Right In Front Of Me

Right In Front Of Me

Author: Nat / @idontgiveaflyinggrayson69​ & KO / @thirteenisles​

Relationship: Married; Anthony Bridgerton x Fem!Reader

Summary: The only way he could rationally find a suitable wife was by removing love from the equation all together. Courtship was game of jumping through hoops he really did not want to play, and he was a Viscount. Surely there would be a father with a more than suitable daughter he could simply ask for your hand and get it. Or the one where your arranged marriage with Anthony Bridgerton isn’t a loving marriage… until it is.

Word Count: 12k

Warnings: Smut. Unprotected sex. Mentioned loss of virginity. Period typical misogyny and gender roles. Major character injury. Men are dicks. Nightmares. Mentioned menstruation. Pregnancy.

Comments: Absolutely no one come for me for this. It’s not period accurate (tho neither is the show). We decided to take liberties and make it our own and we had fun writing it and that’s what counts. This ended up way longer then intended! And yes, I will be working on my legit WIPs soon because I’m SO close to being finished with this term!

Continuar lendo

What Time Has Done (Part XI) Benedict Bridgerton x Original Character Series

Synopsis: The Castillon family has vanished from society, and their hasty disappearance leaves many with burning questions.

Requested: no

Warnings: None (though do let me know if i've missed one)

Word Count: 2730

A/N: I'm back (for now)! Let the angst continue!

The two siblings find themselves sat upon their beloved swings once again. Eloise, having quickly dashed away any trace of her cigarette, lets out an ‘oh’ in slight relief at the fact that it is Benedict standing behind her. She regains her slightly slumped over position, taking another drag of the cigarette before handing it to Benedict, who sits in the empty swing beside her. Neither of them seem as entirely jolly as they had been in their previous night time meetings, though with the sense of tension in the air, who is to blame them? 

“I found bits of your sketchbook in the fireplace,” Eloise starts.

“Are you spying on me now?”

Eloise chuckles, “you would actually have to be interesting for me to spy on you”.

“The drawings in that sketchbook were abominable. I could not stand to look at them”. 

“I believe that is why they call it a sketchbook. Despite the fact that they were almost all of Miss Castillon, I write in my diary, which is not the same as writing in my novel,” Eloise turns to look at her melancholy brother. 

At the mention of Miss Castillon, Benedict slumps more against the rope of the swing, releasing a deep sigh. He had spent much of their time apart sketching her, as Eloise had evidently found out, but he found it was not the same. The sketches were not something that could fill the void of her absence. Benedict does nothing but elicit a short laugh.

“I assume you have not heard from her then?” Eloise asks, turning back to face the open field that is the Bridgerton property. 

“No. Unfortunately I have not”. 

“Have you tried knocking on her front door perhaps?” 

“I was sent away by their butler before I could even ascend the front steps,” Benedict replies, looking up from the ground. 

“It must be very difficult to want something and not be able to get it,” Eloise starts again. 

“Eloise,” Benedict tries but is interrupted. 

“If you enjoy drawing but need practice, then practice. If you desire the sun and the moon, all you have to do is go out and shoot at the sky”. 

“I am to assume this is not about drawing anymore?” 

Eloise does not verbally reply, but instead raises a brow at her older brother, hoping he understands. He does, but it does not ease his worry as much as one might hope. Whatever happened to have caused the Castillon family such a break from society is quite worrisome indeed, as even Lady Whistledown has not tried to poke fun at it quite yet. Balls and parties feel quite dull now that Miss Castillon is not around, and as much as he refuses to let himself admit it out loud, he has grown quite fond of her company. Though that would be obvious to anyone with eyes, he thinks anyway. 

“I am sure whatever has happened, Miss Castillon will make it through. She is a woman, therefore she has nothing, and yet still, she has gone through university in an attempt to better herself. You are a man, therefore you have everything. You are able to do whatever you want. So do it; be bold”. 

“Eloise, are you Lady Whistledown?” Benedict asks, not one to wallow in sorrow for too long. “You’re an accomplished writer, always scribbling away in that diary of yours. You seem to know everyone else’s business, and you have more opinions than anyone I know in London”. 

“Unfortunately not the business of anyone that matters at the minute,” Eloise comments, bringing them back to reality for a second. 

