully hoarse, his lips still brushing against hers. His brown eyes dart from her eyes to her lips and back around as if he can't decide where to look.

Total ladykiller, Winnie thinks dimly. Somehow, he always managed to catch her off guard even when she thought she was in control. "Um," she manages, breathless, her heart nearly giving out now. "Wow."

When she catches sight of him properly, another thrill runs through her. His pretty eyes are dazed over and his lips reddened and flushed. He looks a little dizzy. "Yeah," he murmurs back, equally nonsensically. He brushes a thumb across her jaw, sending a shiver down her spine. Catching this, Remus just smiles at her, as if impossibly endeared, and it does little to calm her heart. "How about a date tomorrow?"

"Not a coffee shop, I hope," Winnie says mulishly in an attempt to deflect from her warming cheeks. But Remus, as always, can see right through her.

A soft laugh rumbles in his chest as he smiles down at her fondly. "We can go wherever you want."

— — — — —

It's rush hour again. There's a dozen cups lined up for her to make and she's begun to lose track of what she's doing. When she glances down at the name of the one she just finished, Winnie doesn't bother hiding her grin as she calls out, "An earl gray for a Remus Lupin!"

Winnie's smile widens when she catches sight of him in his knitted sweater. And then, "I'm missing a drink."

Her smile falters in confusion as she looks down at the earl gray in his hand. "Hm?" She hums, frowning now.

Remus nods down at the other drink she had finished making, his lips twitching. Winnie blinks at his smile distractedly before peering at the cup. "Matcha latte for Cariad?"

Remus just smiles innocently at her, his eyes warm and fond. "That one's for you."

a/n: hope you enjoyed! love love love hearing your thoughts, so let me know what you think! <3 i feel like i could make a whole remus coffee shop -verse of oneshots now... if that's something.... we would be interested in............. i love the idea of wizards interfacing with muggle society and how shite they would be (re: sirius not knowing how to do anything). even though remus's mom is a muggle, i imagine since he's been at hogwarts for most of his life from 11-18 and spent his childhood moving around a lot and living in the more rural areas, i wanted to play off the idea that though he's been in muggle society, he's probably awkward as hell in a muggle city. edit: more remus x winnie oneshots on my masterlist! >> my masterlist!

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deeseelovez · 7 months

Text

dirty secret

ghostface!regulus black x reader

muggle!au and they are adults with jobs but let's pretend they are on holiday or something.

warnings: smut. sex. I will update it as I go down. dom! regulus and sub! reader. pre-existing consent, dirty talk on the phone, stalking, 'breaking in', knife play (it's fake), degradation and praise, a lil ass play, some spanking, over-stimulation, face-fucking, hair-yanking, reading links his body, face-sitting, and I think man-handling? squiriting.

(just as a pre-thing so I can get right into it, Regulus and the reader talked about her obsession and kink about being stalked and hunted by the killer, Ghostface; he is surprised but is willing to try anything. He refers to the reader as 'boyfriend', it's regulus, but idk thought it was hot.)

This might be the worst or best thing I've ever written.

4.1k words

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The summer nights slowly turned into autumn breeze. I always liked having the door open, and the screen door closed when the autumn weather started in London.

It's a cloudy evening, but it still felt good enough to have the door open, I sat in my living room sipping on a cup of tea in my loungewear.

When the phone rang, I picked up the white home phone and held up to my ear.

"Black Residents," I say into the phone.

"Who is this?" A dark voice said over the phone, I don't recognize.

"Uh, who are you? You're the one who called me." I say into the phone, "No one there?" I say into the phone slamming onto the stand for it and not even a full minute later, it rings again.

"Hello?" I say again into the phone and I heard deep breathing.

"Guess I dialed the wrong number," The voice says with a breathy chuckle.

"So, why did you do it again," I say.

"To apologize of course,"

"Well, you're forgiven." I say to the disembodied voice, I go to hang up again, but I hear a sharp, "Wait!"

"Yes?"

"I want to talk to you," Says the deep voice; I could feel a shiver of interest go down my spine, "Don't you wanna talk to me?"

"I don't know who you are?"

"Is this too scary for you, talking to a stranger?" The stranger asks.

"I'm not scared," I say.

"I'd really like to get to know you." He says to me, but there is change in his voice, "When do you think your boufriend will be back."

"Who says I have a boyfriend?'

"Well, I've been watching your house for at least a day and a half and he hasn't been back."

"W-what?" I felt my chest heaving.

"Don't be scared, pretty thing." I could feel fear and pleasure both making themselves down my body, "I don't want to harm you, just want to talk, you look out breath, princess. How about you take a few deep brea-"

But out of instinct, I slam the phone down and get up to close the front door and lock it.

The ringing started again, it felt louder this time more ominous. It filled the whole house, I walk over to the phone.

"You listen to me, you slut; if you hang up this phone again, I will cut you come clit to brain" He groans into the phone, and I sit down on the coach, "Are you scared, now?"

"M-maybe?"

"I can see you shaking, sweetheart. Don't worry; I want to play a little game with you. Do you like games?"

I swaollowed the lump in my throat, "Yes,"

"Yes, what?"

"Yes, sir." I squicked out

"Good girl," He says into the phone, another deep breath, "God, I can practically smell your cunt from here. Are you dripping right now? Do you like being scared?"

"Yes, sir," I say, I stand up, putting the phone between my shoulder and chin to keep held upright,

"If you get these questions right, I'll let you touch yourself. Or maybe I'll have to give you a special gift. " I stood in front of my coach, in front of my back door, that is still wide open. I slowly take off my sweatpants.

"Oh, you're not wearing any panties." He says, and I turn around spanking my own ass as I pull the rest of my sweatpants off.

"I have the perfect view of your pretty pussy," He says, "I want you to sit on your couch with your feet up and knees spread, showing me how wet you are."

I did as he told me to do, I can't say no to a man on the phone watching me, I dipped my finger into my pussy.

"No!" He screamed, "Not until I tell you can, unless you want me to come in there, and cut that pretty finger off."

"What's the name of the girl who gets killed first in Scream?"

"Casey Becker,"

"That's my good whore," He says.

"Can I touch myself now?" I ask and he laughs.

"You have to answer all the of them silly girl," He says, but I could feel myself growing more needy as he talks into the phone.

"Okay, please," I whine into the phone.

"I can't believe this wet for a stranger on the phone, so pathetic, if you're pussy wasn't so pretty, I'd have to gut you for being so pathetic." He laughs into the phone as I let out another whine, "Tell me, what line did Jack Nicholson improve in The Shining."

"Here's Johnny," I say into the phoen breathlessly,

"Good, just one more question, and you get a special reward."

"What's the next question,"

"Sometimes, getting ahead of themselves, don't you think so, Angel?" The nickname made me moan into the phone.

"Please," Is all the words coming out of my mouth and he asked the last question, but I didn't even hear them, I was too focused on the pleasure.

"10," He started to count down, for me to answer the question.

"Wh-what was the question?" I asked again,

"Should have listened the first time; see you soon," The line disconnected, and I heard rustling outside, I heard the porch door swing open, and I close my knees together and sit up.

"Hey, there," Says the dark voice from the phone, and I nearly let out a scream, "Sh, don't scream, pretty thing." I could see the glimmer of the metal knife in his gloved hand, the plastic of his mask reflecting on the Halloween lights me and my boyfriend had put up, "Who told you you could move?" He asked me; he threw up the screen door and slammed the main door closed.

"Get up, now." I did as he told.

"Pretty fucking girl," He growls from underneath his mask, "You're perfect." He says, he lifts up the steel knife, and my eyes go down to it, "Do you know what this is?"

"A dagger," I replied, looking up at him, I wanted nothing more than Ghostface to manhandle me, to fuck me from behind, to put the knife against me.

He lifted up the knife and put it against my pudgy stomach, "You're smart girl, you know if I wanted," He moved the cold steel a little rougher against me, "I could get you right now and leave before your little boyfriend gets back, or maybe I'll hide in the closet for him and gut him too." I whimper and move ever slightly against the knife, and I feel the knife cut into my skin just a little, the sting making me moan.

"Oh, look at that." He lifts up the knife to his mask, and he takes off it off just enough to expose his mouth and he licks it over the dagger, and if I wasn't wet before I definitely am now, "God, you're so pathetic."

Tears are streaming done my face as he moves the knife around my boob, the cold steel pressing against my nipples, "You're a slut, getting so wet from a stranger who broke into your home. God, pathetic whores make me so horny. Do you want feel my cock?"

"Mhm," I say, looking up and nodding my head, and I moan as the knife rubs against my nipple,

"Be quiet," He warns; he grabs my hand and puts my hand on his rock-hard cock, "You know, I've been watching you for a while," He says, whispering into my ear, "I know how your boyfriend fucks you. I know he's too soft for you," His gloved hands are now twisting my nipples, the knife thrown on the coffee table with a large crash, "You want someone to be rough with you? Does he even make you cum? Be honest." My eyes are down looking at his hands, but they quickly move up, grabbing a hold of my hair and making him look at him.

"I asked you a question, Y/n."

"No, he doesn't." He makes a tsk tsk noise.

"Pretty girls deserved to cum; they deserved to be fucked how they want." I let out a moan and I could hear a chuckle.

"God, I love pinching your nipples. You've got such big titties." He says,

"Thank you,"

"Do you like a stranger playing with your nipples, whore?"

"Yes, Mister. Ghostface." I said, and I could feel the twitch in his cock at the name.

"Oh, fuck." He moaned, trying to hold back, taking a deep breath, and that's when he pushed his fingers inside my pussy, and I moaned loudly, "Shhh, you don't want the neightbors to hear do you? God, you're so fucking wet,"

"For you," I say.

"Shut the fuck up, whore. You don't get to talk, or I'll get my knife out." He turns me around, and he shoves his leathered fingers inside of me again, his rough thumb dragging circles.

"Keep quiet, little girl. You don't want the neighbors to tell your boyfriend about your stranger, do ya?:

I leaned forward against the sofa, "Answer me," He said, his hand coming off her clit, the soft fabric of his cloak against my bare back, his rough gloved hand going to my throat.

"No, I don't, Sir." His hand squeeze my throat, his breath againest my ear.

"Good fucking girl," He quickly moved away from my body, and his hand slapped my ass, "God, I love your ass. It's fucking perfect." I felt his hands go down my back to caress my ass; I felt teeth and salvia on my ass cheek. His hands spread my cheeks exposing myself to him.

"God, damn." I felt warm liquid hit my asshole and go to my clit, "I've been watching you for a week," He says, I hear the ripping off the Valco of his gloves, and I feel his thumb circle my asshole, and it goes down my vagina, "I've been dreaming about this sweet ass, jerking off to you from your window," His bare slender fingers are inside of my now while his still gloved still rubs my clit, a harsh breath comes in, "I saw you last night, you dirty girl, I watched you dip your fingers in this sweet pussy, you left the curtains open. Did you want me to see? Could you feel my eyes watching you? I could see you twist your pretty, perky nipples, biting those perfect lips of yours; I saw your eyes roll back in your head when you were cumming." I whined, letting out a whisper of 'please,' "I wonder what your pretty pussy tastes, but it feels amazing wrapped around my bare fingers. so, tight,"

"Your fingers feel so good," I moan out, I push my body agaienst his fingers wanting him to faster than his painfully slow pace.

"Hold still," He says to me, and he pushed his fingers deep inside me making a scissor movement, and I let out a loud moan.

"God, your moans are even better than I imagined. But remember, baby, you got to be quiet." I moaned, as his his finger on my clit went down harder and I let out a whine.

"Please, please, please." She says.

"What do you want? Tell me? Use your words, you pretty thing."

"Want-want to cum. Please, I'm so close. God, please, sir. Please." There's a low laugh; he pumps his fingers in faster and his thumb went around my clit in a delicate circle that felt delicious.

"cum on my fingers, pretty thing. I want to taste your cum on my fingers. Be my good girl."

"Yes, Mister. Ghostface. Yes, sir." With those words streaming out of my mouth, I felt the cord snap and the orgasm rolled over me, and I let out a low moan, shoving my face into the couch cushions.

I felt him put his hands around my waist and pull me to my knees in front of him, I watched as he pulled the mask just above his chin to expose his mouth, he pulls his fingers into his mouth sucks on them.

"You taste so fucking good," He says, I watch him lick his lips, I put my hand to his dick; it was hard as a rock inside of pants under his cloak.

"Someone is being needy," He says with a low chuckle; he takes his hands and rips the cloak off his body to reveal his pale skin, his happy trail on his stomach leading down to his v-line; I wanted to run my tongue down his lengthy body.

"You're drooling," Ghostface laughs as he rubs his thumb on my lip, and he grabs under my arms, lifting me up, his mask still pulled up enough for his lips to be out and he pulls me forward, yanking my head back, with a fistful of my hair, and I yelp as he sticks his tongue in my mouth, kissing me passionately.

"What do you want, baby?" He says, pulling away from me.

"I want to kiss and lick your body," I say with a blush, feeling dirty for saying this about a man I didn't even know.

"Don't get embarrassed now, doll." With a smirk on his pretty pink lips, he says, "Your body belongs to me, now and mine belongs to yours. Do what you like, dirty girl."

I kiss his lips again, my hands going around his torso, my clit still burning from pleasure from my orgasm but it's begging for another one.

"Don't forget who's in charge here," He says, his hands hard on jaw.

"You're in charge," I say, my eyes staring up into the black open spaces where his eyes are behind the permanent screaming mask. I go to his neck, place an open-mouth kiss on his neck, suck harshly, and I hear the low groan that comes out, his fingers kneading my asscheeks. As I went to his chest, leaving hickeys on his pecks and on his soft stomach. I go on my knees, I lick his v-line, lick on the belt holding up his dark jeans, and I let my hand move against his hard cock that is straining his jeans.

"May I?" I say looking up, my hand still going over the outline.

"Good girl, asking for permission first. Go on," He says, and I fumble with the belt, loosening and undoing it, and I pull down his jeans and his plaid boxers and his cock springing out.

He had such a pretty cock; the tip was as pink as his lips and he had a long vein twisting around it.

“Don’t be afraid, baby. It’s just a cock,” He says, he grabs my hair signally for me to suck, but I just pull my tongue out and drag it along the vein, I go to the tip and I lick around it, and I wrap my lips around the tip, and that’s when he thrusts inside my mouth hitting the back of my throat.

“God damn,” He moans out, and he holds my face now, and I look up at him and he thrusts himself inside my mouth again, and again, “Your mouth feels so good but I wonder what your pussy feels like,”

And he drags his cock out of me, steps out of his pants and he pulls up and throws me against the coach with my ass up, and he slams his hand down again.

“Don’t look back here,” He says and I do as he says and I just arch my back and this time, I feel his mouth against my pussy, and I see his mask on the floor but I don’t dare look at him scared that his tongue would stop and this slice of heaven I was in would stop.

His tongue goes in and out out of my tight hole, suddenly he stops, and she could feel his tongue going inside and out of her asshole, his fingers going to work still on her pussy, and the only sound in the room is the sound of my whines, thanking him for his tongue, and the slurps and sounds of my wet pussy.

His mouth went back to my tongue, “God, I need you to ride my face.” He put his hands on my hips, “Close your eyes,” He said and I did as he said, and I heard rustling, and I felt me moving. I opened my eyes, and I saw his cock standing up proud and tall as I sat on his face.

My clit on his strong chin, “ Move your hips, baby. Ride my face, like you’re going to ride my cock.”

“I want you inside of me,” I whine wanting nothing more than his cock inside of me but he shakes his head.

“Cum on my face, and then I’ll give you my cock.” He said and I did as he said, I bucked my hips across his face. His tongue entered my pussy as I rock harder against his face, I wanted to yank on his hair. I couldn’t see what color it was but I imagined it dark with curls falling down on his face.

God, I wanted to see his whole face. I wanted to see the killer I was currently riding on. I wanted to see more just his strong chin, his plump lips, I wanted to know this stranger.

I felt his hands on my hips pushing me down father onto his face that was hovering over.

“Are you close?” He hummed which made me let out a hiss of pleasure and I nodded.

“Yes.” I reply, and that’s when I felt a harsh suck to my clit made me recoil, but his hips keeping down, and his tongue going in and out of my hole and it switches between sucking and licking, and that’s when I felt a fiery release, my second orgasm hit me and I moaned loudly but that;s what earned me a harsh slap on my ass.

“You’re going to leave a mark,” I warned him.

“Too fucking bad. I want you to keep me like a dirty secret.” He moves me off me and grabs his mask repositioning on his face and turns me to him, we were both now completely bare, naked with each other beside the mask covering his identity, “I want you to have to hide your body because of how ashamed you are of fucking a killer, because you fucked a stranger over your boyfriend.” His hands went down my body, his cock making contact with my thigh as his.

His hands went to my shoulders, his index and pointer finger smooth across my skin leaving a lane of fire on me as he went down, I could feel the ache of my clit but I didn’t care, I wanted him inside of me, I wanted to feel him, and I wanted to be consumed with just him.

