#so much love brewing between them | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

fleurriee · 1 year

Text

— the one ; neteyam sully

pairing ; neteyam sully x fem!reader

synopsis ; neteyam was beginning to court you, much to your elation. each time he showed you how much you meant to him, you only fell more in love with him.

word count ; 10.3k (we don’t talk about it)

themes ; fluff, soon-to-be mates

warnings ; tooth-rotting fluff, vv brief mentions of worrying over someone’s well-being, uses of y/n.

author’s note ; i can’t tell if this got slightly worse as it neared the end but we’re just gonna leave it bc i do like it. i mean, who doesn’t like the idea of neteyam courting them??? also, this is my longest fic yet & it wasn’t supposed to be anywhere near this long but i just got carried away bc i love neteyam so much. sue me.

main masterlist request a fic!

For a short while now, yourself and Neteyam were in the courting process of your relationship.

It wasn’t too long ago when the male Na’vi asked your permission to do so, along with your parents’, and the thought always caused butterflies to roam in your stomach, no matter how much time passed in between. Neteyam was the perfect Na’vi - a mighty warrior, a caring gentleman, someone who knew how to properly lead, something that would one day aid him when he took over as Olo’eyktan.

So, in short, you simply couldn’t believe your luck when he asked you.

You could argue that you saw it coming with the way he always sought you out in a crowd, the gentle smiles he sent in your direction, but you’d be lying to yourself. Having Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan choose you to be his mate was something you never would have imagined possible in your wildest dreams. Of course, it was something you did imagine - you were pretty sure every other Na’vi your age did, too - but to have it play out in front of your very eyes was a whole different experience.

His family were welcoming, too, letting you safe in their warm embrace and treating you like one of their own - because you would be, someday soon. Neteyam’s family and your own got on well which was a huge relief to the both of you, making his progress just slightly easier.

His aforementioned progress in courting you was something that caused a blush to rise on your cheeks, filling you to the brim with elation. Each time you saw him, you were sure you were close to combusting; each time he spoke, you were sure your heart was close to melting. Everything about Neteyam was godly, otherworldly... how in Ewya had you managed to get him to choose you as a mate?

You were forced out of your jumbled, overthinking thoughts when Tuk let out a loud gasp. The young girl was situated in front of you, comfortably placed on top of your crossed legs, twiddling away at the carved wooden toys her eldest brother had gifted her a while ago. She had come to you earlier, asking you to braid her hair with some of the beads she had recently collected with her sister, Kiri. Of course, you couldn’t say no to her - you were sure Tuk could ask anything of you, no matter the circumstance, and you’d still say yes. It was those big eyes looking up at you, all pure and innocent of the dangers surrounding them with the war brewing nearby. You’d do anything to shield her away from that.

When Tuk gasped, for a split second, you thought you’d hurt her. Your eyes were frantic as you looked over her figure, but then another sound pierced through the atmosphere - a horn. Following Tuk’s line of sight, that’s when you spotted the group of ikran’s beginning to descend back into camp, chants from the warriors filling the air with their victory.

That meant Neteyam was back, too.

Lightly brushing back Tuk’s hair, the braids practically finished, you patted her back to ensure her she was okay to run over to her returning family. She doesn’t even pay you any mind and you laugh at her reaction, watching as she screams out in exclamation, her feet rushing over to where you watch her parents descend.

Standing up from the ground, you jump down from where you were seated, landing softly and jogging over, following after Tuk. The idea of seeing Neteyam again - even though it hadn’t been that long since you last saw one another - had you full to the brim with excitement. He was your future mate - it was practically your job to feel like this at the prospect of seeing him, even if you had only been away for a short period of time.

But, when your eyes finally land on who you were looking for, the smile drops from your face and replaces itself with worried features. Just a couple of steps away, you watch as Jake stands in front of his two sons, his back clearly showing off his agitation. You don’t hear what they’re saying, but you can tell it’s nothing good - both Neteyam and Lo’ak have their heads hung low, ashamed at the obvious lecture they were receiving from their father.

At the sight, you can’t help the way your heart aches for the two boys. Since Neteyam had started to court you, you had spent a lot of time with his family, meaning you got to know each of them pretty well, including Lo’ak. You got on with him great, despite your stark differences in personality, but you could tell everything he did was just to live up to the shadow of both his father and older brother. He just wanted to be like them.

And, Neteyam - he was always the protector, whether it was for his parents, his siblings, for you. If Lo’ak had done something reckless and dangerous, you knew Neteyam wouldn’t have been too far behind him, watching his every move and ensuring his younger brother’s safety. It was both a strength and a weakness of his.

Your eyes scrape over your future mate, checking every inch of his body until you spot a cut at his side that he’s trying to hide from everyone else’s view. It’s clear no one else has spotted it, or else you were sure they would’ve sent him straight to a healer to get it treated. Thankfully, the wound didn’t look too bad, but you could tell it was hurting him - from the signs of him fidgeting from foot to foot, keeping his hand pressed firmly against his side in a weak attempt to dull the pain, his eyes frantically searching about the place to find an opening of escape.

You know him too well.

That’s when your eyes meet, and if it wasn’t for the worry currently eating away at your very being, it would’ve felt as though the whole of Pandora stopped around you, just the two of you in a world of your own. That’s how it always felt around Neteyam, and knowing you had more of this to look forward to for the rest of your lives was enchanting.

In a bid to reassure your future mate, you send him over a soft smile, one full of care and admittance. A small nod of your head accompanied it, too, ensuring him that you would be there for him when he was finished with his father. You understand the weight bearing down upon his shoulders after the several times he would open himself up to you, and you’d be damned if you let him drown. No matter the circumstance, no matter the cost, you’d make it your life’s mission to pull him out when he started to struggle.

A tense smile in return is your only response, another subtle nod of his head with it, too, but you can see the way his body moves stiffly, as if afraid of more reprimand, as if hurting. His eyes held all the love and adoration he had for you like they always did, and seeing such a sight made you feel a little calmer about the situation.

Neither yourself nor Neteyam were conspicuous in your looks towards one another, it seemed, for Jake immediately noticed the way his eldest son’s attention was snagged somewhere else. He watched as Neteyam’s ears twitched a little, tail perking up from its once ashamed downturn, a smidge of light coming back to his eyes. It was obvious what the cause of such a demeanour was, and when he turned his head to look behind himself and found you, standing your weight from one foot to the another, fingers mindlessly playing together in a bid to calm your nerves and tail swishing in anticipation, he was proved correct.

He sighed deeply, turning back around and talking to Neteyam, words being shared that you couldn’t hear, but as he gestured over to you, you stood straighter as you realised he was dismissing his son. The young Na’vi in question doesn’t move quickly, something you can decipher from his wounded side he continued to clutch away from any possible prying eyes, but he does move eagerly, wanting to get over to you as soon as he can.

Not even ten steps between the two of you, and your feet are moving of their own accord, hurrying closer to his figure. You reach your arms out to him, hands grasping against his arms with care to help steer him in the direction of a healing tent. Your eyes wonder seamlessly back down to his wound, looking over every inch of it to ensure it’s not entirely life-threatening. In conclusion that it isn’t, a small breath of relief escapes your lips, shaking your head - still, it looks painful.

Looking back up at him, your eyes filter from one of his to the other in a bid to garner his full attention whilst the two of you continue walking. “Are you okay?” you question, your voice coming out breathy.

“It is fine.” His words are short and sharp, and if it wasn’t for the piercing wound aching at his side, you’d assume he was mad at you. But, that obviously wasn’t the case - Neteyam rarely got angry, and if he did, he swore it’d never be at you.

You scoff before you can decipher your own response, eyes trailing back down. “It doesn’t look fine.” When he doesn’t say anything in return, you look back up at him, finding his gaze already trained on you, a small, graceful smile painting at his lips. It makes your heart flutter, knowing that such a rare beauty is entirely for you. Trying to bite back the reciprocating smile desperate to show itself, you shake your head at your future mate and his antics, wanting to stay annoyed at him for once again throwing himself in harm’s way for the sake of others. But, when he looks at you like that, you find it difficult to do anything.

The healing tent you had intended to take him into finally appeared in front of you, sounds of chatter and winces coming through to your ears from inside. You weren’t a fan of such places due to the pain and misery it brought the people of your clan, but as the mate of the future Olo’eyktan, you knew you’d eventually have to suck it up and put on a brave face for those around you. You’d be spending more time in there than you’d like to admit.

Bringing your arm up and leaving the other one clasped tightly around Neteyam’s bicep, you go move the tent flap away, but another beats you to it. Despite the obvious pain he’s in, Neteyam reaches out, opening the entrance up for you and gestures you in. You stop in your tracks, looking over at him pointedly, but he doesn’t acknowledge the way your eyes reprimand him - even when in agony, he’s still adamant to be a good future mate in courtship.

You sigh, almost a little agitated that he still felt the need to prove himself to you, even when your heart beats rapidly in your chest at such a domestic gesture, the determination of Neteyam Sully peaking through his pained actions. As you step inside, you feel him grab a hold of your hand from behind you, his warm and callous skin juxtaposing against one another, but have you shivering in affection all the same. He allows you to guide him through the tent, weaving around those moving hurriedly to others sitting and waiting for their treatment, before you finally find a somewhat-secluded area towards the back.

With his hand still firmly in your grip, you turn to him, moving your other one around his bicep again and begin helping the both of you steadily to the ground, each of you guiding the other with delicacy. You didn’t want Neteyam to be in more pain than he already was, and Neteyam always treated you like you were fragile glass - something that didn’t bother you, although you have had others say it would bother them, but you paid no mind to them.

Once the two of you were as comfortable as you could be in a tent crowded with other injured people, sat cross-legged and facing one another, you gently pried his hand that had continued to cover the wound in his side. You were slow with your movements, sending him a look of reassurance that you would be tender. He winced slightly when the cool breeze smacked so suddenly against the now-rough skin, his head hanging low and shaking from side to side to tell himself that the pain was nothing. Neteyam never did like to come across as weak - especially in front of you.

You can’t help the way your eyes narrow up at him, a frown on your lips. “I wish you were more careful...” your voice is barely a whisper, not wanting anyone else to hear in on your conversation. With thoughtful touches, you begin to clean away at the wound, wanting to make sure the blood is washed away and nothing made its way in that could make it worse.

“I am always careful.” There’s another wince, another strain when he speaks, the sensation of your fingers against his skin both sending delightful shivers down his spine and causing his tail to stand on end from the pain.

Stopping in your movement, you sit up in front of him, watching as he slowly lifts his head once he realises you’ve paused. “This,” you say, pointing directly to his wound, “says otherwise.”

Neteyam doesn’t say anything as you immediately go back to your previous work of cleaning him, knowing that whatever he says will only be argued with a firm answer you no doubt have ready to fire at him. He understands you, though, because if the situation was switched and you were in his position, he knows his head wouldn’t be in the right frame of mind, either. Neteyam would be imagining different scenarios where you’d ended up worse, more injured, or even... If he didn’t like to think about it, he couldn’t imagine the feeling of going through it, and you did, every time he went out with the war party. You didn’t know what condition he was going to be coming back to you in... you didn’t know if he was going to be coming back.

Neteyam understood.

So, rather than biting back, the Na’vi instead smiled down at your working figure, pure love shining bright in his eyes as he watched your concentration prevail through your hurried movements, your gentle fingers, your narrowed eyes. Everything about you was so beautiful to Neteyam, even when you were surrounded in a crowded room by others who didn’t deserve to witness such a sight. He couldn’t believe his luck of getting to call you his own.

While you work, moving one of your hands back in the direction of his wound, you feel it get snatched away. You look up at Neteyam, about to tell him off for not letting you work, when you watch him place a firm, tender kiss against your knuckles, his eyes never once leaving your own.

You can feel yourself blush profusely at his actions, tilting your head to the side subconsciously as he only smirks at your reaction - he always knew the best ways to get you right in the palm of his hands. Instead of previously wanting to reprimand him, your words are but a murmur when you speak, eyes continuously flickering from his eyes to somewhere behind him in order to distract yourself. “I’m trying to concentrate, ‘teyam.”

His heart is full, ready to burst, when he hears your nickname for him, something he loves from only a select few people, with you being right at the top. Keeping your hand in his own, his thumb beginning to run smoothly where he kissed you against your knuckles, he chuckles at your attempt to stay focused. “I know,” he nods lightly, eyes bright and fangs pointed in bliss. “That’s why I kissed you - you look adorable when you concentrate.”

As soon as the words left his lips, your head sharply snapped back over to him, irises blown wide, ears high upon your head and tail curling in on itself from the compliment. No matter how many times he’d talk to you in such a way, or did certain things that made you feel all mushy inside, it’d always gain the same reaction from you. And, he loved it.

You plaster on a playfully annoyed expression, trying to fight the smile dancing at your lips. Chuckling, you shake your head. “Do you want me to help you, or not?”

He laughs, breathless, tongue flicking out and running along his fangs as his eyes make a point of looking over every inch of your figure. It makes you cower in on yourself, and this time, you allow your lips to curve at the edges. Neteyam doesn’t say anything in return, just shrugs mindlessly like he hadn’t been internally torturing you beforehand, letting you get back on with healing your future mate.

Not once does he move his gaze away from such a beautiful sight.

Your hands moved in a hurried motion, eagerness and anticipation beginning to eat away at you. You moved from one side of your tent to the other, the empty space allowing you to rush around without having to worry about bumping into or getting on your parent’s nerves. The both of them would be out all day - your mother spending the day with the younger Na’vi in your clan, and your father helping out with training the soon-to-be warriors.

With the day ahead seeming so empty, you had decided to take it upon yourself to go out into the vast forests of Pandora and collect some fruit for your family. Foraging was something you always enjoyed, ever since your mother took you out for the first time. There was something about just carelessly exploring the lush greenery whilst stumbling upon something new - it brought you happiness and peacefulness.

Of course, you couldn’t go out there unprotected, making sure to stop by your mat where you kept your bow and arrows and tying them around yourself. Going out into the forest alone wasn’t uncommon, but it was something the clan didn’t like to do often. However, you did - just for the tranquillity of being alone for a little while when you were constantly surrounded by the hustle and bustle of so many people at once. You knew there was always going to be a chance of you running into something dangerous whilst you were out there, so, to calm the nerves of your friends and family after finding out about your little lonesome adventures, you assured them you’d always take a weapon with you.

Sighing, you stood tall, looking around your tent then to your body, making sure you were definitely prepared before setting off for the day. You looped your mother’s empty basket through one arm, hoping to be full to the brim with an array of fruits by the time you returned in a few hours, your bow was tucked over your neck and hanging against your shoulders, and your arrows were placed firmly upon your back, ready for their use. You just hoped you wouldn’t have to resort to using them.

With a nod of your head, you turn around, beginning to walk out the entrance of your tent. You kept your eyes trained to the floor, hanging your head low so as not to bump it against anything and have an embarrassing story to talk about later on, when you ended up bumping your entire body into something anyway.

You gasped in surprise at the sudden sensation, the solid material in front of you hitting against you fairly harshly. Stumbling on your feet, you were sure you would’ve fallen down like a sack, but your saving grace came in the form of two hands, gentle yet rough in texture, catching onto your upper arms, wrapping their fingers against your biceps.

Looking up, you spotted Neteyam. The morning sun hit against his back, painting him in an ethereal glow, and you swore you had never seen anything so glorious in all your life on Pandora. He had a cheeky smile on his lips, eyes roving over your features, his hands still holding tightly onto you - he knew you were steady on your feet now, but he simply didn’t want to let you go.

When you made eye contact with Neteyam, you were so entranced, you couldn’t look away. The way his eyes caught against the light began to suck you in until you were his entirely, no one and nothing else mattered in the world because Neteyam was right here, looking at you. The close proximity between the two of you made the heat rise against your cheeks, painting you in a darker blue, but your eyes never strayed from his. How could you, when he looked like this? You could feel his breath fan against your face, the feeling sending shivers to your skin.

“Hi,” he said, voice low and teasing, that stupid smile never once leaving his lips as he looked down at you like you were some sort of prey and he the predator.

“Hi,” you whispered, voice sultry and soft, struggling to find the correct words to say to him due to your stuttering heart and how close you were, feeling every slight move he made against your own body. “What are you doing here?” You were happy to see him, but confused by his presence - you knew he had training with his father early that morning (part of the reason why you decided to go out), and if he was here with you now, you were sure he was going to end up being late, something Neteyam did once in a blue moon.

He shrugged carelessly, like he didn’t have a care in the world. “I wanted to say good morning.”

You look up at him expectantly, waiting, but when he only continued to look at you adoringly, you narrow your eyes in confusion. “Are you going to say it...?” Your words are still a whisper, but this time, there’s a teasing lilt to them as you watch his smile grow wider when he realises his mistake.

Neteyam began to laugh at your sudden cheekiness, something you didn’t do often but he absolutely cherished, silently wishing to himself that you did it more. Maybe he’d just have to do things like this a little more. “Good morning, yawne (beloved).” As he spoke, he leant down towards you, giving your cheek a feather-light kiss, you had to run the sensation over in your mind again. When he pulled back, you couldn’t hold his eye contact, too flustered to look up at him, knowing that if you did, your cheeks would only continue to darken from their original colour. Neteyam found it endearing, smile so bright his fangs were pointing out, before eventually spotting your attire. “Going hunting?”

“Foraging,” you corrected him, lifting the basket higher on your arms to accentuate your point. Your heart finally finds the confidence to look up into his intense gaze, swelling with both care and devotion. “I need to get some more fruits.”

At your admittance, Neteyam’s entire demeanour lights up at an opportunity beginning to present itself right in front of his very eyes - his ears stand high upon his head, eyes shining and tail elevated, anticipation peeking through his system. “I can get them for you if you want.”

You swoon at his eagerness to help you, the domestic part of Neteyam showing itself off to you. If it were any other time, you would’ve gladly took him up on the offer, loving the idea of spending more time with him despite truly believing your heart would explode if he continued to look at you like you were Ewya herself. But, you knew Neteyam was important to your clan, even before he was to become Olo’eyktan - you couldn’t keep him from his duties, from his purpose.

(Neteyam would strongly argue that you were his purpose.)

“‘Teyam,” you start gently, hate having to turn him down when his features slowly start to fall. A sympathetic smile lingers against your lips, head tilted to the side but your eyes spoke more than your words could convey. “You have training with your father...” you find your eyes trailing your surroundings at your reminder, instantly spotting Jake in the near distance behind your future mate. He stands tall, proud, but you can tell he’s only moments away from calling his son out as he eyes him up, impatient. “...who is right over there and definitely does not want you to be late.”

In an instant, Neteyam’s head shoots around to follow your gaze, a grumble slipping past his parted lips when he spots his father. Like a child, he hangs his head low in defeat, allowing it to fall against your shoulder when he turns back around. He lets his weight bear down on you teasingly, chuckling through his chest at your struggled attempts to stay steady on your feet.

You pat his chest in mock sympathy, giggling to yourself as he only continues to be his dramatic self, head nestling closer into the space between your shoulder and neck. But, when he begins to press kisses against your skin, you tense up, feeling your spine straighten out and eyes look around for anyone watching.

His father continues to glower at his eldest son, hands on his hips and shaking his head, obviously disgruntled. “Neteyam,” you warn, patting his chest again, a little harsher this time, more so in warning. Neteyam doesn’t seem to care, however, only continuing on his journey as he travels his lips from your shoulder to the crevasse of your neck. “’Teyam, your father-”

“Neteyam!” Jake’s voice is loud and clear, piercing through the clan until it makes its way to the two of you. In an instant, Neteyam jumps up and detaches himself from your shoulder. You look over his broad shoulder, seeing his father beginning to storm his way over. A harsh, fast-paced kiss is placed roughly against the side of your face, before you watch Neteyam run sheepishly over to his father, not wanting him to make a big scene. When your future mate arrives at his father’s side, the older Na’vi grabs his son against the back of the neck, forcefully pulling him further away from you before the guides of Ewya could will him back to you.

You can’t help but chuckle at their antics - the more time you spent with the Sully family, the more excited you felt at the prospect of finally being a part of them. Of course, they’d argue that you were already an honorary Sully, just from being betrothed to one of them, but you knew it’d be entirely different when you finally mated with Neteyam.

Shaking your head, you noticed a few stares sent your way from the scene Neteyam had previously created before leaving you to deal with it. The only response you could give them without wanting the ground to swallow you whole was a sheepish smile, before securing your basket tight against your chest and running off into the forest.

The rest of the day went by quicker than you had imagined - you were simply so emerged in the beauty of the forest around you that time seemed infinite, like it was laying in the palm of your hands for you to do whatever you pleased with it. And, you did - you spent majority of your time marvelling at the pure life around you, the way everything seemed to pulse like it had its own heartbeat, and you liked to imagine that it did. After all, this was all apart of Ewya, too.

You had managed to collect a good amount of fruits, filling your basket almost to the top with a variety of tastes and colours to show off to your parents. Walking back into the clan, your chest swelled with pride at the few gratifying looks you were receiving from your collection, but you were also feeling proud of yourself for not having to use your weapon, either. Whether it was just your good intuition, or Ewya herself guiding you in a direction to ensure your safety, you steered clear of any potential threats that could’ve been lurking around the corner, waiting for the perfect moment to pounce. Either way, you were grateful you never ran into anything.

Arguably, you were a good hunter, someone who could hold their own if they needed to, but you weren’t entirely confident in your skills enough to fight off something bigger than you if its intentions were to kill you. You’d never had to fight against such a creature, thanks to adventuring out with others that knew what they were doing, or going to specific places you knew would be okay for you. Plus, there was something about killing the creatures of Pandora that didn’t sit right with you - after all, they were also children of Ewya. Of course, you understood the clan had to eat in order to survive, and if you were being attacked, no Na’vi would judge another if they needed to defend themselves or their family. That’s why you were always the one to volunteer to collect the fruits out of your family, enjoying that particular experience more. It also helped that you received offer’s from Neteyam’s family - and Neteyam, especially - to share the meat they had hunted. You could turn down the meats his family offered you, arguing that it was for them, but you couldn’t disagree with Neteyam - what’s mine is yours.

Nodding to another Na’vi who had done the same to you in a small gesture of congratulations, your cheeks hurting from the prideful smile against your lips, you hadn’t spotted the figure rushing to jog over to your moving figure until they stop at your side. You already know it’s Neteyam - not from the sight of him, but from the presence of him. His scent infiltrates your scenes immediately and his aura oozes itself around you, enshrouding you in a protective layer.

How your knees haven’t buckled out from swooning will always be beyond you.

No words are able to leave your mouth before Neteyam takes the basket from your hands, relieving your lower back from the pressure it was previously feeling with the weight of the fruits. He holds it firmly in his grasp, matching your pace as he walks beside you, taking note of the amount you collected before his gaze lands on you. “How was it?”

You don’t bother arguing against his wishes of holding the basket for you, knowing it would only be a losing battle if you tried. Instead, you allowed your heart to flutter wildly in your chest as it begged for release, wanting to cover Neteyam in all the love it had to offer. Your head tilts in affection as your features coo. “It was good - I managed to get quite a bit.”

He hums in acknowledgement, eyes hurriedly scanning over your figure from top to bottom. His gaze makes you feel warm, but you know he’s checking you over for any potential injuries. “You didn’t run into any trouble?”

“Nope,” you state proudly, beaming like a child would with a new accomplishment. “I’m too good at sneaking.”

A laugh tumbles from his stomach at your answer, embellishing in the way you proudly stand and tell him of your day’s achievements. This is what he’s always wanted - the two of you, talking about your day and everything in between, before finally coming back together to rest for the night.

All he’s ever wanted was you.

With only one of his hands now holding onto your full basket, he brings his other up to grab hold of your arm, stopping you in your tracks. When you turn to face him, your smile slowly begins to fall from your lips at the seriousness in his gaze. Only when he cups your face in his larger palm do you soften, features lighting up once more. “You did well, my muntxa (mate).”

The nickname makes you bite your lips to stop you giving away your true feelings, but you know Neteyam, and you know he knows you inside and out, like you were his other half - because you were. Snuggling your face further into his palm, you stand higher on your toes, wanting to bring him closer despite the rapid beating of your heart. “Not yet...” you remind him.

He hums in acknowledgement, but doesn’t say anything more. Rather, he presses a light kiss against your forehead, his lips lingering there for a while longer, like he didn’t want to part from you in such an intimate way. As he stays there, his lips ghosting over your skin, he whispers an almost-inaudible soon. The implication makes you shudder in delight, feeling him separate away from you, now intertwining his hand in your own and gesturing his head for you to follow him.

Soon.

Tonight was a normal night within the clan, although it somehow seemed more alive.

Every night, the people of the Omatikaya would come together to celebrate the day’s achievements, even if nothing too celebratory had happened. It brought a semblance of togetherness that you couldn’t get anywhere else - one you wouldn’t trade for the world.

You could hear the hustle and bustle of many Na’vi even from the tent furthest away from the main area, your body filling with brimming excitement already at the prospect of everyone being there. You weren’t a huge fan of crowds, but growing older had taught you to appreciate such a feeling - these people were your family, after all, and with such an impending war knocking upon your doorstep too often than you were comfortable with, you learned to enjoy what you have already, before it was too late.

Training with the Tsahik had increased tenfold in the last couple of months - you were working from sunrise until sunset alongside Mo’at and Kiri, aiding them in their tasks and ensuring you were close to knowing everything off by heart. Eventually, you would be taking over, with Neteyam at your side as Olo’eyktan. It wasn’t long until the two of you would finally be mated before Ewya, and whilst it would still be a while until you stepped forward as leaders, there would always be more preparing to do. As a mated pair, the clan would slowly start looking to the two of you.