“I suppose not,” Benedict replies. Eloise reaches her hand over the ropes tying the strings to the tree and lays it atop Benedict’s. 

“We’ll figure this out soon. If not to have my dear friend back, then to at least stop you moping around the house all day,” Eloise says, trying to bring some light back to the situation. 

The Next Morning 

“Mama, do you know when Miss Castillon shall be back? I am quite bored with my governess,” Hyacinth asks from her spot on the couch, watching as Gregory spills his marbles across the carpeted floor. 

“I do not know dearest. We have not heard from her in quite a few days”.

“A few days? More like a few centuries!” Gregory whines from the floor. 

“Maybe she finally grew tired of you and decided to teach someone else,” Colin pipes up. 

“Colin!” Lady Bridgerton scolds her third eldest. 

“It was merely a joke, Mama,” Colin defends. 

“I thought jokes were meant to be funny,” Hyacinth comments, having grown clearly upset at his remark. 

“I did not mean it, Hyacinth,” Colin replies after a sharp look from their mother. 

How one person could leave such a gap in a space is something no one in the Bridgerton household had an answer to. Benedict has yet to cross his mother’s path that morning and she can only imagine how bad it must be for him if Hyacinth is also complaining about Miss Castillon’s absence. She was never one for agonisingly slow romances, and she knew just how little it took to become enraptured by someone; something Benedict is coming to realise for himself. 

“Has anyone seen Benedict this morning?” Lady Bridgerton asks the room, hoping someone might have an answer for her. 

“I have not seen him since before retiring to bed last night,” Colin replies, and Lady Bridgerton sighs. Clearly he did not provide her the answer she was hoping for. 

“Perhaps he is sketching more of Miss Castillon as we speak!” Hyacinth perks up, having found a crumpled up piece of sketch paper with a certain likeness on it just outside the bin of the drawing room. 

“I highly doubt that,” Anthony comments as he walks in the room. 

“Anthony! How are you this morning, dearest?” Lady Bridgerton asks her eldest. 

“Quite well. Though I cannot say the same for a certain brother of ours,” he looks over to Colin, trying to grab his attention. Through the odd sort of sibling telepathy the Bridgerton children seem to share, Colin’s eyes meet Anthony’s and the two have a nonverbal conversation. Colin rises from his seat, and without very many words at all, the two are out of the room, muttering something about a meeting in town that almost no one believes. 

“I think I may have found the reason for Miss Castillon’s sudden disappearance,” Anthony says once the two are out of earshot from the rest of the family. 

“What is it?” 

“I have reason to believe that Lord Castillon has been up to something that has caused a great deal of grief to the family. I noticed it at one of my last nights in his company. Gambling, a game he usually does not shy away from, seemed of no interest to him, and I can only imagine the family might have fallen into some financial difficulty”. 

“If you noticed this that long ago, why didn’t you say anything?”

“The pieces did not fit until the family vanished entirely. I thought one night off of gambling not quite odd enough to elicit further questioning, but now I see I may very well have been wrong”. 

“Does Benedict know?” Colin asks. 

“If he does, I was not the one he heard it from,” Anthony confirms. 

Meanwhile, during all of this, Benedict had taken it upon himself to try once again at the Castillon house. He decides to walk, seeing as the weather was nice and Eloise had taken the carriage anyway for a trip to the markets with Penelope. Upon reaching a closer distance to the house, he notices a redheaded figure that he takes no time at all to render as Miss Castillon. Quickening his pace, he tries his hardest to catch up with her, though upon hearing his footsteps, she only seems to walk faster. 

 “Miss Castillon! Miss Castillon! Please wait!” Benedict calls as he walks up behind her, eventually growing so close that she has no choice but to stop and turn around. 

“Good morning to you, Mr. Bridgerton,” his spirit sinks slightly at her tone of voice, not to mention the obvious tension in her eyes upon seeing him. 

“Good morning,” he replies, though it comes out more like a question, his bottled up confusion about the last several days almost ready to boil over, “how are you? No one has seen you as of late, we are all worried about you”. 