“Can I ride your cock now?” I ask again looking up into the darkness where his eyes were, and he nods.

And he gets up on the coach, and he pulls me up there with me, his knife in his hand, “Get on with it,” He says, almost with a bored tone and I pout as I climb on his lap.

“Look more happy baby, you get what you want now, right? My cock.” He says, he puts the cold blade to my throat as I sit on him, I could feel my pussy stretch to the size of his cock, and I bottomed out, my pussy is slick from my two previous orgasm and the burn of my clit between my legs.

“Move,” He says, the knife to my throat as I start to move up and down on his cock, his other hand went to my hip helping me with my movements, the knife only made me more wet, the danger of it all, in one moment he could slice my throat.

I try to go faster but he didn’t let me, only letting me move at agonist pace, and I could feel his cock squirm inside of me and the low groans he tried to keep in were seeping out of his mask.

“God, you feel good, mister. Ghostface.” I say, I put my hand on his shoulder, and I could feel his hair against my fingers and I wanted to grab a fistful, and yank on it as I rode him, but he moved the knife closer to my throat.

“Fuck me like it’s the last think you’ll do,” He says in a nearly threatening tone, and he moves his hand from my waist, and I put my other hand on his shoulders and I lift myself off his cock and slam myself back on it, and I did it again, and then I thrust myself on his cock, and I could hear his moans.

“God fucking-” He hisses, and that’s when he grabs a fistful of my hair, and my motions comes to a stop and now his hips were the ones going up and down, he held my waist with other hands, and I could feel his cock go up an down inside of me, his balls slapping against my ass, I thrust my hips as he fucks me this way, and I stick my hand in between playing with my clit.

I could feel the pain of another orgasm coming, “I’m gonna cum.” I warn him and he shrugs.

“Do it,” were his only words and that’s the only thing I needed and I came, collapsing on top of him. My record was three, anymore and I becoming a braindead fuck doll as my boyfriend call me.

“Come on, I know you got at least two more in you, doll.” His voice darkened at the nickname like he knew what I was thinking and I heard his chuckle, “Come on, you’re not stupid.” He says, and I felt his lips move against my head through the mask, such an odd feeling of the fabric on my bare skin.

His cock started thrusting inside of me, “Get on your back, you stupid slut.” He said and I did as he told, limping over onto my back, and that’s when he pulled me to the edge of the coach, spreading my legs apart, and putting his cock inside of me, his hand went out my nipples, playing and twisting with them.

I just let my moans out, letting the whispers of please, and felt good just mumbling and not even being able to form a sentence, just letting myself come to the pleasure of the cock of the Mister. Ghostface in front of me. I put my hand out and started to play with his balls.

“You’re such a dumb slut, just want my cum, don’t you.”

“Yes, please.” I say with a nodd.

“You know what I want?” I look up at him.

“I want you to cum two more times,” And I nodd.

“Tell me what you want,” He asks me and I grab his hand that is on one of my legs and move in between my legs and I moan as he starts to play with my clit, and he shoves his cock inside of me even harder.

“Faster,” I ask and he moves quickly inside and out of me, thrusting harder, and I feel the pain in my stomach, and I wrap my legs around his waist to push him closer to me and I moan loudly.

I felt a slap to my nipple, and a pinch of my clit, and a few sluts and I came again with no warning, but that’s when I felt like everywhere he was touching me was on fire.

He slapped my nipple again and twisted it, and I let out out moan and I could feel another orgasm bubbling inside of me as his thrusts became sloppy and his breathing became deeping and his moans come right after the other.

“I’m going to cum. Where do you want the cum?”

“Inside of me, please. Please, cum inside me.”

“I can do that, baby. Cum with me please?” He asks and I nodd, and I let out go, and everything felt it was escaping from inside me and it felt wet, the coach felt wet under my ass, and I could see water droplets on his body.

“Did I pee?” I ask and he shakes his head, pulling his face underneath the mask showing the beautiful face of Regulus Black.

“You're squirting,” He goes down and licks up the moisture on my thighs, “God, it tastes so good.”

“You did so good, baby,” I tell him, my hands going to his curls.

“It was very hot I have to admit, don;t think you’ve been that wet before.” He winks.

“Let’s go take a bath?” I ask and he nods, wrapping an arm around me and he takes me to the bathroom.

#regulus black #regulus black smut #regulus black x reader #regulus black x plus size reader #marauders era #ghostface #marauders fandom

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omgrachwrites · 7 months

Text

Wicked Game - Chapter One

Pairing: Mattheo Riddle x Weasley!Reader

Summary: When you realise just how bad your parents financial situation is you make a deal with your fathers boss.

Warnings: muggle au, fluff, angst, swearing

A/N: Hope you guys enjoy this! The other chapters are going to be longer and this is going to be a relatively slow burn. Please let me know what you think and let me know if you would like to be tagged! I love you all! xxx

masterlist

Chapter One

You knew that your parents were struggling financially, you had always known, especially when you were at school. They had managed to send all eight of you to an exclusive boarding school so you never minded that your things were second-hand, you thought they added more charm. Now, that you were out of school, it seemed as though your parents were struggling even more, your dad’s boss, Mr Riddle had cut his hours right down.

Arthur and Molly were too proud to ask for help – despite having an array of friends who would drop everything to help – and they had denied your help more than once. You really didn’t want to see your family out on the street so you decided to take drastic measures.

“I’m heading to London today,” you told your mum as you sat down for breakfast on a warm summer’s morning.

Before she could reply, your twin brother spoke up, “Why, what’s in London? I thought you weren’t at the shop today.”

You rolled your eyes, “Ron, just because your nose is enormous doesn’t mean you should be poking it in other people’s business,” you flicked his nose causing him to bat your hand away and he scowled at you, the tips of his ears turning red.

After a quick breakfast, you were out the door and on the way to London, despite being pretty far out in the countryside you only needed one train to get there. The journey seemed to go by so quickly and soon enough you were walking into the lobby of the high rise building. It was so quiet and clean that it seemed clinical. The receptionist looked at you with wide eyes when you told her who you were there to see but you weren’t waiting long until she led you into Mr Riddle’s office.

As you walked in, trying to stop your hands from shaking, the older man looked up at you and took in your appearance, “you’re Arthur Weasley’s daughter,” it wasn’t a question as he gestured for you to sit down.

You nodded as you cleared your throat and sat down, “y-yes, Sir.”

“And what does Arthur Weasley’s daughter want with me?” he asked as he went back to signing the papers on his desk.

“My parents need help,” Mr Riddle glanced up at you with a raised eyebrow and you elaborated, “financial help.”

“Ah,” he had a ghost of a smirk on his face as he dropped his pen on top of his papers and leaned back in his leather wing backed chair, “if your parents hadn’t of had an army of children maybe they’d be in a much more comfortable position.”

It was amazing how quickly your fear turned to anger and you couldn’t stop the next words that fell from your lips, “well maybe if you gave my dad reasonable hours then I wouldn’t be here,” you folded your arms and narrowed your eyes.

Riddle blinked at you before letting out a harsh laugh that made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, “my dear, all working hours have been cut since the war ended.”

“Still, there must be something I can do, please I’ll do anything,” you didn’t mean to beg but you were getting desperate now. Why wouldn’t he help you? A man in his position of power was exactly the sort of man who would help you, but he wouldn’t, not for nothing in return.

“You would do anything to save your family from ruin?” when you nodded he smirked and buzzed for the receptionist, “Bella find my son and send him in.”

Moments later, Mattheo Riddle came striding into the room like he owned it, he was even more handsome than he had been in school with the same sullen look on his face. His eyebrows shot up in surprise when he saw you standing in his father’s office but he nodded at you all the same.

“Y/N.”

“Hi, Mattheo.”

“You see, Y/N,” Riddle started “I have been trying to make a marriage for my son and at every turn he has rejected several extraordinary women,” Mattheo flushed and his eyes dropped to the floor at his father’s words, “you see, it’s very difficult for those fools to take me seriously at the Ministry without a marriage. You say you would do anything to save your family? Marry my son.”

Matteo’s eyes widened, “father,” he started but fell silent as Riddle gave him a hard look.

Riddle looked back at you, “accept and your family will want for nothing. Refuse, and I will make their life a living hell.”

This was the last thing you expected – or wanted – your heart was in your throat but you had started all of this and now you had to see it through. Briefly, you wondered why he would ask you, given Riddle’s opinion of your family. But you realised it was to keep you in line, you weren’t an idiot. You glanced at Mattheo who refused to look at you and you turned back to Riddle.

“When you put it that way, how can I refuse? Of course, you leave me no choice but to accept.”

Riddle smirked, “excellent, I’ll make the necessary arrangements. Mattheo, please show our guest out.

The younger Riddle glared at you as he gripped your elbow and steered you out of the room, “what the fuck, Y/N? Why would you do that?!” he hissed.

You managed to shake him off by the time you got to reception, “you heard your dad, I didn’t have a choice!” you conveniently ‘forgot’ to tell him that it was you who had sought Riddle out.

“You’re going to regret this,” there was a fire blazing in his usually cold brown eyes.

“Trust me, I already do,” you scowled.

As you got home, you had a guilty feeling in the pit of your stomach so you decided to shut yourself in your room. Your parents were going to be so disappointed. You were shut in your room all day, even when Hermione came to visit. You didn’t see anyone till later that evening when your dad barged in.

“We need to talk.”

“About?”

“Mattheo Riddle.”

Your heart sank like a rock as you looked at your dad’s disappointed face, “what do you want to know?”

“You’re not marrying him, Y/N.”

“I already accepted.”

“Well unaccept!”

“I can’t!” you sighed, “you guys needed help, I never meant for it to get this far but it’s done. If I refuse he will make our lives hell, you know he will. All I wanted was to help,” but you feared you had made things worse.

“We never wanted this for you, Y/N,” Arthur sighed as he awkwardly lingered in the doorway.

“Look dad, I know and I’m sorry. I’ll try and get out of it somehow.”

Arthur nodded with a sigh as he left the room, knowing the conversation was over and knowing that he wasn’t going to be able to change your mind.

A couple of minutes later, you decided that you needed some air, you all but crept by the living room where Riddle was having a hushed conversation with your parents. As you headed towards the back door, Harry called after you.

“Hey, Y/N.”

You groaned and turned to face him, knowing that he’d have something to say, he always did, “Harry, please. I really don’t need a lecture off you, of all people.”

“Whoa, whoa,” Harry laughed, throwing up his hands in mock defence, “I’m not going to lecture you. It was brave what you did, stupid,” he added “but brave.”

You laughed, “I agree with the stupid part, but thanks Harry,” you grinned.

“I can’t believe you’re gonna be a Riddle though,” he said with a look of distaste on his face.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s a real tragedy,” you laughed, “see you, Harry,” you shot him a wave as you headed outside into the warm summer air.

The air smelled sweet, like honeysuckle and lemon and you gazed around the wild garden, feeling sadness linger in the pit of your stomach. You spotted Mattheo sitting on the garden wall, smoking a cigarette. With a sigh, you walked over to him and sat next to him as he nodded at you.

“It’s nice out here,” he nodded at the strings of fairy lights that had been weaved through the flowering bushes, “you caused quite a stir it seems,” he mumbled as he blew out a plume of smoke, being careful to not let it get in your face.

“Well, it was getting boring around here, so I thought I’d spice it up,” you laugh as Mattheo’s lips almost quirked up into a smirk, “so,” you started, “what’s your reason for agreeing to marry me? What’s in it for you?”

He scoffed as he looked at you with brown eyes so unlike his dad’s cold blue ones, “my father says jump, I ask how high.”

“Oh,” you bit your lip, you couldn’t imagine having that sort of relationship with your family, “I’m sorry,” you hadn’t just ruined your life, you’d ruined his too.

Mattheo pulled a face, “don’t be silly, you don’t have to apologise for anything. Look, Y/N, despite what the papers say about me, I’m not a monster. I’ll treat you how you deserve to be treated but, Y/N, I’m never going to love you. If that’s what you’re looking for, you’re going to be disappointed.”

Personally, you thought love was overrated, people did stupid things when they were in love, “well, I’m never going to love you either.”

“Perfect,” he nodded, flicking the stub of his cigarette away.

“So, when do you take me away from my family?” you joke.

“Not until the wedding, my dad wanted you to move in straight away but I convinced him there was no need.”

“Thank you.”

The handsome boy looked at you in bewilderment, like he didn’t know why you would thank him, “don’t look for any redeeming qualities in me, Y/N. I have none.”

Before you could reply, Riddle was striding across the garden, “we’re leaving, Mattheo.”

“I guess I’ll see you soon,” the boy nodded at you before disappearing up the country lane.

With a sigh, you headed back inside the house to find everyone sitting around the table. As you walked in they all stared at you as you sat down. Sirius looked impressed while Lily looked like she felt sorry for you. You knew that someone was dying to say something.

“Just don’t,” you said, shaking your head as you reached for your glass of juice.

It was silent for a couple of moments before Ginny spoke up, “hey, at least he’s hot,” everyone let out a nervous laugh and fell into an uneasy conversation as they waited for dinner.

#fluff #au #mattheo x weasley!reader #mattheo x reader #mattheo x you #mattheo x y/n #mattheo riddle #reader insert #weasley!reader #tom riddle #arthur weasley #molly weasley #ron weasley #hermione granger #harry potter #ginny weasley #muggle au #everyone lives au

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holdupjack · 9 months

Text

Don't Make Eye Contact

——————

Pairing: Hermione Granger x Fem!Reader

AU: Reader is a Ravenclaw/No War/No Voldemort

WARNING: None

——————

Third Person P.O.V:

7th Year

Y/n sat at a table in the Gryffindor Common Room with her long-time friend, Hermione Granger.

She had agreed to help Y/n with her potions test coming up, only after she had begged her repeatedly. They two had been very good friends since the first year, some said it was a match made in heaven due to their personalities.

It's their last year now, during their many days together Y/n found herself...would crushing be the right word? Let's just say she had been infatuated with the Muggle-born.

Many people were though, and it was quite obvious there was a secret Hermione Fan Club somewhere in the school.

Surprisingly, Y/n hadn't been asked to join yet. Almost all of their immediate friends knew about Y/n's attraction, and they teased her relentlessly for it. Even if they did think it was charming.

"Y/n?" Hermione calls out, noticing the deep focus she has on the wooden table. Y/n's sight shifted almost immediately to meet her gaze, her stare looked as though she had seen a ghost.

"Yes?" Y/n replies as she clears her throat, her fingernail picking at the sides of her book in her lap.

"Are you alright?" Hermione asks as she shifts in her seat and leans forward slightly, noticing a group of students walking down into the Common Room.

"I'm fine! Just going through some stuff...you know how it is" Y/n hums, trying to play off the fact that she had been embarrassingly daydreaming about her. Quickly she looked back at her book, now realizing that her eyes began to sting at the fact she would look at what she truly wanted to admire.

Y/n didn't notice as Hermione began to smile at her anxious form as the group crawled out of the Gryffindor Common Room. Her book was gently placed next to her, and her chin found a seat in her palm as she held up her head.

(A/N: Btw, it must suck to be physically disabled in Gryffindor. Imagine someone in a wheelchair trying to get through that tunnel. Do you think the teachers cast something on it so it'll be easier for them to get to and from?... Anyways-)

"If you don't mind me prying, but what are you going through?" She asked as her other arm rested behind her elbow and gently played with the fabric around her bicep.

"It's nothing 'Mione, I swear," Y/n replies while not looking up from her book. Hermione raised an eyebrow and hummed in discontent at her answer.

"You've been stand-offish since December, has this got to do with Valentine's Day?" she asks and Y/n blinks at her unregistered book page, trying to figure out how the bloody hell she got that logic from.

Granted she was right, but that wasn't the point. How did she get to that conclusion with nothing but Y/n being anxious? She's always anxious!

"How did you come up with that idea?" Y/n asks as she flips to the next page in her book, even though she didn't comprehend what it said before.

"It's quite simple really" Hermione states as she leans back in her chair, folds her arms, and crosses one leg over the other.

"Yeah?" Y/n hums as her legs start to bob up and down in a nervous rhythm.

"It started after Ron had been poking at you about asking someone out before Christmas break. Him then saying that you not having your first kiss already was funny, which I disagree with, but I know you took it personally." Hermione continued as she watched the other girl intently, noting every little flicker of emotion that crossed her face.

"Now Valentine's Day is two weeks away and you're trying to find the courage to ask out who you like" Hermione tempts as she 'accidentally' nudged Y/n's leg with her foot.

Oh, you thought Hermione was oblivious to Y/n's attraction? Ha, that's funny. Hermione Granger? Oblivious?

Well...sometimes, but not when it comes to Y/n. She had that girl mapped out better than the Dark Forest.

The hair on Y/n's neck stood up at attention as the side of the girl's shoe grazed her calf and disappeared. The shaking of her leg immediately stopped.

"So, what's your plan?" she asks, chuckling slightly at the soft shade of maroon enveloping her cheeks.