With such a pressure lingering upon your shoulders, you began to make your way through the main crowd, leaving behind your duties in their wake and allowing yourself a moment to breathe. There were Na’vi everywhere, no matter what direction your gaze trailed to; smiles adorning each face, tails high in elation and chatter loud in excitement. There was a large woven table to the side that held the hunting party’s food they had caught during that morning’s hunt, piles high of fruits and meats that had your stomach growling in anticipation. You hadn’t had time to eat much when training, your mind too focused on remembering every little detail shown before you.

But, you couldn’t help your own smile beginning to dawn upon your lips as you attempted to make your way past people at the sight of their happiness. For a moment, it almost felt like there wasn’t a raging war so close to home, ready to kill you all just to say they had won.

You shook your head at such a thought, willing it away from your head and forcing yourself to enjoy the moment before you. There were several people you accidentally bumped into on the way past, your mind foggy as it searched for someone, but no one was too bothered, too caught up in the blissful atmosphere lingering within the air.

Eyes trailing over every figure you came across, you struggled to spot a single Sully. You stepped higher onto the ends of your toes, head poking out over the tops of other’s heads in an attempt to locate them, but you kept coming up short. It was obvious they would be here, of course - they were the Sully family, the leaders of your clan, and if they didn’t make an appearance at just a regular gathering such at this one, you knew they’d be more panic around you.

Thankfully, before you could be swallowed by the crowd and lost to the world around you, a hand clasped itself securely within your own, fingers intertwining together. The feeling of his hand against yours caused your brain waves to kilter off edge, the rough but warm sensation of his palm meeting your own so similar to home.

When you look up at him, Neteyam’s happiness is evident upon his features, grin broad and so unbelievably handsome-looking. Before you can get too caught up in him, him, him, he nods his head in the direction behind him, where you guess his family had set themselves up. He doesn’t take his hand away from your own, keeping a strong grip against you to ensure he doesn’t lose you, leading you through the crowd until you come up to his family.

They’re all already seated comfortably together, Lo’ak, Kiri and Tuk already eating away to their heart’s desires whilst Jake prepares the food for himself and his mate. Upon seeing your breathless figure, they greet you with smiles and nods in your direction, never surprised to see you with Neteyam anymore as they used to be. The bond between the two of you was only growing stronger as the days tilted by, the time dwindling down before you were mated and you truly became a Sully. His family were your family.

Neteyam’s arm is almost forcefully ripped away from your own when a much smaller body crashes into you. Tuk, in all her pure and giddy glory, has her arms wrapped strongly around the tops of your legs, her height not allowing her to go any higher. Her chin rests against your legs, looking up at you with her deer-like eyes and the biggest smile you have ever seen. The sight has you melting.

“Hi, Tuk,” you greet her softly, bringing your hand up to gently caress the top of her head. She giggles at the sensation, lightly hopping up and down on her feet. Whilst you were definitely close with Neteyam’s family - more so Kiri, than anyone else, due to the amount of time you spend together - Tuk would always be your favourite. You looked to her like she was your little sister, and you hoped that one day she’d look at you like her older one. The idea of having someone as adorable as Tuk look up to you, feeling comfortable enough to come to you should she ever need to, was heart-warming.

“Tuk!” Neytiri called, her tone harsh but understanding as she beckoned her youngest child back over to her, watching her bound away from you and back into her mother’s arms.

You laugh quietly to yourself at the sight, finally making your way to the free seat next to Neteyam. When your comfortable enough, you go to reach over for the contents already splayed out before you, but a soft slap against the back of your hand has you recoiling away. Next to you, Neteyam reaches for everything you’d need, already beginning to do it for you.

He doesn’t look at you, although you know he can feel your gaze zoning in on his every movement - he’s too busy concentrating on making sure everything’s perfect for you, even if you are going to devour it just moments after receiving it. Your heart flutters like a swarming butterfly and you’re positive your cheeks are starting to redden as they blush. You don’t say anything to him, knowing it’s an argument you won’t be able to win - instead, you continue to watch with hearts evident within your eyes, a faint, loving smile present on your lips.

It’s then you remember you’re not completely alone, too caught up in Neteyam. When you look up at the family surrounding you, you instantly spot his parents’ gazes already trained on the two of you - Neytiri’s expression is fond, whilst Jake’s is most definitely teasing.

Whether he can begin to sense your slight unease at being caught, you’re not sure, but Jake decides to speak up, hands moving subconsciously as he now starts to prepare his own food after giving the finished one to his mate. “So, y/n,” he starts, “how is Tsahik training going?”

You briefly look back over to Neteyam next to you, biting back a smile as you allow him to continue his work - his eyes are narrowed in on making everything flawless, making sure it’s exactly how you’d like it. Turning back to Jake, you offer him a nod, breathing out. “It is good - there are a few things I’m still struggling with, but the Tsahik believes I just need to continue with my training before I am able to do it with my eyes closed.”

Shrugging at the end of your admittance, you let out a sheepish laugh, almost a little embarrassed. Tsahik training is hard - no one ever said it was going to be easy, especially when you would be guiding the clan spiritually through Ewya, helping them heal and celebrate important ceremonies. But, you know you don’t have anything to be embarrassed by for several reasons - Neytiri understands from her brief time of training alongside her mother before mating with Jake, but this is also Neteyam’s family, your family, who have never once stopped to judge you for a single thing. In fact, you’re sure they’ve only ever supported you through the things you do, because now you’re as much they’re daughter as Kiri and Tuk.

“You will be an amazing Tsahik, y/n.” Neytiri speaks up, clearly noticing your hidden embarrassment and wanting to ease your worries. Tuk is still in her lap, happily chomping away at her food as her mother braids her hair. Her smile is doting, motherly. “The clan already loves you.”

The compliment from your mother-in-law only causes more embarrassment to flood through you, feeling yourself slowly begin to curl in on yourself. The love you were receiving not only from the family, but also from the rest of the clan, helped ease your tensions, but you never really took to taking such praise well. You appreciated it like any other Na’vi did, but sometimes you struggled to show a natural reaction, becoming slightly uncomfortable. That was something you would have to work on - the Tsahik couldn’t be embarrassed.

Your tail had previously nestled itself against your side when Neytiri complimented you, shying away from the attention, but it began to perk up suddenly when Neteyam lay a kind hand against your shoulder. His thumb was absentmindedly rubbing soothing circles against your skin - you didn’t know whether it was in his natural persona to do so, subconscious taking over, or whether he took notice of your change in demeanour, but either way, it calmed you.

Looking at his other hand, you can see your prepared food, wrapped neatly together and gesturing for you to take it. With a grateful smile sent his way, you do so, speaking softly. “Thank you, ‘teyam.”

His grin is wide as he looks down at you. “You do not need to thank me, narlor (beautiful).” Heat passes over your cheeks when he calls you beautiful, the sincerity behind his eyes showing you how much he means it. You try your best to focus on your food when his attention doesn’t waver away from you, the warmth of his gaze piercing into your skin and making your entire being feel all tingly. Despite taking note of your attempt to shutter yourself away from him, taking a bite of the food and savouring every mouth-watering flavour it has to offer you, Neteyam is relentless - the same hand that was formerly rubbing against the top of your shoulder now snakes around the back of your neck, bringing you further into his side and pressing a tender kiss against the side of your temple. His lips linger hotly against your skin when he pulls away. “I would hunt down the most ravishing creatures and prepare the most delicious meals just for you, muntxate (wife).”

For a moment, you know nothing else but him - the way his eyes bore into yours completely, unseeing of anything else going on around you; the way his breaths steady with each one, like you bring a sense of calmness to his very being; the way his hand doesn’t move from its place against you, like doing so would cause him extreme pain. You’re sure you can feel your heart soar to the sky when he calls you his muntxate (wife), never wanting to hear him call you anything else ever again. You’ve been down the road before - Neteyam has been calling you his mate boldly as of late - but hearing him call you his wife, such domesticity has you feeling completely brand new, like you could conquer the world, face the most dangerous beast and win, just to come home and see him smiling at you like you hung the stars in the night sky.

You’re scared it’s obvious that your tears are beginning to show against the line of your eyes, a nervous but oh-so adoring chuckle escaping your parted lips. Neteyam brings you foreheads together, the heat of his skin sending waves of the temperature into your own, his hand still clasped firmly against the back of your neck, and you notice his eyes never once falter from their stare into your own. There’s so much love, so much devotion and worship in his gaze, you can’t believe for just one brief moment in your past, you had thought Neteyam wouldn’t want you to call his own. It’s clear to you now that he’s only ever saw you.

So suddenly you’re brought out of your reverie when you hear a gagging sound coming from the direction of your other side. Reluctantly pulling away from Neteyam, you spot Lo’ak pretending to throw up the contents of his meal, no doubt having seen the intimate moment between his older brother and yourself. In any other instance, the embarrassment would be clawing away at you - and, you won’t deny the little semblance of it still making its way to the forefront - but the endearment you held for Neteyam in that moment, when you truly saw how much you meant to one another, overrides anything else. You laugh at your younger brother figure, looking up at Neteyam with nothing but comfort and passion in your eyes, watching as he rolls his eyes and shakes his head at such dramatics. But, he doesn’t pull away - no, he keeps you closer.

Another sound is brought forward to your senses - this time it’s Neytiri, smacking the back of her youngest son’s head, her words a hushed scolding. You faintly hear her tell him that someday soon, that will be him and his own mate, but the voices drown out when your attention is pulled back to Neteyam. He’s not looking at you this time, rather he’s laughing at his brother’s grumbling of having to put up being like Neteyam, and as your eyes drown in everything he has to offer, you realise the whole world had started to disappear, until all you see is him.

After a long day spent with the younger Na’vi within your clan, you’re finally finding the time to slip away and relax. Your time had been filled up with helping teach the children different aspects that Pandora had to offer before they go their separate ways and start heavily training on what they wish to do in order to provide for the clan - whether that be foraging, hunting, healer, weaving... You and a few others had taken the children out into the forests, showing them the plants, the fauna, the creatures, the life that constantly emanated around them.

This was arguably one of your most favourite things to do - teaching the children the way of Ewya was such a beautiful experience when you got to witness their eyes light up in awe, fascination cleaving at each and every one of them, wanting to know more, to explore more. Spending time with them made your heart grow fonder, the images conjuring in your mind of the day that yourself and Neteyam get to do such things with your own children. You’re still unsure as to how many you’d like, but you know that Neteyam would be the best father, without a shadow of a doubt.

Such thoughts stay lingering within the corners of your mind, unrelenting in their leave and it has the corners of your lips turning up in a subtle smirk. The walk from the tent you had just visited after dropping off the last child wasn’t such a distance from your own, and you couldn’t stop the sigh of relief breathing through you when you spotted it. Already, you were picturing yourself laying down in the comfort of your mat, eyes closed as the worries slowly start to slip away, your dreamland beginning to take to the forefront of you mind.

Lately, your dreams had only been filled with Neteyam, and you wondered what else they’d have you thinking about that night. The time of your bonding with Neteyam was just around the corner now, on the precipice to being the next chapter in your life, and both nervousness and excitement filled your entire being. You wanted it to be special, you wanted to be everything Neteyam ever wanted in a mate, and that’s where your nerves started. But, the moment you thought of them, they were shut down by your excitement - you knew Neteyam, and with the way he had been treating you all this time was only further evidence to how much he cared about you. You truly didn’t have anything to worry about.

“Y/n!” Your name pierces through the clan, senses heightened when you recognise the voice, such a sound being the cause of your craned eyes and elevated tail, like they had a life of their own and were looking forward to seeing him, too. You stop in front of your tent, watching as Neteyam slowly jogs his way over to you, his hands hidden behind his back.

“Hi, ‘teyam,” you greet him, an affectionate smile playing against your lips.

He sends you one back, but this one falters a little towards the end, like he’s unsure of yourself. It has you feeling nervous again, but this time, the nerves are understandable - he’s beginning to fidget from foot to foot, nodding to himself as though he’s telling himself everything’s going to be okay. “Hey,” he replies, voice low and quiet, so unlike the Neteyam you’re used to. One of his hands points towards your tent behind you, still keeping the other one hidden away from your prying eyes. “Can we talk inside for a moment?”

Such words only make you feel worse, so many jumbled thoughts and suspicions bouncing from one side of your intrigued mind to the next, concocting different possible outcomes of what could be the source of his anxiety. You repeatedly tell yourself that it can’t be anything too damaging - after everything the two of you have been through together, even before finding out you were to be mated, it’s practically impossible to pull you apart, now. Without yet being mated, you know the two of you are bonded for life, and nothing can ever come in between that. Still, a small part of yourself feeds off his apprehension and you can’t help but wonder if going inside your tent with him will change the course of your life as you know it.

With a tense smile, trying your best to muster up the courage and pretend that he’s not worrying you, you nod, moving towards the entrance. Neteyam’s quick with his movements - instantly, the flap is pulled open for you, his hands holding back the fabric and allowing you to usher yourself inside. That’s a good sign, you tell yourself - if he’s treating you like this still, whatever he wants to talk about can’t be too bad, right? Unless he’s being a gentleman so the idea of tearing you down doesn’t seem as harsh.

You walk over to your mat, placing yourself down in a hurry, looking up at Neteyam and gesturing for him to do the same. He does so, and his body movements of sitting down opposite you are stiff, too. You notice his hand still firmly placed behind his back. Suddenly, the air feels uncomfortable, too much to bare as it continues to envelop you more, his worry stifling every one of your senses. Sucking in a breath, you let out a nervous laugh, hoping to ease the tension, wanting to get it over with in the chance it’s something bad. “’Teyam, you’re worrying me.”

As soon as you speak, he’s on alert - his head shoots up to you, finally able to properly look at you directly, his pupils blown wide. Tension steadily starts to dissipate from his figure, a brittle chuckle parting from his lips as he shakes his head slightly. “I’m sorry, I do not mean to worry you, it’s just...” he pauses, takes a big breath like he’s preparing himself for something monumental and steadies himself. “I made something for you.”

The strain of believing Neteyam was going to be telling you bad news disperses and it’s like it was never there in the first place. You feel your ears wiggle as they come to understand exactly what he said, your tail swaying back and forth in anticipation. “For me?”

He breathes out a soft laugh, eyes lighting up at how adorable you look to him. “Of course, am I courting someone else?”

It’s like the nervous Neteyam has completely disappeared, and finally you’re looking at the one you know and love - the Neteyam that is brave, and proud; the Neteyam that enjoys teasing you just to get a shy reaction out you; the Neteyam that can’t help but be sarcastic despite being a nervous wreck just moments beforehand. You hate the way he teases you, and yet you love it at the same time. You shake your head at his sarcasm, in slight disbelief at how he had managed to change his demeanour in the matter of a split second, a velvet-like giggle breaking out before you have the chance to force it back in. Now, he knows he’s got you right where he wants you.

Slowly, with both precision and care, he moves his hand from behind his back, palm outstretched and showing off what he has to offer you. Your eyes land on a beautifully woven necklace, all different colours, shapes and sizes of beads and feathers and small intricacies tied all into place to make it perfect. It’s completely caught your attention, and you can’t seem to train your focus away from it. Subconsciously, your hand covers your mouth, smile wide and tears beginning to brim along your waterline. “Oh, ‘teyam. It’s beautiful.”

He brings himself closer to you, body shifting over until you’re now sat side by side, legs touching. He holds the necklace delicately in his hand still, bringing it further into the light to show it off, to show you how it looks in its true element. A beam plays at his lips now that he’s finally at ease, seeing the way you look so adoringly upon the object, so intense and ethereal it surely can’t be real.

With a slight shake to his hand, he points to one of the beads, a watercolour blue that glistens when it shines perfectly against the light. “This bead is to represent when we first met - when you tripped and fell into the water.”

The memory comes back to you so quickly, it felt as though it happened just yesterday. You had been stood by the water, so close your toes were tipping in to the cool liquid, watching the fish as they swam in their habitat, blissfully happy and fascination clear on your features. Neteyam had unintentionally snuck up on you, scaring the life out of you as you fell into the water in surprise. Instantly, Neteyam felt bad, helping you out of the water and making sure you were fine, but as time went on, Neteyam loved to casually bring it up in conversation, if only to tease you.

You playfully smacked his arm, features recoiling before gasping out at his remark. “I did not trip - you scared me!”

He laughs, eyes imploring straight into yours, and you can see the hearts filled lovingly within them. Shaking his head, he bites back his smile, moving onto the next one, this one a darker brown, almost rusty in colour with different edges of tones. “This one is to represent the time when I started to help you with your bow.” As another memory filters through your mind’s eye, of two younger looking Na’vi practicing in the midst of the forest on how to correctly aim, you start to realise that this necklace your future mate had made for you is personal. He didn’t choose these specific ornaments just based on their beautiful colours or their variety of textures... he’d chosen them to portray each pleasing moment you had spent together, right from the very beginning. Your attention doesn’t falter, eyes trailing slowly from the necklace up to him, watching as he continues to talk through each one; so in his element, so in love. “This is a feather I found that looks similar to the colour of your ikran, and this one is supposed to represent when I asked to court you-”

You couldn’t help yourself - his voice was drowning in your ears, a ringing sensation taking over until silence deafened you and there was nothing else important in the world. Whilst he’s still speaking, you take his face gently within your grasp, holding onto both sides of his face, turning him to you and smashing your lips against his own. You kiss him passionately, as though it was the last one you may ever share together. It isn’t usually you who initiates moments like this one, but the more he spoke about every moment you shared together, concocting them and making them into something you’ll wear for the rest of your life proudly, all you wanted to do was show him how much the gesture meant to you, how much he meant to you.

When you eventually pull back, your lips linger against one another, breaths mingling together. You press another soft kiss to his lips, thumbs absentmindedly rubbing the apples of his cheeks. Looking up at him, you watch as his eyes start to open slowly, dazed, hazy, in love. A grin rests along your features at having been able to get him so drunk on you in such a way. “Nga yawne lu oer, Neteyam (I love you, Neteyam),” you breathe out, pecking his lips again, even lighter this time. “Oel ngati kameie (I see you).”

A vast smile is obvious upon his features now, uncontainable, but it wasn’t like he wanted to contain it anyway. For as long as the two of you were together, he’d show off all of himself to you, no matter the circumstance. Such a sight before you - all for you - has your heart fluttering. Neteyam presses his head impossibly closer to your own, trying his hardest for the two of you to become one, kneading his face against your own, wanting his scent to be all over you, for everyone to know that you belong to him. “You have no idea how much you mean to me, yawne (beloved), and how eager I am to finally be all yours.”

Your cheeks are hurting from how happy you appear, but there’s so much love being shared between the two of you, you simply don’t care. “And, I cannot wait to be yours, muntxa (mate).”

It’s the first time you’ve admittedly called him your mate - after all this time, it’s usually him to call you such a name. But, seeing him today, presenting you with a gift of such beautifully personal memories, you finally give into yourself. Even if it is still some time before the two of you mate as one before the eyes of Ewya, but all in all, Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan will always be your mate.

A laugh bubbles in the back of his throat at finally hearing you call him such a name, pearly fangs on full display as the two of you show off your eagerness to come together as one - of how much you care for one another, how much you yearn for one another.

You truly cannot wait to be all his, because there was no doubt in your mind that Neteyam was always the one for you.

taglist ;

@bakugouswaif @andraga12 @draiochtwrites @teyums @neteyamslovrr @tinkerbelle05 @netesanrr

#𝐅𝐋𝐄𝐔𝐑𝐑’s work ── ✎#neteyam #neteyam sully #avatar #avatar 2 #neteyam fluff #neteyam smut #neteyam x reader #neteyam sully x reader #neteyam x you #neteyam sully x you #neteyam x female reader #neteyam x fem reader #neteyam sully fluff #neteyam sully smut

4K notes · View notes

cheollipop · 1 year

Text

one more rep

navi | taglist

pairing: jung wooyoung x model fem!reader x choi san

w.c.: 6.9k

tags: smut, some fluff, friends to lovers, woosan are reader's personal trainers

san got a little too excited watching you exercise in purple – his favourite colour – and wooyoung was nothing if not a tease. turning their attention back to you, they didn't expect to see you equally worked-up.

warnings: mean dom!wooyoung, soft dom!san, they're switches for each other though, wooyoung has a nipple piercing + a tramp stamp (hehe), san has finger tattoos, degradation (a little bit; reader gets called a slut/cockslut), praise (a lot), so much dirty talk, a hint of dacryphilia, nipple play (m & f), face sitting, oral sex (m & f receiving), face fucking, fingering (f), squirting, pussy slapping, overstimulation, handjob, mxm, spit kink (so much spit...), snowballing, cum eating/swallowing, unprotected sex (👎), multiple creampies, multiple orgasms, some humping, aftercare, nicknames (youngie, good boy; sannie; baby, pretty girl, good girl, sweetheart, darling), they're all idiots in love <3

A/N: so this has been brewing in my little kettle for a while and bam! my longest fic yet, and probably the filthiest... I put my heart and soul into this one, so I really hope you enjoy! ^^ (pls ignore any inaccuracies in the exercises,, I start wheezing after one flight of stairs)

nsfw under the cut - minors dni!! 🔞

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

San’s knees dug into the yoga mat under him, his hands – decorated with the black ink of his tattoos – secured around your calves, holding them in place while you finished up your last set of sit-ups. He could feel your muscles contract every time you pushed yourself up, relaxing momentarily as you laid back down on the mat. He often found his eyes wandering over the purple material hugging your figure, the way your shorts rode up your thighs each time you pushed yourself off the mat. With every powerful sit-up, he held his breath at how close your face would get to his – enough for him to breathe in the sweet scent of your perfume mixed in with the tanginess of your sweat, your soft exhale blowing over his face.

It had been years since your agency reached out to San’s company, hiring him and Wooyoung as your personal trainers. The three of you had developed an easy friendship, your sessions now packed with inside jokes and banter. Recently, however, you often found yourself looking at them differently – your heart racing whenever San’s hands brushed over your skin, skipping a beat at Wooyoung’s never-ending praise. As a model, you were required to remain fit, and despite the torturous exercises the pair put you through, you were glad you were able to see them regularly.

A gentle squeeze to San’s nape caught his attention, Wooyoung hovering over him with a coy smile on his face. One look over his shoulder and he could see the weights for the next exercise set up neatly in the corner.

“What’s got you so distracted? Can’t you see she’s barely making it halfway up?” Wooyoung’s tone was playful, but both your face and San’s flushed at his comment – you, because he’d caught you slacking off, and San, because he’d called him out for not paying attention.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, your chest heaving as the past two hours of taxing exercises caught up with you, sweat trickling down your temples.

“Cut me some slack, Youngie, I’m tiiired!” You whined, letting your head fall back, eyes shut while you caught your breath.

Wooyoung kneeled beside you, running his hand over the top of your head gently. “Yeah, yeah, take five minutes to rest then we’ll move on.” He smirked when you began complaining, pinching your cheek and pulling at the skin teasingly.

Looking back at San, Wooyoung’s smirk widened, teeth peeking out from between his lips when he caught sight of the man’s demeanour – his eyes moving between the two of you, hands still holding your legs, albeit slightly tighter than he had been earlier, his veins popping out while he shifted uncomfortably on his knees. Wooyoung’s eyes trailed further down, noticing the forming tent in San’s dark sweatpants, a scoff escaping his lips.

“What’s got our Sannie so excited?”

San’s whole body jerked at Wooyoung’s mocking tone – and the innuendo behind it – instinctively pulling his hands closer to his body and dragging your legs with them. You sucked in a breath when San’s hips pressed against you before immediately drawing them back, abruptly standing up and turning away from the two of you. You could see the bright red creeping up the back of his neck, San’s shaky hands scratching nervously at the heated skin.

“I-I-” San stuttered, roughly clearing his throat while he took quick peeks over his shoulder to attempt eye contact. “I-I’m so sorry- I don’t know why-”

Wooyoung chuckled, standing up and wrapping an arm around San’s shoulders, his eyes flitting down to his concealed bulge before he looked back up to speak. “Don’t worry about it, dude. I’m sure our (Y/n) understands, right?” They both looked back at you expectantly, and you nodded your head quickly. “See? Just take a walk and calm down. I’ll continue the session with (Y/n).”

Wooyoung let go of the flustered man, giving him a playful pat on his ass before turning around to face you again. His eyebrows shot up at the sight of you, taking in the way your thighs rubbed against each other, your eyes glazed over and fixed on San’s back. Wooyoung cleared his throat, startling you back to reality, and you instinctively relaxed your legs, giving him a full view of the darkened material at your crotch.

A wave of heat rushed to your face upon noticing Wooyoung’s gaze slipping down to your core, squeezing your thighs together again and sitting up. His head tilted to the side amusingly, a sly smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. He reached back to grab San’s arm before he had the chance to leave, twisting him around to face you.

“Or… Would our precious (Y/n) like to help Sannie out instead?”

You rolled your hips over Wooyoung’s face, gasping around San’s cock when the tip of his nose brushed against your clit. It took the man under you a few seconds to notice you grinding on his nose, soft whimpers vibrating over San’s cock as you took him in deeper, swallowing around his cockhead and revelling in the groans you drew out of him.

Wooyoung’s hands slipped under your ass, his biceps bulging as he adjusted your position until your clit was directly over his nose and his tongue at your entrance. Your eyes rolled to the back of your head when Wooyoung slipped his tongue inside you, curving it along your walls to press against the spongy spot that made your back arch. He could feel your thighs shaking around his face, moving it from side to side to nuzzle his nose against your clit, drinking up your arousal as it gushed into his open mouth.

He pulled away, sliding his tongue over his bottom lip before speaking. “I know you love my nose on your pussy, but don’t you dare cum before San does.”