“I appreciate your concern, but I simply have not been well recently. Madeline caught something last week and unfortunately gave it to the rest of us, but today Mama thought a nice walk in the sun might do me some good,” she explains, hoping it is enough to persuade him. Truthfully she had not left her house much since the discovery of her family’s debt, as seeing other members of the ton at a time like this was not something she thought she could bear. Of course today being the one day she had chosen to venture further than their back garden would also be the one day she runs into Benedict. 

“Ah,” Benedict replies. “So we shall be seeing you out and about again soon then?” 

“Perhaps, if I am not the only one to recover, Mr. Bridgerton”. 

“Quite right, I suppose”. 

“If that is all Mr. Bridgerton, I shall take my leave. Good day,” she nods curtly and walks past him, giving him no time to try reaching out again, in fear that she might not be able to resist long enough if he did. Benedict watches as he leaves, wanting to follow her but being forced to stay in place, as if the universe was holding him there. 

The Castillon House- Emmeline’s Perspective

I walk quickly up our front steps, taking all of my energy not to turn around and spare Benedict another glance. I was not expecting to see him so soon, though I do not quite know how long I imagine I can stay inside without someone taking notice. We have refused any copies of Lady Whistledown as of late and with us not attending any social events, who knows what people are saying about us? On the trek back up to my room, I see Papa sitting on the bed of the guest room that he has been cast away to; Mama has not spoken to him or anyone since the news broke. I do not think anyone in the house has spoken to each other much at all, we’re all too much in shock. Andrew and Graham were quick to try and console me on the night itself, but since then, everyone seems to have secluded themselves. 

Truly it has become an insufferable household, but there is not much I can do if the whole house has put itself on lockdown. Sitting down on my bed feels more like a sinking rock than the release of pressure I was hoping for, but I stay sitting nonetheless. The tears that have been appearing every now and again seem to reacquaint themselves with their places on my cheeks as the sunlight casts an unusually high amount of sunlight into my room. I stand up quickly, closing the curtains and sitting back down, not feeling up to the sun that is quite the opposite of my current mood. I think back to Benedict’s face, and how sad he looked when I was sharp with him. How terrible it felt to lie, but the last thing I need is for him to also take pity on me. I do not need to drag him into this mess as well.

The Bridgerton Household- That Same Day

“We are to attend the boxing match today anyway. Perhaps that might be a time for him to take his mind somewhere else while we figure out how to tell him,” Anthony explains to Colin. 

“Indeed, a good breather I should imagine”. 

“If Mama knew I was here, of all places,” Daphne comments as the siblings walk into the boxing match, Anthony linked to Daphne’s arm. 

“Trust she would have more to say to me than you,” Anthony replies, then with a quick glance across the room, “ah, there is your prince now. With your fancy well in hand, I shall make myself scarce for the final blow,” he lets go of Daphne’s arm, putting some distance between himself and the couple. 

“Tell us Mr. Mondrich, is it true you’ve been training with the duke?” Lord Featherington asks the fighter as they stand in a cluster just outside the ring. 

“Let us not exaggerate my role. I am a mere pupil. Target practice at best,” Simon pipes in. 

“His grace is modest. He is one of the least pitiful students I have ever trained,” Mr. Mondrich jokes. 

Simon appears to lose track of the conversation as he notices Daphne taking a seat next to Prince Friedrich. Mondrich says something about the wagers before calling Simon back to the circle. Benedict cannot help but notice the disjunct in conversation and he recounts how many times on the journey over here where he had caused the same. His encounter with Miss Castillon has left him unsettled at best, and he wonders just how much of her story is true. He does not wish to undermine her by assuming her entire explanation a farce, but something seems to be hanging there, unexplained. 

“I, for one, have placed my bets on Mr. Gillespie. He is the prince’s man. Though it is a shame no one has seen Lord Castillon as of late. He is never one to miss an opportunity to cheer for the underdog,” Lord Featherington remarks before the crowd is called to take their seats. 

After the match, with a group of men grumbling about Lord Featherington’s lack of payment, Benedict finds himself seated at one of the club’s tables, a newspaper in hand. 

“What do you think, Bridgerton? This one more to your liking?” Someone asks from behind him. As he turns around, he is greeted by none other than Mr. Granville. Embarrassment is quick to rush through him as he recalls his previous encounter with the gentleman. 