"Nothing. Nothing at all. I'm happy dying alone." Y/n responds in a monotone voice, to which Hermione rolls her eyes.

"He made fun of you too, just in case you forgot. What was it again? The fact that you haven't dated anyone since fifth year?" Y/n teases back, turning a page again when she feels like enough time has gone by.

"Whatever, I'm waiting for them to ask me out anyways," she replies, to which Y/n snorts and flicks her sight at the Gryffindor's hands, before retreating to the book.

"You're waiting? Do you think that sending ESP confirmation is going to get them to ask you on a date?" Y/n chuckles as she thinks about Hermione trying to telepathically tell her interest she's ready to be wooed.

"It worked with Krum" Hermione replies with a soft smile as she waits for their eyes to meet, but Y/n still keeps them away from her sight.

"Oh yeah, great example" Y/n mutters in playfulness, as she rests her book on the table and stretches over the backrest of her chair.

Her eyes squeezed shut as she let out a closed-mouth sigh, her back cracking in multiple places as she bent against the wood.

"Alright, why don't you ask out who you like then? There can't be people elbowing past you with better chances." Hermione asked as she shifted in her seat again, trying to catch Y/n's gaze but again, she ignored her.

"It's called fear of rejection 'Mione, it weakens even the best of soldiers" Y/n states a student crawls into the Common Room and greets the two of them with a quick 'hello'.

Y/n looks up at them and smiles, just as quickly replying as they scurried up to their dorm room. Hermione ignored them, not to be a bitch, but to try to get ahold of her love life came first at this moment.

"I know that, but I've seen you ask things that you have no business asking. Like when you saw that McGonagall had a bottle of Fire Whiskey in her desk and asked her for a swig" Hermione states as she uncrossed her legs and sat up, now slightly annoyed that Y/n has yet to look back at her.

"That's different! That couldn't ruin friendships, this could." Y/n states as she looks back at her book, she now getting slightly bothered by all the questions.

"Fine, then what would you say to them if you didn't have this fear of rejection?" Hermione questions as she leans her arms onto the table. Y/n sighs with slight exhaustion and caves into the girl's request.

"You want to know what I would say? Fine. Here is what I would say. I would say that she's the most soul-giving person I've ever met. She makes me so nervous that I'm scared to look at her most days. That I've loved her freely at night and whispered everything I find great about her to the man on the moon. I would tell her that I don't care about status, that to me, she is better than ever Pureblood girl in this world. I would tell her that I...I love her." Y/n finishes her rant quietly as she just stares at her book page with annoyance.

It was quiet for a moment before Y/n asked Hermione the same question.

"So, what would you say? You know, after they finally heard your ESP call to action" Y/n asks with a small chuckle as she tries to ease the tension, and her racing heart.

Hermione was still quiet, her eyes soft and unwavering as she stared at Y/n. She wondered what she could say that was just as beautiful, maybe something straight to the point.

"What would I say? I would say...I love you too Y/n."

Y/n felt her throat close and her eyes widened in horror at the realization that Hermione knew. She has known for a while.

Every smile and chuckle from Hermione started to seem insincere in Y/n's mind. What if this was some game to her? Y/n was afraid to know the truth, whether it was good or bad. As long as she didn't look into those oak tree eyes, she'd been able to get out of there.

"Look at me Y/n" Hermione whispered as if she could hear her thoughts, but Y/n just stood up and packed her bag quickly, much to the Gryffindor's dismay.

"I have to go"

"Y/n-"

"I'll talk to you later"

Y/n was out of that Common Room faster than an Army grunt under barbed wire. She was even quicker to escape the Gryffindor Tower and make her way to Central Hall.

Hermione cursed and smacked the table with the side of her hand as she leaned back into her chair.

Why didn't she believe her? Why didn't she just look at her and see that she wasn't pulling one over on her? Why is she infatuated with someone so stubborn?

She sat at that table for ten minutes. Her eyes fixated on the tunnel as she thought through her feelings before she went after her and said the wrong thing.

"I'm not going to let you just ignore this" Hermione mumbled to herself as she quickly got up, leaving her things at the table with no care as to what happens to them.

Y/n sat at the fountain in the Central Hall, her breath uneven from the jog there, and the realization that Hermione had known all about this.

She should have stayed. It was too late to go back now, she'd already made a complete fool of herself by storming out like that.

The Central Hall was vacant, most people at at the Quidditch game, or getting high in their dorms while the Prefects were out.

"I'm such an idiot" Y/n groans to herself as she lets her belongings flop onto the ground. Her hand slipped through her hair out of frustration as a sigh left her lips.

Y/n sat and stared at her feet for a while, so long in fact that she didn't hear the approaching footsteps behind her due to the fountains running water.

Hermione smiled as soon as she got a glimpse of Y/n's face, slowly sitting beside her till she noticed her presence.

Of course, Y/n knew it was her even without looking over. The smell of Cinnamon and Parchment invaded her nose as soon as she sat down.

"I'll ask you again, Please look at me" Hermione whispers as she waits patiently for Y/n to respond.

Finally, their eyes met again. Hermione couldn't hold back the smile on her face as the soft hue of a cardinal matched each other's cheeks.

Y/n swallowed the lump in her throat as the woman she'd chained her heart to began to speak.

"Now, would you stop being so stubborn and ask me on a date already? I think I have waited long enough" Hermione asks with a playful smirk on her face. Y/n chuckled softly and looked back out in front of her.

"I don't know, I still have my eyes on Lavender too" Y/n teased, now feeling a little bolder than before. Hermione always had that effect on her, somehow making an uncomfortable situation into a powerful one.

"Oh sweet Merlin, don't even joke about that" Hermione groaned, still a little upset that she lost Ron to her. Hey, she didn't like him anymore, but that doesn't mean she doesn't have a bruised ego about it.

Y/n began to quietly snicker as Hermione moved closer to her, their shoulders leaning against one another's as her arm crossed Y/n's back and rested in the space between her hip and arm.

When she looked back at Hermione, their noses brushed like a soft spring wind. A smile played on the Gryffindor's lips as she stared into Y/n's eyes.

"You know, usually you initiate a kiss after a date" Y/n whispers as her eyes flickered to Hermione's lips multiple times.

"Call me eager" Hermione whispers back as she blinks becoming slow, and full of want.

"Do you do this to all of your admirers?" Y/n asks as her eyebrow rises with question. Hermione scoffed at her accusation and grinned.

"Those were men, but with you? My self-respect goes out the window." Hermione hums as Y/n lets out a chuckle of her own. Now eyeing the young woman a teasing stare as their lips ghost each other's.

"How charming Hermione, is that what you say with every fan girl?" Y/n asks as the Gryffindor kisses the side her her mouth, before begrudgingly holding herself back from invading your space more than she already has.

"So you are a fan girl? Oh, you stoke the embers of my fantasies with this knowledge" Hermione whispers as they hear the clamoring of feet and overlapping voices heading their way, the game must be over.

The brown-haired beauty sighed softly and backed away as hundreds of students walked in and past through different areas. They could hear the small orchestra nearby start playing again.

Their moment alone was now taken away, and only the tingling of that small peck was left between them.

"Y/n, why have you averted your gaze from mine again?" Hermione asks, and Y/n now realizes she is back to looking at the ground.

Even though the space between them was quiet, the roaring of laughter and yelling got on Hermione's nerves.

"Come, let us go somewhere more private" Hermione stated as she stood up and grabbed her things from the floor. Y/n knew protesting was futile.

Hermione wanted her, Y/n knew that now, and it didn't take a genius to know she wasn't backing away from a few 'what ifs' in her mind like Y/n does.

Harry watched with Luna from a staircase nearby, both looking at one another with a knowing glance before chuckling at one another.

"You know, Hermione hates when Y/n does that" Luna starts as they watch the future couple disappear into the crowd. Harry cocked an eyebrow at the blonde as they sat down on the stairs.

"Does what?" He asks as Luna's eyes shift around the ceiling dreamily, they hold so much wisdom behind them.

"Hermione desires Y/n's full attention, and the poor Ravenclaw gets so nervous around her that she tries her best to keep her gaze off of her," Luna explains and Harry hummed at the answer, now quite surprised to know that Hermione liked eyes on her.

"That does not mean she likes other people's gaze upon her face or body. Isn't that poetically beautiful? She has yearned for Y/n's sole focus, and has displayed daggers to any who try to compete." Luna hums and Harry has to scoff at the 'deeper' meaning of this courtship.

"Luna, I think you're putting too much credit on to Hermione. She had only started pinning for Y/n in the fifth year, Y/n has loved her most of their time together." Harry states. As much as he loved Hermione, she got blindsided by Krum and Ron for a short time. It was Y/n who always gazed upon her with admiration and zealousness.

"Maybe I am, but isn't it better to be late than to never have arrived?" Luna replies as the boy nodded in agreement.

As they talked away in Central Hall, somewhere near the Ravenclaw Tower, Hermione relished in Y/n's stare after a small meaningful talk in an empty corridor.

Quiet chuckles and kisses were shared between them as they spent the remaining hours together. Hermione had long forgotten her duty of tutoring her new lover, which she did regret when Y/n flunked it, but it wasn't her fault!

Y/n had a glimmer behind her eyes that made Hermione's head foggy and her heart thump like a rabbit's foot, making her feel as though she was the only girl in the world.

(A/N: Cue Rihanna 💃)

Later that night, Luna had poked at Y/n about what she saw in the Ravenclaw Common Room. Saying that she hoped for the best, and wished nothing but good fortune on their journey of life together.

Y/n cleared her throat and flushed as bright as a firetruck. She responded with a soft 'thank you' but soon said that Luna acted as if they were getting married.

"Might as well celebrate something that will definitely to come true"

"You can weave your predictions into the air, but that doesn't make them concrete" Y/n responded with a small chuckle.

The blonde just smiled and walked away, deciding that she would accept her 'you were right' in a few years.

#harry potter #hermione granger #hermione granger x reader #lesbian #fanfic #fluff

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venusxxlangdon · 5 months

Text

Of Mice & Snakes - Part 3. The Snake

pairing: Michael Langdon x fem!reader x Tom Riddle

warnings: crossover, third-person narration, smut (threesome, dp, spitting, dirty talk), angst, character death

words: 3k summary: AU where Michael Langdon, Tom Riddle, and fem!reader are caught in an intricate relationship where power and lust go hand in hand. Sometimes the only way to forget is to take the memories out of your head and store them in the Pensieve.

This is the final part.

Part 1 Part 2 Chapter's soundtrack: Ludovico Einaudi - View From the Other Side

“He had my back long enough to stab me right into it” The snow was falling slowly, covering the roofs and the broad shoulders of the sleeping ogres that were supposed to keep the guard with the thick layer of silver blanket. Ever since the Dark Lord took the reigns, each village had ogres and werewolves as the night watchers in case any of the rebels decided to attack.

It was a deep night, and only a few lights in the giant mansion that sprawled out for several hectares were on. They were dim but more than enough to give a soft glow to this one particular spot in the living room.

The spot by a fireplace.

A big emerald-green velvet armchair was right in front of it. A huge pile of parchment paper was on the left-hand side. It was impossible to understand what was written on the notes because the handwriting was small, and most parts of the sentences were crossed out - it seemed as if whoever wrote them was in an incredibly frustrated state. Or furious. In life, very often these two feelings go hand in hand.

The flames from the fireplace cast warm light onto the walls with intricate gobelens. One of them pictured a family tree titled “The Riddle Family”. Some of the spots were burnt out indicating that certain members were excluded for reasons only a pure-blood wizard would understand and consider fair.

But nobody knew that the entire thing was fake. Tom Riddle came from a muggle family, and all these “excluded” members were nobody but imaginary people that he put on the wall to give the impression that he cared about the purity of his blood.

He was sitting in the armchair with his long legs crossed. Pale, aristocratic hands rested neatly on the handles. His eyes were closed, his breath even. He was used to evenings like this. After all, he did not have anyone left. Death Eaters could not be counted on. They were just mere subjects, loyal to their Lord, but their loyalty was based on fear and, in some cases, pure insanity. They could not be trusted. But who could he ever trust? The one he considered his brother (not by blood, but by how close they were) betrayed him.

Tom squeezed his fingers around the handles, making his knuckles bleed white. No matter how many years passed, he could not forgive Langdon. He did not betray just Riddle. He betrayed their master plan, almost ruined everything, and over what? A fucking bitch. Just from the thought of it alone, he felt the burning rage boiling up in his stomach and rising to his throat, making him gulp heavily. He rubbed his eyes tiredly and sighed. As he stretched one of his arms, his fingers lightly brushed the pile of notes next to him. He pulled one.

“Maybe you will wrap your mind around it one day, Tom. She loves both of us,” the scribed letters said. The rest of the paragraph faded with time, but Riddle knew it by heart.

Y/N never loved any of them, and if Langdon had ever believed otherwise, he was a complete fool and had no right to be his ally in the first place, Riddle thought. She was scared like a little mouse that she was. It was her plan all along: to make them fall for her and then flee when the time came. She pretended to be by their side. Luckily Riddle made her give the unbreakable vow, and that was the only thing that saved his plan in the end. The little bitch could not escape the ancient magic and paid for her dishonesty.

But she was useful. Thanks to Y/N, Michael and Tom did manage to access her father’s archive and find clues about the location of the Elder Wand. Riddle could feel the weight of it in his pocket. It was real and it brought him the power he had always lusted after. He did not even flinch when he had to point it at his friend, brother, and ally - Michael Langdon. By that point, he had already found out that Langdon was on Y/N’s side.

He remembered vividly the animalistic roar “Avada Kedavra!” and how the green light coming from his wand pierced through the green flame of Langdon’s wand and then went straight to Michael’s heart. The blond wizard fell dead on the cold concrete of the Glenfinnan Viaduct that Hogwarts Express used to go over every year with the students on board.

Only one Lord could exist.

Riddle crunched the piece of paper in his hand and threw it into the fire; the flames swallowed it immediately. He could hear the ticking of the ancient clock. He glanced at it quickly. Midnight.

“Actio”, he commanded and immediately, a small coffee table with little glass bottles appeared in front of him. Tom sat straight in his armchair and took one of the tiny bottles in one hand. With the other hand, he dived into the folds of his gown and pulled out his wand. He closed his eyes. Let’s see what memory he could get rid of that night. Riddle pointed the tip of the want at his temple and whispered:

“Pensieve”*

A thin silver string started to appear at the end of the wand, stretching out from his head. He pulled a bit more letting it come out completely, and then he stored it right into the prepared bottle. The silver ribbon peacefully rested inside the glass. He knew what it was about.

“Who are your Lords, darling?” he whispered in her ear while holding her by the neck as she lay atop him with her arms around his torso. Her hair was a mess, mouth hung open as she succumbed to the pleasure of two thick cocks stretching out her abused holes. Riddle was on his back, penetrating her throbbing pussy, and Langdon was behind her stretching her tight ass. He could tell Y/N was on the verge of crying from how overstimulated she felt.

“We can’t hear you”, Michael panted and reached out to her head to yank it and make her face Riddle’s smirk. She winced and looked at the man in front of her through hooded eyes. She was so full.

“You,” she answered barely moving her spit-slick lips, and her eyes rolled back at the particular hard thrust of Michael’s hips. Tom slid his hands down her body to grab her thighs and brought her dipper onto his cock. He could feel Michael moving inside of her too. Both of their cocks were slipping in and out with a filthy, sloppy sound.

“Good girl”, Michael’s colossal palm landed on the delicate skin of her asscheek, leaving a red print. She moaned and involuntarily, out of pure reflexes, pushed herself back onto him. “There you go,” he praised and spread her wider, admiring how her asshole was taking him. The beads of sweat were collecting on his forehead, blond locks sticking to it.

Riddle’s hands were on her breasts that were bouncing in front of his face. He squeezed her nipples tightly eliciting another loud moan from her. He passionately attached his mouth to hers, savoring every sound she made. He kissed her hungrily, drinking in the power he had over her. They had. Y/N was their little puppet. He could feel how Michael pulled out of her just to fill her back up. The sound of his balls slapping against her ass and their low moans was bouncing off the walls of the room.

Tom’s lips moved down her neck, stopping at the junction that connected her neck and the shoulder and giving it a harsh bite. Hard enough to leave a dark-purple mark. He wanted to claim her in every way. She already had a black snake imprinted on her arm, she had invisible strings of the vow around her wrists, and she had bite marks and hand prints all over her body.

“C’mon let’s move her”, he commanded to Michael and the blond man moaned disapprovingly. “Sharing is caring, Langdon”.

Michael gave her a few more thrusts to enjoy the tightness of her ass and complied. Before he moved her on her back, he proudly spread her gaping hole to see the result of his work which felt incredibly humiliating to Y/N. She whimpered when both of the men quickly flipped her over and she ended up on her back with her legs spread and Riddle between them. His eyes were black now, two abysses staring into her soul. Her head was spinning.