You hummed around San, hearing him grunt above you as he slid his cock over your tongue, a shallow thrust to remind you of his presence, but you couldn’t process the action when Wooyoung’s tongue was back inside you, mercilessly pushing into your g-spot, your orgasm rapidly building up in your lower belly. So you just sat there, rutting over Wooyoung’s face with your mouth stretched open around San’s throbbing cock.

San’s hands reached into your hair, the strands draping over his tattooed fingers as he gently tugged at the roots, throwing his head back when your moans vibrated against his length. He held your face and pulled you off him, bending at the waist to look at you with desperate eyes.

“(Y/n), darling, fuck- can I fuck your mouth? Please, I’ll be gentle, please-”

Yes, you wanted to say, but all that came out were gargled moans as Wooyoung tongued at your entrance, teasing your hole with the wet muscle, slipping it in and out as he pleased. He pulled off your cunt to speak, holding you over his face.

“You’ll let Sannie fuck your throat, right?” Wooyoung smirked against your skin when he saw you nodding frantically above him, San’s hands cupping your cheeks and his cock jumping in your mouth. “Be a good girl and open up then,” he tapped your thigh, bringing you back down on his face.

Between Wooyoung’s tongue ruthlessly prodding against your g-spot, your hips moving on their own to grind against the curve of his nose, and San’s heavy cock fucking into your mouth, you were left an incoherent, moaning mess with drool streaming down your chin.

“Fuuuck, baby, you feel so good-” A throaty moan ripped out of San, his fingers tugging on your hair to push you all the way down his length, his jaw slack as he watched your eyes well up with tears while you held back from gagging. “Shit- I’m not gonna last.”

You were a breath away from tumbling over the edge, thighs burning as you rode Wooyoung’s face, his tongue sending shocks of pleasure soaring through your abdomen. Strong hands wrapped around your hips, bringing you down on his face and wrapping his lips around your clit. It took two harsh sucks for you to fall apart, your whole body shaking with the force of your orgasm. You felt Wooyoung’s teeth brushing over your clit, giving the swollen bud a small nibble before pulling away and slipping out from under you.

San was in heaven, his cock twitching on your tongue as your soft moans sent waves of ecstasy up his spine. But then Wooyoung’s hands were slapping his off you, pulling you away from him to lay you down on the mat.

“W-wait! I was so close!” San complained, reaching his hand towards you only to have it brushed away again. “Just a little more, p-please-“

“You’ll have her back later,” Wooyoung gave him a stern look, and San backed away, wrapping his hand around the base of his cock with a defeated exhale. He settled down on his knees, watching as Wooyoung turned his attention back to you, your thighs still twitching with the force of your orgasm. His cock throbbed when he saw Wooyoung’s face, drenched in your arousal, his eyes ablaze with the purest forms of lust. San’s eyes moved to Wooyoung’s hand, veins protruding from the skin as he sunk two fingers into your sopping heat, leaning down to whisper in your ear. “You just had to be a little slut didn’t you? Was my mouth on your pussy and Sannie’s cock down your throat not enough for you?”

“F-felt too good, Youngie, I couldn’t help it!” You writhed under him, his long fingers ruthlessly pounding into you and building you up to a second orgasm.

“Aw, you couldn’t help cum before Sannie? All because my tongue felt too good in your cunt?”

“Uh-huuh- s-so good!”

Your eyes rolled back when Wooyoung’s other hand reached for your clit, rolling it between two fingers while he continued his tormenting.

“But I wanted to see you choke on Sannie’s cum,” he bit down on your jaw, slipping his fingers out as soon as your walls began clamping down on them, smirking when you looked up at him in shock.

“Youngiee, ‘wanna cum!”

You were too focused on Wooyoung’s face to notice his hand coming down on your cunt, the sharp slap reverberating in the empty gym. Your hips jolted off the mat when he landed another slap on your clit, your hole clenching around air.

“I don’t think you deserve it, though,” Wooyoung jutted out his lips in a faux pout, quickly turning into a smile when he saw tears running down the sides of your face. “Aww, you wanna cum that bad?”

You nodded desperately, angling your hips towards him, only to be met with another harsh slap to your cunt, letting out a strangled cry that bled into moan when Wooyoung’s fingers sunk into you again, continuing their rough pace. You felt pressure building in your lower belly, flashes of heat rushing through your body as Wooyoung drew out desperate whimpers from your lips, leaning down to press wet kisses to your skin. He trailed his tongue over the sides of your face, licking away your tears as you finally came undone on his fingers.

Wooyoung sat back on his heels, pulling his fingers out to watch as clear liquid squirted out your fluttering hole, your thighs shaking uncontrollably as you gushed all over the mat and Wooyoung’s clothed thighs. He couldn’t help himself, bringing four fingers down on your clit, delivering a sharp slap to your cunt, then again, until you were convulsing under him, pushing his hands off you as the overstimulation became too much.

Wooyoung pulled back, watching violent tremors pass through your body, your eyes shut as you basked in the aftershocks of your orgasm. His eyes moved to San, bending at the waist beside you to press a chaste kiss to your cheek, pausing to gauge your reaction before placing another on your forehead. The scene in front of him was sweet, intimate – despite San being naked from the waist down – and Wooyoung felt the insatiable need to disturb it.

San flinched when Wooyoung pressed himself to his back – so close he could feel the metal bar piercing one of his nipples brush against his clothed spine – hooking his chin over his shoulder and wrapping his arm around his small waist to press his palm to San’s hard abdomen.

“What are you doing?” San tried to ignore the shakiness of his voice, hoping Wooyoung didn’t notice, though the grin on the other man’s face told him he did.

“You said you were close,” Wooyoung sounded, his fingers toying with the hem of San’s compression shirt before sliding down to rest over his snail trail, the barely-there touch making the hair on San’s arms stand. “I thought you might need a helping hand.”

San didn’t reply, only sucked in a breath once Wooyoung’s fingers wrapped around the base of his cock, his eyes half-shut as he revelled in the friction the other man provided. He angled his head downwards, moving his tongue around in his mouth before letting it roll out, a line of his spit steaming down to meet Wooyoung’s hand, easing the slide over his leaking cock. San’s head lolled back onto the younger man’s shoulder, soft moans slipping through his lips while Wooyoung built a steady pace, squeezing around his base every time he drew his hand back.

“A-ah, fuck, ‘gonna cum,” San’s voice was strained, his chest rapidly rising and falling as Wooyoung twisted his hand around his cockhead, collecting the absurd amount of precum leaking from the tip and coating the rest of his shaft with it. “Don’t stop, I’m so close-”

“I didn’t know you could make cute noises like this, Sannie,” Wooyoung purred, his lips pressed to the shell of his ear, smirking when he felt San’s dick twitch in his hand. “Careful, I might end up making you squirt too.”

With Wooyoung’s hand avidly pumping his length, his warm breath blowing against his ear, the raspiness of his voice echoing in his head, San’s whole body shuddered as his high washed over him, hot ropes of cum painting your chest, some of it falling on your neck and chin. His heavy grunts were like music to Wooyoung’s ears, his hand squeezing out every last drop of San’s release until the older man was an overstimulated, whimpering mess, pushing him away from his softening member.

Falling limp on his knees, it only took San a couple seconds to zero in on your tits, following the cum sliding down their slope and leaving a translucent tint on your nipples. With two fingers, he smeared his release over your perked-up buds, taking one between his pointer and thumb and tweaking it until you were whining under him. San was awestruck, his body moving on its own, scooping up some of the cum on his fingers and bringing it up to your mouth – already open and waiting. He nearly moaned at the way your tongue circled his tattooed digits, your cheeks hollowing to suck them clean, prompting him to pull out only to collect more of his release and feed it to you.

Just as you were about to gulp down the bitter liquid, Wooyoung’s voice reminded you of his presence. A simple, “Don’t swallow,” and you were frozen in place, your mouth remaining open even after San pulled his fingers out.

Wooyoung was back on his knees beside you, leaning down to press his lips to yours, his tongue slipping inside to lick up San’s release, collecting it in his mouth before sitting back up. Twisting his body to face the older man, he grabbed his jaw firmly, squeezing it until his cheeks squished together and his lips parted. It happened in slow motion – Wooyoung’s lips pursing, tongue moving around as he collected the mixture of liquids before spitting it directly into San’s mouth and leaning down to connect their lips. San couldn’t process what had happened, but Wooyoung kissing him left him breathless, his eyes fluttering shut as he felt him graze the roof of his mouth. It was only when the other man’s tongue pushed the compound of spit and cum down his throat that his eyes snapped open, instantly meeting Wooyoung’s – already agape, lidded as they watched his blissed-out face.

Wooyoung’s other hand wrapped loosely around San’s neck, keeping his eyes fixed on his face, his teeth nipping at his bottom lip. Knowing exactly what the younger man wanted, San swallowed down his cum, maintaining a neutral expression as the tangy liquid washed down his throat. Wooyoung’s lips lifted after he felt his Adam’s apple bob under his palm, pulling away from San and letting his arm fall to his side, a triumphant smirk gracing his features.

It was as if they had forgotten about your presence, emitting a small noise to draw their attention back to you. Two heads twisted to face you, eyebrows raising and eyes following your fingers as they carried San’s cum to your mouth, your tongue licking them clean. Your gaze was fixed on Wooyoung, taking in the sweat shining on his temples, his slightly parted lips – glossy from San’s spit – and finally, the tent in his sweatpants, throbbing at the sight of you. Your free hand reached for his shirt and tugged at the dark material, pulling your fingers out of your mouth to speak.

“Please, Youngie, w-want you,” you pulled at his shirt, finally breaking Wooyoung out of the trance he was in.

Throwing his shirt off, Wooyoung fitted himself between your legs, leaning down to mouth against your neck, the metal bar piercing his nipple cold where it pressed into your heated skin. “Did one little kiss make our pretty slut wet again?” He scoffed at the shy nod you gave in response, trailing his lips down to your chest and taking one of your nipples into his mouth, licking off the remnants of San’s cum. You arched your back, pushing your tits further into Wooyoung’s mouth and whimpering when he slid his leaking tip through your folds. “You’re so cute,” he brought his face back up to yours, the corners of his lips curled into an impish smile. “You want Youngie’s cock that bad?”

Just as you were about to stutter out a response, Wooyoung pushed his cock past your entrance, sheathing his whole length between your pulsating walls and groaning into your neck. “Fuuuck, you’re so tight for me, darling.”

Wooyoung gave you two seconds to adjust to the stretch before he began pounding into your sopping heat, his hands gripping your waist and his face buried into the crook of your neck.

“W-wait- hnnngh!” Your hands flew to his back, nails digging into the skin whole your body jolted upwards on the mat every time he slammed his hips into you. “S-slow down!”

“I thought you wanted me?” Wooyoung pulled away to take in your fucked-out expression, broken moans making his cock twitch inside you as he drove it directly into your g-spot.

“Y-yes, but-”

“So you’ll shut up and take me,” he held your jaw firmly, his other hand sliding down to your hip. “You’ll be my pretty little cocksleeve from now on, won’t you?” You felt a flash of heat shooting down to your core, your thighs twitching around Wooyoung, moans muffled as he squished your cheeks together, your lips parting as you stared into his eyes pleadingly. He used the hand on your face to give your head a curt shake, his chest heaving despite the stern look on his face. “I asked you a question.”

You nodded desperately, crying out a quick succession of yes and please. Wooyoung eased his grip on your jaw before pulling his hand away entirely, eying your parted lips momentarily before shoving two of his fingers into your mouth and hooking them behind your bottom teeth to open them further. You felt the hot wad of spit land on your tongue, mewling as it trickled down your throat, Wooyoung’s cock sliding against your walls deliciously, making the room around you blur so all your attention could go to the man ravishing you as though you were his last meal.

Knowing Wooyoung wouldn’t relent, you looked up at the man who would. San stared right back at you, his cock already half hard and twitching at the sight of you – thighs shaking violently around Wooyoung, sweat reflecting off your flushed skin, tears pooling in your eyes as he relentlessly fucked himself into you. San spotted the slight wobbling of your bottom lip, your tears now flowing down the sides of your face while broken moans and cries ripped through your chest, Wooyoung thrusting into you like an animal in heat, his own grunts muffled by your skin.

San slid himself behind Wooyoung and cupped his hips, hooking his chin over the other man’s shoulder to eye the drool leaking out the corner of your mouth.

“Look at her, all fucked out and sensitive,” San spoke softly, his hot breath blowing against Wooyoung’s ear, a shiver shaking the latter’s body. “Slow down a little-”

“Get off me, ‘don’t wanna slow down,” he interrupted, pressing his cockhead into your sweet spot and rolling his hips to drag his length further into you before returning to his unrelenting pace.

“But you have to, Youngie. You can’t break her yet, not before I’ve had my turn with her pretty cunt.” San’s fingers dug into the younger man’s hips, his biceps flexing as he used his strength to slow him down. Wooyoung resisted at first, but his eyes caught the way San’s hands gripped his hips – veins popping out and fingers turning white, making his tattoos look more prominent – and allowed him to guide his cock into you. “There we go,” San leaned forward to press a faint kiss to his jaw. “Good boy.”

His hands eased their hold on Wooyoung’s hips to travel up his body, feeling the muscles tense under his warm touch. San slid his cock over his perky ass, eyebrows raising and when he noticed the dainty butterfly tattooed over his tailbone, sensing himself getting harder. His fingers tweaked Wooyoung’s nipple, tugging at the metal bar until he was whimpering on top of you, biting down on his bottom lip while grinding into your clenching cunt. San brushed his thumb over the tramp stamp, smearing the precum that leaked from his tip over the black ink while rutting on Wooyoung’s ass.

The visual of San licking up the sweat off Wooyoung’s neck paired with the younger man’s heavy cock grinding into you was enough to push you over the edge again, your walls clamping down on him as black dots danced in your vision. You grabbed onto Wooyoung’s biceps, your hips frantically rolling to meet his languid thrusts while you begged him to fuck you through your high, breathing out a series of please and faster. Wooyoung’s hips picked up their pace, fucking into you as his own desperate moans escaped through his lips.

Your nails dug into Wooyoung’s skin when pleasure faded into pain from overstimulation, your toes curling and tears staining your skin, your body jerking every time he drove his cock into you.

“Just a little longer, shit, I’m so fucking close-”

San pressed himself to Wooyoung’s back, sliding his cock down his ass to brush over his perky hole, his cockhead pressing into the fluttering entrance – but not quite breaching it – while harshly tugging on his nipple. Wooyoung nearly saw stars, his eyes rolling back when he finally emptied inside you, warmth spreading through your abdomen as his hot cum filled you up, some of it leaking out while his cock was still inside you. He pulled his softening member out and flopped down on the mat beside you, his chest heaving as he recovered from his orgasm. Twisting his head to look at you, Wooyoung brushed a knuckle over your cheekbone to wipe away a stray tear, the fondness lacing his expression so gentle it sent a wave of warmth to your cheeks. Wooyoung looked like he was about to say something, but San was wrapping you up in his arms, and the words died on his tongue.

Gentle fingers smoothed down your hair and soft lips peppered feathery kisses over the tears drying on your cheeks. San’s hands slid over your arms, gentle fingers massaging the tense muscles. “You’re okay,” he muttered against your skin, “I’m here.” He brushed back the hair matted to your forehead, pressing a kiss to the slick skin before drawing back to study your face. A smile lifted the corners of his mouth at the peacefulness of your features, leaning back down to slot his lips against yours, fitting himself against your body – his shirt already off and thrown to the side – humming when your fingers ran through his hair. You parted your lips for him, allowing his tongue access to slip into your mouth, sliding over your front teeth before pushing against your own. You caged his hips in with your thighs, locking your ankles behind his knees to bring him closer, releasing breathy moans that San happily swallowed up.

“Sannie, ‘want you…” you mumbled against his lips, his own traveling down to press wet kisses over your chin and jawline.

“Are you sure, baby? You don’t need more time?”

Despite his concern, his tone was breathy, a subtle whine to his voice. Looking down between your bodies, you glanced at San’s cock – the tip red and angry, twitching when he caught you looking at it. So you shook your head, perhaps a little too eager.

“Want you now,” you insisted, sliding your hand down to grab him at the base, squeezing your fingers around him and relishing the groan it pulled out of the man on top of you.

San allowed you to guide him to your fluttering hole, dipping his cockhead into the stream of cum still leaking out of you before brushing it over your clit, your whole body shuddering under him. He angled his head down and spat on his cock, watching your ephemeral shock shift into arousal, coating his length with his saliva before dragging it back down to your hole. San’s mind fogged up when he finally pushed into you, his mouth hanging open as your searing heat enveloped him. Your sharp hiss brought him back to the present, promptly cupping your cheek and examining your face, landing one kiss after the other onto the flushed skin.

“I’m here, baby, does it hurt? Do you want to stop?” He glided his hand over your thigh, fingers digging into the plush skin before releasing it, his eyes soft as they took in your reactions.

You shook your head, using your legs – still locked at the ankles behind his knees – to push him further into you. “No, ‘feels good, Sannie,” you assured him, your nails scratching at his scalp.

“Yeah?” Aside from the cocky smirk curling the corner of his mouth, San looked absolutely fucked – lidded eyes, glazed over with lust, red spread out in splotches over his chest, heaving as he resisted the urge to thrust into you. “Am I making my pretty girl feel good?”

You nodded and rolled your hips into his, silently begging him to move. And taking one look at your teary eyes, San couldn’t help but oblige, drawing his hips back and thrusting into your heat, a harmony of moans ripping through the both of you. San felt so good, his cock brushing over your walls just right with every languid grind, fleeting touches to your skin only adding fuel to the fire burning within you. Using the hand in his hair, you pulled him down to close the gap between you, your tongues dancing in the middle before you began taking turns sucking them into each other’s mouths, slobber dripping down the sides of your face.

Firm fingers grasped your chin, startling you away from San and twisting your face to the side. Wooyoung was propped up on his elbow, looking down at you with a hooded eyes while he swiped away the spit leaking from your mouth.

“Look at our pretty cockslut taking Sannie so well… I bet he’s been waiting so long to have you, haven’t you, loverboy?” Wooyoung cooed, directing his gaze to the man on top of you and blinking innocently, a wicked smile on his lips.

It took San a few seconds to process what the man had said, the haze of pleasure clouding his brain. His hands flew to your ears when the words became coherent – an attempt to shield you from the feelings he had repressed behind locked doors, feelings he was willing to shroud so long as he was by your side, content to simply exist in your presence. His ears turned bright red, the tint spreading to his face and all the way down his chest. San’s heart slammed against his chest and into yours, its rapid pace almost alarming.

“Ya! S-shut up!”

“What? You don’t think everyone already knows about your little crush?” Wooyoung twirled a strand of San’s hair around his finger, mockingly pouting his lips at the flustered man.

Just before San could retaliate, delicate hands cradled his face and brought his gaze back to you. He nearly melted into the floor, mooning over the softness in your eyes – wide and glimmering – as they looked up at him. Mouthing “it’s okay,” you gave him quick, reassuring nod, a certain promise cloaked behind the glint in your eyes.

It was as though the weight of the world had lifted off San’s chest, his eyebrows raising as he fully took in the insinuation in your expression, eyes tearing up for a few seconds before he dropped his head down to connect your lips once again. The kiss was desperate but gentle, soft nibbling on your bottom lip, San’s hot tongue pressing against your own before pulling away to trail his lips down your face to your neck.

“You’re so perfect,” he mumbled against your pulse point, “so beautiful.” He revelled in the airy moans you breathed out while he sucked a bruise into your skin, then another, before licking a stripe up your neck to lightly sink his teeth into your jaw. “Want everyone to know we’re the only ones who can have you like this.”

We – the pluralism sent the butterflies in your stomach on a rampage. Before your attention could shift to the neglected man to your side, San drew his length out until only the tip was left inside you, your walls desperately clenching down on it while you whined at the loss. But then he was pushing back in, finally fucking himself into your weeping cunt, your arousal mixed with Wooyoung’s cum squelching every time San’s cock pumped into you.

“Let me know if it’s too much, sweetheart,” San’s tone was so gentle, and yet you couldn’t ignore the growl in his voice while he basked in the flaring heat of your walls, his attentive eyes full of want.

“More,” you pleaded, your eyes never leaving San’s while he adjusted his position.

Wooyoung’s hand suddenly gripped the underside of your thigh and pulled it towards him to spread you out for San, leaning down to press a chaste kiss to your cheekbone. San dug his knees into the mat, pushing further into you and remaining still for a few seconds until you began whining again. With a breathy chuckle, he began pistoning his hips into you, praise rolling off his tongue as your walls contracted around him. The world around him faded away until only you remained – the sweet succession of his name, the pleasure painting your features, the gentle tugging against his scalp where your fingers tangled in his hair. San couldn’t focus on anything else.

Until rough fingers made their way between your bodies, sliding his arm behind your knee to reach the place where you were connected. Making a ‘v’ shape with his fingers, Wooyoung hooked them around San’s cock, nearly moaning when he felt the way it stretched you open. A rough “ah” ripped through San’s throat, thrusting inside you to feel your cunt squeezing down on him then pulling out to revel in the glide of Wooyoung’s fingers around his slick base.

When he thought he couldn’t get any harder, Wooyoung leaned in to whisper in his ear – low and sultry while his fingers dipped lower to cup his balls. “How does it feel to fuck my load into her, Sannie?”

With a flabby squeeze to his sack, Wooyoung felt it empty as San finally came, his whole body shuddering as his orgasm washed over him, emptying his load deep inside you. San cursed under his breath, slowly fucking his cum into your used cunt while it spurted out of him, his cock throbbing at the sight of you writhing with the need to come. Wooyoung’s hand slipped off San when he moved to pull out, moving to spread you out again and watching the other man’s cum mix with his own while it leaked out of your gaping hole. He eyed how you clenched around nothing for a few seconds before San’s fingers slipped back inside you, the black ink adoring them turning glossy with your arousal.

“I’ve got you, darling,” he leaned down to pepper your face with soft pecks, his fingers hammering into you and curling into your g-spot. “Will our sweet girl give us one more?”

You nodded desperately, tears streaking down your face and moans slipping through your lips without restraint. Wooyoung’s hand kneaded your thigh, his eyes fixed on your swollen clit, visibly contemplating something in his head. You were too busy relishing the tender kisses San dropped on your heated skin to notice Wooyoung’s hand dropping on your pussy, the sharp sting making your body jolt under San. The pain from Wooyoung’s slap paired with San’s fingers mercilessly hammering into your cunt made your eyes roll to the back of your head, your thighs shaking rabidly as the pressure building in your lower belly released, sending you tumbling into your orgasm. You nails dug into San’s biceps and your hips simultaneously pushed to meet his thrusts and pulled away from them, delirious after being dragged over the edge so many times.

San’s fingers slowed as you came down from your high, tapping against the spongy spot along your walls and taking in how your hips jerked at his ministrations. Just as he pulled out of you, Wooyoung’s hand landed another sharp slap to your clit, making you cry out from the overstimulation. But before San could berate him for it, it was like a dam broke within you, hot liquid squirting out of your fluttering hole.

The two men simply watched the scene unfold before them for a few moments before San's body began moving on its own. With a hand to the back of his head, San dragged Wooyoung down to your cunt, taking in how his mouth opened on its own to catch everything you had to give him. San’s fingers tugged at the younger man’s hair, pushing his head into your mound and observing how his tongue rolled out to lick over your entrance, taking the concoction of San’s cum and his own into his mouth and swallowing it down.

You watched as Wooyoung sat back up, taking San’s hands and slipping the fingers that had been fucking into you inside his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and sucking them clean. San eyed him with lidded eyes, studying the slide of the younger man's tongue over his trimmed nails. Before he could process Wooyoung’s head moving closer, he had already sealed his lips against San’s, sliding his tongue into his mouth to give him a taste of all of you combined. An unpleased whine rumbled through San’s chest when Woooyoung pulled away, his glossy lips forming a pout when he gave the tip of San’s nose a kitten lick and shot him a playful wink.

Wooyoung’s attention was back on you before San could even blink, spreading out beside your worn-down body and gliding a gentle palm down your side. San did the same, flopping down opposite to Wooyoung and brushing the hair off your face, leaning over you to press a tender kiss to your forehead.

“Is a five minute break enough before we start the next rep?” Wooyoung joked, giggling when you swung a limp arm into his chest.

“You’re insufferable,” you laughed, noting how San’s chest vibrated against your shoulder with his own giggles.

Wooyoung pressed his lips to your cheek, holding them in place for a few seconds before drawing back, only to plant a series of kisses down your neck and to your collarbones. “Are you feeling okay? Was it too much? I didn’t hurt you, did I?”

Your eyes softened at the concern lacing Wooyoung’s tone and you smoothed down the furrow of his eyebrows with a gentle thumb. Shaking your head, you brushed the hair off his face and spoke. “You didn’t hurt me, Youngie. I-I really liked it... all of it,” you mumbled the last part, a faint blush warming your cheeks at the admission. You could see Wooyoung's worry dissipating, a witty comeback at the tip of his tongue.

“(Y/n),” San drew your attention back to him before Wooyoung could tease you, noticing his burning ears and the fiddling of his fingers at your waist. “Earlier, you…” he cleared his throat, and you fought the smile off your lips while watching him struggle to express himself. You saw him gather up the courage to pry open the door he’d welded shut long ago. “I want you,” he blurted out, “a-and I don’t mean only in this way,” he flailed his hands between your bodies before reaching down to lock his fingers with yours, his anxiety turning into panic and making your heart swell with fondness. “I want all of you, I want to make you happy and-” he sucked in a deep breath before continuing. “I-I guess, all I’m asking for is a chance.”