“Mr. Granville-”

“Perhaps they should take it over to Somerset House, so it can be skyed right next to mine”. 

“I believe I owe you an apology, sir,” Benedict says, slightly uncomfortable with the situation he finds himself in. 

“Uncessessary. I actually quite enjoy the eloquent stings of your critique. And the rest of the party seemed to enjoy it as well,” he stops Benedict in his tracks, “so?” He looks back at the painting. 

“A touch morose for my taste”. 

“Hm,” Mr. Granville hums in response and points to the next one. 

“Tragedy, the hound deserved better,” Benedict comments, causing a laugh to rise out of Mr. Granville. 

“Where is yours?” He asks Benedict. 

“My…” Benedict trails off, not fully understanding. 

“Your work,” Mr. Granville clarifies. “Are you to tell me you’re not an artist yourself?” 

“Well, I suppose sometimes I like to…I almost-”

“I believe ‘yes’ and ‘thank you’ are the words that you seek. But either way, you should come by my studio. The pieces I do for myself are there, and I believe you’ll find my real work less…how did you put it? ‘Cold and lacking inner life’?” Benedict cringes at the recalling of his previous statement. 

“I shall never live that down shall I?” 

“Hm. Perhaps you shall bring that girl of yours, the one from our last encounter. Maybe she can be an inspiration to us all,” Mr. Granville ponders. 

“If she were in a state to be seeing people I might consider it. But she claims her entire family is ill so I doubt she would be interested,” Benedict counters. 

“Shame,” Mr. Granville sighs before walking away. 

Shame indeed, Benedict thinks. Anthony looks over at his brother as he makes his way to Simon, and the two share a look. Anthony’s end portraying more pity than anything, which Benedict immediately turns away from. It is as if he cannot escape Miss Castillon and yet she is not even in the room. She has truly done something to him, and he does not know if he can wait much longer to feel it again. In person.

Can you write an X Reader story with Tom?, where Tom "falls in love" or is attracted to Reader, but she is dating someone else (a Slytherin boy maybe or... from another house) and tries to make she his even if he is rejected at first.

(Perhaps even try a more extreme approach, for example at Professor Slughorn’s party under the table while she is sitting next to him).

Can you write something fluff and smut? Thank you very much.

(sorry if I wrote something in English that is wrong...it’s not my language...I hope you understand). ★

First of all, your English is great, second of all, this prompt is amazing.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Spoken For

Summary: You’re already spoken for when Tom Riddle asks you to Slughorn’s party, but luckily (or unluckily), Tom is hardly known to give up on anything he wants so easily.

Wordcount: 4.2k

Content warning: explicit sex.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

“No,” you frown, turning and striding away as quickly as you can, hoping he doesn’t follow but –

“Why not?” Tom says at once, falling in close step beside you.

“I don’t need to give you a reason to turn you down, Tom,” you mutter.

“But you have one.” His eyes are trained on your face, watching for anything he can glean.

“And why exactly do you want to go with me?” you say dryly, weaving through the students milling in the hall between classes and rather desperately hoping that he falters at the question and leaves you alone.

“You want me to list your virtues?” he asks in an equally sardonic tone and not shying away in the slightest.

Damn. The boy’s persistent. “I’m not looking for an ego boost,” you say with a roll of your eyes. “I’m just surprised.”

“Surprised that I want you to be my date?”

“Exactly.”

“Perhaps if you indulged me, the reasons would become clear,” Tom says delicately.

You shoot him a look. “Nice try.”

“You seem to have already made up your mind regardless,” he replies at once, eyes narrowing.

You exhale slowly, holding your books a little tighter. You hadn’t wanted it to get to this, but it looks like you have no other choice. “I already have a date to Slughorn’s party,” you say, frowning again.

Tom stops walking, catching your arm and making you stop, too. Your heart thrums nervously in your chest. “Who?” he asks quietly.

His expression has gone perfectly smooth, but you’re hardly fooled. It’s well known that Tom’s tenacity is rivalled only by his intolerance of failure, a combination that won him his place as the best student in your year – you can only imagine how he’s processing the fact that it hasn’t done him any favours with you. “That doesn’t concern you,” you say with deliberate sharpness, pulling your arm from his grasp.