“What do you think, love?” he cooed, bringing his thumb to her lips and tapping on them ordering her to open her mouth. He leaned closer. She could feel his hot breath fanning over her face and the pressure of the tip of his cock at the entrance of her wet pussy. Her eyelids flattered and her cheeks turned scarlet when Riddle let the string of his saliva land on her tongue. “Take it.”

With that command he snapped his hips, thrusting deep inside of her, making her back arch. He was pinning her to the bed with the weight of his body and she did not have any other choice but to keep taking his big, hard cock moving ruthlessly inside her velvet walls.

“T-T-Tom”, she whimpered spreading her legs wider. Tears welled up in the corners of her eyes and she extended her arms, sliding her palms down the silk sheets looking for Michael’s hand. She needed to squeeze it for support, to have something to hold onto. Langdon laced their fingers together and brought his face close to hers.

“You look beautiful, darling”, he praised and reached his hand to her clit. His long fingers massaged firmly, sending bolts of pleasure down her spine. “Let him fuck you, be a good girl. You know you need to serve your Lords well, baby.”

“Oh yes, such a good puppy,” Riddle muttered and closed his eyes, giving in to the pleasure of her pussy around him. So good. So tight.

Michael’s plump lips met her parted mouth. He was kissing her lazily. He slid his tongue along her bottom lip and cupped her flushed cheeks. He brushed them with his thumbs almost lovingly.

“Let him cum inside your pussy, baby”, he whispered, “and then I will fill your mouth, yeah?”

As if she had a choice. She would do anything. She nodded and drew her knees to her chest allowing Riddle to go at a much deeper angle. He cussed and pushed onto her knees driving his cock in and out of her heat. His face was mere inches away from hers. He smelled like sweat and cologne. The suffocating smell of sex filled her nostrils. His hips moved at an animalistic pace, the muscles of his abdomen flexed with each thrust, and his groans indicated that he was close.

“I’m gonna cum in her”, he panted and Y/N moaned at his words. Michael was still holding her hand, and when Riddle leaned closer and whispered, “Look at me”, all she could do was oblige. She looked at him with wide eyes feeling his cock twitching inside of her. She let out a long, low moan when after one last thrust a hot, sticky fluid spilled inside her pussy. She watched Riddle throw his head back in pure bliss, feeling his cock pulsing deep in her. She felt incredibly full. Everything was wet. When he pulled out, she winced at the stretch and from how messy it all felt. Thick drops of pearl-white cum leaked out of her folds right onto the silk sheets.

“Keep your legs up”, Michael ordered. Y/N was in a trance. She could barely feel her legs, her heart was beating violently like a trapped bird in a cage, and her breath was still uneven. She saw Tom tiredly rolling over the other side of the bed leaving her at Langdon’s mercy.

“Put your hands on your ass and spread your holes for me”, Langdon continued. She slowly cupped her asscheeks in her palms and very slowly parted them. It felt filthy. Her pussy quivered and pushed out another thick drop of cum. Good Lord.

Michael reached his hand to gently tap her clit and collect some of the cum that Riddle left. He rubbed it between his long fingers and then smeared it around her tightened nipples. He grabbed his cock with his other hand and guided it into her mouth.

“Make me cum”, his low voice sent shivers down her spine. Y/N did not have any energy in her left. She slightly turned her head, adjusting her position on the pillow to take his cock at a better angle. She parted her lips and took a deep breath. Michael did not have any patience for her to take her time and run the tip of her tongue along his head and then take it inch by inch. As soon as he felt the warmth of her mouth, he pushed his hips forward making her take it all. Y/N gasped and almost let her teeth scratch the sensitive skin. Langdon hissed and grabbed her by the hair, guiding her head. He held her in place while driving his cock in and out of her mouth. She could barely keep up with the pace, choking on the impressive length.

“Just like that”, he approved. “Keep going.” He found particular pleasure in the noises her throat made each time he trusted into it. Her dripping saliva allowed his cock to glide easily. In and out. In and out. His eyes traveled down her body right to the spread pussy and ass that she still had on full display for him. With a low groan, Langdon pulled his cock out of her mouth and slapped her red cheeks with it. The girl was panting heavily. He was holding her by her neck as he kept rubbing the tip of his cock against her lips.

“Good girl”, he murmured and slapped her one more time. “Stick your tongue out.”

He let go of her face but she still kept it close because she knew what was coming. Obeying to his request, Y/N took her tongue out and looked up at Michael. His nostrils flared, usually perfect locks were messy, and his broad chest was covered in sweat. She knew him so well by that time already. She could tell he was close just by the way his breath hitched. She watched him jerking himself off and the wild thought of how badly she actually wanted him to cum on her enveloped her mind.

It was something in her eyes that could not be hidden. Something always about Michael that made her look at him in “that” particular way no matter what he and Riddle kept doing to her. Something Riddle never experienced. Something he hated the most and wanted to annihilate at its origin.

For a second, Tom Riddle wanted to break the glass with the string of memory inside of it. But instead, he squeezed it tightly in his palm and put it in the chest pocket of his gown. He will find a proper storage for this particular one.

Suddenly a creaking sound of the door opening interrupted his thoughts. He smiled. He did not even need to turn his head to know what it was.

“You are back my love,” Riddle smiled as the snake made its way to the armchair. Its long muscular body was strong and flexible. The snake wrapped its thick body around one of the legs and rested its giant scully head on Tom’s thigh. Its pitch-black eyes stared at him blankly. “Did you have a good hunt?”

The snake blinked. Tom’s fingers were drawing a lazy pattern on its head, it felt sleek and cool under his fingertips. How fascinating was the fact that once smart enough to come up with the plan to make fools out of the two most powerful wizards, this very head was now only capable of a primitive string of thoughts! It no longer had its identity, no recollection of the family she wanted to save so badly, no memory of Michael and him and what they used to do together, and most importantly, no memory of what she made Langdon feel. She was his loyal servant.

“That is the price you paid, Nagini”, Riddle whispered, taking the snake’s head in his palms, his palms caressing the sides of it. He loved her new name. The name he picked for her many years ago. “Just like he paid his.”

*In Harry Potter universe the memory extraction spell is unknown

Author's note: I’d like to thank everyone who supported Part 1 and Part 2 of this series that I wrote 4 years ago (*whistling*). I read every single comment and ask you sent me. Michael x reader x Tom pairing found its continuation in a plethora of drabbles and one-shots I wrote back in my active days on tumblr. The longer ones are included in my masterlist and the rest you can find in the tag #Michael x Tom x reader on my blog. Enjoy!

#michael langdon smut #michael x tom x reader #michael langdon x reader #harry potter smut #tom riddle smut

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racfoam · 5 months

Text

nynn Deathly Hallows AU

A day after Harry buried Dobby, she was sitting at the edge of the beach of Shell Cottage, staring out at the sea.

It was when she felt a wind not borne of the seaside caress on the doors of the soul bond that her body tensed. Picking herself up, Harry pulled out Draco's wand and Disapparated.

Harry landed on another beach, where above her, looking white cliffs stood tall. It was much warmer here.

The doors were pushed gently. Harry approached the sea, pulling of her Muggle clothes as she went, toeing off her trainers and pulling off her socks.

She could feel him at the back of her head now, so she laid on the bed of sand, spreading out her limbs, submerging her body inside the cool, cold water, closing her eyes. All her troubles went away underwater as the ocean drenched her face, her scar, her arms and any unlocthed skin. Everything turned quiet. Harry's long hair floated like a black veil in the sea.

After the first bubble came out her lips, Harry broke the surface again, refreshingly drenched. She stood up from the shallow and dried her hair with a drying charm, then did the same to the rest of her body. The moment the water was gone, Harry missed the feel of it. She Accioed her clothes to her and put on her shirt first.

The doors yawned open, creaking inside Harry’s ears. Saying nothing, Harry pulled up her trousers next.

She was stuffing her socked feet into her trainers when she felt the bond open, and Voldemort step past the doors.

Harry stood up, and Voldemort was there, three feet away from her, a red-eyed skeleton draped in black robes.

“Did the knife find a mark?” he asked, his cold voice all around her, just like the wind.

Harry clenched her teeth. She held her head high, and said nothing. The less Voldemort knows, the better. Harry climbed up the sandy beach, brushing past Voldemort; the cloth of his robe brushed against the cotton of her red shirt.

A skeletal, strong hand latched around her forearm, pulling Harry back, turning her around.

When Harry was turned to him, the hand released her. She felt his eyes on her.

“You’ve grown thinner.”

Was that a note of worry in his voice?

“It’s the fugitive style.” said Harry, staring at his collar. “You should try it out. Does wonders for your brain.”

Voldemort hummed. He moved out of Harry's periohery, and started circling her. Harry heard the sound of his bare feet on the sand as they walked, smelled the snowflakes she came to connect to his scent. She even felt the warmth of his breath on her neck when he leaned in and whispered, “Why did you run, Harry? I wouldn’t have harmed you. I would have been merciful toward your friends.”

Harry feels wetness on her cheeks. Despite drying her clothes and hair, her face is still wet from swimming in the ocean.

Voldemort stops in front of her, blocking her view of the blue horizon of the sea. Harry looks up at him then. His serpentine features are tense, impatience clear on the ivory face.

Harry glares at him for stepping in her way.

There are many things Harry could say.

“How was robbing Dumbledore’s grave?” she asks instead.

The impatience momentarily shifts to surprise. Voldemort looked almost displeased Harry knew what he had done while she was busy crashing on the beach and holding a dying Dobby in her arms.

Voldemort's skeletal hand disappears into the pocket of his robe. It pulls out a wand of dark wood.

Harry already thinks it doesn't suit him. The bone yew suited Voldemort much better.

Voldemort lifts it, sweeps his fingers across the bumped edges, thoughtful.

“It is not as though he will be needing it. I deserve it.”

Harry feels so disappointed and somber no words come. What was the point of trying, anyway?

“You’re still taking things that don't belong to you.” said Harry, breaking the silence.

Voldemort lunged, fast as a viper, with blinding speed. His long, skeletal fingers wrapped around Harry's throat, holding her paralysed.

“You belong to me!” he hissed, nightmarish face dangerously close, red eyes scalding into her. Harry's heart stopped beating for a moment as she stared at the enraged face.

Harry watched the rage fade, the tension vanish from the snake-like face. The fingers restraining her like a python loosened their grip on her neck, and his hands travelled up her skin. His fingers brushed her ears, and the next moment, those same palms were cradling her face as though she was the most fragile thing in the world.

The hiss turned into a silky whisper. “You’re mine.”

Another beat of silence.

“Come home to me.”

The red eyes trailed along her face hungrily, his breath caressing her cheek, wintery cold in a blooming spring sun.

The hunger overtook his eyes, the slitted pupils expanding into exploding dark holes. It was the only warning Harry received. Not that she could have stepped away, anyway, not with her face caged between his palms.

Voldemort sealed his mouth over Harry’s, kissing her hungrily. The kiss was warm and scalding hot, sending electric tremors through the most tender, vulnerable parts of her. Her lips were parted, so Voldemort took advantage, driving his tongue inside her mouth.

Harry didn't move. Didn't make a sound. She let him kiss her, let him have it. Voldemort, greedy as he was, hungering for more, took as much as he could, curling his tongue around Harry's mouth, tasting her and her lips both.

When it got too much, when Harry couldn’t breathe anymore, she whimpered into him. Voldemort pulled away regrettably, releasing Harry from his affection, tongue and lips retreating. He was smiling so beautifully, like an overjoyed boy.

The smile fell when he saw the sadness on Harry's face. Confusion marred his face. He looked as though he had no idea what he’d done wrong.

Harry felt so sad over the fact — over the fact Voldemort thought there was nothing wrong with this — that she felt tears gather in her eyes.

Voldemort bent down and kissed Harry again, this one slow and tender, not as passionate. Harry didn’t know how many times he kissed her. She knew she kissed him back a few times, hoping it would make him stop. But it felt as though he knew her heart wasn't in it, and kept pressing for more, his fingers caressing her face adoringly, repeating “Come home to me.” between each kiss.

Harry returned to Shell Cottage an hour later, rushed to the bathroom, and cried.

#harrymort #tomarry #harry potter #female harry potter #tomarrymort #nynn deathly hallows au

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its-actually-minicika · 1 year

Text

The Yule Ball

(HotD Hogwarts!AU)

Part 1 of 3;;

Warnings: Jealousy, jealousy, jealousy; slight yandere Jace and Aemond (you'll be able to tell that better in part 2); angst if you squint; fluff, spice and everything nice

Pairings: Aemond x Reader, Aegon x Reader, Jacerys x Reader

Word count: 13k+ (not proof-read)

How would HotD's Main Three (Aemond, Aegon, Jace) ask you out to the Yule Ball? Would they even gather the courage to do so, before it's too late?

╰┈➤ In this fic, you're a daring Gryffindor, navigating your 5th year at Hogwarts. For the sake of this AU, Aemond (Slytherin) is your best friend, Jace (fellow Gryffindor) is utterly in love with you and Aegon (Hufflepuff) is that emotionally unavailable pervert whom you've befriended... though you're not quite sure why.

Christmas was a time to be celebrated at Hogwarts, both by muggle-born and pure-blood alike.

This year, the latter had been most excited, as the Headmaster announced the on-going preperations for the Yule Ball, a grand festivity that took place once every 4 years, all in honour of the Triwizard Tournament.

The buzzling happiness of the students was palpable: the nervousness of the girls and the slight waver in their voices. The boys, either completely unaffected by the notion of a partner or just as spent on the lingering question plaguing everyone's thoughts... 'So... who will you go with?'

The older students stricking their claim, the younger girls seducing away to secure an invitation...

(Y/N) decided then and there that she had never seen a crowd so colourful, so full of life.

It was around dinner-time when the impetuos doors of the Great Hall opened wide, and through them stepped - or rather, flied - in Jeremiah Blythe, a 6th year Ravenclaw with nothing to lose. Revealing a cage full of Pixie Faeries from underneath his robes, he set the little toublemakers free, still atop his broomstick.

All of them, as if practicing for weeks, flew in different corners of the room, revealing a shimmering banner, engraved with sparks and magical fire, reading the daring proclamation: 'You Should Dance Only With Me'

"Mary Bone, will you go to the Yule Ball with me?" Breathless, the male looked down at the object of his adoration, who, by that point, long forgot all about her mashed potatoes.

"My God, yes! Yes, Jeremy, of course!"

The hall erupted in roaring applause, whistles and yelled out 'Congratulations!' to the happy couple. As they were busy kissing away, (Y/N) gleefully turned her head in the direction of her friend, giggling slightly.

"I feel bad for the guy who's gonna pop the question next! It's pretty hard to beat that flammable display." She laughed softly, shaking her head in disbelief.

"I'd rather sympathize with the one who has to catch those faeries afterwards." Aemond hummed in a monotous tone. His eye quickly scanned the joyous face of his friend's, feeling a pang of fondness, before setting his attention on Otto Hightower, the Head of house Slytherin.

The greying man was all but yelling out at the two reckless students, settling on glaring daggers into their throats and proclaiming with a tumultuous voice: "30 points from Ravenclaw. And 30 from Hufflepuff."

A loud groan shook the Great Hall to the core - Aegon, now with his robes in a twist, looking at his grandfather in pure disbelief. (Y/N) offered him a compassionate look, shrugging her shoulders.

... At least Otto Hightower didn't shy away from punishing everyone equally in his own way. Even the house of his eldest grandson.

Once more, the girl's eyes caught a glimpse of silver hair. She wanted to keep talking to Aemond - the last hectic weeks in their schedules allowing little time for idle chatting. And... of course, the ball...

Before she could think of anything new to say, Aemond threw his leather bag over his shoulder.

"You're leaving already?"

"Mm, I have a paper due in Potions." Eyeing her sheepishly, running a hand past the nape of his neck, the taller boy paused, before opening his mouth once again.

... But just as he was about to add something more, a deep voice cut through his trail of thought.

"Hey there, (Y/N)!" Jacerys' velvety voice rang in her ears. As she spun around in her seat, the girl's eyes lit up, "Jace! It's good to see you!"

The brown haired boy plopped down next to her, quickly placing his hand over his heart, feigning hurt;

"Where were you today? We missed you at practice."

'The Quiddich field', the girl remembered, guilt seeping into her pores. She had promised Jace to be there. But after bumping into Aemond, she completely lost track of time.

Furrowing her brows in a twist, she aired out apologetically, "I'm so sorry, I completely forgot...! I'll make it up to you guys."

Jace's face broke into a boyish smile, one that couldn't help but make (Y/N) blush. The Velaryon gently placed his hand above her hair, patting her down gently.

"Don't fret! I figured something must have stopped you."

Or rather someone. As if on cue, Jace's eyes left (Y/N)'s lips, traveling up, up to meet the lilac gaze of Aemond. Still looking at him with a quirked brow, he muttered to her softly. "Though, if you really want to make it up to me..."

His eyes glimmered with mischief.

'I can think of just the way.' he wanted to say. To finally ask the burning question, that stuck so well to his throat all those weeks ago. The very same question he knew Aemond wanted to ask as well.

"You help me out with that horrible Herbology homework tonight, and we call it a truce. Deal?"