“San-”

“You’re playing dirty, you dickhead!” Wooyoung interrupted, wrapping a protective arm around your waist. “Don’t try to steal her away for yourself!”

Your eyebrows raised in shock, trying to process the situation brought on by the two men bickering on either side of you, arguing about who would get the princess when the princess herself was unsure of what she wanted. Your infatuation with San was undeniable, every fleeting touch left your skin burning for days, every smile directed towards you had the butterflies in your stomach going rabid, eating at the insides of your stomach. Everything about Choi San was warm – his eyes, his words, his expression, all were laced with scotching heat, leaving you burning from within.

Whatever it was you felt towards Wooyoung was fiery, fervent, leaving you dazed and confused – what was it about him that drew you in? Perhaps it was his playfulness, or was it the way he changed up on you? One second Wooyoung was a friend and the other he was dropping subtle hints – a flirtatious wink, or a hand on your hip that held its place for a second too long for it to be friendly. You’d simply assumed him to be a flirt by nature, though one peek at his interactions with other women and you were proven wrong: Jung Wooyoung only treated you this way – as though you painted the clouds on the blue sky with your bare hands – and you found yourself rejoicing in that fact. Perhaps you’d already made up your mind, and it was simply your denial and cowardice that had held you back this whole time.

“What if-” you began, both men ceasing their banter and turning to look at you. You swallowed nervously, your mouth dry and your heart beating wildly against your ribcage. “What if I wanted… both of you?” You looked between their shocked faces, your voice small as you uttered the next question. “Is that too much to ask?”

“No!” They replied in unison, the intensity of their voices startling you.

Relief rushed through you and you closed your eyes to revel in the moment, the two men back to speaking over each other, going on about how they would do anything make you happy – “happier than a child at Disneyland,” San specified. The squabbling persisted even while they cleaned you up and helped you into your clothes, San shouting back at Wooyoung while he guided you through your cool-down stretches, the other man cleaning up the floor and wiping down the equipment.

As boisterous as they were, you found yourself smiling adoringly at the two men fighting over who would drive you home – matters that were trivial to you, but somehow meant the world to them. In the back of your mind, you knew you had a lot to talk about and discuss to ensure everyone was content, but right now, you couldn’t help but savour the pleasant feeling in your stomach, the soft fluttering of butterflies as two men you thought the world of doted on you. Their eyes were full of adoration, fingers twitching with the urge to hand-pick the stars from the night sky to make into a necklace for you, hoping it would come close to shining as bright as you do.

apply for my tag list here (´｡• ᵕ •｡`) ♡

4K notes · View notes

fatesundress · 1 year

Text

⭑ for the love that used to be here. tom riddle x reader

summary. you and tom are the only muggle-borns in slytherin, until one day he isn’t.

tags. angst, afab reader who is referred to as a witch a few times and rooms with girls but i don't think i ever use she/her pronouns or say the word girl/woman, biggest warning is that this is SO long (idk what compelled me to write a year 1 – post-hogwarts fic but here we are twenty thousand damn words later), blood purity and bigotry, dumbledore is greatly offended by the bonding of two orphans until he can capitalise on it, frequent wwii mentions (specifically the blitz), book clerk tom, MURDERER TOM… ministry reader, kissing, smut once they’re 21/22 May all the minors in the room exit at once, more angst, sad ending kinda, me spreading a very personal and very nefarious tom riddle agenda that is canon to ME but probably only like two other people

note. i need a shower and an exorcism after writing this shit. i'm exhausted. i don't even remember half of it. but i'm also SO stoked, this is my little (very large, frankly) 100 followers celebration! i've only been on here for about a month and the love has been so crazy so thank you mwah mwah mwah ♡

word count. 21.8k (i know... i KNOW)

You learn quickly that your shade of green is not the same as theirs. The rest of them are emeralds, even at that age — they glitter with their parent’s polish. You are flotsam, sea-sick, envy green; the putrid boiling stuff that brews in your cauldron when you look away for a second too long, and, really, it’s more of a stain than a colour at all. There is a fraction of a second where you find something powerful in that. You are not an easy thing to remove. And then it’s gone, because they want to so badly.

You learn, with a bit less tact, that you doesn’t actually mean just you; that it’s you and him whether you like it or not.

He evidently does not.

“It has to be completely fine,” Tom says to you in Potions, his voice small then but just as practised.

You narrow your eyes. “‘Scuse me?”

“I said the powder has to be completely fine.”

“I heard you completely fine. I know how to read.”

He stares blankly at you before returning to his own station, and that’s that.

It isn’t unheard of for muggle-borns to be sorted into Slytherin, so you’ve been told, but one glance around your common room and you can see it’s pretty damn rare.

There’s Tom Riddle, there’s you, and there’s a seventh-year girl whose knuckles are always white like she’s spent so long with her hands balled into fists that they don’t know how to do anything else. Tom Riddle is a prat, the girl is too old and unapproachable even if she wasn’t, and you are very good at being alone.

That decides it. Flotsam still floats.

Everything is — fine. It’s fine for months; you have no one and need no one and sometimes you catch a jinx in the back of Charms that zips your mouth shut or bends a foot the wrong way (a cruel reminder of how much more these people know than you) and your broom occasionally pivots so sharply the Flying professor has to stop you from careening into a wall and breaking enough bones for a week’s worth of Skele-Gro, but it’s fine.

…It’s just that he’s insufferable.

The boy is eleven years old and he speaks like he’s stealing glances at an invisible lexicon between every word, more refined than any of the orphans you grew up with which makes you wonder which sort he’s surrounded by, and you take it upon yourself to theorise in passing if you could ever scare him badly enough his real voice would slip and he might just appear human for once.

Only it becomes clear when you’re stirring awake in the Hospital Wing after a mysterious bout of dragon pox (conveniently, all the pureblood children developed an immunity after catching it young) has rendered you bed-ridden and pockmarked, that you don’t think anything can scare Tom Riddle. He’s suffering just as well in the bed beside yours to keep the contagion to the two of you, and he’s all cold, eddied rage under sallow skin and beetling bones.

“They’re going to kill you,” he says after three days of silence, when the room is dusted in moonlight so thin it’s like squinting through cinema noise or mohair fluff to try to see him.

You blink at the vague shape of him. “What?”

“If you don’t hurt them back, eventually, they’ll just kill you.”

In hindsight, it’s an assumption so hastily bleak only a scared child could make it.

I want to hurt them, you try to say, but for what follows you cannot: I want to hurt them but I’m not good enough to do it.

You roll over and pretend to sleep, and in the morning, you hurt them anyway.

It’s Avery who’s unlucky enough to be the first to test you when you’re three assignments behind in Transfiguration, still a bit groggy from your last dose of Gorsemoor Elixir, and actually, physically green. He tugs your hair and stings your cheek with the promise of “bringing a bit of colour back to your face” and it’s sort of funny how banal it is compared to the other transgressions you’ve been dealt — that this is the thing that makes you bare your teeth, grip your wand in a hand that still can’t hold half of it, and send Avery flying across the room with a Knockback Jinx.

Tom sits with you in the Great Hall for dinner that night, and he never really stops.

You practise spells by the Black Lake between classes and he’s anything but kind about the ordeal, but you teach each other. You end your days with singe prints and sore wrists and you often take more damage than he does, but sometimes, as spring settles in with warm tones (apple and jade and moss — all the greens you’d never imagined), you leave with less bruises than he does. It hardly feels like friendship. It feels much more like purpose.

When summer comes you don’t write to him, and you don’t expect he will either. You don’t suppose you’ve actually written a letter in your life. Instead you try new wand movements under your quilt every night and wait for August’s departure on a big red train.

You sit together when the day does come. He asks you if you’ve been practising. You frown and tell him you’re not allowed to use magic outside of school.

Second year is nothing but monotonous, antiquated theoretics. Most everyone complains. You don’t see why they should — they’re already aeons ahead of you — but that means you finally have a chance to catch up in your less-than-school-sanctioned meetings with Tom while the rest remain practically stationary.

Deputy Headmaster and Transfiguration professor Albus Dumbledore is imperceptibly less soft with you than he was last year when you make the apparently poor decision to sit beside Tom on the first day, and you file the subtle shift in demeanour into some mental cabinet to review later.

You find workarounds with the librarian, Madam Palles, inclined to sympathy for the poor, orphaned muggle-borns to grant relatively unfettered daytime access to the Restricted Section so long as you keep it tidy and none of the books leave the library. That’s where things get a bit more interesting.

For a month you remain innocuous as can be. You browse through rare historical tombs and foreign biographies that would charge more galleons than you can conceptualise, and you never leave so much as a tea stain on the parchment. You smile at the Madam when you return the key each night, and walk back to the dungeons with your hands behind your back. It is, of course, totally unrelated that a month is what it takes for Tom to master the third-year curriculum’s Doubling Charm. An entirely separate affair when you meet him in the most secluded alcove of the library, slip him the key, and stifle your grin as he duplicates it perfectly.

You discover Christmas break is your favourite time of the year. Nearly all the purebloods go home. The Slytherin dormitories are effectively halved.

It’s two weeks of earnest, uninterrupted work and sleep without fear of waking up with jelly legs or whiskers.

Madam Palles, most nights, makes a slight, drowsy effort of searching the library for leftover students before she casts the lights out and closes the door. Then, it belongs to you and Tom.

You’re splayed rather ridiculously over one of the big reading chairs on Christmas Eve, Lore of Godelot in hand, enthralled by a chapter detailing his controlled use of Fiendfyre through the power of the Elder Wand.

Tom is cross-legged and sat straight, his brows furrowed in concentration.

“What’ve you got?” you ask, leaning over to answer your own question.

Tom as good as rolls his eyes, holding up the book to give you an easier look.

“Magick Moste Evile?” You scrunch your nose. “Bit much, don’t you think?”

“It’s the stuff they’ll never teach us.”

“I wonder why.”

He steals a glance at your own book and smiles in that smug way that makes you want to slap him.

“What, Tom?”

He shrugs. “You might want to know you’re reading stories about the author.”

You look down. Lore of — Godelot wrote Magick Moste Evile?

It shouldn’t really be surprising. Three chapters ago your book was recounting his months in Yugoslavia grave-robbing magical burial sites.

“Whatever,” you mumble, “It’s just a biography. Least I’m not reading the words out of his mouth.”

“Well, they’d be out of his quill.”

“Oh my God, Tom, shut up.”

All good things must come to an end. Term resumes and your hackles are back up.

Abraxas Malfoy, Antonin Dolohov, Walburga Black and the best of the worst of your house have returned, sleek-haired and insatiable and deranged, truly, in such a manner that you don’t think you can be blamed for the instinct you feel every time you pass them to lunge like a wild predator or run like wild prey. All Tom does, though (and so you follow, because he’s standing with you and who has ever done that?) is meet their gazes with equal assuredness. He never seems bothered. He never seems animal. You are still all hammering heart and heavy lungs, and you are learning not to see the world through the eyes of someone who’s only ever had their fists to fight. You have magic, you remember. You’re good at it. You could hurt them, if you really wanted.

Not much is different that summer than the last. The war is hard. The food is hard to chew. You chip a tooth. You’re too afraid to fix it with the Trace on you, but you still smile because you will, and everyone seems put off by that. What is there to smile about?

You suppose, for them, it’s a question with few answers.

For you — you’re back on a big red train musing about the functions of muggle warfare with Tom Riddle, chucking a useless card from a chocolate frog out the window and moaning about how you wasted the sickle you found under your seat.

He’s gotten very good at ignoring your theatrics and going right back to whatever it was he was talking about. And you note, unrelatedly, he almost looks like he’s learned how to open the windows at Wool’s. (You dare not suggest he’s doing something so ludicrous as sitting in the sun too, but this is a start.)

Dippet, or the Minister, or whoever it is that’s in charge of the practicality of the curriculum, has become fractionally less stupid in the last three months.

You don’t have to rely on nights in the Restricted Section or weekends at the Black Lake to actually learn something anymore. Of course, without the assistance of those illicit extracurriculars, you wouldn’t be able to match up to your peers the way you are this year, but it’s nice to duel with dummies instead of motioning your wand vaguely over a desk, and you and Tom still climb the notice boards in rapid succession.

They hate you for it. One of your roommates makes a pointed effort each night to glare at you from her bed like those jelly legs are back on the table, Orion Black (two years younger but just as nasty as his cousin) nearly trips you on your way to Divination, Abraxas Malfoy develops what you think borders on obsession with Tom, and for once it feels almost offhand to not care about any of it.

You’re beginning to think even at its best, Hogwarts is remarkably insufficient. This leads you to books mercifully unrestricted so you can read about a few of the other magical schools for comparison. Beauxbatons is renowned for providing most of the worlds alchemical developments, Uagadou’s early propensity for wandless magic makes it unfathomably more practical than Hogwarts, Durmstrang (though you scoff at their violent anti-muggle sentiment) teaches the Dark Arts as something beneficial rather than unforgivable, and — what do you learn here? Even with the hair’s-breadth of magical leniency you’ve been allowed this year, it’s no surprise so few recognizable names in wizarding history are Hogwarts alumni.

“Let me have a look at that,” you say to Tom one evening, when he’s peering once more over the pages of Magick Moste Evile. He’s a purveyor of knowledge in all forms, but he always seems to come back to Godelot in the end.

He raises a brow, handing it to you like your intrigue doubles his. “No more reservations?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. I’m only curious.”

“Curiosity—”

“Killed the damn cat, I know.” You glare at him through the pages. “I think that’s you, in this case though, since you’re the one in love with the bloody thing.”

He shakes his head as he reclines in the low light of the Restricted Section, muttering something that sounds like “ridiculous,” or “querulous,” or something else unimaginably fucking annoying.

You might be wrong. Retract your last quip and expunge it. If Tom’s in love with any book, it’s the behemoth dictionary he’s been spitting stupid adjectives out of since he was eleven.

But Godelot’s musings on the Dark Arts are fascinating enough that you can understand the appeal. He’s no wordsmith, and you appreciate that in a way you’re sure Tom deems regrettable, but his points are straightforward but thoughtful in such a way you can read in them how he was guided by the Elder Wand through everything he did. There’s a stream-of-consciousness to them. Something doctrinal you’re surprised to enjoy for all the obligatory English creed they washed your mouth with at the orphanage.

“Find what you’re looking for?” Tom asks, combing with little interest through the tomb you’d put down in favour of his.

“I’m not looking for anything. I’m just…” You sigh. It’s almost painful to say. “I think you were right, and — oh, shut up, don’t look at me like that — I don’t think we’re learning anything here. Not really; not as much as they do at other schools.”

“Of course,” he says blankly. “Hence this.”

This — restricted books and furtive duels — should not be necessary.

“You know that’s not gonna be enough. For the rest of them, maybe, but not us.”

He tenses how he always does at the reminder of his difference. And you get it. Sometimes in moments like these you forget the reason you’re here in the first place. It isn’t just the rebellious divertissement of two academically eager students, it’s… survival. What future do you have as a penniless orphan in wartorn London? What future do you have as a muggle-born Slytherin who’s apt with a wand when there are a thousand more your age, just as skilled and twice as pure?

It isn’t enough to be as good as them. You have to best them, and you have to do it forever.

The night stumbles into an exhaustive silence because you both know it’s true and it’s a bit too heavy right now. The answer isn’t in this room. Just you. Just him. So you sit in the dark and you stare through that muffled nighttime noise playing tricks on your eyes. The worst of the world can wait until morning.

The worst of the world has impeccable timing.

A fault of both sides of the coin; the muggle world is a travesty and the wizarding world is just a bit fucking late, really.

So there’s the newspaper. It’s October first and the date reads September tenth. School owls are a joke and you can’t afford anything better.

And it’s a dirty, ashen grey. It smudges your green if you ever had it at all. You were born to this and you will return to it always.

BOMB’S HAVOC IN CROWDED PUBLIC SHELTER

MOTHERS AND CHILDREN AMONG THE CASUALTIES

DAMAGE CONSIDERABLE, BUT SPIRITS UNBROKEN

All you can hope to do is pass the paper to Tom and wonder without words what you’ll go home to.

The answer is very little when the summer clouds your vision with dust and you stand dumbly with your suitcase in front of nothing at all. You’d tried your best until your departure to keep up with muggle news, but it had remained, routinely, a month behind with the owls. By the time June arrived you were still holding your breath through May. Tom had attempted to reason with Dippet for summer lodgings at the school but you were both denied in light of the exquisite mercy — the bombs have stopped! The Blitz has ended! Go back to the aftermath and make do with the craters.

It’s a bit ironic that Tom’s orphanage survived and yours didn’t. At least you can finally see what all the fuss is about.

In truth, it’s more strange than anything. You feel unreasonably like you’re impeding on a part of him that has never belonged to you (if any of him does); that place where you intersect but never draw attention to. You remind yourself you had no choice in the matter. The system puts you where it wants to, and these days the options are slim. But it’s — the walls are amber-black tile and plaster, lined with sanitary-smelling hospital beds and a cupboard per room. Per room, you think; you’ve got one of those now, and with only one girl to share it with.

You figure the reason for the extra space is probably not one you want to know.

Anyway, you don’t actually see Tom for two days. The caretakers bring you a tray of dinner that’s vaguely warm and a bit too salty and you sleep off the debris you think you breathed in that morning, half-sated and sun-tired.

But then you do see him, and he’s in these funny uniform shorts and a thick blazer and your greeting is an offhand joke about the scandal of his knees that he doesn’t seem to appreciate. He eyes your muggle clothes while you wait for your own set and you know you really don’t have any room to judge.

He doesn’t, or at least doesn’t say he minds your relocation.

You spend half the summer waking up in the middle of the night to acquaint yourselves with the London tube stations, and the other half in whatever crevices of the orphanage you aren’t harangued by Mrs Cole every five seconds, which are far and few between. She seems to have decided fourteen is old enough an age to worry about your intentions unchaperoned, like it’s the bloody 1800’s, and admonishes you and Tom relentlessly despite only ever finding you quietly buried in useless books.

You begin to miss Madam Palles and her invaluable pity. Everyone’s an orphan here. No one’s sorry.

“What’s his deal?” you ask one stuffy afternoon, reclining in your creaking seat to prop your legs on the desk.

Tom knocks them off (he’s so well-mannered that you sometimes push these little gestures of impropriety just to bother him) and glances at the target of your question. Some broad, blond boy who skitters down the corridor a shade paler than he arrived. You’ve yet to properly introduce yourself to anyone you don’t have to, so names are muddy when you try to apply them to faces.

He shrugs, but there’s a flash of something in his expression you’re fascinated to realise is unfamiliar. “He’s an imbecile.”

“...Riiiiight, but that isn’t a proper answer.”

You smile. Legs return to table. Timeworn Oxfords muddy the surface. Tom scowls.

“There was an altercation last year,” he says tersely, “he’s rather fixated on the matter.”

“An altercation.”

“Very good, that is what I said.”

You narrow your eyes and he sweeps your legs off the desk again, gaze catching the unmistakable ribbon of an old bullied scar on your shin.

“And I suppose you’re above such incidents,” he muses.

You cross your arms and huff. He always wins games like these.

You’re grateful when you return to Hogwarts in one piece after your final night of summer is spent underground, and the certainty of knowing where you’ll rest your head for the next ten months cannot be understated.

But the worst thing has happened, and you blame it on the flicker of a moment where you missed Madam Palles like it was some jubilant, accidental curse to ever miss anyone. A foreign thing you remind yourself never to do again.

She’s only gone and jinxed the locks to the Restricted Section so they cry like newborn Mandrakes when Tom’s replica key clicks in place.

For a second you both stand there looking stupidly at each other. Getting caught was a fear two years ago; you’d almost forgotten it was still possible.

Tom is quicker to collect himself. He grabs you by the arm and casts a Disillusionment Charm, and you don’t burst running out of the library like two blurry suncatchers reflecting the candlelight as your instinct heeds; you cling to the shelves and you slither silently to the door. (You’ll make a joke about it when you can breathe.)

Madam Palles the Traitor comes heaving into the library in her nightgown, a blinding blue light baubled at the end of her wand, and it’s really just theatrical at this point to use Lumos bloody Maxima when the basic spell would do the job just fine.

“Has she suspected us the whole time?” you say on gasp once you’ve made it to the dungeons.

“Perhaps someone else has,” Tom suggests.

“What? Malfoy?”

You think it’s a good first guess. It could have been any of the Slytherins, upon consideration, but Malfoy seemed most fixated on Tom last year and it wouldn’t surprise you to learn he’d been observant enough to follow you to the library and notice you don’t leave with the other students.

But Tom quashes the idea. “I’m doubtful. Malfoy is attentive, but Madam Palles is hardly partial to him.” (He had, in second year, set one of her books on fire while studying offensive spells.) “I suspect it was someone with more influence.”

Only no one has more influence than Abraxas Malfoy. The rest of the Slytherins follow him like lost pups. But then Tom might mean —

“A professor?”

“It may be.” He says it like he’s already decided his suspect.

He is, as always, and ever-infuriatingly, correct.

It’s that file you tucked away for later, reoccurring when you return to Transfiguration in the morning like a second epiphany: Dumbledore.

He assigns the term’s seating arrangements, which he’s never done before, and there’s something in his tone when he pairs you with Rosier that feels intentionally like not pairing you with Tom. You don’t think it’s paranoia clouding your better judgement, and by the way Tom’s gaze hardens as he takes his seat beside Malfoy, neither does he.

Dumbledore is suspicious for a number of reasons. He disappears for weeks at a time. The Prophet writes articles on his sightings in Austria and France like he’s an endling beast. He’s being sighted in Austria and France — two notable countries in Grindelwald’s ongoing war. Perhaps ancillary, you’ve decided the charmed glass repositories he uses to hold his old artefacts are the same ones encasing the least permissible books in the Restricted Section. And if that isn’t paranoia (which, you’re willing to admit, it may be) then you assume he has them so proudly on display because he wants you to know.

You consider it a warning.

Tom does not.

“Just give it up,” you hiss over a game of wizard’s chess, “I bet we’ve read every book in there twice already anyway.”

His jaw ticks as the sole indicator of his annoyance, and he takes your rook. You scowl.

“Tom, that man thinks you’re devil-spawn. You know he’s just waiting for an opportunity to catch you doing something wrong.”

“So?”

It sounds so petulant you think he’s been possessed by his eleven-year-old self. Then you think he was a lot wiser at eleven.

“So?” You make an aggressive move with your knight. “So don’t give him one!”

He stares at the board and his breath is just a trace sharper and you hate that you know him like this and no one else. You wonder if he knows you like that too, but resolve with ease that he does not. You’re hard frowns and lewd jokes and trousers torn at the knee to bare scars with stories you wish you could forget. There’s no mystery there. Tom is nothing but — gordian knots and fixed expressions and little patterns to learn like the rules of this stupid game between you. You must know Tom Riddle by every atom or not at all. And that isn’t a choice, really. You’ve never known anyone else.

“Are you stupid, Tom?”

You glance at the board. He’s got Check. A terrible, true answer.

“No,” you finish. “Then don’t act like it.”

Your king glances at you and you nod. He falls. The game is resigned.

Tom acts stupid.

Dumbledore knows.

It all happens very fast.

You strike Tom harder in the arm with Confringo than is likely necessary that night, and he returns the favour with a Knockback Jinx that thrusts you into the shallows of the Black Lake.

You gasp. The cold water feels like it’s swallowing you whole when it strikes, an envelope sealed around you and licked shut for good measure. Everything holds to you, and it’s fucking November. Your senses are so overwhelmed that you forget to murder Tom the instant you sink in. You forget to do much of anything.

You wade trembling out of the lake when sense returns and Tom huffs, peeling off his robe to treat the burn on his arm.

“You—idi—iot,” you mutter, trying to find the incantation for a warming charm but the words get stuck between your chattering teeth. “You stole a re… stricted book.”

Tom glares daggers at you between his poor healing job and you scowl, mincing through the grass and grabbing his arm. “Fucking imbec-cile…”

You’ve done enough damage that if he were anyone else you’d be proud of yourself, and somehow, simultaneously, if he were anyone else you’d be able to manage a pinch of guilt. But he’s Tom, and you know him by every atom, so you cannot be proud, and he’s Tom — he retaliated by tossing you in freezing water and now your clothes are clinging sodden and heavy to every inch of you, so you certainly can’t be guilty either.

“I borrowed it,” he says tightly. As if that means anything at all. And then he takes his robe and drapes it spiritlessly over your shoulders. “You could attempt communication before curses.”

“I could attempt communication,” you scoff, uttering a charm to partially close the gash on Tom’s arm, “Fucking h-hypocrite. I did communicate. You lied.”

“I —”

“Omitted information? Withheld the truth? Watch your mouth or I’ll steal your fucking dictionary, Riddle.”

You swear a great deal when you’re cold and mad, apparently.

“I won’t be caught.” His calm is infuriating. “It would hardly earn expulsion regardless.”

“It doesn’t matter! He knows it’s you! He was staring at you all class!”

“So nothing novel then.”

“D’you want me to blast you again?”

His lips form a flat line. No. That’s what you thought.

You sigh, clutching his robes in your fists to quell your trembling. “What’d you take, anyway? We never touch the encased stuff.”

That is, you assume, why Dumbledore was vexed enough about the whole thing to mention it in class today. A highly valuable book has gone missing, from a repository you dare conclude belongs to him, and he has to pretend all the while not to know it’s Tom who took it. You are out of the question. Theirs is some delicate vendetta you can’t begin to unfurl.

“Nothing anyone should miss,” Tom says, a complete non-answer as he stops to murmur a warming charm you could probably manage yourself by now.