His expression doesn’t change, his dark eyes levelled on yours with a heavy, inescapable scrutiny.

Your stomach twists with guilt and nerves in equal measure. The truth is that you’re (reluctantly) already spoken for, Axel Pembroke asked you out three months prior and you’d been on quite a few dates since. Whilst you aren’t exactly head-over-heels for the boy, your family adores him, he’s polite and innocuous, and he doesn’t seem to mind (or perhaps notice) your lukewarm feelings towards him.

Which is exactly why you’d tried to shut Tom down and get away so quickly. Intelligent and quiet, observant and shrewd, beautiful just to top it off; Tom makes you curious, you want to say yes to him, and that makes him more than a little dangerous to you.

So here you are, turning him down so abruptly that it must be fairly easy to interpret it as callousness.

“Tom,” you say quietly, “I… maybe if I wasn’t… already…”

He blinks, his attention as unrelenting as ever, but you’re suddenly wondering what people would say if it got out that you’d told him such a thing whilst dating Axel.  

“I should go,” you say hastily, forcing your eyes away from him. “I hope you find another date.”

You hurry off, and thankfully this time Tom doesn’t follow.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

In retrospect, you should have known he wouldn’t give up that easily.

The dinner party is a long, tedious affair made all the worse by the fact that Axel is too busy discussing the merits and flaws of the Holyhead Harpies line-up for the coming Quidditch season with the boys next to him to have spoken much more than two complete sentences to you all night. His attentiveness to you, you’re learning, is apparently extremely fickle and entirely dependent on whether or not he’s around his friends. Even worse, the seat beside you is empty and you’ve been forced to spend the evening in silence as you pick at your food at the end of the table, wishing time might pass faster.

Around seven-thirty the door to the chamber swings open and everyone looks up as Tom walks inside, dressed in smartly-fitted but simple black dress robes and looking so strikingly handsome that you catch several people at the table trade furtive glances with each other. “Apologies, Professor,” he says with a polite nod at Slughorn, “the meeting with the Headmaster ran overtime.”

“Not to worry, Tom my boy!” Slughorn says jovially, leaping to his feet and sending his napkin flying into Phoebe Minks’ soup. “Take a seat! The night is still young!”

Your blood runs hot and electric under your skin. There’s only one seat left at the table and it’s next to you.

“Of course, sir,” Tom says smoothly, eyes flicking to you with humour as he approaches.

You avert your gaze, trying (completely in vain) to catch Axel’s attention – he’s half-turned from you so as to better hear some fifth-year Gryffindor’s rundown of the previous season’s highlights and is not paying you any attention in the slightest.

“Good evening,” Tom says softly as he takes the seat beside you.

You nod silently, suddenly very preoccupied with refilling your goblet.

“Tell us about this meeting then, Tom!” Slughorn calls from the other end of the table.

“Dull affairs, I’m afraid, sir,” he says back with a good-natured drawl. “I’m due to supervise the third years on their first trip to Hogsmeade next month.”

“Oh? Nothing else?”

“No, sir,” Tom says with a razor-sharp smile, “I’m sure whatever you were discussing before my arrival was of infinitely more interest.”

Slughorn chortles but returns to his conversation with the aristocratic-looking Ravenclaw seventh-years beside him. You glance desperately at Axel. Please turn around, you will him, please turn around so that I don’t have to talk to –

“The aforementioned date, I presume,” Tom says softly.

And you can’t avoid turning to him. His elbows are resting on the table before him, slowly tilting his crystal goblet in small circles and watching the liquid shift inside. He’s not looking at you but it’s obvious where his comment is directed.

“And yet you end up beside me regardless,” you mutter.

“Funny, isn’t it?” Tom says, giving you a delicate smile.

Your eyes dart across his face suspiciously, but his smile doesn’t budge.

“Your chemistry is overwhelming,” he says smoothly, nodding at the back of Axel’s head. “I can see the appeal.”

“Stop it,” you mutter pointedly, frowning at your goblet again.

“No, I’m quite serious,” he continues, smile widening, “your rejection makes perfect sense, now, how could I possibly compete with such enamoured affections?”

“It’s not usually like this,” you say quietly, embarrassed.