Alas, he settled on what he could bring himself to get. Jace would grow to curse himself for not asking (Y/N) to the Yule Ball that eve - yet the immediate satisfaction of stealing her away from the company of that Targaryen brute was enough to quell his momentary thirst.

(Y/N) smiled at him softly, nodding decidedly, before turning to Aemond. If he also had a paper for Potions class, then maybe they all could --

But Aemond was nowhere to be seen.

"Huh...? Jace, did you see where Aemond left?"

The boy clenched his jaw in irritation of the name, but otherwise remained poised; smiling politely at his friend and shaking his head with furrowed brows, he moved his warm hand from her head to her shoulder.

"Sorry, (Y/N). Must've just gone back to his Common Room."

Defeated, the girl whisked her head around. She tried her very best to catch the reflection of his familiar white hair, but was unable to discern anything else besides Aegon's locks.

As if he could feel her eyes boring holes into his back, his mellow gaze met the one of (Y/N). He raised his glass of fermented wine to his face, gingerly nodding his head with a slight smirk and chugging it all in one gulp.

"You must be right."

Was that... disappointment that she felt? Mixed with some slight irritation, surely - Aemond could have at least told his goodbyes before disappearing like that.

Inhaling sharply, the pale girl nudged Jace's side playfully. "What do you say? Are you free to take care of that homework now?"

Maroon eyes swirled with gratitude. While nodding fevereshly, Jace took both his and (Y/N)'s backpacks, insisting on carrying them himself towards the vacant library.

For the hundreth time that evening, (Y/N) had to stiffle a yawn.

Her and Jace had finally wrapped up that dreadful essay - and if it weren't for the late hour, the two would have celebrated how well it actually turned out.

... Instead, they had sluggishly returned to the Gryffindor dorms.

'Madam Tyrell has to give you an <O> for it.' the girl had told him excitedly, 'It's gotta be our best work yet!'

Jace merely laughed at that, boring deeply into (Y/N)'s heart. The lights erupting from the crackling fire of their Common Room danced across his handsome face, leaving intricate shadows in their wake - each accentuating his masculine features.

With his ears of a red tint, the boy managed to utter out; 'We... We should get some rest. Tomorrow we have that DADA midterm.'

Groaning at the thought, the pair rose up from their armchairs, bidding eachother a sweet good night.

A deep grumble abruptly stopped (Y/N)'s recollection of events.

By Merlin's beard, it was past witching hour. But she was really, really hungry.

The girl slipped out of bed carefully, doning on her white slippers. She threw a singular look over her shoulder, taking in Baela's and Rhaena's sleeping faces, sucking in a breath.

Her visit to the Kitchens would be a short one - it might take a while for her to get to her own bed again, but she could still get at least 3 hours of sleep. And she'd survived on way less during her 4th year's finals season.

Before she knew it, she was past the entrance of her Common Room and well into the open. Giving The Fat Lady a small wave and whispering a quick 'Lumos' underneath her breath, she made her way down the intricate set of stairs.

As predicted, it wouldn't take long for her to slip through the cracked door of the Kitchen. Lit only by a tiny candle, the wooden work space felt utopic.

(Y/N) sighed at the comfort of solitude, grateful for the peace and quiet that the sacred space provided. Her sharp eyes scanned her surroundings, stopping on the cradle of cold milk by the stove.

She slowly approached it, her shaky hand pouring herself a generous glass. Bringing the pure nectar to her lips, she let out a low hum of satisfaction.

Now, where was that food?

Before she could even place her glass back down, a strong pair of arms engulfed her by the waist.

A sudden yielp pertruded from her rosy lips - the Gryffindor spun around with great ferocity, heart hammering in her chest; there was no way someone just touched her like that and imagined there'd be no consequences.

But before she could empty the contents of her glass in the eyes of her attacker, a velvety laugh escaped his lips.

"I believe what you're looking for is in the oven."

Aegon.

"Didn't your mommy teach you never to touch a girl like that?" A bemused smile threatened to seer through (Y/N)'s lips. Eyebrow now quirked, she pushed the 7th year away from her body.

His hands gingerly let go of her waist, though not before circling once, twice, thrice over her hips - the warmth of them, like a scorching fire against her covered skin.

It took all the girl's might not to cringe at the contact. What was it with Targaryens and their ridiculously high body temperature?

"What are you doing here?" She finally asked, voice hoarse, breaking the silence.

His dilated pupils burned holes in her skull, returning the favour she made him at dinner. Aegon took great pleasure drinking in her delicate features, swearing to himself to forever engrave them to his memory. Finally, he graced her with a reply.

"Same as you, right? To grab a bite."

Stroking her side once more in an attempt to slowly move her to the left, the eldest of the Targaryen brothers opened the oven in front of him, revealing a cold pumpkin tart.

"The Gods provide." He whispered in the girl's ear, letting out a snicker once confusion darted across her face. "Once you come here often enough, you learn where to find the actually good stuff."

Grunting in reply, (Y/N) sat down on the kitchen counter, waiting for Aegon to cut her a slice.

The two stood in silence for what felt like an eternity, before the male finally placed a hefty slice in her open palm.

"So." He began dryly. "Are you Gryffindor girls just as crazed for the Yule Ball as the Hufflepuffs and Ravenclaws?"

He was making an allusion to earlier that day: when Jeremiah's display of affection had cost both Ravenclaws and Hufflepuffs 30 points.

Wincing slightly, (Y/N) took a bite of the sweet tart, mulling her answer over.

"I suppose everyone is excited in a way. And more or less desperate for a partener. Though I think that's stupid."

"You think not wanting to go alone is stupid?"

"I think that going with someone has potential to be nice. But it's not the end of the world if you are to go alone." (Y/N) shrugged, scooting closer to the wall.

Aegon got up from his chiar, strutting closer to the cup of milk. Pouring himself a glass nonchalantly, he tutted, amused.

"I think it's one thing for a blooke to go alone. For a girl, it's just sad."

"You really think that?" The girl asked, bewildered by such a decided sentiment.

Aegon didn't miss a beat: "What I think is that you're trying to fool yourself cuz you've got no one to go with."

A teasing smirk tugged and twisted at his features. The silver haired man looked at you expectantly.

He wanted you to bite down on his challenge.

"Are you projecting your own situation?" She tried her best to stay lax, denying him entrance to her deepest thoughts.

Aegon let out a shuddering laugh. "I've had girls come to me like a flock of chickens to their cock."

(Y/N) scrunched her nose at that crude remark, but settled on rolling her eyes instead of matching him with a retort.

"No, sweet (Y/N), I'm definitely not projecting."

"Be that as it may, I still stand by my words. You don't need a partener to have fun at the dance."

"The fox that doesn't get to the grapes always says they're sour..."

"Quit insiunating I've got no one to go with! What's your obsession with that, anyway?" She finally snapped, but regretted her words almost instantly, as Aegon's smile spread even wider, if that was truly possible. Turning on his heel to look her straight in the eye, he pushed his hands near her body's sides, caging her in.

"So she does care, after all."

"I really don't."

"Little poor (Y/N) (L/N), the only girl in her year with absolutely no one who loves her." Slowly quirking his head to the side, Aegon continued. "How does it feel to know you are absolutely lonely?"

A loud slap echoed throughout the room. The sting in (Y/N)'s hand and the red pigment blossoming in Aegon's left cheek all but directly confirmed what had happened. Eyes wide, staring at each other, the sheen of tears in the ones of the fierce lioness.

"How dare you." She more so pointed out than asked.

"The bitch has bite to her." Aegon snarled, rubbing his high cheekbone. "Someone better put a muzzle on that haughty mouth, too."

Having finally heard enough, with nothing else to add to a losing battle, (Y/N)'s legs swung from the counter; soon, she was putting as much distance from her body and Aegon's as humanly possible.

Jerking the back door open, she turned around once more to face her midnight opponent.

"I'd rather have no one to go with, than have to pay for the company I indulged in as you do."

Now finally set off as well, the eldest Targaryen yelled after her fleeting footsteps.

"You know, I would take you there myself if you weren't so bloody proud!"

"Go be benevolent with someone else!"

She could still feel the scorching heat of his hands on her.

The following day had passed, uneventful as all the rest, until dinnertime rolled around.

(Y/N) hastily made her way to the Great Hall, having already been late to the meal by quite some time. She couldn't find Aemond anywhere, neither Jace, Baela or Luke. She didn't dare look for any trace of Aegon, as the wounds from last night didn't yet have time to heal.

Where in the world had everyone ran off to? From the moment of her wake, throughout all her classes... it was as though her friends evaporated in thin air.

No matter, she would not eat alone that day. Gestured to take a seat by Borya Moore, the handsome Durmstrang student that eyed her up since his arrival at Hogwarts, the 5th year girl smiled at him tightly.

He was a charming boy, (Y/N) concluded, while side eyeing him during the fast break; Russia's golden boy, they called him, the champion of their respective school.

Tall, well built, with the greenest of eyes and the blackest of charcoal locks. Indeed, the older male was quite a sight to see.

He was smiling at her politely, talking to her in a gruff voice, laced with a strong accent. He sometimes recieved swift nudges from his surrounding classmates: what was on his mind was clear; and it was not original. All the same, a warm feeling crept it's way within (Y/N)'s chest.

As stated before, Borya was a handsome young man - and he was said to be proud, just and honest to a fault, though never cruel or unattentive.

Although his words were scattered few and far between, he was a good listener and seemed very interested in what the girl had to say.

"Are you excited about the next trail?" (Y/N) asked him, while playing with a piece of bread. Her eyes never raised from her plate, but she could feel his emerald hues running all across her face.

"Yes, excited to win it." The male let out a mirthled laugh, shaking the whole table with him. "Though, I am even more so for the ball."

"I can imagine that!" (Y/N) hummed with a small smile. "You'll have to open with a dance, right? Are you not nervous about that? Or... do you simply like the attention?"

Borya gave her a subtle wink, his hand making a wide gesture at the surrounding tables. Satisfied with her confused face, he quickly clarified:

"I would not think them trained enough to judge my dancing. All of us are here for a good time - trust me when I say, we'll manage the dance just fine."

... 'We'?

His obvious proposition of dancing together reddened your cheeks; but before the conversation could go any further, a flock of familiar silver hair caught your eye.

All hope decimated when, instead of a glimpse of cold green, you were met with the honeyed gold of the house Hufflepuff. Aegon had finally graced the other students with his presence.

A bitter taste formed into your mouth, which only accentuated as he came into better view, hand in hand (or rather, hand on ass) with Vela Castillo, the prettiest girl of the 5th year student body.

Scared to catch his eye, (Y/N) abruptly turned her head in the opposite direction and waited for the couple to sit down.

Aegon skimmed through the wide room from the moment he set foot in it - having located (Y/N), he was willing to do anything, only for her to notice him and his new, dazzling paramour.

He didn't just want her to bite his carefully laid bait this time around - he needed her to. Simply put, he craved her attention.

But the game felt old and boring for the 5th year Gryffindor. (Y/N)'s ember eyes turned back on Borya, pushing down a laugh when she noticed how Aegon sat Vela right in front of them, onto his lap, settling on kissing her passionately.

Coughing in the back of her hand, the girl beamed at her new acquaintance.

"I'm sorry, you were saying?"

A loud bang could be heard from their front - plates full of food were now laying in pieces on the ground. Aegon's and Vela's clash of lips had ended long ago; just what were the two doing now?

Aggravated by her lack of response, Aegon had taken his escapade up a notch, now having placed Vela onto the Hufflepuff table, feeling her up nonchalantly.

His scorching need for a reaction was becoming unbearable. He itched to get something out of (Y/N), anything really - and she figured it out quite easily. The right course of action was for her to keep eating, look as unbothered as can be and keep conversing with Borya.

... Even so, the sight before her would have any witch or wizard twitch in annoyance. If she wanted to see a spectacle, she would have turned for a stroll in Percy's Tour.

Just as their voices started to warm up to moaning, (Y/N) gently sat her cuttery over the empty plate. She grabbed an apple from a nearby bowl of fruit, bidding Borya a shy goodnight, before turning on her toes to leave.

And, had she given the table one last parting look, she would have noticed how Aegon peeled himself off the girl with haste, angered and dissatisfied by the trivial end of their night.

"Stupid Aegon. Stupid Aegon and his stupid need to always start something stupid." (Y/N) fumed, whilst climbing the moving staircase. "How come Professor Hightower took points from an invitation to the dance, but won't bat an eye when his grandson swallows something else besides potatoes at dinner-ti--"

She crashes into a hard chest, and the oozing smell of fresh mint and murkwood tree invades her senses. She doesn't need to look up to confirm who she'd bumped into, but she does.

Ember eyes clash with lilac hues - Aemond, who had been talking to the old portrait of Merlin, keeps a hand close to her waist, barely grazing it. He looks at her, barely startled, but with a forming curiosity pertruding though his eye.

"... Aemond." The girl utters, barely above a whisper. She feels lightheaded, struck by the closeness of her oldest friend. The way she can cast upon his fair features, profiting off of their lack of distance, is almost sinful.

The male is the first to pull away, leaving her somehow wanting.

"(Y/N), I didn't see you there."

The Gryffindor feels a stream of indignation coursing through her veins. Aemond had been avoiding her all day, and these are the first words he tells her?

His velvety voice, his poised stance and his calloused hands, that delicately touched her not a moment ago. She could feel the heat of her body begining to rise, forgetting all about her previous anger.

"Aemond," she repeats once more, "where in Merlin's beard were you today?" She gave the wizard's portrait a quick glance, in order to check if he was piqued by the usage of his name, but was instead startled by how he unnoticedly stepped out of frame.

"Whatever do you mean?" Aemond hummed slightly, furrowing his perfect brows. "We saw eachother at breakfast, did we not?"

"We... yeah, we did. But we always walk together to dinner - I waited for you at the main entrance of the Great Hall, and then I went to check in front of your common room. ...Y-You weren't there."

She vexed herself with how desperate she had managed to sound. She prayed to whatever God would listen for Aemond to not notice.

His eye gave... nothing away. He looked almost bored, irked with her presence. For the thousanth time that day, (Y/N) had to blink away the tears that were threatening to leave her own. She removed her insistent stare from his face, and concentrated upon the books in her hands.

<Potions>, she read the glittering green title of the first textbook.

"Oh, right! You had that midterm paper to finish!" She quickly changed the subject, hoping to salvage what was left of her dignity. The following seconds were met with silence. "How was it?"

'Please just say something', she cursed in her head.

"I got an 'O' for it." Aemond said flatly, before turning oh his heel to resume his walk. Noticing how (Y/N) remained behind, he turned his head to her, jerking it in a gesture that urged her to follow him. "We mustn't stay in one place for too long. You know how the stairs have a mind of their own."

As the two climbed up the steps, (Y/N) fiddled with her black robes - she coughed in the back of her hand and offered Aemond the red apple she had taken from dinner.

"Since..." she began softly, "Since we're walking up instead of down, I assumed you'd skip dinner."

Aemond let out a strained grunt, accepting the fruit from her extended hand. He made no attempt of eating it, however, and simply placed it in an inner pocket of his coat. "Thank you."

The girl pressed her lips in a firm line, nodding strongly, before welcoming the enveloping silence.

A minute, maybe two passed. The tension could be cut by a knife; (Y/N)'s brain was working overtime, faced with his unanswered question.

'Were were you?'

As if he could read her mind, Aemond turned his head to the side. "I asked Alys Rivers to the dance today."

The simplicity of his words left the girl befuddled. "What?" She asked before she could compose herself.

"That's what I was doing. You asked earlier." He clarified almost immediately. His face was still away from her. The only thing (Y/N) could do was guess the expression he was wearing by the tone of his voice, and that was a difficult task.

Alys Rivers. The beautiful 7th year Slytherin - a witch coming from a very powerful family. One of the few half-bloods of her house, she had never met her mother, yet was taken in by her father, Lyonel Strong, almost immediately after her birth.

She was a cold beauty, ethereal in her own right, and (Y/N) couldn't help but painfully smile at the realisation: that she was exactly the type of girl she saw Aemond going for. Perfect, without a flaw to her face or selective character.

The thick coat of jealousy that hugged her frame became almost too much. (Y/N) felt how the air in her lungs spent itself. She felt the warm tears stinging at the corners of her eyes. Too afraid that she hadn't said anything in a while, the witch laced her pained voice with a beaming timbre.

"I'm so happy for you, Aemond! You two make for a very handsome pair!"

She swallowed hard, trying to level herself once more. What was even worse, apart from the fact that she could see it from a mile away, was that she had nothing bad to say of Alys.

Not once had the older witch been cruel to her. Not once had she bullied her, talked ill of her, or her group of friends.

(Y/N) couldn't be mad at her. She couldn't hate her. And that was what stung the most.

"Wow, we got here quick, didn't we?" She exclaimed rather loudly. The girl thanked the stars in the sky and the moon above her head for both their agile steps. At least in her common room, she wouldn't have to see Aemond.