“Tom.”

“It was an encyclopaedia. It’s entirely in Runes. I suspect it will take months for me to decipher.”

“God’s sake,” you groan. He really is exhausting. “I think Dumbledore’l take his chances and loot your dorm before that happens.”

Tom wipes a stray droplet of water from your cheek. His fingers are soft. “We should return. You look half-drowned.”

“I am half-drowned, dickhead.”

And you accost him in hushed tones the whole walk back. Runes, Tom, really? Threw me in the damn lake over a Runic Encyclopaedia? He accosts you just the same; You burned me first.

It does, in fact, take Tom months to decipher the Runes, and he’s quite secretive about it. He won’t let you see the book, won’t tell you what it’s about, won’t indulge your queries on how far he’s gotten or if it’s worth the way Dumbledore bores his eyes into the pair of you in the Great Hall with nothing but the glass of his spectacles to soften his censure. You consider — well — you consider taking your chances and looting his dormitory.

The day everything changes starts the same as any.

You muse over breakfast about muggle news and how the way Tom holds his wand when he casts defensive spells is too sharp when it should be circular. He argues. You soften the criticism by telling him his offensive magic is stellar but you’ll always beat him in defence if he doesn’t swallow his damn pride and listen to you for once. (So, really, you soften it very little.) He doesn’t take Divination so you don’t see him until Herbology that afternoon and he’s silent enough during the hour you share with your wormwood plant that you know he’s done it sometime between breakfast and now.

Tom has cracked the book.

It’s late spring and the night takes longer to settle than it did in the winter. Errant sunbeams still sparkle on the water when you meet him by the lake, and it’s warm enough to forgo a coat.

“Are you going to tell me what it’s about now?” you ask without preamble, arms crossed over your chest as he approaches.

He hands you the book like it’s worth something to you without his explanation, but you’re intelligent enough to gather something from the illustrations of two twined snakes embroidering the cover.

“I should have suspected it sooner,” Tom says before you can comment. “By the way Dumbledore acted when I told him… I should have known he would have wanted to keep it from me.”

“Tom, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“It’s an Encyclopaedia on Parseltongue and its known speakers.”

You flip through the pages and none of it means anything. “Parseltongue?”

“The language of serpents,” Tom supplies, and the two of you walk along the edge of the forest. “It’s almost exclusively hereditary.”

“Okay, so, what — you’re trying to learn it anyway?”

“I have no need.”

You frown. “You… you already know it.”

“I always have,” he says, and there’s something almost unrestrained in his voice. He’s proud in a new light, and it takes you a moment to understand and you’re not sure why exactly it makes your heart sink, but —

“You’re not muggle-born.”

“No, I’m not. And Dumbledore knows.”

“So, he —” You try not to sound crushed because why should you be? Why should it matter that he isn’t some exact reflection of you? He’s at your side, he’s still there, he’ll always be there — “How does he know?”

“When he came to Wool’s to inform me I'd been accepted at Hogwarts. I hadn’t known anything, certainly not that speaking to snakes is emphatically rare, so I asked him. He said it was ‘not a peculiar gift.’ Perhaps to keep my interest at a minimum.”

“Why would he lie?”

“Because it isn’t just that I’m of magical blood. I’m a descendant of Salazar Slytherin.”

You can’t be faulted for laughing. It’s not often Tom makes jokes, let alone funny ones.

“That’s good, Tom. Morgana used to have tea with my great-great-hundredth-great-grandmother, so that works out nice.”

He sighs, taking your hand and leading you further into the woods.

“Are you trying to murder me?”

“I might.”

“You’d be the first suspect.”

“No, I wouldn’t. You’ve far too many enemies.”

Not by choice, you start to scold, and then he stops, not so far into the Forbidden Forest that you’re afraid, but far enough you understand this is not something he’d chance showing you in the open.

He closes his eyes and whispers, and it’s — decidedly not English. And you know the sound of a few other languages, at least; this doesn’t sound like words at all. His consonants are pointed, his S’s stretched, the syllables repetitive but separated by a difference in cadence someone less perceptive might not notice.

It shouldn’t be surprising; it’s exactly what he told you, but it startles you how much it reminds you of a snake.

“Tom?” you murmur, unsure at the prospect of speaking some ancient, unknown language into the air of the Forbidden Forest, and, underneath that, still reeling with the knowledge that this is real at all. You’ve pinched yourself a few times to make sure.

There’s a low susurration in the grass, wet with dew that catches the moonlight, and you gasp, clinging to Tom’s arm when you see the blades part in helices for the space of an adder.

“It’s all right,” Tom says softly, almost elsewhere, his eyes zeroed in on the snake. “It won’t hurt you.”

You’re still by the balance of his arm and some petrifying awe as he extends a hand to the grass and the adder coils around it, weaving upward to his shoulder.

“Oh my God. Oh my God, Tom.”

The adder points its beady gaze at you, and Tom whispers something else in that strange language before it retreats in agreement or compliance or whatever could come close to expression on the face of a fucking snake, and maybe you’re dreaming this despite your pinching. Maybe you’ve lost your mind.

“Hope you didn’t just tell it to bite me,” you try, and it comes out half-choked.

He smiles. It’s partly for you and partly for this venomous little thing on his shoulder, and that’s a bit startling. Tom Riddle smiles for adders and you and not much else.

“Should I?”

And all you manage, for whatever reason, is, “Don’t be like them now that you’re not like me.”

It’s out before you can stop it, welling from a small, scared place that embarrasses you to return to. A hospital bed when you were eleven. The walls of a bedroom ravaged by bombs.

Tom’s smile fades. “We’re nothing like them.”

The thing is, neither of you know that’s the day that changes everything.

You celebrate your fifteenth birthday in the Deathday ballroom with Tom, a stolen dinner pastry, a green candle, and a few sad ghosts. You try to learn how to dance. Tom thinks it’s silly. You tell him that’s only because he’s upset he keeps stepping on your toes.

Summer blisters when it comes.

Some of the children take jobs as mail-sorters and steelworkers and you clasp for whatever you’re (one) allowed and (two) capable of, which isn’t much. You’re both old enough at the end of the day to explore London on your own, opting to spend as much time away from the orphanage as Mrs Cole allots, but you only have knuts and pennies and you warn Tom it would be unwise to swindle muggles and risk a letter from the Ministry. So you work where you’re needed and you eat the rationed nonsense you always do and you miss Hogwarts terribly. It’s much the same: you’re together, you’re hungry, and you’re nothing like them.

And then it’s different: Tom makes Slytherin Prefect, is suddenly tall, and you wonder in fleeting moments if his face has always suited him this well.

A stupid remark. You fervently ignore it.

Fifth year begins and you have almost the same number of electives as you do core classes, Tom has duties in his new role that take much of his spare time, and despite popular belief, you and him are not a mitotic entity, so this splits you up more often than it had in previous years. Which is fine. You still have plenty of things to talk about during meals and between duels, and you reckon you’ll share DADA until you graduate.

But in his absence, your attentions are forced elsewhere, and you should be grateful they land on something potentially promising.

It’s like Transfiguration just clicks for you this year. You’ve never been the greatest at Transformation (importantly though, you’ve also remained far from the worst), but fifth year launches you into Vanishment and something about that feels like a perfect equation. There are no complicated half-numerals and objects stuck between inanimacy and being — just unmaking the made. Nothing or not. You’re fucking excellent at it. You glean the theoretics fast and then the practise comes like breathing. Even the purebloods struggle as you Vanish Dumbledore’s Conjured garden snakes in brilliant tendrils of light. You exult unabashedly when you brush past them on the way out of class — who was it that didn’t belong in Slytherin?

You say the same to Tom and he rolls his eyes, but the amusement is there.

“Think you can talk to my snakes for me?” you tease, nudging him on the path to Hogsmeade.

“If they’re yours, I doubt they have anything worth discussing.”

And Dumbledore is… a hue nearer to the man you remember from first year. He praises your improvement and smiles when you can’t hide your giddiness as if equally impressed.

He doesn’t shelve people the way Slughorn does (you’re dismayed to find Tom has been invited to join the Slug Club and you have not) but you think if he did you’d be rapidly climbing your way to the top. Maybe get put in one of those neat little repositories he keeps all his best treasures in.

Dumbledore does, however, offer additional assignments for those who are interested, and tasks you with a few if you’re up to the challenge.

You always are.

The Tom-Dumbledore-Encyclopaedia debacle is apparently either resolved, or your part in it forgotten.

Tom humours you when you’re both singed at the fingers from duelling, yours dipped in the lake while he buries his in the cold moss, about how Abraxas takes the seat beside him at every Slug Club dinner. He tells you he pretends to be very interested in the Malfoy’s business affairs and their stock in the Bulgarian Quidditch team’s win this coming spring. He tells you he finds it amusing to let Abraxas think he can make Tom his pet. Tom says he considers searching for Salazar Slytherin’s fabled Chamber of Secrets and showing Abraxas what a real pet looks like. You smack him in the arm.

He’s had an ego forever. He just has a few too many reasons for it now.

And maybe that’s why you push harder in Transfiguration, dedicate the majority of your studies to it, spend your Saturday nights scrutinising advanced techniques while Tom makes nice with Potions experts and politics with people who don’t even know what he is but like him anyway. It’s patronising, of course — borderline fetishistic; not a real like — but it scares you. Tom Riddle would not allow himself to be anyone’s pretty mudblood show pony if he didn’t have an ulterior motive.

Everything changes but the observable truth that he is still insufferable.

You’re lucky to see him twice a week if it isn’t in class, and the way it starts is so slow you don’t even fully understand what’s happening until Christmas break when Abraxas stays a few extra days and leaves by Dippet’s Floo instead of the train.

You don’t dare ask where Tom has vanished to in that time or why the hell Abraxas Malfoy would willingly subject himself to unnecessarily extended time at school with all his lackeys gone, and it isn’t because you don’t want to. It’s because he won’t tell you himself. It’s because you’re terrified the answer will feel like a broken promise, and you’ve come to realise (it’s been there for so long; such an obvious, tiny thing that you’ve never stopped to really dissect it) that it’s quite difficult to know someone at every atom and not love them a little bit.

You’re suddenly aware of the risk of it: you love him like an inextricable piece of yourself, and, well, you’ve seen war. You know what amputation looks like. You’ve seen the remains of structures designed to stand forever, and you’re strong like them — casts and gauze in all the weak spots because you remember the pain of breaking them — but those were blows dealt without the complication of loving the bombs behind them.

Tom is the green on your robes, the dragon pox tinge you sometimes think never truly faded when you look in the mirror too long, and all the shades you never imagined. Apple, jade, moss. The beginnings of emerald. (No, he couldn’t be that.)

You wonder what the world would look like if he stole those colours back, and it’s much worse than some brutal decimation; it would leave you with too much. You would just be you without him.

So you love him into June like you always do, and you pluck his Prefect badge off on the last day of school and tell him it makes you jealous like a joke when it’s half-true.

It’s raining when you walk to the train together, miserable for what should be summer but not at all remarkable in Scotland. Tom wipes it from your cheek. Your wrists are sore from vanishing bits and bobbles all night while you still can, never truly prepared for three months without magic, and you curl into your seat as soon as you’re in it. Tom wakes you up when you arrive back in London, startling you to find that you fell asleep at all.

It rains a lot that summer. There’s nothing much to see in the city and you can’t get anywhere else (you note: the Trace cares little about broomsticks but you can’t afford one of your own and flying might be the only thing Tom is bad at) so you’re stuck to the library again with a noseful of old paper and a certain prose that magical literature cannot replicate. You theorise a lifetime of reckoning with the mundane forces one to be more creative.

Perhaps it’s the cold that makes you sick. Perhaps it’s the state of your meals. Either way, your final weeks before sixth year are hell. Biblical, blazing hell.

The nurses aren’t sure what it is — another influenza epidemic you’re the first in the orphanage to catch — but they isolate you immediately and there’s not much care they can offer.

You hear Tom arguing with one of them outside your door but can’t make out the words. Everything is dizzy, sweaty, halfway to unconsciousness but without its relief. You’d take dragon pox over this.

Some days later (though you can’t be sure because it feels like bloody centuries), he’s at your bedside, and you think even if you were lucid enough to ask what horrible thing he’d done to change the nurses’ minds, you wouldn’t.

But you know he’s not beyond breaking wizarding law, because he’s muttering healing spells with a hand to your damp forehead, and you hazily find yourself reaching for him, trying to shake your head no.

“Not allowed,” you mumble. Your throat is sore and your nose is stuffy. You sound terrible and you probably look worse.

Tom is slightly blurry but you think he’s staring at you. You know if he is it’s with the utmost incredulity.

“Not allowed,” he repeats slowly. It’s very easy to picture him clenching his jaw. “I wonder, if the Trace is so exact that it can detect all forms of magic, it can’t also detect malady. You’re burning — and I’m to consider whether saving your life might be illegal?”

He’s angry. He’s angrier than you’ve seen in a long time; and you can actually see it now. His magic courses through you and your vision clears, bit by bit, until your depth perception steadies and you realise he’s closer than you thought. His jaw is, in fact, clenched.

You move to catch his wrist and manage it this time. “Tom.”

“Don’t argue,” he says thinly.

“You’ll get sick.”

His face is far too neutral for the way his fingers stroke your damp cheek. “Hm. Then it’s a good thing you’d break the law for me too.”

Of course he’s right — you love him. Which makes it a good thing he doesn’t get sick.

Some of the younger children do. The fever comes overnight for a girl who wasn’t in the orphanage last year, and it takes her by the next.

When you get back on the train to Hogwarts, the virus is circulating Britain and you’re livid.

What Tom said is true; you consider the Trace’s precision and the details of the laws on underage magic — how one of the technicalities is that a young witch or wizard may be absolved of the consequences if the circumstances are life-threatening. You think about how it supposedly doesn’t care about broom-riding or Portkeys or Floo travel, and if the Trace is that complex, surely it understands sickness.

You only wonder if the Ministry would understand it. There haven’t been any epidemics in the wizarding world since Gorsemoor cured dragon pox in the sixteenth century, and when there isn’t healing magic there are antidotes and Pepper-Ups and herbs that muggles simply don’t have. The fatality of a fever of all things is not something you imagine could be comprehended by the sort of people who sent you and Tom back to London in the wake of the Blitz.

Of course, the Ministry hasn't written to you, you haven’t been forced in front of a representative from the Improper Use office, and you have no real reason to be upset.

You are regardless.

It shouldn’t even be a thought: you immolating into oblivion protesting rescue because one of you might get in trouble for it.

A world you’ve never much cared for is blanketed in ash and its people are dying and you can’t help them. A girl is dead. You’ll return next summer and there will certainly be more.

Life is for the magical, you find. The muggles can burn.

It’s what makes you start to panic this year, knowing you’ve only got one more after it. You have no idea what you’re going to do after school, and it doesn’t help that Tom doesn’t appear to share the sentiment. He’s got Head Boy in the bag and when he isn’t with you he’s with Abraxas, who can surely provide him connections if whatever game Tom is playing at works (and you have no doubt it will), but it’s like you said in third year: that isn’t enough for you.

You remember with a small ache that you no longer means you and him.

And then — it makes sense. You feel incredibly stupid.

“You told him, didn’t you?” you ask Tom the first opportunity you can get him alone, in the glum blue light of the Deathday ballroom on your way back from supper.

He sighs like it’s a conversation he’d hoped to put off for longer. “You’re referring to Abraxas, I presume?”

“You’re referring to — yes, you prick, I’m referring to Abraxas. Of course I’m referring to Abraxas, or are there others? Dolohov and Nott seem unusually enthralled by you, now that I think about it.”

“And for a reason I’m supposed to be aware of, this is an error on my part. Should I be apologising?”

“Why did you tell him, Tom?!”

“Why?” he deadpans.

You throw your hands up. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

“Shall I provide you with my itinerary as well? Would you accompany me as I tour the third-years around Hogsmeade? Or can you do me the favour of trusting me to make my own decisions with the nature of my ancestry?”

“You’re keeping something from me and there’s a reason,” you say, stepping closer to him, “and forgive me if I want to know what it is when you were willing to tell me you’re the Heir of Slytherin and you can talk to snakes. What — what could possibly be bigger than that?”

Tom returns your approach with one of his own. His eyes are steady, dark, thick with lashes and you can’t reminisce on the details of the rest of him because that would be strange for a friend to do. Stranger to do it now, when you’re angry with him and there’s two sleeping ghosts in the corner and he’s framed by deep indigoes like the ripples in the Black Lake and — you’re doing it anyway.

To be short, he’s close, he’s very beautiful, and sometimes you despise him.

“Trust me,” he says again, without the derision of the last time. “This will change things for us.”

You frown, but it’s a weak upset in contrast to the explosion you came in here willing to make. There were at least twenty questions you meant to ask and you only managed one.

You are not his keeper. You know that.

“Change them for the better, Tom,” you say on a sigh.

He blinks, and you think he’ll respond with a nod or a slightly offended ‘of course’ but he does not. He blinks and he just keeps looking at you. It’s disarming. It probably resembles the way you often look at him. There’s a rationale somewhere; you never see each other anymore, life is so incredibly busy, maybe he’s forgotten what you look like.

And he does nod, finally, but he does it with his thumb brushing the corner of your lip.

What? Sorry. What’s going on?

He pulls it away like he’s heard you. “You had something.”

You’re almost positive you did not.

Transfiguration this year brings Conjuration, which is an advanced and welcome distraction, and even more exciting when you consider no longer having to Vanish things you have no idea how to bring back. Dumbledore’s is one of three N.E.W.T classes you’re taking — Defence Against the Dark Arts and Alchemy besides. It’s easily your favourite.

You share it with eleven other Slytherins and twelve Ravenclaws. Four of them are muggle-born, and it’s hard to describe the ease you feel among them because you don’t think you’ve ever had anything resembling ease with anyone but Tom.

Your schedule is more crammed than it’s ever been, but it’s good. Two of the Ravenclaw girls invite you to Hogsmeade every other weekend, you share butterbeers when you can afford one, you study until you collapse, you take Dumbledore’s extra assignments and consider trying out for Chaser on one of your more restless evenings before waking up in the morning and resolving there is such as thing as too much of a good thing. Best not to get ahead of yourself.

Your contentment is remedied quickly.

Someone is found unresponsive in the dungeons. Dippet makes an announcement at breakfast that the boy isn’t dead, rather, petrified. No one is quite sure the cause, but the Headmaster warns a few minor precautions, suggests a buddy system, and says that after dinner studying should remain in everyone’s respective common rooms rather than the courtyards or library.

You know next to nothing about petrification, but the victim is muggle-born, and you suspect it was the result of a poorly performed statue curse by one of the many blood zealots in your house. The whole thing makes you hold onto your wand a smidge tighter, but you’re adamant not to let it drive you to paranoia like it would have a few years ago.

Tom nods at your theory when you manage to escape to the Black Lake together in November.

“That isn’t unreasonable,” he says. High praise.

You sink into the moss, sighing. “Do you think there’ll be more?”

He looks out onto the lake, the lapping waves, the crystalline beads that furrow them, midnight algae and flotsam you don’t think you belong to anymore.

You peer up at his silhouette in the dark. “Do you think whoever did it will do it again, I mean?”

“I don’t know,” he says finally, and after another pause: “but I don’t think it would be you.”

“How’s that?”

“No one would be senseless enough to try.”

And he sinks beside you with that, breath shaping the cold in steady, rhythmic clouds while yours are scattered. His robes brush yours and you take his arm with a sleepy hum, tracing patterns in the stars until your eyes feel heavy and he insists on taking you back to your dormitories.

One of the Ravenclaw girls, Marigold Wright, distracts you with a spare blue scarf and an invitation to her next Quidditch match. You watch from the stands and cheer as she catches the snitch to beat Gryffindor.

It’s a bit strange — having a distraction — having a friend. Mari is kind, smart, a good study partner who’s as keen on stepping into the advanced theoretics of Human Transfiguration a year early as you are. She’s funny in a vulgar way, introduces you to all her friends, shows you the best way to sneak into the kitchens, and you sometimes wonder if she was sorted wrong, but — her methods are creative, and she’s definitely intelligent. She’s also definitely not Tom.

You see less and less of him and more of her, Dumbledore, the Ravenclaw common room and the pages of progressive Transfiguration methodologies. He sees less of you and more of Abraxas, Dolohov and Nott and all the other purebloods, Slughorn’s soirées and Prefect meetings that cut into meals.

It happens again.

Second floor lavatory. A girl called Myrtle Warren. She isn’t petrified.

There’s a vigil the following week and her parents are there, two muggles whose sobs wrack the Great Hall even as the students clear out. Flowers descend from the charmed ceiling, little bluebells and white chrysanthemums.

You cry that night. You can’t remember the last time you cried.

This time, you don’t have to seek Tom out. He catches you on your way back from Alchemy and brings you to the Deathday ballroom with a melancholy glance in your direction that you don't hesitate to follow. You realise it’s an odd place to continue to end up in, but no one else goes there and you suppose that makes it yours.

You’ve seen Tom skinny and sickly and olive green, but today his eyes are circled with veined violets and the lack of summer sun this year has whittled him grey once more. He’s still beautiful. He’ll always be beautiful. But he’s tired and — sad — and for the six years you’ve known him you aren’t quite sure what to do with that.

You don’t spend too long pondering it. You just hug him with the dawning newness of a thing like that; a thing you’ve never done, and never really thought to do. (You ask yourself in bewilderment how you’ve never thought to do it before.)

He’s warm. He’s uncertain. He doesn’t reciprocate immediately.

And then he does, and you understand without caveats or concerns that you stopped having a choice in your destruction the moment you chose him. He’s home, and that’s going to ruin you one day.

Your arms tighten around him and his around you, the rhythm of his breath holding you to earth when you begin to float away. Nothing makes sense in this moment but the mercy that in all the death you’ve seen, you swear to God you’ll never see his. As long as you’re alive, he must be too.

And there’s something to be said about the innate self-slaughter of loving a person (of loving Tom Riddle, especially): that it’ll cleave you in two, that you’ll say feeble things in his embrace that you should be above saying, like ‘I’m scared’, that his hand will find the back of your head and he'll tell you he knows, that that should not feel like enough but it will be. You’ll clasp your hands under black robes and hold this singular embrace together by the faulty adhesive of your fingers. Maybe you’ll cry again, like your body can suddenly comprehend its capacity for it and is making up for lost time.

The first sign that something is wrong, more than the obvious grievance of the death itself, is the Ministry’s happy acceptance of Rubeus Hagrid as the culprit.

The boy is maybe fourteen years old, half-blood — half human, mind — and no one has a bad word to say about him other than he likes to keep eccentric pets. Which leads you to wonder what pet he possessed with the ability to petrify one student and kill another and what cause he’d have for it in the first place besides two terrible, miraculous accidents.

That question draws an even stranger path. Mari says over butterbeers (on her, bless her soul) that she read somewhere years ago that Gorgons can induce petrification, but that she doesn’t remember much else.

One of the boys in DADA says that his father’s an auror, and heard from him that Hagrid’s pet was some sort of arachnid. Tom deducts five points from his house after class with a scowl on his pale face, muttering about conspiracy.

The second sign that something is wrong is that only one of those things would need to be true for the entire case on Hagrid to be called into question. If Mari’s memory serves right, how the hell did Hagrid come into ownership of a Gorgon? (Could Gorgons even be owned?) If the auror’s son is worth your credence, then what species of arachnid is capable of petrification?

You take to the library.

Unsure of where to begin and hesitant to draw attention, your research lingers into Christmas break and stalls some of your extracurriculars in Transfiguration. Tom is busy enough not to notice the new step in your routine, and you’re grateful not to have him breathing down your back, telling you you’re looking in the wrong places or you shouldn’t be looking at all.

The third sign is the end.

You wish to retract it all. There are time-turners and memory charms and potions that could dizzy you enough to manipulate the truth; there is anything but this. You’d suffer the consequences for the bliss of loving him with one more day before the ruin — you’d write it down to remember through the fog: look at him, duel him without wanting to hurt him, kiss him to know that you did it at least once, have him, be had. You never will again.

He’d shown you the adder. He’d joked about the Chamber of Secrets. He’d spent months disappearing with Abraxas, earning the trust of the sons of the Sacred Twenty Eight.

And he’d killed Myrtle Warren.

So it’s statue curses and Gorgons and Tom — speaking to serpents when no one else can, buttressed by pureblood boys who want people like you dead.

Don’t become like them now that you’re not like me.

He’s something else entirely.

What do you do in a moment like this? Panting into an empty library at a revelation you wish you could unknow, fingers digging into the hickory of your desk — another memory carved among the initials and hearts; how do you stand from your chair and leave like the world outside this room is the same as it was when you entered? There’s nothing to orbit. You are cosmic debris, tea dregs in a barren cup, flotsam.

You stand; and you tell no one. Not even Tom.

His presence in your life is so infrequent that you don’t even have to come up with excuses for your distance until three weeks after your discovery when you’re paired together in DADA to practise stretching jinxes.

You almost laugh. He’s standing beside you, tall (lanky like he was when he was a boy if you look long enough) and serious, and you love him without knowing who he is anymore. You’ve skirted corners to avoid him and sat with Mari during lunch and breakfast like he’s some scorned lover to escape confrontation from and not someone who held you through a grief inflicted by his hand.

“You look tired,” he says, inspecting the daisy you’d been tasked to elongate.

You glance at him. You are tired. It’s exhaustive, bone-deep, aching like nothing you’ve ever known, and maybe that’s why you can look at him and smile sadly instead of thrashing against his chest screaming for what he did. You suppose it happens enough in your head to satisfy. When you can sleep, you sleep to the thought of it. The waking moments are just blank.