“Oh?” Tom asks, lifting his goblet to his full lips and watching you closely. “Normally you’re utterly infatuated, are you?” He takes a slow sip, not looking away.

Damn him, you think angrily, wrenching your eyes off his beautiful face and feeling heat on your own. He knows exactly what he’s doing.

“Well, in the absence of your date’s conversation, perhaps my own might suffice as an adequate substitute,” Tom says smoothly, lowering his goblet and setting it down on the table before him.

“And what would you want to talk about?” you ask with an unmissable brush of sarcasm.

“Oh Quidditch, naturally,” he says with a smirk, glancing briefly at Axel again.

You shoot him another look but his amusement doesn’t falter. “You’re hilarious,” you drawl.

“Well what would you like to talk about?” Tom asks quietly, tilting his head and giving you a strangely penetrating look.

You blink. Something about his demeanour makes the question very easy to answer honestly. “I’d rather talk about anything other than Quidditch.”

Tom breathes a small laugh and he turns towards you. “Well in that case, I’m very well prepared to please you,” he says very smoothly, “I know next to nothing about Quidditch and I’m quite determined to keep it that way.”

You laugh too, and then get very annoyed at yourself for doing so. “This isn’t a date,” you tell him quickly, leaning in a little closer and speaking as quietly as you can.

“Of course not,” Tom replies smoothly, his lips curving into a smile as he lifts a hand to his cheekbone and leans against it thoughtfully.

“Just a conversation,” you continue very intently.

“Naturally.”

“It’s normal to converse with other people at a dinner party.”

“Utterly commonplace,” Tom smiles.

You hesitate, suddenly wondering exactly which of you you’re reassuring. “Alright,” you say slowly, lifting your goblet. “Let’s talk.”

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

You’re hardly surprised when he’s sitting next to you at the next Slugclub dinner party, too. And the next. In fact, Tom is mysteriously beside you at every one of Slughorn’s gatherings all term, and you’re quite certain that Axel might have drawn issue with someone talking to you so much if he’d bothered to turn around even once.

Not that he has any reason to be bothered, of course. They’re just conversations, nothing more. Maybe Tom’s dry, bitingly observant sense of humour makes you laugh more than anyone else ever has, and maybe he asks questions with direct, astute candidness that make it unavoidably obvious that he’s paying very close attention to your answers, and maybe he’s the most beautiful person you’ve ever seen in your life – but they’re just conversations.

“Slughorn is having another dinner this weekend,” Tom says casually as he falls into step with you in the Charms corridor.

“Is he now?” you say wryly, trying to ignore the excitement curling in your stomach.

“Go with me.”

Your smile fades and you stop walking, looking up at Tom in surprise. He stops too, his regal features settled into something serious and impenetrable as he looks back at you.

“You mean… sit together?” you ask carefully.

“No,” Tom says plainly, “I mean as my date.”

You blink, glancing around nervously. “Tom, you know that I’m going with –”

“If Pembroke paid you any less attention you could strangle Slughorn to death right on the table and he still wouldn’t stop talking to Blakeslee and Dunn about which broomsticks the Americans are using this year,” Tom interrupts, arching a brow.

“He’s my date,” you say coolly.

“He’s not your date,” Tom retorts immediately, all humour vanishing as he steps closer. “Don’t insult yourself by considering that a date.”

“I told you that we’re just having conversations, Tom,” you whisper angrily.

“Oh? Are they just conversations?” Tom breathes.

But all you can do is stare at him as the hours you’ve spent talking to him in Slughorn’s parties swim across your consciousness and you realise with mounting horror that no, no they were not just conversations. You swallow hard and look away. “I don’t want to have to turn you down again,” you say through gritted teeth.

“Then don’t,” he says bluntly, not moving away.

“Tom.”

“I know you want to choose me.”

You shoot him another look of warning. “Stop it,” you hiss.

“Stop lying to yourself,” he hisses back, leaning closer.

“I won’t throw Axel under the bus just because I have feelings for you, Tom,” you say angrily.

Tom immediately stands up straighter, triumph glittering in his eyes as he looks down at you and you realise exactly what you’ve just said. Horror washes over you in a cold wave and you turn on your heel and flee, barely paying attention to where you’re going in your haste to get away from him.