She turned her back quickly on him, muttering the week's password, before stepping foot into the clustered tunnel.

"Thanks for bringing me to my room, Aemond. See you tomorrow, and congrats again!"

The door that closed with the last of her words left a very confused Aemond in their stead. Mouth still agape, as if wanting to add something, he took in a deep breath, somehow dissatisfied by her abrupt departure.

Then again, he himself was to blame for not saying all he wanted that day.

(Y/N) breathed a sigh of relief when the smell of crackling fire finally hit her nose. She prolonged her body against the cold stone wall, taking in a deep breath in order to calm her nerves. When she felt ready, she got up from the ground and made her way across to the Common Room, smiling widely at the lounge of people.

Her tranquility was short lived when she saw Jacerys and Baela, sitting oh so deliciously close to one another on the nearest sofa.

For a second, she froze in her place. The couple seemed to be engrossed in conversation; Jace's arm was draped over Baela's shoulder, both bodies relaxed in front of the fire place. A small blush crept over her cheeks. Jace huffed at something the Targaryen whispered to him, and (Y/N) decided she had seen enough.

Walking past them with renowed vigour, she all but ran to the girls' dorm room, shutting the door swiftly behind her.

As soon as her head hit the cold pillows, (Y/N) felt disheartened. She thought back on what Aegon said, how it was so sad for a girl to go alone to such an event.

She felt angry with herself - for causing a scene with both Jace and Aemond. After all, they didn't owe her anything, and it wasn't their obligation to ask her to the Yule Ball.

The hurt in her chest would last her the whole night, but along with the pang of pain, she was now feeling guilt.

Jace and Baela, she poundered, along with Aemond and Alys, were perfect for eachother. Even Aegon and Vela made for a cute couple. Bringing one of the pillows to her face, (Y/N) groaned her heart out.

It wasn't as though she was unattractive, or she felt as though she would die alone: but it was so unfair, that every boy whom she fancied ended up not looking at her twice.

No. She wouldn't allow herself to sulk over such a trivial thing. And she would definitely not end up seated on a chair throughout the whole night at the ball, looking miserable for either boy to see.

Suddenly, Borya's face lit in her mind. Determined to end her night right, she thrusted herself up from the bed, doning her shoes back on.

Thanks to the obsessive gossip surrounding him, she knew the young man always took a run along the castle's lake at this hour.

(Y/N) smirked to herself. A light jogging sounded just perfect tonight.

The final week before the Yule Ball went rather smoothly. Much to her own dismay, (Y/N) had been avoiding both Jacerys and Aemond.

The males had searched for her long and wide, but whenever one of them would get close to her, (Y/N) always found a way to leave almost immediately.

She wasn't proud of what she was doing. Although an immature reaction, the girl still felt the pang of jealousy and hurt whenever she'd see them with their respective dates.

It was better to avoid them altogether, she concluded.

The gradient dress felt tight against her skin. With each and every step she took, it shifted in colour - from a rich black, to a deep blue and a crimson red. Her hair was up in a braided bun, some loose strands resting upon her slender shoulders, neatly framing her face.

The forming echo of her footsteps washed an eery calmness over her. She couldn't be too fashionably late to the Yule Ball, as she'd have to dance with Borya in the opening waltz; thus, she happily skipped the next stairs in her descent.

Only one last turn separated her from the clustered hall, that led to the ajar doors of the celebration. Taking in one deep breath, (Y/N) made her entrance.

Both Jace and Aegon were made to scurry away by Professor Lynnen, the Head of the Hufflepuffs. Only Aemond remained waiting, as Alys, turned away from him, was talking with one of her friends with joyous interest. He himself was glancing at the appearance of his sister, Helaena, who was spinning around with her own partner.

"Oh, she looks beautiful, Aemond!" Alys exclaimed, coming near her handsome date.

"Yes, she is." He agreed proudly, still looking at his buoyant sister. Realising they weren't looking in the same direction, the Slytherin adjusted his body to face the main entrance to the Great Hall.

He was sure that his heart nearly stopped.

There (Y/N) was, in all her beauty, slowly walking in the direction of their resting bodies. For just a second, Aemond caught himself taking a step forward, wanting to offer the girl his arm.

The air in the room became impossible to bear for him - had she always looked so... ethereal? Her dusted cheeks, the red lips that flowered to a smile when she saw... she saw... Borya?

His trance broke as fast as it began. Before him stepped the champion of the Durmstrang school, who deeply bowed before the woman, eliciting her a small laugh, as he extended his arm out.

He could make her laugh too.

Borya was quick to cup her dainty hand into his own strong one, leading her away and to the grand entrance.

Eyes wide, as if she had just noticed him, (Y/N) offered him a small wave, giggling cheerfully.

"Hey," Alys clung onto his arm, "we should get going too. The main dance is about to start!"

Poor Aemond, still following his friend with his eye, curtly nodded before taking her arm.

Inside, (Y/N) felt like she was flying.

The way Borya was spinning her around, showing her off to everyone in the room with eyes to watch - the way his very own roamed over her face and figure, making her feel safe and desired - was more than anyone in her place could ask for.

Aegon and his date rested in a corner, the gossip surrounding them no different than the one they engaged in.

"Is that... is that (Y/N) (L/N)? With Borya Moore?" Vela chirped loudly next to Aegon's ear. Her eyes were shimmering stars, a swirl of both glee and mild jealousy as she followed the two on the dance floor.

"What...? No way. No, that's... don't be ridiculous. That's impossible! It-It couldn't be her."

Vela's eyes snapped in the direction of her partner, who couldn't seem to stop shaking his head. "Absolutely not." He proclaimed though a strangled breath, more so to convince himself rather than anyone else. "(Y/N) is far too..."

"Gorgeous." Came in the completion, given by none other than Jacerys Velaryon, who, just as the others, would not get his eyes off her. Baela, sympathetically to his right, jabbed his side playfully.

"I told you you'd regret not asking her."

"I tried! I was just... too late." He let out in an exasperrated breath, sighing dreamily as he caught another glimpse of (Y/N)'s dress.

"Next time, pluck up the courage to do it sooner."

"Trust me, I'll take this regret to my grave."

Aegon's face collapsed upon itself. Swishing his finger around accusingly at Jace's face, he managed to blurt out;

"You...! You asked - you asked her. To the ball."

"I was going to." Jace pouted, running a hand down his face. "I bought fireworks and even bribed the student choir to sing her favourite song."

"And why didn't you put your plan in action?" Aegon asked over his shoulder, as he filled his punch cup to the brim. Digging into his dress robes, he pulled out a flask of alcohool, completely draining it before setting his lips on the fruit juice.

"Same reason as you didn't? She was already going with someone else."

At that, Aegon almost spat his drink out. "No, no," he vehemently denied, "I didn't even want to ask her to the dance. I assure you."

Vela looked at him stupefied, while Baela only smirked.

"Of course."

"I didn't!!" He rebuttled.

"Sure." His cousin mused with the same untrusting look.

Throwing Baela one last dirty look, Aegon groaned in disbelief, seeing how Borya lifted (Y/N) into his arms, for the fifth time during that damned song. He deflated into a nearby seat, pulling Vela down with him, and started mumbling to himself.

Jace didn't need much coaxing to follow suit.

Thoughout the night, they gawked and grovelled. Jace took the time to dance with Baela once, twice - as to not let her be alone in missing out on all the fun. Meanwhile, Aegon couldn't be bothered to move from his chair, despite Vela's insistent huffs and obvious hints.

"Bit of a ruddy pumpkinhead, isn't he?" Aegon spat in his drink, lilac eyes glaring daggers into the brunette's back.

"I don't think it was the books that had him going to the library, now that's for sure." Jace commented, not a heartbeat later.

Their souring moods only worsened as the night progressed and (Y/N)'s giggles filled the room.

"What do you think he's even saying to her? Nothing of importance, I bet."

"Oh look at me, I'm Borya Moore and I come from Russia. My accent is deep and my muscles are twice the weigh of my bloody head." Aegon immitated the older man with a skill and tenacity that must have been induced by practice.

"Do you wanna make out?" Vela asked Aegon suddenly, aggravated by the circling conversation.

"No." Came his simple reply.

"May I have your arm?" The deep voice of yet another Durmstrang student cut through their conversation. Bowing lightly before Baela, the Targaryen snickered in amusement.

She grabbed a hold of his hand with gratitude, nodding fevereshly. "Arm, leg - I'm yours."

... And then there were three.

"Do you wanna have sex?" Vela tried once again.

"No." The blonde man sighed.

"... Are you gonna ask me to dance or not?!"

For the first time that night, Aegon turned to look at her. "No."

Ired to no end by his catty behaviour, the Ravenclaw finally relented. She abruptly got up from her chair, going to the closest group of boys she could find and striking up a conversation. Soon enough, even she was dancing her heart out.

Aemond too, took care of his date. But as the end of the night approached them, and the more upbeat songs began to play, Alys couldn't help but start to take offence.

"Your heart's not in it, my dragon." She remarked dryly, moving his chin to face her for the millionth time that night. Slowly stroking his cheek, she tried closing in the distance between them, only to have Aemond jerk his head away.

"Now what is the matter with you?" She demanded, masking her impatience as a seering question. Her green eyes followed his, stopping in their tracks at the sight of the wavy locks of (Y/N) (L/N), the object of her date's pending attention.

"Truly, Aemond? This is the reason you're so distracted?"

A low hum escaped his lips. He turned his saddened gaze on Alys, who smoothly added distance between their sweat stained bodies. She had weighed her words very carefully, now awaiting his answer with a quirked brow.

"It could never be in it." He sighed heavily, reffering to her first statement. "My heart." He added stiffly. "Not while she's here."

A buffled snort escaped Alys' black stained lips. She fully expected Aemond to need more coaxing to admit his true feelings - yet here he was, biting his inner cheek somewhat apologetically.

"I see." She finally spoke though grittered teeth, "And why have you not asked her to the Ball in the first place; You thought it more amusing to waste my time instead?"

"I had thought it a course of action that would suit us both." He answered flatly. Aemond's eye cast over her shoulder, darkening slightly, "I apologise for the inconvenience. Believe me, it was most uncontiously done."

His words were unoriginal, and lacking of any true meaning. For a moment, Alys wanted to curse him for having played with her heart, to scream at him, for daring to shame her so with his open admition of feelings.

But that was only for a moment - for she remembered that she was Alys Rivers, a beautiful and powerful witch, who would not need his approval to bring forth either blessing or calamity.

Gathering her wits about her, she crossed her arms in front of her, shaking her head at his frozen face.

"You should never have done it. Hurt her or attempt to confuse me."

His jaw clenched tightly at the notion of having hurt his dearest friend. And it took all his restraint not to leave Alys alone, in order whisk (Y/N) off the dance floor and apologise, on his knees if he had to, for being so cold towards her.

As if she could read his mind, Alys tutted in feigned annoyance. "Go." she simply said, "Go after her. Or don't, and waste your time in here." Her pretty eyes now held an amused glint in them.

Aemond's very own softened at her - mirroring her beguiled stance, he clasped his hands behind his back, adding on thickly:

"You can slap me if you'd like."

Alys' eyebrows raised in pure wonder, the gesture itself, bigger than all of her reactions that night. She let her head fall back with a mirthled laugh, calming down only after the man's face began to relax.

Snapping back into place, she looked for confirmation in his eyes, before laying a loud slap over his left cheek, kissing it fleetingly afterwards.

"I won't keep you company anymore, you do understand." She said, mildly distracted. And, should she have felt any inflection of sadness, the girl masked it well; turning her back on him, the locks of her black hair whipped his face.

Aemond allowed a small smirk to grace his lips, feeling the rough edges of his scar with two slender fingers. The powerful slap would sure leave a mark (if it hadn't already), but he was greateful for Alys' choice in hitting the only numb spot that he had on his body.

"Don't worry, brother. It gets better after the first time." Both Aegon's delivery and his Cheshire Cat smile told the Slytherin everything he needed to know. His 'breakup' had been very public and wholeheartedly raveled in by his older brother.

While both opened their mouths to say something crass, neither would get the chance to exchange their choice words. The loud applause of the crowd signaled that last song of the night had ended, and with it, so did (Y/N) and Borya's ditzying.

Both brothers had to stiffle a growl at the sight of the Durmstrang boy, kissing (Y/N)'s hands delicately, before stepping away to a faraway table.

The girl looked after him for a while, before spinning thrice in place, breathless from all the ensued dancing. She felt her friends' insistent gaze on her, and she turned to face them, breaking out into a bubbly laugh.

"Hot, isn't it?" She asked as she approached them, "Borya's gone to get some drinks. Would you care to join us?"

Her chest, heaving in and out at a rapid pace, the light tremour of her body... Aegon scoffed harshly at the sight.

"No. We would not care to join you and Borya."

(Y/N)'s smile falthered at his coarse reply. Her eyebrows furrowed, her beautiful smile quickly turning to a frown. "Well what's got your wand in a knot?"

Aegon puffed in indignation, blowing some rebel hairs from his face. He soon made his way to the table Jacerys was sitting at; Aemond and (Y/N) following shortly after.

"He's a Durmstrang. You're fraternizing with the enemy." Aegon spoke in a matter of fact tone, not even bothering to look at her.

"The enemy? Who was it that wanted to be his friend a week ago?" (Y/N) questioned, dumbfounded.

Aegon's eyes settled on the ground. He buried himself in his chair, not daring to look at the girl again.

"Besides," (Y/N) continued, fully aggravated, "The whole point of the tournament is... <international magical cooperation>. To make friends."

"Hah, I think he's got a bit more than friendship on his mind." It was Jace's turn to speak, who turned beet rouge the second (Y/N)'s attention turned to him. Peeling her teary eyes away from his, she looked at Aegon and Aemond. Each avoiding her stare, neither jumping to her defense.

Sneering at their new unspoken antourage and nodding her head in understanding, she got up from her central seat. "How dare you..." was the only thing she muttered, before getting lost in the crowd once more.

"We're only saying that he's using you." Aegon yelled after her fleeting form, sprinting to catch up to (Y/N).

"Thank you, but i can take care of myself." She spewed sarcastically over her shoulder, shocked that they were still stuck on that topic of conversation.

"I severely doubt it." Aemond spoke calmly, "He's way too old for you."

"What? Is that what you think?" The younger witch enquired, now even more enraged by her best friend's allusion.

"Mm, yes. That is what I think." He rejoinded, walking by her side again. The pressure on his heart tightened by the second, but he would not relent. Though he had never felt this way before, Aemond realised what his brain was urging him to do: completely ruin his best friend's night.

It was an ugly thing. But the only thing he believed would bring comfort forth.

(Y/N)'s walking came to an abrupt halt.

"Between me and him, there is a two year age gap. The same can be said for you and Alys, as far as I can remember."

"That's different." Aemond warned her though a low spat.

"How." The Gryffindor asked, forcing out a laugh.

His hands came to grip her shoulders. Although his movements had the intent to keep her looking at him in place, his touch was light and feathered - should she wish to, the girl could easily twist herself away.

His darkened eye came to rest upon her. What Aemond couldn't say, he tried his damnest to show through his stare.

"It's different because Alys is a woman and Borya is a man." Aegon answered in Aemond's stead, snickering lightly at her naivité.

That was the last straw for (Y/N). Peeling Aemond's hands off of her, she turned to face both men, almost shaking in rage.

"You really like that double standard, don't you?" (Y/N) pointed her finger at him, "So what say you is the difference between me and Vela, then? Your age gap with her is two years as well and you think yourself a man."

"Not all of us are like that."

"Like Borya."

"Yeah." He accentuated with an unruffled laugh.

"You know the solution then, don't you?" She tentatively said, closing the distance between them slightly.

"Go on." Aegon demurred through a raised brow.

"Next time there's a ball, pluck up the courage to ask me before somebody else does! Offer me a real invitation. And not as a last resort!"

Tears were now freely streaming down her face. Before their eyes, (Y/N) could feel her hair falling into a mess and her cheeks reddening from the lack of air. Aegon's eyes widened and Aemond's hand reached out to her reflexively.

"W-well that's... that's just completely off the point!" Aegon's voice cracked nervously, now taking several steps back. "Jace...!" He blurted out, seeing his nephiew finally exit the Great Hall.

Aemond didn't turn to greet him, but (Y/N) did. Her eyes were blown out of proportion and her voice was hoarse from yelling. Upon seeing his face, all of the frustrations that she'd bottled up for the past two weeks emptied before them with the strenght of a hurricane.

"Where have you been?" She inhaled sharply.

"W-well Luke needed me to --"

"-- Nevermind! Off to bed, all three of you!"

Jacerys looks at her for a moment - at her tightened lips and teary cheeks.

The guilt pierces his heart like a Dementor's kiss. He knows he's half the reason for (Y/N)'s suffering, her tears only coming into play as a confirmation of how badly he'd hurt her.

Not knowing what to say, fearful that anything else he may add will only ruin her night even further, he nods his head briefly, hurrying past her.

He's climbing the steps with Aegon; Aemond pushed to follow as well by (Y/N)'s trembling hands.