“Mhm,” you hum, transfiguring the daisy stem back to its regular length.

Tom observes it with curious eyes. “You’re getting good at that.”

“I’ve been good at it.”

His lips turn, a small frown before he puts it away. You make the observation that he’s tired too; there are still bags under his eyes and his hands tremble ever-so-slightly with his wand when he loosens his grip on it.

His own doing and still you flicker with some relentless hope that he's drowning in regret.

“Sorry,” you say. A ridiculous thing. Do you intend to slowly push him from your life with weak disinterest and diverging academic avenues? As if he were something extricable. He’d never let you.

You’ll have to confront him, and that’s a revelation that holds its weight on your chest until you think you'll suffocate under it.

You’re in the blue light of the Deathday ballroom with a face you've never worn before when it happens, deep into spring, and you know then that you were wrong all those years ago.

He sees all of you.

Takes you in in the flash of a second and maybe it’s your quivering jaw that reveals you or the flint of betrayal in your eyes waiting to be struck and lit. Yes, you were wrong — Tom Riddle knows you at every atom too.

“Are you going to let me explain?" he asks before any hello. His jaw is tight but there’s nothing else to go on to judge his disposition. He's settling into impassivity like an animal drawing its shell. You will not be allowed in if you're going to make it hurt, and you might be the only one who can.

“Explain," you copy with a hard exhale, “Just tell me it wasn’t you. That’s all there is to say."

He stares at you. There’s nothing there.

“Tell me, Tom.”

Your breath catches on an automatic please but you don’t want to offer him that.

“I cannot.”

Then make me forget, you want to scream. Let it be summer. Let us work for pennies and breadcrumbs and be no one together.

It’s late winter and it’s too cold.

“You killed her,” you say quietly.

“If I told you I did not wish for it, would you even believe me?”

“What are you… so it was an accident?”

“There was — an opportunity presented itself that may never have come again; that does not mean I don’t find the nature of it regrettable.”

“Regrettable.” You’re laughing or crying or both, and you must look unwell. Halfway out of your mind.

He’s so composed in the face of it that it only makes you more incensed.

“You told me to change things —”

“You killed someone! Can you understand that?”

“You nearly died,” he hisses, “and if I am to apologise for recognizing it only as the first of many times, I will not. If I am to apologise for doing whatever is necessary to prevent it, I will not. The hand we were dealt will not be the hand we die to — so yes, I understand it. And one day so will you.”

“Don't," you spit, and your anger must look pathetic under your welling tears. “Don't you dare tell me that this was for me.”

“Do you want me to lie?”

“What could her death possibly bring me, Tom?”

“Her death is the first step to —”

“God, stop dancing around the fucking question!” Both hands have wound their way to your head, clutching at your skull like the brain matter might spill through one of the cracks he’s wearing down. “Just… tell me.”

“You recall Godelot's work," he says stiffly. The question of it takes you by surprise, peels the moment back like the rim of a fruit and you're left uncertain.

All you can do is nod, arms falling to cross over your chest.

“There was one form of magic he refused quite concisely to impart. I searched the Restricted Section for days, and under Dumbledore's watch that was not an easy thing to do."

You stole from him, you're urged to remind him, but it's something you'd say with a nudge of annoyance and a roll of your eyes. Such admonishment is small and far away.

“I found it at last in one of the repositories," he goes on, “Secrets of the Darkest Art."

“...What?"

“It's called a Horcrux,” he says. “Murder, by nature, splits the soul. The Horcrux simply makes use of the act; puts the soul fragment into something imperishable so that it is protected, rather than abandoned. In turn, your life cannot be taken. By malady, by magic, by sword — the vessel is destroyed but the soul lives on.”

You blink, feeling dizzy. “Myrtle was the sacrifice.”

“Myrtle was there,” Tom remedies.

“How lucky for you.”

“The circumstances could be ameliorated if one were to be made for you. I would have preferred it be someone who deserves it.”

“For — you’d do it again? Again, Tom?”

His brows crease, and even his upset seems contrived. There’s this barricade he’s placed that you, in all your infallible knowing of him, cannot puncture. It’s agony to begin to question what he could possibly be keeping from you in a confession like this.

“You killed someone, Tom. You — I would never ask you to do that. I would never live at the cost of someone else."

“No, you would not,” he agrees, though he shakes his head like it’s incredulous of you. “Do you think, even if I knew it were certain, a summons from the Ministry would have stopped me from saving you this summer? Do you suppose the threat of punishment would cause me to waver at that moment? I know it would not hinder you. So, you have your lines and I have mine — you never needed to ask.”

And now it hurts. The emptiness clears and you can't stand yourself for crying, but you do. It comes out in ragged, breathless sobs, clasped behind your palm as you turn away from him.

You've loved him since you were eleven. It's always been you two — it was always supposed to be you two. What is there to say to him? He's blurring in your periphery like in the midst of your sickness, and there's nothing he can do to heal you this time. Your vision will clear and Myrtle Warren will still be dead. He'll still be a stranger in the face of the boy you love.

“Why," you whine, a wet, hollow stain in your voice you've never cried enough to hear before. “Myrtle was — wasn't — uh —" You swallow, hysterics severing your words. You can't really think right now. Your body wobbles and your head feels puffy and hot. This might be shock.

Tom scowls like it irritates him to watch you push yourself, like this is just the unfortunate effect of you depleting your energy in a duel, not eating correctly, treating yourself carelessly.

Of course you can't stand or talk or think. You're you, contemplating a life without him.

“Sit," he says in frustration. You smack his hand away when he reaches for you, but the world has turned a shade darker and you're slipping into it.

He tugs a chair towards you with a silent charge and a reprimand, and your body doesn’t possess the wherewithal not to collapse into it the second it’s under you.

After a moment you can speak again, shaking hands steadied by your knees. “Did you… did you think I wouldn't find out? You know, the only thing that can petrify someone besides a serpent is a Gorgon. And — where would Rubeus Hagrid have found one of those?"

“I thought I would have time.”

“To come up with a good lie? Something I’d sympathise with?”

He bites his cheek. “Evidently the particulars matter little to you.”

Fuck him. “Fuck you.”

“Very cogent.”

“No, fuck you, Tom. We could have — we only had a year left and then we could — we could've done anything we wanted." You're crying again. You don't have the energy to be embarrassed. “And you chose this."

He’s indignant as he steps closer. “With what money? For what life? We are better than all of them and it’s never mattered. It never will; you know that. You told me that. You’re angry now, but you must know the truth of it. I would not forsake you. I would not lose you.”

You blink up at him, mouth stuck with some cottony feeling and cheeks stiff from crying.

“You have lost me, Tom."

He stills as if suspended. Some maceration must follow but it doesn’t.

You stand on weak legs to look him in the eyes. You wonder if he can see the love in yours. You wonder if he knows you will walk away despite it. (Of course he does. You’ve never lied to him.)

You think about how his fingers seem to always find their way to your cheek and you put yours to his. The bone there is sharp, but the skin is soft. Boyish.

There isn't a word for a goodbye like this. It shouldn't exist and so it doesn't. You just leave.

You fail your N.E.W.T courses. Quite spectacularly.

Mari sits beside you on the train with a soothing hand on your shoulder, and doesn’t ask what’s rendered you into a comatose husk since March. There’s no crying. You chew numbly on soft caramels from the trolley and stare out the window onto the hills.

That summer is spent in your bedroom unless you’re forced elsewhere. A new girl with skin so white it’s nearly translucent sleeps in the bed beside yours, taking meals on trays like you did in your first days here, tracing the cracks in the tiles, humming to herself in the dark. She makes you feel less pathetic for doing much the same.

You’d been right in your assumption that there would be more dead upon your return, and wrong that there would be more empty rooms. There are always more orphans being made.

And then you receive a letter. It isn’t delivered by owl (only for secrecy, you assume, because there are no muggles who’d be writing to you) but it’s stamped with a vaguely familiar crest. Not Hogwarts’ waxen seal, but something undoubtedly magical. A cockroach and a cup, you think, squinting. Transfiguration.

You tear the envelope open and pull the letter out.

It’s from Dumbledore. Some of it melds together, but the key words stand out.

Spoken to Dippet… Exceptional promise… N.E.W.Ts… May be reconsidered… Upon dispensation… Be well.

Be well.

You are not. You are something half-drowned and half-burned, never enough of one to quell the effects of the other. Sunlight is sparse through your side of the orphanage. On the radio, they warn a pattern of one bomb every second hour. The only other warning is the sound when they fly overhead, and if you can’t run fast enough —

You write your answer in a crowded tube station with a spotty ballpoint pen. Tom is there, looking between you, the dust, and your shaking hands as if to say: tell me I was wrong.

Some of your letter melds together but the key words stand out.

Thank you, Sir. Whatever you need.

It’s a shock that you live to seventh year. It’s a shock that you do it without him — though he watches, and in his gaze you feel regressed. You’re alive, yes, but there’s something there… his dead weight, death-grip; his haunting. They always speak of the dead as something heavy. Something that holds onto you even after it’s gone.

You find that to be true.

Dippet’s condition that you remain in Dumbledore’s N.E.W.T class is that you achieve more than the standard requirement. Essentially, your final exam will be much harder than everyone else's: Human Transfiguration, mastery of petty Transformation (through the means of Wizard’s Chess pieces), Conjuration and Vanishment of various delicate objects — all done nonverbally.

Even Dumbledore seems sceptical, but it translates to more rigorous practise rather than resignation, assignments he doesn’t even task to Mari, though she’s just as good, and you can’t begin to understand why he cares so much.

“I’ll entrust you with these while I’m away,” he says before Christmas break, sliding a sheet of parchment your way with a flick of his wand.

You frown, unfolding it. His instructions are always short now — you’ve learned to decode his meaning well enough without much exposition.

Teacup to gerbil — to cat, and inverse.

Inanimatus Conjurus spell (cockroach and cup, as instructed) to be Vanished when perfected.

Study Antar’s Doctrine. Miss Wright will act as your partner.

Due February.

It’s far too much to be done in that time. “Sir?”

Dumbledore lugs a messenger bag over his shoulder that appears small, but he carries it in such a way you suspect it’s magically extended. He smiles wistfully, pushing his spectacles up the bridge of his nose. “You know, I often regret how much this war asks of me. A consequence of my own doing.”

Right — Grindelwald. Sometimes you forget between awaiting the next muggle paper. War is everywhere.

You nod. “I hope… Good luck, Sir.”

Another half-smile as he twists open a jar of Floo Powder, and then he shakes his head with something you almost decipher as amusement. A brittle sort. Tired. “Good luck to you.”

And then he’s gone, in a swath of green flames that do nothing to inspire any desire for Floo travel in you.

Antar’s Doctrine is simultaneously prosaic and grandiose. They read like excerpts of a journal and you yawn into them over your morning tea, stirring amongst the first-years, who are the only people at the Slytherin table you can stand to sit with. Your blood status is apparently nullified by your age, and the worst they do is look at you funny. You aren’t sure what Abraxas’s — Tom’s (the new hierarchy never fails to stagger you) — lackeys would do if you sat with the other seventh-years instead. A part of you longs to know. They certainly don’t bother you in class the way they used to, you aren’t tripped in the corridors, but you wonder how far Tom’s influence can stretch. He is the Heir of Slytherin, and he’s earned them. But you are nothing.

You’d like it if he would let them hurt you. You think the incentive would be enough to hurt him back. And God — God, you want to. You want to hurt him almost as much as you want him.

You practise through the doctrine with Mari, as Dumbledore directed. When you’re able to sever Antar’s egotism from his abilities, you can see why Dumbledore would recommend his book to you. It feels like slipping through a crack in glass without shattering the whole thing. You weave in and back out, and Mari grins when she returns from the shape of a teapot to her body without you needing to utter a word to do it.

In the back of your mind, you’re aware what you’re doing is nearly unprecedented. It’s spring, you’re months away from eighteen, muggle-born, and mastering nonverbal Human Transfiguration like it’s a Softening Charm. Mari tells you you’re the smartest person she’s ever met. It makes your cheeks go hot to hear such open praise, worse when you snap out of the thought that you believe her.

Grindelwald falls. The school celebrates in whispers until the evidence is in front of them — Dumbledore, returned without a scar, a new wand in his hand — and then they’re cheers. The feast that night is a great one, and he toasts to you from the end of the staff table, a discreet tilt of his cup before he takes a sip and returns to converse with Professor Merrythought.

You take from your own, and your eyes land on Tom, spine of his goblet tight in his hand. He’s looking at you like you’ve affronted him somehow. You could laugh — by choosing Dumbledore. Of course. As if it was a choice at all.

But if it bothers him… if it feels anything at all like the betrayal you felt, then — good.

You drink, and don’t look away.

By the time your N.E.W.T.s arrive you have a renewed confidence that you’ll succeed, even with the obstacle of performing each exam wordlessly.

There are only twelve students who came out of your sixth year class, so to divide resources for the tests is no grand task. You’re given a Wizard’s Chess set, a desk with assorted vases and goblets, an intricate epergne (you had to whisper to Mari to learn its name), and a Ministry worker borrowed like some laboratory mouse. You suppose it makes sense, though — you’re all capable enough of Human Transfiguration not to mutilate anyone, and performing on a classmate could obfuscate the results. It’s far easier to Transfigure someone you know than someone you don’t.

You start with the chess set, Dumbledore and the Ministry worker observing you as you turn pawns to knights and rooks to kings, the minutiae of the pieces drawing sweat to your brow. They change, and change, and change, and you don’t mutter an incantation once. The Ministry worker puts the set away and directs you to the glass. You Switch the vases with the goblets, Vanish them, and Conjure them again. The Ministry worker takes notes. Dumbledore nods affirmatively at you and you can exhale. The epergne is the hardest; so kitschy and elaborate you don’t know where to start when you’re tasked to Transform it into an animal.

An animal — like that isn’t the vaguest instruction you’ve ever received.

You look at it on the desk, mirrors and glass and gold on protracted arms, and you go for the first thing you think of because the Ministry worker is staring at you like you’re inept and you see it in his eyes — this is the muggle-born one, this one can’t do it.

You’re better than them. You can do it forever.

The epergne spins at the dip of your wand, and emerges more than an animal. A big glass tank appears in its place, round and gold-rimmed, water lapping at the sides. Inside it is a jellyfish. Emerald green, bobbing, tentacles and oral arms coiling against the glass like the limbs of the epergne had spanned its centre.

The Ministry worker swallows. Dumbledore smiles.

“And — and back?” the worker says, like that will be the thing that stops you.

You point again, mouth tight with irritation, and reverse the Transformation. A droplet of water smacks your face and you’re lucky to be so hot you can disguise it as sweat. You suspect even an error that small would cost you a mark.

You wipe it away. A strange thing happens; you imagine Tom brushing the water from your cheek at the Black Lake. You imagine his fingers in the rain.

The Ministry worker steps closer with a shameless frown. He tells you to turn his hair red. You do. He regards himself in the mirror and scribbles something down. He tells you to turn it back. You do. To grow him a beard, to change his clothes, to make him taller, shorter, this and that — all read from a list he does not appear enthused to recite. You do it all.

He shakes Dumbledore’s hand when it’s done, duplicates his notes for him to keep, and follows the other Ministry workers through the fireplace when everyone’s exams are finished.

You find out you’ve passed with an Outstanding on your birthday.

Mari drags you to the Three Broomsticks to celebrate, butterbeers on her. (They always are.)

“Can’t believe we’re about to graduate,” she says into her cup, froth on her upper lip.

You sigh into your own, partially giddy and mostly nervous.

Mari squeezes your face between her thumb and finger so your frown is puckered. “Chin up, genius. You’ll be excellent.”

You push her hand away but can’t help a small smile. “Outstanding,” you correct.

“Outstanding!” She bursts out laughing. “Bloody ego on you now…”

“Well, I am the smartest person you know.”

“I take that back.”

She pushes out of her chair with a slightly inebriated wobble. “Going to the loo. Don’t touch my chips.”

Your hands raise in surrender, and you steal only one when she’s gone.

You aren’t the only ones here to celebrate. (Your birthday and your mutual achievement, yes, but the Three Broomsticks is filled wall-to-wall with seventh years drinking their final nights at school away.) There’s music charmed to reach every corner, even yours at the little alcove hidden from plain sight. It’s nice to watch from here — the stumbling, the kisses meant for mouths that land drunkenly on cheeks and noses, the barkeeps that roll their eyes as soon as they turn away from all the newly adult customers, not yet learned or careless in their drinking manners.

It is not nice to be occluded from plain sight in such a way that you don’t notice Tom Riddle until he’s inches away from your table. It is not nice that no one else notices either.

On instinct you don’t make any impressive exit. He slides into the booth next to you and your brain short circuits for a moment at the warm familiarity of his presence beside you. Then it occurs that it’s been more than a year since this was remotely commonplace — that you cannot forget the reason why.

There’s not much time to decide whether you want to be vicious or indifferent or to debate on past precedent which would bother him more. You haven’t attacked him despite being concealed enough to do it unnoticed, and you haven’t shoved furiously out of the other side of the booth.

Indifferent it is.

“Can I help you?”

“You’re causing quite the stir,” he says, taking one of Mari’s chips.

You’re allowed. It’s infuriating when he does it.

“Am I?”

“It’s enough to fail a N.E.W.T level class and be expressly petitioned back, but to have a special criteria set for your exams and manage an O on top of it all…” He inclines his head as if to appreciate your face so close after so long. You should not let him. “You are incomprehensible. It terrifies them.”

“They’re afraid of the wrong mudblood, then, aren’t they?”

Indifference effaced. You’re angry.

He seems to have come prepared, and shrugs your scorn off like a scarf you would have forced him to wear winters ago. “Of course, they have no reason to suspect Dumbledore might have ulterior motives.”

Ulterior — you certainly hope he isn’t suggesting this is based on anything but your merit, but then — you couldn’t begin to understand why Dumbledore cared so much, could you? You’d made brief inspections of his disdain for Tom in second year, his waning shades of kindness and the matter of his stolen encyclopaedia, but you hadn’t… you hadn’t thought at all about how his dedication to your progress only begun after you’d stopped sharing a class with Tom, how it had developed as you began to drift from one another in fifth year and accelerated in sixth after the first petrification and Myrtle’s death. How Tom had worn you down with a weighted glare at Dumbledore’s little toast.

It wasn’t because you had chosen Dumbledore, you realise. It was because Dumbledore had chosen you.

“Why don’t you worry about your pets, Riddle?” you snarl, “I’m sure there are bigger problems with your lot than my exam results.”

Something in his face shifts at the name. You swell with distorted pride.

He mends the reaction by looking you over in more detail, his features schooled into something he must know you can’t deduce. You try not to squirm under the intensity of it.

He reaches almost mindlessly for your collar (there is nothing mindless about it, you’re sure) and smooths the fabric gently with his fingers. “I always liked you in this colour.”

You blink. His thumb just barely brushes against the skin of your neck before retreating, and your mouth falls open.

“Don’t do that,” you say. Truly a sad attempt. Your repulsion is more with yourself than him, and that’s not at all right.

Where is Mari?

“Your friend was at the bar, last I saw her.”

You stare at him with wild eyes. How the hell — ?

“You were always easy to read,” he supplies, and leans in so you can follow his line of sight to the tiniest sliver of the bar visible between two columns, where Mari looks deeply engaged in conversation with Leo Ndiaye, one of the Gryffindor Chasers.

You take a sharp, exasperated breath at her antics. She might be more in love with the competition than the boy himself. They’d never last without Quidditch to bind them, but you can’t fault her for wanting a bit of fun.

“Well then —”

Right. Tom hasn’t actually moved away. You turn and his face is just there.

His eyes dart forthwith to your mouth, and — no. No, he won’t be doing that and neither will you.

“...I’m off to bed.” Stop talking to him like he’s your friend, you think miserably. Stop looking at him like he’s your —

“That would be wise.”

He’s still looking at your lips.

No one else is looking at you at all.

It could exist in just this moment, you deliberate; separate from everything else.

Except nothing about Tom exists in its own moment. He’s all over you all the time, skin and bone and soul. You hope you still have a place in the broken fragments of his.

“So I’ll be going now,” you say again.

“I haven’t protested.”

But he’s leaning in, and he has to know that’s impedance enough.

“But you will.”

His lips touch yours. “Yes, I will.”

You grab him by his shirt and you’re kissing him. You’re kissing each other like either of you know what the hell it means to kiss anyone, but you’ve learned the rest together, haven’t you? Your noses bump and you don’t care. You just need to kiss him, and — God, you make some noise against his mouth and the hand cupping your face spreads to capture more of you, greedy and wayward — he needs to kiss you too. It’s a horrible thing to know. It leads you to pose too many questions.

The need must have begun as want, and when did the want begin? How long has he looked at you and wondered what you’d feel like to kiss, touch, mark? (He’ll never have the latter. You swear that.)

You’re pulling away in intervals. “You don’t have me, you know.”

“I know,” he responds, lips on the corner of yours.

“You still lost me.”

“I know.”

“I hate you.”

He pauses for a moment. “I know.”

You kiss him again. Long and soft, memorising his cupid’s bow and the tip of his tongue, and when one of his hands moves to your waist you part from him like you’ve been burned.

“I —” You resist the urge to touch a finger to your lips, standing abruptly from the table and adjusting your shirt. Your body feels like an evolutionarily faulty vessel, too easy to please, though you can’t imagine it responding to anyone else this way. Or perhaps your mind is the problem. Not wired well enough to resist an evidently bad thing. “Goodnight, Tom.”

You thought there wasn’t a word for your goodbye, but that’s it. So simple it sinks you. Goodnight, Tom. I’ll dream of a morning where I wake up beside you, but you won’t be there.

He grabs your hand before you can go, licking his lips and it haunts you to think he’s savouring you. It stings a place deep in your chest you’d spent all year trying to heal.

“My door is always open,” he says.

He lets you go.

You graduate with Mari’s hand in yours, and you aren’t afraid.

Dumbledore requests that you stay for the summer to help him prepare for the first year’s curriculum in the fall. It’s a ridiculous opportunity for someone your age — free lodgings and a stellar impression on your resume, and — you can only accept it with an ire you haven’t felt since the spread of influenza in muggle Britain.

If he’s offering you lodgings now, he could have done it all along.

It sends you down a horrible train of thought while you move your things from the Slytherin dormitories to a little chamber a few doors down from the staff room; Tom will be removed from Wool’s this year. Will he stay at Malfoy Manor? But Tom is still publicly muggle-born — Abraxas’s parents would never allow it. Will he find a job, a flat? Will he swindle muggles once he turns eighteen and the Trace is no longer an obstruction?

You think of him often. You think of his offer.

My door is always open.

Plenty of doors are open to you now. Why should you want to go back to his?

Still, the Second World War ends in November and you feel like you can breathe at a depth you never could before. The school doesn’t celebrate like it did with Grindelwald. No one but you seems to care at all.

It’s a tempting door.

The year passes in a blur of graded papers and lessons Dumbledore sometimes involves you in and sometimes does not. Most of the first-years care little for you, but there are two Slytherin muggle-borns who look at you like a new sun to orbit. Everything is worth it for that.

You see Mari when you can, and find she’s training with the Italian Quidditch team, who apparently are smart enough to care more about skill than blood. She says she misses the complexities of Transfiguration, but any career in it was always going to be yours. Smartest person she knows, she reiterates. Biggest ego too.

The next summer Dumbledore informs you of a posting at the Ministry. Something small with a smaller wage. He emphasises the weight of his personal recommendation, but that you won’t be respected unless you claw tooth and nail for it. You don’t take long to consider a chance to make an actual income with an actual career doing something muggle-borns simply don’t do before you’re nodding assuredly and asking him what you need.

Better clothes are first, and all you can afford until further notice. You take to Gladrags with intent to purchase for the first time in your five years of wandering in the shop with eyes bigger than your wallet, and the owner looks at you with distrust when you slide her your sickles.

The Ministry job is truly, infinitesimally, insignificant.

It’s far down in the Department of Magical Accidents and Catastrophes. You’re a glorified secretary, and you recall the few times you’d worked as a mail-sorter during the war. It’s some sick irony that you’ve landed yourself in a pile of paper once more.

But the money, though offensively scant to someone with better options (and it’s infuriating the options you deserve), is more than you’ve ever had, and within the next year you’re able to leave the castle and take a cheap room at an inn in Hogsmeade. You’re close enough to Dumbledore to aid him when he needs you, but far enough to feel like your school days are departed, and you need not worry about memories lurching unexpectedly at every corridor.

A sick part of you still reaches for your mouth sometimes to remember what it felt like to be kissed. That part of you wishes for Tom. You could kiss him into oblivion. You could find a way to make it hurt him back.

My door is always open.

Then you’ll slam it bloody closed.

Mari invites you to her first professional game and you cheer for her in the stands, a green, white, and red scarf around your neck in place of her old blue.

She wins and you get drinks in a muggle pub. You kiss a man at the bar. You go home with him. His hair is dark, but not dark enough. His lips are soft, but the shape is wrong. He makes you feel good, but you wonder if in another life, the dream is true; you roll over in the morning to Tom beside you, and he makes you feel better.

When you can find time between the monotonous demands of your job, you’re in the Transfiguration classroom, staying behind to help the Slytherin muggle-borns with their Switching spells.

It’s one stupid accident the next fall that changes things.

A muggle bank has been robbed, and whatever idiotic, panicked witch or wizard was behind it apparently found themselves incapable of getting the deed done with a simple Imperius Curse (you can’t imagine, based on the scene, that they’re above Unforgivables), and somehow ended up leaving the building half-charred and teeming with at least six bank tellers Transformed into birds, two chirping into the floor tiles with broken wings.