"They get scary when they get older." Aegon articulates to Jace loudly, ripping a loud shriek from the heartbroken girl.

"AEGON, YOU SPOILED EVERYTHING!"

The boys climb up even faster as (Y/N) collapses, a faint "You bloody asshole" being the last thing she discerns before erupting into a fit of sobs.

At last, as soon as she approached her bed, (Y/N)'s feet gave out on supporting her weight.

Looking around the dark room, saddened by the end of such a beautiful day, she noticed how all the other beds were empty. None of her dorm mates returned - all of them more than likely still ghosting though the halls of Hogwarts. Still seating at the edge of her bed, the young girl brought a pillow to her arms, hugging it tightly.

She would take off her make-up, undo what was left of her braids. She'd bathe, change into her night clothes and sleep: during her slumber, she'd soon forget all about the Yule Ball and it's rattling events.

Her life would turn back to normal. Back to the missing assignments and staying up till 2 AM.

The last concept within her trail of thought brought a strained smile upon her swollen lips.

She shakes her head, massaging the nape of her neck with one hand. She gets ready to leave for the Prefect Bathrooms until...

A large shadow grazes the floor of her dorm. Startled, albeit curious of it's main source, (Y/N) scurries to the bright window, peeking outside.

A tiny rock gets thrown on the upper left corner of it. And then another. And another.

Her eyes travel up into the sky, catching a wave of long, silver hair.

... Aemond.

Satisfied that he managed to get her attention, he lowers his broom until he is at precise eye level with her.

A sudden burst of happiness flourishes within her heart.

No.

The last time she'd been eager to see Aemond, the boy all but chased her away. Not even two hours ago, he was dancing with Alys Rivers, paying no mind to her or her crushed feelings.

But then he wasn't. And then he gripped her. Touched her. He stayed behind for her. His eye bore into her frame, searching for her wide smile.

Still lost in thought, she felt Aemond tap into the window, signaling to it's nearby handle. It was cold outside, and he wanted her to open up.

A tiny smile framed her face. Shrugging her shoulders, (Y/N) played with her dress, watching the older male intensely.

Aemond mirrored her expression, pleading with his eye, until (Y/N) finally yielded. She hurried to open her window, making space for an easier landing for her friend.

"What I did to you," Aemond began with a strangled breath, "It was more than just wrong and cruel."

Now leaning on a wall and clasping both her hands together, the younger Gryffindor let out a confirming mumble.

"I know."

"You were always... here for me. Encouraging me." He added slowly, carefully. "When I lost my eye, I thought you would run away. ... Or make fun of me for being crippled."

(Y/N) turned livid at his words. With renowed vigour, she snapped in her place. "Aemond, I would never make fun of you for such a thing. Nor would I ever run."

"I know, I know." He whispered to her softly, daring to approach her and take her hands in his.

He prayed she wouldn't turn away.

When her hands turned lax within his, Aemond thanked whichever God had answered him, swearing his heartbeat became so loud, that all those within the West Tower could hear it.

"You were nothing short of kind. And good. And full of love. The day you kissed over my disfigured face, was the day I swore to always be by your side. As much, and for as long as you'd allow me."

(Y/N) let out a strained breath. She had never heard Aemond talk so feverently. So full of passion.

His pupil, so dilated by love and concentration, that one could barely see the ring of purple she had grown to love so much.

"You did all those things. Expecting nothing in return." As he pondered on her doings, his shuddering hand buried itself into his ball robes.

One by one, he took out all the objects that (Y/N) had given him selflessly throughout their friendship. An apple, stolen from dinner. A handkerchief, used to tie his bleeding knee. A brown hair band, from when his hair had gotten too long for comfort. A red button from her favourite dress, when he lost the one securing his robes, and cried to her that his mother would get mad at him.

Placing everything on the table, he used his free hand to gently cup her face.

"Yet when you needed me most, I ran away." His thumb slowly stroked her bottom lip, then gently moved to her eyes, wiping the black streaks of liner that her crying ensured.

The pair stood in silence for a brief moment, their blood running hot with need, with want, until Aemond swallowed and went on.

"I have no right to ask for your forgiveness." His breathing became laboured before coming to a halt. "So I'm not asking for it. I'm begging for it." As soon as the words left his mouth, the youngest Targaryen fell to his knees.

"... For you."

"God, Aemond...!"

His stare was getting too intense. As if he himself could feel that, he brought her hands down to his face, pressing his forehead against them.

Both their bodies were shaking in the dark. For the thousanth time that night, Aemond cursed himself for being so weak with her.

"Aemond..."

He knew he would never adore anything more than the way his name fell from her lips.

"... I love you." He whispered to (Y/N) and, if she couldn't feel his breath on her hands, she would be sure she had imagined it.

Waves of pure delight took a hold of her when she heard his strained words. Suddenly, all she thought of was how to make him say it again.

"Please - Aemond. Say it again. Please." She gasped, breathless.

"I love you. I love you. Avy jorrāelan. Avy jorrāelan sīr olvie ziry ziebzis."

His desperate pants melted any reminder of (Y/N)'s last resort. Crouching down to his level, she cupped his cheeks into her small hands, making small circles into his skin, tenderly stroking his deep and pink scar.

"I love you, too. So, so much."

That was all the confirmation Aemond needed, before kissing her oh so slowly.

The way his right hand rubbed her jaw soothingly, as if she would break at any moment, his left resting on her waist, pulling her closer - it was truly magical.

For a while, the only sound in the dorm was the echo of their moans and the loud gasps of the wind.

(Y/N) pulled away first, needed fresh air to breathe. Within a second, she dived back in, this time pressing herself harder against Aemond's chest, who only let out a low and satisfied hum.

"Mm, wait --" (Y/N) separated from him with a loud pop. "I hate to be a mood killer, but... w-what about Alys?"

Aemond looked at her adoringly, before licking his lips tentatively. "I can assure you. There was never room in my heart for Alys. Neither could there ever be."

(Y/N) let out a relieved laugh. "Good. Me neither, with Borya." She confessed rather awkwardly, and it was the boy's time to laugh this time. "I would have guessed as much." He said with a dangerous glint in his eye, "With how hard you kissed me, there was barely room for question."

"Speaking of hard things..." The girl mused at him, lightly shoving him away.

The two looked at each other for a moment, before snorting loudly.

Still holding onto her, Aemond went to the edge of her bed, plopping her into it ceremoniously, and stepping towards her window to close it back up. "I don't want you cold."

Striding back into her bed, he laid next to her, brushing the tangled hairs from all around her face. "Though I can think of a few ways to warm you right up."

As she blushed wildly, (Y/N) rolled her eyes at him. Her smiled falthered, however, with one left lingering question, and she raised from her bed, ready to talk serious business.

Sensing the change of mood, Aemond sat upright as well, going over her face. "What happened, jorrāelagon hen issa glaeson? What's on your mind?"

"This..." (Y/N) gestured between them. "Us. What are we now, exactly?" A smirk crept it's way across Aemond's features at that last question. Huffing, (Y/N) crossed her hands to her chest, nudging him slightly. "Don't make fun of me now. I only... want to hear you say it. To make sure we're on the same wave lenght."

"I suppose the appropriate term is 'lovers'. Though, girlfriend and boyfriend work just as well. Companions, innamoratos, paramours, sweethearts..."

"Okay, okay, I got it, thank you." The girl covered his mouth with a loud laugh and felt the great shudder of pleasure, when Aemond covered her hand with his own, kissing the inside flesh of it softly.

"I have long laid my masculinity at the altar of your maidenhood. From now on, and for as long as you will have me - I am yours. And eternally I shall remain."

His tone was serious. Unwavered. And something within (Y/N) knew his words to be true.

"You may cage me forever, as you see fit, just do not release me from your grasp."

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Translations:

"Avy jorrāelan" = I love you;

"Avy jorrāelan sīr olvie ziry ziebzis" = I love you so much it hurts;

"Jorrāelagon hen issa glaeson" = love of my life.

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┕━»•» 🌸 «•«━━━━━━━━┙

#aemond x reader #aegon x reader #jace x reader #jacerys x reader #aemond targaryen #aegon targaryen #jacerys strong #jacerys velaryon #house of the dragon #hogwarts #hogwarts au #slow burn #yandere!jace #yandere!aemond

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thehalfbloodedwitch · 1 month

Text

Diamonds around my neck Vol. 2 (D.m. x reader)

Pairing- Boss!draco x Employee!femreader

Summary- Reader and Draco are business rivals from the top two business companies, when the reader goes undercover to unleash Draco’s company’s secrets when she accidentally falls in love with him.

A/n- This is a Muggle au fic, no Voldy au, also MGBL is not a real job, I just made it up. Also, I have tried a new writing style for this fic, hope you enjoy :)

Warnings- Mentions of death, k1lling, basically a dark theme

Meaning- Y/e/c = your eye color

Words- 5,514 words (yeah ik its a lot)

Volume 1 Draco Masterlist Main Masterlist

"We meet at last," the man said, and Y/n froze, her eyes panicked and her breath hitched; she wasn't ready to meet this man, but now he stood right in front of her, "Pleased to meet you, Mr. Malfoy"

There stood Draco Malfoy, the manager of Reign of Fire was standing right in front of her, he stood there proudly with a smug smirk on his face.

He cleared his throat and spoke, “I have heard that you have decoded by far the most difficult set of codes”

“Yes indeed” Y/n said with a smile.

“Oh, how rude of me, please do take your leave, we shall discuss about your work tomorrow” Draco said as he stepped in the elevator while Y/n stepped out.

After just about a few seconds, that felt like minutes, the elevator door shut behind Y/n and she sighed of relief.

Back at Y/n’s apartment, she called up Sarah and told her about everything that happened back at the Reign of Fire.

After putting her cellphone down she took a warm bath with a lavender scented candle and bath bomb. She spent an hour or two in the tub wondering how on earth she would be able to make Draco Malfoy fall for her, a mere employee.

Despite being the most self-assured and intelligent woman on the planet, Y/n would always feel inferior to Draco Malfoy, after all he was the manager of the leading company in the entire world

Draco Malfoy had that effect on people, and she had to somehow make this man, who thinks others as nothing but mere filth, fall in love with her

The next day arrived sooner than she anticipated and once again she walked through those doors of the Reign of Fire lobby where Alex was waiting for her with a smile on his face.

“Welcome to the Reign of Fire Y/n, here’s your ID” Alex said as he hands over an id card which had a tag that was black in color with the letters Reign of Fire Employee edged on it in white.

“Thank you, Alex” Y/n said with a small smile on her face, at the moment she didn’t care about anything else, she was just waiting for her meeting with the manager, Draco Malfoy.

After handing over the ID, Alex kept on blabbering about the rules and regulations and what not, half of which Y/n had tuned out and after he said something about a topic that caught Y/n’s attention.

“Oh and please do meet Mr. Malfoy at his office, he had asked for your presence before you start with your work here with us, head to the elevator and go to the 49th floor where you'll be guided to Mr. Malfoy’s cabin, have a good day at work Y/n”

Y/n’s feet automatically started walking towards the elevator and as the elevator door closed she pressed the button number 49 and waited to reach the floor.

Her heart kept beating faster and faster as she neared the 49th floor, and after what felt like hours of waiting, the door of the elevator finally opened and outside a guard was stantioned as Alex had mentioned who guided her towards the manager’s cabin.

Here goes nothing

Y/n breathed and opened the gold knob to a magnificent cabin and in sat Draco, his blonde hair slightly messy, his tie hung loose over his neck and his eyes scanning a dozen papers from a folder he was holding

Y/n cleared her throat to catch his attention, which it did, Draco’s eyes left the folder and landed on her eyes, his icy blue eyes meeting her y/e/c orbs felt like fire meeting ice, an unspoken spark lingered between the two.

“I see you are prepared for work today Ms. Y/l/n” looking at her ID as his eyes scanned her entire attire and body.

“Yes, I am” Y/n replied

“Well, please do take a seat” Draco said after a while of silence.

Y/n went and took a seat right in front of Draco, and she couldn’t help but notice the details of his face at such close proximity, his face was as clear as a stream of river, his eyes were like turquoise pebbles and his lips lush pink.

His eyes didn’t leave hers even for a minute.

Y/n sucked in a deep breath before taking a seat. The air conditioning of the room was perfect, yet she could feel her skin burning like she was in a 100 degree oven.

"I've been curious since your interview ended – how did you become so skilled at coding? Your proficiency is impressive and it's surprising that you haven't found a job yet. It seems like only an experienced coder could have such talent."

"Mr. Malfoy, while experience certainly helps in gaining knowledge about coding, I believe that having a strong interest in the subject and regularly practicing is just as important. I have always been passionate about coding, and this has allowed me to develop my skills beyond what I might have learned through work experience alone."

“Hmm” is all Draco replied while holding that icy cold stare back at her

"I don't want to take up any more of your time. Please feel free to head to your cabin and begin your introduction to the staff," said Mr. Malfoy

And, Y/n got up from their seat and left the cabin.

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"Hello Y/n! Welcome to the Reign of Fire!" greeted Claire, one of the employees. Y/n smiled and took a sip from the champagne glass that the staff members had given her.

It was her first day and the team had organized a welcome party for her, complete with introductions.

"Pleasure meeting all of you! I'm excited to work with such a talented team," Y/n said in a cheerful tone.

While she was outwardly friendly, her mind was filled with plans to:

Charm THE manager of Reign of Fire

Uncover the secrets of this company and possibly after everything kill the manager

This wasn’t something that could be achieved by just luck or chance, it required proper planning and as of now she had to concentrate on how Draco Malfoy would even start liking her.

The day had ended and it was already 8 pm and Y/n decided to stay a bit longer at the office while drinking her tenth? No, twelfth? Whatever, glass of champagne.

As the hour grew late, the office lights began to dim. From her cabin on the 36th floor, Y/n could see the warm glow of the city lights through the window.

She noticed the little streetlights and shop lights twinkling below.

Her belongings were neatly arranged in the cabin, but there were a few empty cardboard boxes lying on the floor.

As Y/n took another sip from her glass, she heard footsteps towards her cabin, her eyes snapped open, a bit hungover but nevertheless alert, she clenched her glass tightly ready to use it as a weapon if needed.

“Isn’t it a bit late for you to stay here on your first day of work?” a voice that was not unrecognizable spoke,

Y/n lifted her glass and replied, “Can’t I celebrate on getting into my dream company for a little longer?”

“Of course you can, but you see Ms. Y/l/n, it’s already time for the office to shut, so I would suggest you to head back and be on time tomorrow”

“Alright fine boss, whatever you say” Y/n said, she was aware of what was happening but had no control over her mouth or the words that she was speaking

Y/n stood from the chair of her cabin and walked towards the door where Draco stood in his black tux, hair messy as usual and reeked of his expensive cologne.

As she went to turn off the lights of her cabin, she tripped and almost fell from the loss of balance from the heels she was wearing. However, a strong pair of arms grabbed her by the waist to steady her.

There was a brief eye contact between the two and were merely inches away.

“Be careful Y/n” his voice almost as soft as a whisper against her skin left a wave of shiver down her spine, her name against his lips sounded like it was meant to be said only by him, every syllable, every letter, everything about it felt right.

She couldn’t reply, her throat restraining her from speaking and after a while she felt Draco’s arms wrapping tighter around her waist as every second went by.

It was a surreal moment for Y/n as Draco helped her stand up, supporting her with his strong arms. But as he let go, she felt a sudden chill in the air and a sense of emptiness in her body.

The cabin was dark and the only thing visible were Draco's piercing blue eyes, staring straight at her as he casually tucked his hands inside his tuxedo pockets.

“After you” he said as he motioned her to leave and Y/n did

They walked silently to the elevator and then to the parking lot. The silence was charged with unspoken emotions that they both felt but didn't acknowledge.

They didn't exchange a word or look at each other, afraid to disrupt the fragile balance they were holding onto

Y/n reached her home after she drank some water and thought about the encounter she had with Draco, it didn’t feel, fake, it all felt as though the feelings she felt at that moment was real.

But Y/n couldn’t afford to let her feelings come in the way of the plan.

Y/n informed Sarah about everything that happened at the Reign of Fire, including her encounter with Draco, but she left out the intimate details.

Sarah was pleased with the progress they had made with their plan.

After their conversation, Y/n parked her car in her apartment's parking lot and headed towards her apartment.

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The next few days were filled with Y/n trying to get Draco's attention. However, he didn't even acknowledge her presence.

Y/n would enter the office, finish her work, and leave without any word from Draco. The days just went by, and Y/n felt as though she was getting nowhere.

It was clear to Y/n that Draco was avoiding her at all costs. She couldn't help but wonder what the reason was.

Was he trying to suppress any feelings he had or assumed to have for her? Or was it that he didn't have any feelings for her and was just being his usual cold self?

No one knew for sure, but one thing was clear – Draco Malfoy was avoiding a situation. It was out of character for him to avoid anything.

Y/n knew that she had to charm Draco at all costs, and that too at a specified time that was worth a whole year.

She had made a promise to Sarah that she would leave the company after a year, which meant that Y/n had only a limited amount of time to make her move.

She couldn't afford to waste any more time, and she had to find a way to break through Draco's cold exterior.

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“Please Alex, I must speak with the manager at once! It is urgent”

“Y/n you know it isn’t that urgent, you can solve that issue on your own” Alex replied, his eyes remaining on the pile of papers he had in hand while he put his glasses on to read

“I wouldn’t have asked if it wasn’t actually urgent” Y/n protested as she sat on the chair in front of Alex in his cabin

“What’s the matter?”

“There is a server problem, more like a bug in the server that must have been planted by someone to hang the server, all the employees are complaining about the server being down for several days, I know how to fix it but I need to speak with the manager about this matter”

“A bug? On our server? Y/n, you must be joking because our server is the best and has been the best for over years now, maybe its a computer problem which, I can fix by tomorrow” Alex replied coolly

“It is not a computer problem Alex its-”

“What’s the issue here, Alex?” asked a cold voice asked, which was undoubtedly Draco's

"Eh, Sir, Y/n here wanted to speak with you about an issue that has raised recently about our database server,” Alex replied, keeping all his papers at hand to the side of the table and meeting Draco’s cold gaze.

“Ms. Y/l/n, what is the matter with our server?” Draco asked with an arched brow

“Sir, you see, the server has been down and acting strangely for many employees here and I suspect it’s a bug in the coding of the server that might be the cause for this” Y/n said as she turned her chair and faced Draco

“A bug in the server? How are you so sure Ms. Y/l/n that it must be a bug in the server that has caused any issue?” Draco asked, folding his hands over his chest and leaning against the door frame

“Uhm, it does look like a problem caused by bugs in the system, I have dealt with code bugs in a separate course that I had taken and it seems like the problems that I have seen in the server is because of a bug” Y/n replied crossing her legs

"The server's database can only be coded by the server developers. If you would like, I can check with them and let you know if there is a bug in the server. You may leave now," Draco said.

Y/n stood up from the chair and began to make her way towards the exit of Alex's cabin, but as she passed by Draco, their shoulders brushed against each other.

Suddenly, she felt his hand grab onto her arm, halting her from walking any further.

"And if this turns out to be a bug in the server, you're getting a raise," Draco said, his tone rough. Y/n quietly smirked in response, taking it as a playful challenge.

"We'll need to talk about that raise in a while then, sir" Y/n replied with a small grin, before gently pulling her arm away from Draco's grip and continuing towards the door.

Soon enough, about three hours after the meeting at Alex's cabin, Y/n was called to the manager's cabin.

As Y/n walked towards the cabin, she couldn't help but think about the fact that she herself had planted that bug in the server. It was to catch Draco’s attention, which it did, but now what?

She had no plan on how she would even start a conversation with Draco about anything romantic or flirty.

As she entered the cabin, she saw Draco ending a call with someone (presumably the server developers) and gave her the signal to sit.

“You indeed have blown my mind Y/n” was the first sentence Draco spoke after a short silence.

Y/n was more than shocked to hear Draco call her by her first name, not her last and this was something to celebrate over.

“What can I say, I am really good at my job” Y/n replied

"As we spoke earlier about the raise, how much would you like?" Draco asked, looking at her expectantly.

"I would love to get a raise for a million dollars," Y/n replied jokingly, a small smile playing at the corners of her lips.

Draco's clothes were tidy, except for his tie, which hung loose on his body. His hair was ruffled as usual, and his piercing blue eyes were fixated on Y/n

He couldn't seem to tear his gaze away from her, even for a moment.

“Uhm, I wanted to ask you something, Draco”

Draco's eyes scanned Y/n as he asked, "Sure, what is it?" His gaze was intense, and she found herself momentarily lost in his piercing blue eyes.

“Why have you been avoiding me?”

Y/n's question hung in the air, the tension palpable between her and Draco. Finally, he responded, his voice calm and measured.

“I haven’t been avoiding you, Y/n”

Draco diverted his gaze from Y/n to the rings adorning his hand. His fingers mindlessly played with the silver rings.

"Yes, you have, and I have noticed it. After the night we talked, you have been avoiding me. I don't understand why," Y/n said in her honey-sweet voice as she rested her hands on the table in front of her.

"You really want to know why I have been avoiding you, Y/n?" Draco said as he stood up from his chair and walked towards her

His hands were still tucked inside his pockets, and his icy blue eyes were now fixated on her.

“Yes, I do” Y/n said, her gaze lifted to meet Draco’s who now stood right in front of Y/n

"I've been avoiding you because around you, I feel different, almost like I cannot breathe when you aren't near me, you make me feel things Y/n, things I was sure I would never feel in my entire life" He paused for a moment, his eyes searching hers.

"You opened something in me that makes me never want to stop. I can't control myself when I'm near you," Draco said as he rested his forehead against Y/n's.

She could feel their breaths syncing together, and her heart was pounding so loudly she was sure he could hear it.

"What makes you think you should stop feeling them?" Y/n asked softly, keeping her hands on Draco's face and caressing his cheek gently with her thumb.

He stood up, straightened his tie, and cleared his throat. "You should leave." His voice was firm.

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Y/n informed Sarah about the progress with Draco, but she couldn't shake the feeling that she had towards him in that moment in his cabin. It wasn't something she had ever anticipated – the pure and raw feeling of love that she felt towards him, the way her body reacted every time he was near, and the knowledge of what Draco felt about her. It wasn't according to plan, and it ruined her.

All she could think about was the way she craved to just kiss him and know the taste of his mouth, how she wanted to feel his mouth over hers, she wanted to let him ruin every part of her.

But all these thoughts, these feelings she had to ignore because in this job, there was no room for any sort of distraction, no matter what she really felt, she knew in the end it had to go down by her having to kill him, she had no idea how she would even bring up the courage to do that, but she had to, there was no other choice.

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There was a meeting set up by the manager regarding the issue with the server, all the employees had to attend including Alex, who was hosting the meeting.

Everyone was assembling in the meeting hall when Y/n suddenly stopped in her tracks. "Guys, have any of you seen my phone?" she asked, looking around at her friends.

“No Y/n, did you leave it at your cabin?” asked Claire, after which Y/n’s eyes widened with realization

“Oh you are so right, thank you so much Claire, what would I do without you!” Y/n said and sprinted towards her cabin where she found her door open.

In sat someone dressed in a dark shade of black, Y/n's instincts kicked in and she reached for a spare piece of glass that she kept on the shelf next to the door. She held it tightly in her hand as she cautiously approached the stranger.

“Relax Y/n, I didn’t know you didn’t like people entering your cabin without your knowledge” said Draco who spun the chair around and stood up

“Draco? What are you doing here?” Y/n asked, keeping the piece of glass on her desk.

“I could ask you the same question” Draco replied as he made two long stride towards her and was now directly in front of her

“To begin with, this is my cabin and secondly, don’t you have a meeting to host?” Y/n asked, lifting her gaze to meet his.

However, Draco's face gave nothing away – not a hint of emotion that she could make out.

“I do, but the meeting’s second priority at the moment” Draco said as he suddenly grabbed Y/n by the throat and pulled her closer to him. His face was now just inches away from hers.

“You can do better” Y/n responded with a tiny smirk playing on her lips and without missing a beat she quickly swapped Draco's hand from her throat to her hand on his throat, while her other hand held onto his shoulders.

Draco looked impressed, and in an instant, Y/n's lips were on Draco's, both their bodies and lips moving in sync

Draco’s hands were fixed on Y/n’s waist, pressing it just slightly enough to keep her steady while Y/n’s lips were all over Draco’s, exploring his entire mouth with her tongue while holding Draco’s throat tighter and tighter with every movement of their lips

Y/n was intoxicated, unable to stop even at her own will, she knew this was wrong, she wasn’t supposed to be so engrossed, so mesmerized by him but at that moment she didn’t care, after all its just all going according to plan

Draco’s lips trailed down Y/n’s face to her neck leaving behind hot and steamy bites all over. The room was absolutely silent except for the occasional noises from the floors above but Y/n’s cabin was echoing with Y/n’s pleas of pleasure and ragged breathing

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“That is amazing news Y/n!” squealed Sarah, she sounded almost excited about what happened between Y/n and Draco

“We’re so close to this mission being a success, but there’s a few changes to our plan” Sarah spoke

“I really damn hope there is no change about the money we agreed on” Y/n said as she sat down on her bed in her apartment

“No of course not, its about the execution of the plan, since Malfoy isn’t a person who would share business secrets with his love interest” Sarah took a pause and giggled to which Y/n rolled her eyes, “You will have to just kill him and collect all his documents in from his cabin”

“But, won’t that make it even more suspicious? The manager is killed in his own cabin, and right after that an employee resigning, the cops would be in my ass” Y/n said

“Don’t have to worry about that, we have bribed cops to stay away from any case related to the manager of Reign of Fire, just do your job and make sure no one catches you killing him” Sarah replied with a stern tone.

“Yeah, sounds easy enough” Y/n said, “But it would take me some more time to plan out how I will be killing him”

“Sure Y/n, but you do have only a few more weeks” Sarah said.

“I’ll do it” Y/n said as she looked at the mirror beside her bed where she saw the hickeys that trailed down till her chest, the marks were still as new as ever

She hung up the phone and traced them with her fingers while all the memories of her steamy encounter with Draco flashed through her eyes, it didn’t feel forced, it felt easy, like breathing for the first time

This was the only mission where she felt this way. For Y/n, killing was a piece of cake and she could care less about the person she was killing but, for the first time in her entire life she felt as though killing Draco would be a challenge for her

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Y/n was in her office once again, she sat in her cabin while her fingers mindlessly typed the codes and solutions on her keyboard as her thoughts were consumed by the plan she had to kill. Draco Malfoy

But her mind was not focusing on the codes she was typing or the plan she had to make; instead, her mind wandered off to the thoughts of what she would say to Draco when she met him, after what had happened between them.

What the fuck am I thinking of?

I need coffee

Y/n then stood up and rushed to go to the cafeteria of Reign of Fire to grab a hot espresso to clear off these unwanted thoughts of Draco and focus on the plan she had to execute

After getting her cup of espresso, Y/n started walking towards her cabin when suddenly a hand grabbed her around her waist and spun her into the nearest corner of the hallway

“WHO THE FU-” before Y/n could finish her sentence a hand went over her mouth muffling her voice as Y/n’s Y/e/c eyes met icy blue storms

“Shh now, we don’t want to create a scene over here” Draco’s soothing and masculine voice spoke as he gently removed his hand from over Y/n’s mouth

“Draco, you scared me” Y/n whispered

“Sorry love, didn’t want to scare you”

That one word left Y/n speechless, the air from her lungs left and words were stuck in her throat.

No one had ever made Y/n feel so, different it was a very foreign feeling for her, she had never felt whatever he was making her feel

“What happened? I thought you-” Draco spoke as he was interrupted

“Nothing, just recovering from your horrible jump scare” Y/n said as she chuckled

“I wanted to ask, if you’re free after 6” Draco said as he removed his hands from her waist and stood up straight

“Well yes I am, but why?”

“I’m taking you out somewhere”

“Where?”

“Its a surprise, now are you free after 6 or not?”

“It would’ve been a yes if you hadn’t scared me”

“I’ll pick you up at 7, don’t be late”

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Y/n looked stunning in her elegant black dress that draped just above her knee. The dress was quite expensive, she had bought it for a masquerade party hosted at her previous office.

The doorbell rang in her apartment and as she opened the door she saw Draco Malfoy, he was dressed in a sleek black tuxedo and wore his rolex watch on his right hand with a charming smile on his face

“Just wait here, I’ll be ready in 5 minutes” Y/n said as she let Draco in and went inside her room to wear her earrings

Y/n put on her earrings and gave her makeup a final touch before exiting her room. As she stepped out, she noticed Draco's piercing blue eyes scanning her from top to bottom with a glean in his eyes.

“You look beautiful love” he spoke as he stood up from the sofa and the two exited the apartment where Draco’s porsche waited.

From the apartment to the whole journey to the restaurant, Draco’s gaze never left her

The dinner was delicious but more than the food, the ‘date’ Draco had taken her on was extraordinary.

The two of them talked about everything under the moon, and Y/n was amazed to see a side of Draco she never thought existed.

She had always known him as a cold-hearted person, but he had let his guard down and talked to her so easily.

As the night came to an end, the two once again shared a kiss. It was different from their previous ones, as this one was not desperate but rather sweet and loving.

Y/n couldn't believe that she was using the word 'loving' to describe a kiss.dracoslittleangel

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“Y/n, today is the day” Sarah’s message pops up on Y/n’s phone and for about half an hour she had been staring at the message like a slap on the face.

She was dreading for this day to come, according to Y/n’s ‘plan’ Draco was officially whipped for her and would not suspect a thing she would do behind his back,

Y/n had already after a few dates with Draco given information to Sarah about Reign of Fire’s secrets but it was officially the day she had to end it all.

And she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

She didn’t want to admit it, but deep down Y/n had fallen for the blonde, whether it be for his undeniable beauty or his charming personality, Y/n had in fact fallen in love with Draco Malfoy.

And she had no choice but to end it all

Y/n picked up the gun she had lying in her bedroom drawer since the day she shifted there and finally, the gun was going to be used, for doing something she will dread for the rest of her life

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Y/n entered Draco’s cabin, the manager’s cabin, she knocked on the door three times with a pause after each one, it was a secret code the two had created

“Come in” his husky and low voice spoke and Y/n couldn’t help but feel guilt all over her body

She entered the cabin and could feel the gun cold in her coat pocket, her hand went inside her pocket and felt the gun sitting there, waiting to be used to brutally murder the man she loved

It dawned on her that she was going to have to kill Draco and feel all the guilt of hiding so many secrets from him, hiding things from the man she loved and having to live with that guilt forever

Even in her dreams she could never kill Draco, it had only been a few months since she started developing feelings for this man but even within such less time she got to know this man for who he really was and not what he portrayed other people to perceive him as

“Hello love” said Draco, he looked at her as though they were about to share a loving moment with one another, who would’ve thought that this moment would be ruined by one betraying the other

“Hello darling” Y/n said, her voice low and not the same energetic or snarky but rather dim and lost of its essence

“Before you say anything, I have a present for you” Draco said as he opened his drawer and took out a velvet box and placed it on the desk, “Open it” he insisted

“Sure” Y/n said with a small smile and opened the box, inside which was a beautiful pink diamond necklace, one of the most rarest types of diamonds and would’ve costed a shit ton of money

“You really shouldn’t have Draco” Y/n says, as she admired the diamonds on the necklace

“You deserve the world love, let me put it on you” Draco says as he comes closer to her, removing the diamond necklace from the box and putting it around her neck

“I love you, you do know that right?” Y/n asks, as her hand pushes her hair to the front so Draco could put the necklace on her

“I know” Draco says as he pauses, holding the necklace right around Y/n’s neck

“Love, can I ask you something?” Draco asked

“Sure”

“How much were you paid for killing me?:

silence

Y/n's face turned pale as she stood motionless, unable to believe her ears. Had she heard him correctly? Or maybe she might have misheard him, there was no way.

“What?” Y/n choked out.

“How much were you paid for killing me?” Draco repeats himself as with one hand he pulls out the gun from Y/n’s coat pocket

“Draco let me explain-”

But there was no explaining left to do

Draco knew everything all along

"Y/n, what would you take me for, a fool? I was suspicious of you from the moment you joined Reign of Fire, and I did some digging and found out everything about you." Draco said as the necklace around Y/n’s neck grew tighter and tighter

There was nothing left to do, Y/n’s hand instinctively went on to grab the necklace and try and release her from his hold

“D-Draco, please I-I wasn’t going t-to” Y/n tried speaking but Draco didn’t stop

The necklace kept getting tighter and tighter until there was no room for Y/n to breath, she tried kicking him, punching him, anything to release herself from his grip but nothing would work

“I checked your chats with your manager, what’s that bitch’s name? Aha Sarah” Draco spoke as he strangled Y/n with the diamond necklace, because of which there were cuts on her neck and blood oozed from her neck

Y/n’s vision started blurring and she tried speaking, fighting for whatever was worth but she grew tired, her mouth went dry and body went limp, and all she managed to speak out “Bastard” after which everything went black.

Y/n’s now limp body fell to the floor and Draco swiftly removed the necklace from her neck and placed the bloody necklace back in the box he took it from and placed it inside his drawers.

Straightening his coat he then signaled for someone to come in the cabin

“Alex, clean up this mess”

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Tags- @blackthunder137 @miss-celestial-being @itchywitch33 @nicofiliac @roguecheneyswife @steveslittlesunflower @slythermuf @cait2212 @crisppudge @draco-spencers-girl @tsukibaby1 @dracoslittleangel @enchatedforever @gacha_bella23 @raajali3 @lazydreamer19 @zmxchs @ravenqueen777 @tinafuentes @pascalshearts @kash2 @kash77 @angelxanastasia @horneybeach1 @bchanslvr

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