“Renauld’s on it, though,” your coworker says when the news finds your department.

“Renauld?”

He’s a year older than you, a pureblood with parents in high places, and endlessly fucking hopeless.

“Well, yeah —”

You push out from your desk, files fluttering behind you. “Renauld will expose the whole damn wizarding world if he touches that building.”

“But McCormack sent him.”

“Where is it?”

“I… McCormack said that —”

“Where is it, Flack?”

“Um. Um, near King William, I think. Moorgate or, um —”

That’s good enough. You toss the Floo Powder into the fireplace and go.

The place is a mess. You don’t even have to look for it. There’s some ward around the street, bouncing muggles away like an invisible end to a map they don’t even register is there. At least that’s handled right.

But you slip through it and curse under your breath at the muggles trapped inside the wards. They’re like fish prodding at the dome of their bowl, and some run up to you demanding explanations when they see you unaffected by it. You brush them off — Obliviation is not your strong-suit — though you do shout at a pair of DMAC wizards uselessly standing guard outside the bank.

“What the hell are you doing?” you ask on approach. “Renauld’s supposed to handle the inside, yeah? You deal with fixing them.”

You point toward the frantic muggles, and the officials just regard you with vague confusion at your presence. “Renauld said —”

“Oh my God! Fix. The muggles.”

You afford nothing else before pushing past them to enter the bank.

It’s quite impressive, actually; Renauld, the result of generations of foolproof breeding, is waving his wand around like he’s just stepped out of Olivanders for the first time.

“Heal their wings,” you say without greeting.

Renauld jumps. “What? What are you doing here?”

“Heal their damn wings. They’re easier than human limbs and healing magic’s the only thing you aren’t completely shit at.”

“Who authorised you?” he hisses.

“I did.”

In hindsight, it should have gone horrifically wrong. Your wand could have been taken and your life might have been over in all ways that matter, flung back into the muggle world where you’ve always been told you belong.

But Renauld vouches for you. You Transform the walls, you fix the burns, you mend the bank to something presentable. A muggle robbery — dangerous, financially tragic, but believable. And your suggestion to heal the injured bank tellers in their animal forms might be the thing that saved them. When Renauld mends their wings and regenerates their blood, you Untransfigure them, and the other DMAC officials alter their memories with haste.

You were completely out of line and utterly right.

It isn’t something people like you are allotted.

Your probation period is dreadful. You hide in your room at the inn most days, Vanishing little stained panes on your window to feel the warm breeze of air before you Conjure them again. You help grade papers, though Dumbledore is displeased with you and the night is a silent one. He assures you curtly that he’s doing his best with the Ministry to amend this.

And… he does.

With Renauld’s help and the corroboration of the other DMAC officials, you’re back at work by the start of the school year.

It’s a slow process — almost eight months of meaningless paperwork — before the next incident occurs and you’re hectically ushered to the scene like a belated understudy. And then it happens again. And again. And again.

There’s really no choice but to promote you.

Your heroics are torn from a Gryffindor cloth, so says Flack. You urge him never to say such a thing again.

By your twenty-first birthday, you think about Tom almost exclusively in your sleep. You’re much too busy to think about him anywhere else.

The summer is warm and Hogsmeade is lively. You’ve vacated your room at the inn for a little house on the outskirts of the village, decorating it how you like — discovering what you like. You’d never had a chance to find out before.

Mari visits when she can once you have your fireplace connected to the Floo Network (you yourself prefer Apparating) but her name is slowly working its way from the Italian papers to the British ones, and she has so much to tell you there isn’t possibly enough time in her days to tell it. There’s also the matter of Leo Ndiaye, who has, recently, gotten on one knee and proposed to her. If there had been a bet on them ending up together, you would have been out enough galleons to put you in debt.

After especially gruesome days at work, you and a few colleagues make a habit of getting sherries at the Siren’s Tail, complaining that sometimes the nature of your work is akin to an auror’s but without the notoriety and pay.

“Oh, please,” says Emilia Alves, twirling her straw, “have you seen the shit the aurors are up to lately? I’d rather be a blimmin’ Unspeakable.”

“You’d have to be able to keep your mouth shut for that, Alves.”

Emilia punches Renauld in the arm.

“What are the aurors up to?” Flack asks.

“I dunno much. There was a murder all the way in Albania, s’posedly. Reeked of dark magic.”

“Nothing new,” you join, and then frown. “Why’s our Ministry dealing with it though?”

“I dunno. I got word from Hillicker that the Albanians didn’t know what to make of the mess. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

“Hillicker’s not a source,” Renauld scoffs.

“Yeah? Why don’t you ask your daddy for something better?”

“Alves, I’ll have you know —”

You lean in over the counter. “What do you mean they’ve never seen anything like it?”

She grins. “Why? Storming a bank robbery wasn’t exciting enough for you?”

You roll your eyes, taking a drink.

That ought to be the end of it. One extraordinarily lucky incident to push you up the career ladder was rare enough — there is absolutely no way digging around a case that has nothing to do with you or your department could ever end well.

But something about it itches.

You make nice with Hillicker. She’s a year younger than you and far too kind for her own good, and she gushes freely about her husband’s work as an auror (they must be a perfect match for him to gush freely about it with her). It’s a bit manipulative. You have no excellent excuse for it, but… ambition, and all that, you suppose. Flack’s Gryffindor theory is studded with holes.

You are green, through and through.

Emilia’s updates are meaningless when you garner so much information that you’ve already heard everything she has to say over drinks, and at this point her and Hillicker might be a step behind you. Emilia still only knows about Albania; peppery little details of half a story. Hillicker discusses an assortment of murders with no real string between them, and Dumbledore regards you with cool heeding when you bring up the matter with him.

You see him little nowadays but you’ve never been close in any true sense, traces of resentment budding over the years like rainwater collects on glass until the stream finally slips.

You visit Hogwarts mostly for your Slytherins, fourteen or fifteen now, unafraid of the distinction of their blood.

And then there’s one night after you turn twenty-two where drinks take place at yours for a change, Mari and Leo included and happily wed. You have no sherries but your ale is just as well, and it’s only you and Renauld who are sober by the time everyone else is vanishing into the fireplace and going home.

That makes it much worse when you sleep together.

There’s no excuse of having had a glass too many — so sorry, I’ll be on my way then, and him stumbling over his trousers to get out of your hair. Of course, he does that anyway, scratching the nape of his neck when he reaches your doorway in the morning.

“Thanks for the — well, you have a nice home — I do think I should —”

“Yes.”

“Right.”

“Oh!” He turns around at the last second. “Er — I know you’ve become a tad obsessed with… Hillicker mentioned another, anyway. Hepzibah something. Killed by her own elf, the aurors suspect.”

“Oh,” you echo, sheets pulled up to your shoulders. “Thanks, Renauld.”

“I thought you might like to know. Don’t be daft about it.”

You’re incredibly daft about it.

There’s something reminiscent about Albania in this case that wasn’t there with the others. The tide of dark magic ebbing across the scene, the cherry-picked information released in the Prophet, the claim of an old, dumb House Elf who poisoned her mistress like the Albanian peasant killed in some insoluble accident.

The itch exacerbates.

You see him in your dreams again. He peers over Runes in a stolen encyclopaedia, he whispers to an adder on his shoulder, he kisses the corner of your mouth and it isn’t enough. He kills you, again and again. You kill him too.

You wake up and he isn’t there.

It’s a new low when you’re invited to the Hillicker’s anniversary dinner and you end up digging through the drawers of their study halfway through the night.

The Albania file offers nearly nothing. There was the charred residue of dark magic imprinted on a hollow tree in the fields of the peasant’s hamlet, but nothing detailing more than a blank imprint of the Killing Curse in his eyes. Still, you tuck the knowledge away for the file of one Hebzibah Smith, whose tea did indeed have traces of poison, but whose den was also ripe with a layer of darkness that didn’t line up with the Ministry’s tale of senile elf.

And then there’s the forgotten matter of her being a purveyor of ancestral artefacts. The file doesn’t recount whether any are missing, since the woman was wise enough not to proclaim all her possessions to the world, but it’s something. A scratch.

You travel to Albania that Christmas. The neighbours in the peasant’s hamlet have skewed memories, so they provide little help, but the man’s house was left almost untouched.

You tear the place apart and Transfigure it back together when you’re done.

All you find, in the end, is a scrap of an old envelope in a suitcase.

R.R

It could be that it’s old. The cursive seems ancient enough. But you swear the letters have the distinct shape of quill ink — too artful for any pen — and maybe that wouldn’t matter if it weren’t for half a wax seal stuck to the torn edge of the envelope. Stained but silver, the barest hint of two ribbons, a crest, and the letter H.

You return to Hogwarts posthaste.

It’s snowing in the courtyards and you waddle with a duotang under one arm to pretend you’re here for something scholarly, an array of excuses prepared in case you run into Dumbledore, but you don’t.

The Grey Lady is as beautiful as she’s rumoured to be.

You ask her about her mother, and she’s silent, an expression on her face like you’ve struck her.

“Is it found?” she whispers. The snow floats through her.

Your heart hammers as you consider how to approach this. She thinks you know more than you do, which means there’s something to know.

“Yes,” you say. And you dare further with the context you know, “In Albania.”

“Oh,” she hums. “Oh…”

And if she means to say more she doesn’t seem able, washing away through the balusters, then the walls. You think of your house ghost and what he did to her, and you feel sorry for a second.

Madam Palles expels you from the library the moment you find what you’re looking for, and you rush past a throng of staring students to the staff room fireplace. It’s too far a walk to the border of the castle wards to Apparate. You bite back the preemptive sickness, get swallowed by the flames, and go home.

There are blanks to fill in but you do it easily. Rowena Ravenclaw’s diadem. Hepzibah Smith and her assortment of unregistered artefacts. The stain of dark magic. Something so rare not even the aurors recognized it.

But you do, because he told you.

You wonder on your search to find him what object he used when he killed Myrtle Warren. Nothing special, you think — maybe even the closest thing he could find. These murders involved more preparation. He got to mark them however he wanted.

It’s almost disappointing to find him here. In a little flat over Knockturn Alley with a view of charmed coalsmoke and the brick wall of another shop.

It’s as tidy as his room at Wool’s, the only dirt the irremediable age of the building itself. The whole place looks almost slanted, large enough only for the bare necessities; a kitchen, a toilet, a bedroom that looks more like a closet, and a study/dining room/den you can’t imagine he hosts many gatherings in. You rescind the mere thought. Whatever gatherings Tom Riddle is having these days, you’re sure you can’t begin to imagine at all.

You wait, legs crossed on an old loveseat, fiddling with your wand.

The door clicks open when the snow has turned to hail and there’s no light but the few scattered candles you’d lit on the mantelpiece.

It strikes you only when he’s standing before you that it’s his birthday.

You’re in Tom Riddle’s flat, on his birthday, adorned by the orange glow of half-melted candles, and you know everything.

He eyes you carefully, a hint of surprise at the sight of you after four years that even he needs a second to recover from. And then he's even, inscrutable Riddle again, and you dare to think, come back.

“I placed wards," he says, hanging his bag on a rack by the wall.

“I thought your door was always open.”

You see his posture change from just his silhouette.

“Wards never work in Knockturn,” you offer additionally, “not really. There's too much conflicting magic; one border cuts into another; leaves a little sliver behind if you’re smart enough to find it. You should know that."

He turns to you. You take in a moment to acknowledge how he's changed. It's hard to see in the curtained moonlight, and it seems unreasonable to imagine he’s grown, but you think he has. An inch taller, perhaps. Two. Maybe the dress shoes. His arms are bigger under his button-down, but not enough to consider him muscular. His black hair isn't as perfect as you remember, and you suspect a long day of work undoes his curls. You always liked him better that way in school, after a night duel at the Black Lake, his robes askew and his hair a mess. Evidence that you were the only one to dishevel him. Now you were — what? Did he even think of you anymore? Yes. You'd always think of each other.

“Duly noted. What are you here for?” He tries your surname like a foreign language.

You cross your arms, and you're acutely aware that he's observing your changes too. You're not the matchstick witch he once knew. Your emotions are cultured now, taut to mirror his. You wear dull, formal grey, and that glowing green tinge that should be gleaming on you is under a thick carapace. That’s for Mari, Flack, Emilia — even Renauld. Not for Tom.

You wonder if he knows it was Dumbledore who put in the word that got you this uniform. You wonder if he resents you for it.

“There’s been talk at the Ministry," you say finally, “A string of murders. Whispers of something — some dark magic they don’t understand. And you know they're careful about things like that after Grindelwald."

“A string of murders... Hm. That might imply you understand a connective thread. Is there some sort of accusation being made?”

“Oh, I'm sure you'd be flattered by accusations. There’s not enough there, as it stands. Just whispers." You sink more comfortably in the seat and the springs make a concerning sound. “But I know you."

His hard, sharp gaze falters for a moment. You watch the flames dance behind him, the firelight playing against the lines of his shoulders, and feel your heart skip a beat. “Who else is speculating?"

“No one." Your fingers brush over the book spines on the coffee table. “I guess their attention hasn't been drawn to a book clerk yet, even if you have taken residency... here." You say it with no shortage of disapproval.

Knockturn was never where Tom belonged. You'd once imagined a flat together in muggle London, taking the telephone booth to the Ministry together, changing the world together. It's a wish that's a lifetime away now.

“Is this a warning? I assure you, I don’t need the condescension.”

“I'm not warning you," you scoff, “I — I'm seeing you. God knows I'll probably never get the chance to do that again once you get yourself locked up in Azkaban, which you will."

You sound exasperated. You sound half-pleading. “What are you doing, Tom? Is this — this is really what you want?"

“Yes."

You shake your head. “I don't believe that." And then some of that fiery spit returns to you, and you feel like a child again, stuck in the London tube stations holding his hand at every plane that flew overhead, scowling that you needed his reassurance. Scowling that you were afraid.

“Well, your conjecture is ever-appreciated. Shall I lend you mine? Shall I congratulate you on your revolutionary position at the Ministry? Or is it Dumbledore I should afford my thanks?”

“I earned this,” you hiss.

“You deserve it,” he amends. “But do not lie to yourself and pretend that’s why you have it.”

“Fuck you.”

He smiles. “There you are.”

“I don’t need your congratulations, Riddle. Dumbledore doesn’t need your damn thanks. But,” you say, biting back the snarl that wants out, “you could thank me. After all, I could turn to the Ministry any minute with the truth of your heritage. I could tell them about Myrtle, the Horcrux — Horcruxes.”

The humour dissolves from his face and you despise the immense glee it brings you.

“Oh, did you think I didn’t know? Didn’t understand the connective thread? You are sentimental under all that… fucking posturing, you know. I’m sure it’s all very romantic to you — making Horcruxes out of Hogwarts artefacts. Shame it’s such an insult to your intelligence.”

“Very good,” he says after a long, terse silence. You’re sure he’s thinking just the opposite.

You hum, meddling with your nails. “So what’s your plan?”

“I’d need a Vow for that.”

You laugh. “I’m not that desperate.”

“You’re also not an auror, are you?” He tilts his head appraisingly. “And yet you’ve found your way here.”

“How many do you plan to make? How many people do you plan to kill?”

“A Vow.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Tea, then? Biscuits?”

“Oh, I shouldn’t. I read in the paper the other day about a poor old woman who had her tea poisoned.”

“Hm. Terrible shame.”

Your fist clenches around your wand. “Is it paying off well, Riddle? It must be a good life if you’re willing to split your soul to hell and back to have more of it.”

He smiles at the barb in your words. “You never were good with subtlety.”

“I wasn’t trying to be subtle. This place is horrific.”

“I was referring to your inability to see more than what’s directly in front of you.”

“Oh, really? And what more should I see than a boy who’s very good at getting weak men to bow and do very little else? I’d try to see the bigger picture, but I reckon it wouldn’t fit in here.”

Tom regards you colourlessly. You are slate, Ministry-grey, impermeable like palace portcullis.

“I suppose I should have killed you.” He says it with the nonchalance of a forgotten chore. He says it like you’re a stain.

He doesn’t say it like he feels any terrible urgency to remove you; and you think, this time, you’d feel more powerful if he did. You think it’s far more debilitating to sit here and be looked at like he regrets wanting you alive more than he wants you dead.

“Yes,” you concur, “I suppose you should have.”

You place your wand down on the table and scoot your chair away for good measure. “It’s never too late to rectify your mistakes.”

Tom, for a moment, looks surprised. That makes you feel powerful. You’d take more of that.

“You have wandless magic,” he tries. A weak recovery.

“Scout’s honour, Riddle.”

He doesn’t move for a moment, then fixes his wand in his hand and rises, doused in the same inscrutable calm that always used to drive you mad. Now something in you gleams with the knowledge that he only ever looks like this when he’s trying not to look like anything at all.

He steps closer and it gleams brighter. It trembles inside you and you know, distantly, that this is insane. You’re weighing your life on a childhood trust that was shattered years ago, and you don’t think you’ve ever been that good at faith, but he’s approaching you and that gleam you feel is reflected in his eyes and you just… know. Your spilled blood once crawled with his. There’s no undoing that. Half of you is made of the other.

“I should have killed you,” he repeats.

It’s a murmur. Stilted. Angry, even. Angry that you made him this and there’s no fucking rectifying it — what a joke that is. What an immensely you thing to suggest.

“Yes,” you agree.

It’s a breath. Low. Proud, even. Proud that you’re his only mistake and he’s going to make it again.

Tom kisses you. It’s a murder of its own kind. You kiss him back, and — you were always going to kill each other like this, weren’t you? It’s you and him whether you like it or not.

There should be no love in it. You know that. Love is far behind the both of you, stifled in a gasp at the back of your throat on your eighteenth birthday and the soft, selfish hands of a seventeen year old boy. This is mutual destruction. Spite and teeth and skin that’s cold under your fingers.

He was your first in everything but this.

You push back at him and feel the hunger, the need in him, like a flame as he kisses you deeper and harder, and you find yourself losing yourself to it all over again, like you're back in the dark alcove of a pub where you told him goodbye, pushing to extend the juncture. And then he lets out a hitched, gravelly sound; not a moan but enough to make you shudder.

You pull him onto the sofa and crawl onto his lap.

“How long?” he asks thickly.

You don’t have to ask what he means. You bite against his neck, nails under his shirt as you struggle to pop the buttons open. There must be a violence in all your want for him because if there isn't it's just loss. It's just another thing you'll give him without taking anything back.

“Sixth year," you pant, “in the Deathday ballroom when we fought for the first time. You — ah — you put your thumb on my mouth. Since then."

You hear a sharp intake of breath, and his hand moves up your back to pull you impossibly closer. His voice is ragged. “Should I tell you how long I’ve wanted you?"

You shudder a breath. “Since —" And it's a bit hard to talk with the way he's rolling your hips — “Since when?"

His lips twitch into a mirthless smile, hands spanning your thighs as you start to rock against him. “When you burned me, and I sent you into the lake."

You swallow, agonised by the slow pace his grip forces you to keep when all you want to do is go faster.

“Your uniform was terribly wet,” he says, mouth tracing your jaw. “Did I ever apologise for that?"

“N-no.”

He tuts, the hushed sound warm and deadly on your neck. “Bad manners. I must have been distracted."

Oh. Oh, you think. It seems pointless to flush in the position you're in now, but the knowledge that he wanted you then and you hadn't even known is... all the more devastating.

But you shiver at the question of how he’d wanted you, in what amount of detail, in what precise way. You almost want to ask. See it for yourself.

You don't think you'd manage the words. He’s hard underneath you and your head wants to lull toward his shoulder but a big hand holds you from one side of your jaw down the length of your neck, his tongue laving up the other. Instead you’re balanced only by his hands and his mouth, rolling against him because it’s all you can do like this.

He’s marking you, you realise with a gasp, and your fingers bury in his hair to remove his mouth from its descending assault on your collar. Not that. You’d sworn against that.

Your fingers return to his buttons and he copies you by finding yours, pulling at the fabric tucked into your trousers until it’s discarded entirely. You press your hands to the planes of his chest and watch him, your mouth agape as his eyes linger on your chest.

His heart is pounding and he must know you’re about to comment on it because his lips are on yours again and he adjusts his position and your fingers dig into his shoulders at the delicious new feeling of him pressing into your thigh.

You move for his belt. He moves for your zipper. It’s some sort of race, whatever you’re doing, and you’re at an unfair advantage when you’re still fumbling with his buckle when his hand is already carving a slow path to the band of your underwear. You're scalding under the journey of it, little stars pricking you under every new inch he explores.

He dips in and your eyes wrench shut, grasping frantically for his wrist.

“Shh,” he says softly, caressing your cheek with his spare hand, thumb finding your mouth how it did all those years ago and you want to curse him. The fucker knows exactly what he’s doing.

You shake your head, chest rising with heavy breaths as you return to his belt and scrabble to unbuckle it.

“So tense,” he murmurs. The hand at your cheek draws over your lower lip before it falls to your back to hold you closer. “Rest now.”

And his fingers trace you where you want him most, brushing past your clit as he pulls his face back to watch you.

You sink into the feeling, still swaying on his lap, a half-efforted attempt at finding friction in the hardness between his legs that feels fruitless because it won't be enough until he's inside. Your hand just grips onto the fabric of his unzipped trousers and stays there. It’s a pause. An obstacle on your path to him that you need just a moment to recover from before you’ll make him feel just like this. Better. Worse. It’s hard to tell which is which.

He’s stroking at you now, pleased by the way you lurch against him with every touch.

You have to recover, you have to make it even, you have to… you…

A finger presses inside and you moan.

“You came back to me,” he whispers, close enough to be kissing you but there’s just the stutter of his breath. It's a fucking religious thing to say, the way he does it.

“Doesn’t make me yours,” you breathe.

He shakes his head. “I know. You’ll still take it though, won’t you?”

Oh, fuck.

He makes a sound of approval. “Good.”

Good. Fine. Your hands slip from his zipper to the meat of his thighs, pushing yourself forward so the shape of him is firmer against you, and Tom slips another finger in.

You’ll take it, won’t you? Yes.

Maybe you don’t need to tear him at the seams (though you want to) to make it even. Maybe this is punishment enough. That he can have you like this and it still won’t make you his, that he’ll give you everything and you’ll lap at it with half the greed he possesses.

You ride his hand, clutching his shoulders, rocking your hips. You take all of it, and it builds something delirious inside you, that it’s him doing this, his perfect fingers, the shape of his lips, the soft dark of his hair when you find your hands in it again. The feeling makes you stutter, and he has to move you by the waist himself to keep the momentum when you can't do it yourself.

He’s painfully stiff, pushing up against you with a degree of self-control that feels like it can only end disastrously for the both of you, and you start smattering kisses down his cheek. You tilt his head back and lick a stripe down his neck. Rest now, you'd say if you could.

But he adds a third finger and your head falls, a cry planted in his collar when you come, and you don't think you say anything.

Tom holds your legs steady, guiding you through it like this is just another one of his studies. You are what he knows better than anything else, and still he wants to learn more.

“Look at you,” he mutters, dipping you back to press his lips down your chest, unclasping your bra while you’re still breaking, the sensation swelling again when he takes a nipple into his mouth.

“Tom,” you try to say. Your mouth is the sticky sort of dry that words refuse to come out of.

“Will you give me more?”

Give, not take. You fuss into a stolen kiss, grappling again with his trousers, pulling them down until you can palm him through his boxers.

He hisses, gripping your wrist like he hadn’t just done the same to you, and then he’s pulling you up and off the couch, trousers discarded with what must be magic because you blink and they’re gone. Greedy boy. (You have no room to judge.) Your back is to the wall an instant before his fingers are on you again, pushing your underwear down your thighs until it falls at your feet like they despised to ever part from you.

You arch to feel him press against your stomach, pushing off the wall so that you can meld to him but he just closes in on you to do it himself.

He goads the heat from you when his fingers push in again, still wet, coiling how you like, where you like —

“Want you,” you protest shakily, hand on his abdomen.

That must kill him a little, because he curses under his breath (a thing he never does) and the immediate absence of his touch is cruel when he goes to free himself from his boxers. You reach for him without thinking as he does, and he pins your hand beside you when your fingers so much as graze the length of him.

You sound frail, but you have to ask. “Is this how you wanted me?”

A cruder version of you would go on. Is this how you pictured it? Taking me against a wall? Have you waited for it all this time?

And you don’t belong to him but you’re so incomprehensibly, contradictorily his. You’ll want him forever. He could do anything, and you’d be his. You could haunt him into his lonely eternity, and he’d be yours. Then, you suppose — haunting him makes him yours by principle.

Maybe you already do.

Tom practically growls into your mouth, pressing against you and — God, it’s skin on skin. He's right there. You could push forward and —

He slides in. You cry out at the feel of him inside you, the angle of it like this.

“I wanted you,” he says lowly, your legs wrapped around him, “everywhere.”

You’re gripping him so tight you think he’ll bleed under your nails and somehow you still feel on the brink of collapse when he thrusts deeper.

“I thought mostly of your mouth,” he rasps. “It felt depraved to imagine it wrapped around me, but then I thought of you splayed out before me instead. That maybe you’d like it if it was my mouth on you.”

You whimper.

“Would you like that?” he asks, hands spanning your hips to snap them into his, like you are a piece removed from him he seeks to reattach.

If you wanted to answer you couldn’t. You’re clinging to him and the rising surge inside you, carved between your legs like something sweltering and unfixable. It rushes in and he pulls out of you. He pushes in and you cry for the release of it, the moment the wave lurches over the edge, but he won’t let you have it.

“But,” he says, and your eyes want to roll back at how heavy his restraint is, callous in the tone of his voice, some leash at his neck he must tug himself lest you take it from him — “If I knew how well you’d take me like this, I would have thought of it much more.”

Taking him, again — you don’t feel at all like that’s what’s happening. You feel possessed. You are buoyant in his arms: his and his and his.

“You can — uh — you can — ”

"Hm?" He brushes down the slope of your brow, your cheek, back to the edge of your mouth, wiping a trail of saliva from your chin. “Poor thing.”

And he slams into you again, drawing a mewl from you that slices your unfinished thought.

You clench around him, flames wild and fluttering at every contact of his skin on yours, and there are too many to count. Too many points where they intersect, just some blend of bodies connected at every curve.

“You’re going to give me more,” he says, like it’s an epiphany when you already told him you would.

You remember then. What you meant to say. “You can take me too.”

You feel him twitch inside you, his pace stilling for a moment, and the thumb on your lip slips into your mouth. Your lips close around him and he curses again.

He fucks you with a finger in your mouth and his teeth clamped over your shoulder, soothing the sting with his tongue. His pace is too slow when he drags his free hand between your legs, but you understand its purpose well enough that the mere recognition almost destroys you.

He’s patient in bringing you to the edge because there's time here. A slow agony that severs you from the rest of the world until it splits you down the middle. And he may not ever have it again.

You have to promise yourself he’ll never have it again.

But the movement of his fingers against the same spot he’s hitting inside you is too much at once, and you won’t last. You drool around his thumb. You let him mark you. You can see on his neck you’ve marked him too. And you hope impossibly there’s a scar. You hope the little death you coax from him claims him as yours for eternity, keeps him even when you're gone. You tighten, lurch for the edge, and make him mortal once more.

Tom holds you there, your cries reverberating as he sinks another finger in your mouth, and then he’s gasping at your neck, peeling back to look you in the eyes when he spills into you. Your eyes screw together and he releases the sounds you make by holding you by the jaw instead.

“Look at me,” he says, and for the strained need in it you do.

You come down to earth and you kiss him, wetness dripping down your thighs as he pins you to this moment. You love him. You’ll always love him.

He’s still inside you when he’s secure enough to bring you to his bed, only removing himself from you when you’re safely in his sheets, legs surrendering their grip on his waist as you pull apart. You pant into the cold linen of his pillow. Everything smells like him. There’s something empty now; the reason you came today; the reason you left four years ago.

You love him and it isn’t enough. Not even to look at him, the sleepy hint of the boy you knew in his eyes, and know that he loves you too.

“Goodnight, Tom,” you say, finding home in the warmth of his chest.

You’ll dream of a morning where you wake up beside him, but you won’t be there.

#tom riddle #tom riddle x reader #tom riddle x you #tom riddle x y/n #tom riddle fluff #tom riddle smut #tom riddle angst #(the trifecta)#tom marvolo riddle #voldemort #voldemort x reader #tom riddle imagine #tom riddle oneshot #harry potter fanfiction #wizarding world #ftltutbh

3K notes · View notes

misserabella · 27 days

Text

two geniuses (don’t get along)

enemies to lovers;; spencer reid x fem reader!

masterlist!

note; in this fic lila’s episode happens after elle’s departure to make the story have more sense. (S1 E18). also there have been some changes :))

synopsis; spencer reid; doctor spencer reid. some of them (mostly of them), would say he’s a genius. but if he was, then so you were. maybe that’s why you hate each other. maybe that’s why you can’t stand him.

cw;; +18 content! minors dni!, reader and spencer’s competitive asses, talk of murder, graphic scenes, weapons, guns, blood, shots being fired, lila flirting, spencer kissing lila, lots of fighting, lots of tension, teasing, apologies, reader getting hurt (mentions of stitches), threats, murder of secondary characters, talk about kinks and trauma (spencer being a smartaas), mention of spencer’s childhood and her mom… ( i bet there’s so much more but i can’t remember rn) angst, fluff and smut in upcoming chapters!!!

“another coffee, pretty boy? you wanna die?” morgan inquired the puppy eyed profiler, whose right hand held a cup of freshly brewed coffee.

“actually, the caffeine in coffee has been found in animal and cell studies to protect cells in the brain that produce dopamine. in a large prospective cohort of more than 500,000 people followed for 10 years, an association was found between drinking higher amounts of coffee and lower rates of death from all causes.” he easily spat in less than a mere minute, making morgan scoff.

“it’s not considered coffee if a 99% of it is sugar, reid.” you barged into their conversation, taking a look at the files of new cases.

“sugar is one type of carbohydrate, as are fiber and starch. carbohydrates are essential macronutrients.” he defended himself, taking a sip of his coffee-sugar.

“wrong. although carbohydrates are essential macronutrients since the body uses them in large amounts, something wrong about your thesis is that sugar is not one of those macronutrients. the body doesn’t use it. in fact, the effects of added sugar intake which are higher blood pressure, inflammation, weight gain, diabetes, and fatty liver disease, are all linked to an increased risk for heart attack and stroke. so yeah. technically, morgan was right. you might die.” you nodded towards the man, who smiled at you, walking towards you and taking your face in between his hands.

“have i told you how much i love that brain of yours?” he inquired, leaving a kiss to your forehead. “brilliant.” he smiled, raising his hands in victory since for once he had won spencer and his extensive knowledge. the profiler simply rolled his eyes.

“thanks.” spencer spat at you, to what you smiled.

“you’re very welcome, agent.”

“it’s doctor.”

“yeah, yeah. whatever.”

spencer reid. with an IQ of 187, an eidetic memory, and the ability to read 20,000 words per minute, he was considered a real walking genius. maybe that’s why the two of you seemed to despise each other so much. people say geniuses actually like each other. well, you and spencer were the exception. it was easy to get on his nerves. he was not used to having someone smart enough to actually suppose a threat to his intelligence. yet there you were. you had been jumping your way up to college since you were twelve, and at the ripe age of 22, and numerous phds later, you had found yourself working at the BAU.

you had been hired after elle had left the team, and everyone had seemed happy greeting you. you had specially made quick friends of penelope and morgan. something reid didn’t seem to like. well… he didn’t exceptionally like you. something that seemed stupid ‘cause you two were the perfect pair. there was nothing the two of you didn’t know, nothing you wouldn’t catch or realize. maybe that’s why spencer despised you. ‘cause now they had you too, not only him.

it was actually a pity. you liked smart people. you liked to share opinions and learn new things you might not know with the help of others. but spencer was borderline narcissistic, and that made your body cringe in disgust. and worst of all, he was really attractive. curly caramel hair, hazel puppy eyes, full lips, small straight nose, tall stature, pretty hands… also his voice…

well, anyways. you were losing focus.

so you’d decided to match his energy. and that only seemed to make the situation worse. sure, you two worked together, but only because you had to, if you could you’d much prefer to do everything alone rather than have to share office with reid.

hotch caught your attention as he pushed a file on your table.

“and what’s this…?” you sung as you took it, inspecting it.

“training program in los angeles.” you looked at him. he was leaning against your table. “want you to go with gideon and reid.” you let out a single chuckle, tossing the paper on your table.

“no.” you simply said, watching the man sigh. “tell jj to go! or prentiss!” you offered.

“can’t. jj is helping penelope to trace an unsub and prentiss is new, need someone who has been on the ropes longer.”

“then what about morgan? he’s not doing anything.” you pointed at the man who played with a mini football.

hotch looked at you. “please? you are the only one who gets reid. you know how he can be…”

“a narcissistic, egocentric, babbling, childlike, fourteen looking mess? yeah, i know.” you smiled. “but what do i win in this situation? i mean i must gain something if i’m gonna spend more time than necessary with him.”

“a free weekend.”

“done.” you gave him your hand. “a pleasure doing business with you, sir.”

“spencer! spencer reid!” you hear someone call for your work-mate, a tall smiling man approaching him and shaking his hand just as the three of you entered an art exhibition. “look at you. you look just the same.” he chuckled as he gives him a quick hug. “nothing changed… spencer was the only 12-year-old in our graduating class. just the same.”

“thanks.” spencer awkwardly says, giving the man a tight smile. “these are special agents jason gideon and (y/n) (l/n). this is parker dunley. we went to high school together as you can probably gather.” he introduces all of you.

“hey. it’s a beautiful gallery.” jason gives him his hand in a shake.

“oh, thank you, thank you. parker smiles, later on turning towards you.

“contemporary art… right?” you inquire offering him your hand, to what he nods. “contemporary modern art includes a wide range of mediums and genres. it is often characterized by its use of new media, such as video and installation art, as well as its rejection of traditional art forms. contemporary modern artists often experiment with form and content, and their work can be highly conceptual.” you say, making the man chuckle.

“i see you brought your computers.” parker jokes with gideon about spencer and you. “another genius like spencer?”

“oh no, men are just smart. woman are the geniuses.” you smile, making him chuckle.

“and funny, huh? i see, i see.”

spencer coughs to grab the man’s attention. “jason’s a big contemporary art enthusiast.”

“well, we’re exhibiting four up-and-coming artists in this show. everything is for sale. and i could definitely swing a nice discount for a friend of…” he loses focus as a blonde beautiful woman enters the exhibition. “lila! hey. guys, come on.” he invites you three towards his friend, coming up to her to say hello.

“do i look 12-years-old to you?” spencer inquired gideon, to what you scoffed, thanking the waiter that offered and served you a glass of champagne.

“oh, totally.” you said as you took it, taking a sip as you heard spencer crack a fake laugh.

“real funny.”

you three made your way towards parker and… lila. she was a beautiful blue eyes-blonde young girl. the basic american beauty standard.

“spencer. you ever met a real movie star?” the man asks, to what the girl beside the blonde scoffs.

“movie star? please. she has a supporting role on a television series about beach volleyball. totally blue-collar.” your eyebrows slightly rise.

“what a friend…” you whisper to your glass, taking another sip of the champagne.

“i’m lila.” the girl gives a sweet smile to spencer, and you almost roll your eyes.

it’s only a matter of time.

“hi, im doctor spencer reid… i’m spencer. you don’t have to call me doctor.” he corrects himself.

lila chuckles. in 3… 2… 1… and tucks her hair behind her ear. there we go.

“cool.” you say, turning around without even introducing yourself, it’s not as if she’d pay attention to you. she’s too focused on spencer to care as you make your way through the gallery, taking the artwork in, trying to scape the probable flirting that was about to go down.

later on you found the two of them chatting in front of a picture in which the blue and green dominate.

“does it make you feel anything?” the blonde asked him, and you silently expect an answer from spencer.

“like what?” he asks. god he sucks.

“i can’t tell you how to feel.” lila chuckles at his frown.

“right now i feel pretty good.” he smiled and you roll your eyes.

“lila? can i talk to you for a moment?” parker interrupts their chatting and the girl nods, quickly glancing at spencer.

“excuse me.”

“sure!” he gently says, and you make your way towards him.

“feeling pretty good, huh?” you inquire him, teasingly, and he groans. “you totally suck.” you take a sip of your glass and he looks at you. “poor girl seems desperate.”

“desperate for what?” he inquires, frowning.

“oh come on, reid. and you call yourself a profiler? it’s obvious she likes you. she was trying to flirt with you.” you obviously state. “she was trying so hard and you were not catching on…” you laugh, and he sighs.

“you know ogling on other’s business is rude, right?” he questions you.

“we’re the fbi. we’re on everybody’s business. that’s our job, reid.” you ignore him, taking a look at the photograph lila and him were staring at. “calming, isn’t it?” you say and he looks at the photograph as well, taking it in.

“sometimes, the color blue is associated with loneliness and sadness. it usually happens when you combine it with specific elements, like rain.” he spits and you chuckle.

“i know that, genius. the thing is not how it’s supposed to make you feel, it’s how it really makes you feel.” he looks at you as you sip from your cup. “with lila, you might feel good, ‘cause you enjoy her company, with me on the other side, you might not even want to be here, staring at a photograph that you’ve probably seen before. that’s because you focus on everything too much. you need to see what the picture actually tells you, not focus on the person you’re staring at it with.”

spencer’s hazel eyes go back to the picture, trying to focus on it, not on your presence, or the amount of voices that surrounded him.

the exhibited photograph shows an empty gas station, lights of green engulfing it as the nightlight blue sky surrounds it. it takes spencer back to his childhood. to those days in which even if he loved his mother, he couldn’t spend another minute by her side and left his house late in the afternoon for a walk. it helped him get out of his head. he remembers watching the sun go down as the night took over the sky, studying and calling out the constellations above his head, trying to find a solution to his mother’s illness. the stars never worked, and he was always left…

“it makes me feel alone.”

“you know, we really can get ourselves to the airport.” gideon said, reid and you trailing behind him as the police officer guided you to his car.

“i didn’t invite the fbi here to let them make their own way around town.” he says, never minding gideon.

“we really appreciate it.” reid says and you whistle.

“so you have manners, huh?” to what he groans.

“oh, shut up.”

“hey, i can’t thank you guys enough for conducting the seminar.” kim smiles.

“well, don’t hesitate to call if there’s anything we can help with.” gideon offered, putting his bags on the trunk of the car.

you stretched your arms after having pushed in your own. “can’t wait for that free weekend.” you muster happily, to what spencer frowns.

“free weekend? what are you talking about?”

“a special thanks from hotch for coming all the way here and putting up with you.” his mouth falls open at your words.

“i didn’t get any free time and i had to put up with you!”

“that let’s you know who’s the problem in this equation.” you falsely smiled at him, patting her shoulder, and you relished on the way his jaw tightened.

your conversation ends as the three of you watch officer kim end a phone call with a not very enthusiastic ‘great’.

“everything alright?” jason asks.

“double murder at hollywood bungalow.” he informs. “a celebrity. a young movie star, natalie ryan, and her fiancé shot to death.”

“very romantic.” you mutter.

“it’s gonna be a major pain in the ass. hey, you guys care to take a quick look before i drive you to the airport? it’s on the way.” he asks, and gideon accepts the offer.

“absolutely.”

you sigh as you get on the back of the car along with spencer.

“seems like that weekend is gonna have to wait.” he happily and teasingly smiles and you send daggers in his direction.

“i’ll choke you with my bare hands.”

“did you get that kink by exposure or trauma?” your mouth falls and your eyes widen.

“what?” you almost yell, watching him ponder.

“maybe it’s because you like to have power and control. have you talked about this with a therapist?”

“you’re gonna have to see a therapist after the torture i’m gonna put you through if you don’t stop that fucking nonsense.” you warn him, and he raises his hands.

“i’m just saying, there’s nothing bad about seeking mental help-”

“spencer!”

“no sign of forced entry.” reid points out as the four of you enter the murder scene.

“same weapon.” gideon informs watching at the two bodies.

you stare at the female, getting closer. “the girl was shot execution style, once in the head. the male three times in the torso.”

“so you have two different MOs.” jason wonders before going back to officer kim, talking about the case. you crouch down to take a better look at the man’s corpse.

“what? you found anything?” spencer inquired from behind you, to what you shook your head.

“nah. just fantasizing.” he frowns.

“fantasizing. what the- what would you possibly be fantasizing about in a murder scene?”

“oh you know… you… in that position… you know? it’s really sexy, you should try it. here don’t move let me get my gun.” you offer while getting up, and he just rolls his eyes, leaving you behind.

“what do you think?” gideon asks the officer about the case, wanting his insight.

“i’ve had a couple other cases recently, past few months. same type of weapon, 22 caliber handgun, both shot in the head.” you look at the bodies. “the first was an established film producer, wally melman, and the second was chloe harris, another young actress. though not as well-known as natalie here.”

“any forensic evidence?” reid asks as you step away from them, taking in your surroundings.

“no, and the guys have been going through this place all morning and haven’t come up with anything.”

“so he clearly knows how to cover his tracks.”

“or hers.” you mutter to yourself.

“twenty-two’s are small but efficient. they bounce around inside a person like a pinball.” jason said.

“preferred weapon of the mafia.” spencer added. “you know, there’s no obvious sexual component to these crimes, which is usually the case with serial murders.”

“so you’re thinking this is a serial killer?” kim asks.

“well, it’s certainly a series of murders. we don’t know enough yet to call them serial.” you step into the conversation.

“would you consider hanging out in LA a little while? let me lean on your expertise until we do figure out what we’ve got?” the officer inquires and gideon nods.

“yeah, just cancel the flights. we’ll have the rest of pit team out here ASAP.”

the unsub seemed to follow his victims, since he knew their schedules. there was not a single witness, he knows how to blend in and hide in plain sight. he’s meticulous.

and everybody is watching.

just like everybody was watching spencer and lila.

after finding out that the unsub was actually stalking the blonde, and killing people to help her with her career, she had somehow scurried her way under spencer’s protection. it actually bothered you. ‘cause spencer seemed so distracted. and it was totally unprofessional to get involved with a target being their agent.

you were on her studio, studying everyone surrounding her. but it was one person that caught your attention.

“who’s that?” you question prentiss.

“that’s maggie, maggie lowe. for what i know she just works here.” she answers you. “why?”

“they seem pretty close, don’t you think?” you ponder, watching her physical language. “she also seems nervous, she avoids lila’s eyes.”

“maybe she’s just shy.” she shrugs, but knows what you’re pointing out.

“maybe…” then, jj appears.

“what are you guys talking about?”

“lila and possible unsubs.” emily fills her in, accepting the coffee she offers her, you take the one she handles you too with a thanks.

“talking about lila… look who’s approaching her.” she devilishly smiles. you almost groan at the sight of spencer talking to the blonde. “they seem to have hit it off.”

“ugh don’t start. he’s so focused on her when in reality he should be focused on his job…” you sip at your coffee, not realizing the shared look the other two girls send each other. “so unprofessional.” you shake your head.

“are you really mad because he’s distracted from his job or by the fact that a pretty girl is distracting him?” jj asked you, taking in your frown and confused expression.

“what?”

“oh come on, really? do you really not feel it?” emily pushes in too, and you look at them.

“feel what? i-i don’t understand.”

“there’s this weird tension in between the two of you.” the brunette explains, being backed up by the blonde.

“it’s like when two little kids like each other and they don’t know how to show it so they just mess with each other.” you scoff.

“you’re saying that spencer and i are attracted to each other?” you inquired them both and they looked at the other. “come on guys, have you seen him? have you actually worked with him? he’s a fucking narcissist, he makes my life impossible just because i’m as smart as him. i don’t like him. at all. i can’t even stand him!” you rant. “he does this thing when he’s focused, playing with his hands and pencils, it’s so distracting. and when i state a fact, he just has to find something to actually make it wrong. every single time. and let’s not talk about how fucking childish he is, if you guys had been here for the training program, i swear to god he said this stupid things about kinks and me having trauma, oh my god i wanted to fucking kill him. he diminishes me, and thinks he’s better than me. and it just makes me sick…” you take a deep breath when you notice how much you had actually talked and your friends’ looks. “what i mean to say is, no. i don’t like spencer reid. and if he wants to fuck his job up, i’d be more than happy.”

morgan suddenly appeared, hotch right behind him.

“guys. there’s something you have to know…” the first talked.

“michael ryer’s dead.” the second finished.

“oh shit.” emily cursed.

“does lila know?” jj asked.

they shook their head.

“she’s gonna be devastated.” jj said to what you sipped at your coffee.

“well at least she has spencer, right?”

“oh, yeah. can we talk about that real quick?!” morgan inquired, astonished.

“no, morgan!” the girls stop him and he raised his hands.

“okay… but the kid has game.”

“woah. i like your house.” spencer said as you two entered lila’s house.

how had you managed to end up with the two of them alone, you didn’t know, and you didn’t like.

“i rent it.” the girl smiled.

“nice.” he nodded.

“lila, you should probably change all your phone numbers.” you said, messaging your team, they’d found something concerning nude photos of the young artist.

“i’m unlisted.”

“anytime you call an 800 or an 888 number your phone number’s put into a data bank that’s then sold to telemarketers. if someone gets your phone number they can go online and research all your records.” you actually responded.

“woah, are you a genius like spencer too?” spencer.

“no. i’m actually smarter.” you gave her a small smile, making her chuckle.

“uh… you should probably carry a piece of paper and pen with you wherever you go in case you see any suspicious license plates that often reappear.” spencer tries to change the conversation as you two followed the blonde towards her kitchen. “and a security dog too.”

“allergic.” she simply answered. “do you guys want some tea?”

you shrugged. “yeah, sure. thanks.” spencer nodded as well. it was already getting late, the sun leaving the city’s sky.

“i’m gonna go change while the water boils, make yourselves comfortable.” she said while making her way upstairs.

you went back towards the salon, your eyes wandering towards a collage on lila’s wall. spencer got your left side, his white stripped button up shirt’s sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

“feel anything yet?” you asked him.

“there is something definitely appealing about this one.” he said and you nodded.

“like lila?”

he looked at you, his mouth falling open to say something, but just as the words were to fall from his lips, the blonde returned in a a more comfortable outfit, making her way towards the patio of her house, beside the pool.

“what are you doing?” spencer inquired her.

“i just need some air. the tea is on the kitchen.” she responded.

“what? no, lila…” your eyes rolled to the back of your head as you watched him go after her.

you could hear them talk and spencer beg her to come inside since there was a psychotic killer aiming at her. you made your way back to the kitchen just as fast as you saw the blonde lean into him, one of her hands tugging at his tie to pull him down. great.

your hands took the cup of steaming tea that lila had prepared you, your eyes on spencer’s as you took a sip. but the warm liquid was poured all over the floor of the kitchen, your head spinning at the blunt trauma that stroke you. your hands went to the side of your forehead as you fell, taking in the sight of your blood. you groaned as someone took you from your hair, pulling you and dragging you across the floor, your hands getting cuts from the smashed cup of tea.

“come here.” the unsub said, taking away your gun, and… you knew that voice. your eyes met the blonde’s.

“maggie lowe?” you muttered to yourself. so you were right. she was the killer and stalker.

you got dragged all the way to the salon, where you could see lila and spencer kissing from the distance. but the kiss quickly broke when maggie fired a shot up into the ceiling, capturing their attentions. spencer quickly pulled out his weapon, pointing at maggie, whose gun’s barbell was right against your head.

“maggie?” lila inquired as they slowly made their way towards you two.

“why’d you have to bring these people here?” she asked lila. “put down the gun.” she ordered spencer, clocking the weapon that kissed your skin. he quickly lowered it, calling out for the killer. “don’t call me maggie! you don’t know me!” “come on lila, let’s go. we gotta go baby, let’s go.” she ordered the actress in a soft yet hurt voice.

“maggie don’t hurt her, you don’t need to hurt her.” you didn’t know if he was talking about lila or you. or maybe both.

“you don’t know anything. i would never do anything to hurt lila. i created her.”

“no, you didn’t.” lila said.

“yes, i did!” you closed your eyes when the barbell dug harsher against your temple. “i did everything for you! and you betray me by bringing these people here… to our house!!!”

“so ungrateful…” you say, loud enough for maggie to hear you. “look at you… you gave her everything and you saw what she did to you… she kissed him. she told him she loved him.” you lied, looking at spencer. he caught on.

“what?” maggie incredulously said.

“i heard them. i saw them kissing each other like animals!” you yelled. “he abandoned me… and now i’m here. about to be killed because of him!” you spat, meeting maggie’s eyes. “you don’t have to hurt me. they don’t deserve us. i’m on your side maggie… i know how you feel. i know how it feels to be betrayed like this…” you nodded, seeing her eyes change. “give me my gun… i’ll kill him for you. and then you can have lila back. i’ll let the two of you go.” you promised, slowly rising up to your feet, extending your hand.

and just as she pointed her gun down, you tackled her, taking the weapons from her and throwing them aside as she fought against your hold.

“reid!” you called out for your work mate, who quickly came to you and handcuffed maggie, who just started crying and begging for you to kill her.

“i gave her everything…”

you looked at spencer, wiping off the blood from your eyes.

“and that’s why we need to stay professional.”

“are you okay, pretty girl?” morgan came to you as the paramedics wiped clean your wound.

“yeah, they say i have a light concussion. a couple of stitches and i’ll be alright.” you gave him a small smile.

“what happened in there, huh? we only got what the paparazzi had on camera, which is…” you nodded.

“yeah. well, maggie got into the house with lila’s spare keys, and basically almost killed me. it was good luck that spencer kissed lila, or else i don’t know what i would’ve done.” the rest of the team had gathered around you.

“you did good. spencer told me how you got into her head.” gideon said.

“thanks.” you responded.

“make sure you’re on the clear before getting up. we’ll be right back, gotta fill in the other officers.” hotch informed you, to what you nodded.

they all left except spencer, who silently looked at you.

“i’m sorry.” spencer said, looking at his feet. “this shouldn’t have happened, if i hadn’t…”

“… played barbie?” you finished off for him, catching his attention. “look spencer. i don’t really care about it. it’s your life and you make your own decisions, just… make sure to not put any of us in danger while doing it. even lila. one of us three could have died tonight.” he nodded. you reached on your back pockets, pulling out the films of the paparazzi’s camera. “i guess this is yours.” he called out for you once again, probably to apologize one more time, but you were still pretty shaken up and you were still pretty mad at him. “would you mind? my head is killing me.” you asked of him and he nodded, silently turning around and walking its way towards morgan and emily. your mind went back to her words the moment the needle punctured your skin. oh ‘come on, really? do you really not feel it?’ ‘there’s this weird tension in between the two of you.’. and then back to jj’s. ‘it’s like when two little kids like each other and they don’t know how to show it so they just mess with each other’. you couldn’t help but chuckle.

you liking spencer? no way.

if there was anything you felt for spencer reid that was hate.

a/n; im so excited for this series!!!! so much angst and fluff and smut yet to come!🤭

813 notes · View notes