You’re already dreading the coming weekend.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

You seriously consider not going until Axel starts getting suspicious as to why you’re so reluctant and you’re forced to swallow your mumbled collection of excuses, put on a nice dress, and follow him to the party. Tom looks up from where he’s sat at the far end of the table when you enter and you quickly avert your eyes as warmth erupts on your skin, giving Slughorn a very forced smile at the head of the table.

“Excellent stuff in the last match, Pembroke,” Slughorn winks, “I’ll have to have a word with Begonia Pincushion from the Wimbourne Wasps – old student of mine, you know –”

Axel immediately starts gushing in excitement and walks off without you to sit next to Slughorn, leaving you quite alone and without an open seat beside him. You blink, embarrassment filtering through your chest as the other party-goers awkwardly look between you and Axel – now so engrossed in his conversation with Slughorn that he hasn’t even noticed the whole room staring at you standing by yourself.

“There’s a spare seat here, if you’d like,” a Hufflepuff girl you don’t know offers quickly, smiling at you as she gestures at the chair beside her.

Your eyes drift unbidden to Tom at the end of the table and find him already looking at you, composed and inscrutable. His group of Slytherin fanboys fill the seats around him, but there’s a space. There’s a space on his right. You don’t think for a second that it’s just by chance.

“Thank you,” you say to the Hufflepuff girl, feeling brazenly reckless, “that’s very kind, but I think I’m spoken for.”

And you resolutely turn and make your way over to Tom, ignoring the way his lips slowly curl into a knowing smile as you approach, the way the other Slytherin boys immediately turn away and fall into deep conversation with each other, they way they don’t look at either you or Tom again.

Tom turns to you as you sit down, lightly resting his head against his hand the same way he had the very first time you’d talked to him, his expression somewhere between satisfied and amused. “Hello,” he says dryly.

“Don’t push it,” you mutter, seizing a goblet and filling it.

He breathes a laugh. “Did I just witness the final straw?”

“I’d rather not talk about it,” you frown, glancing down the table where Axel still hasn’t noticed your absence.

Tom’s amusement slowly fades as he looks at you, his own brow furrowing. “Are you alright?” he asks quietly.

Your eyes flash to his, something thrumming unignorably in your chest. You nod and force yourself to take a sip of your drink.

“You look beautiful.”

You blink, something fragile fluttering in your chest as your face floods with heat as you stare at his calm, attentive expression, his posture unmoved.

“Am I allowed to say that now?” he asks smoothly, smirking slightly.

“I think that counts as pushing it,” you mumble, knowing he’s bound to have noticed your blush as you look away.

“You’ll have to tell me when I cross the line,” he says softly.

“You’re relentless.”

“I am,” he smiles, lifting his goblet.

You try to smother your own smile with very dubious success, having to hide it behind a sip of your drink instead.

“So,” Tom says a good two hours later, setting down his empty goblet, “I think it only fair that you give me a definitive answer, all things considered.”

“An answer?” you echo, arching a brow.

“Are you going to be my date?” he asks lightly, looking at you.  

You falter, eyes darting to Axel at the front of the table. Most of the dinner guests are a little tipsy on the heavy wine Slughorn always serves, and loud, boisterous conversation fills the room – though nothing can drown out Axel’s brazen lack of acknowledgement that you’ve been sitting with Tom all evening. “I… don’t know…” you say, frowning.

“You’re not seriously going to consider him after this, are you?” Tom says at once, leaning towards you with a dangerously sharp look in his dark eyes.

“What do you want me to do, Tom?” you breathe. “Our families get on, he’s not horrible to me –”

“He’s not horrible to you,” Tom repeats, scathingly unimpressed.

“I have no good reason to end things with him!”  

Tom’s eyes flash and his hand is suddenly on your thigh under the table, his fingers pressing hard into your skin and your heart just about stops. “No good reason,” he echoes softly, gripping you tighter. “Is that true?”

“Tom,” you whisper, frozen in place.

“Is it?” he asks silkily.

You can barely breathe. Tom’s grip is loosening but not to let you go – his hand is moving, agonisingly slowly, relentlessly, sliding up your leg. “Tom,” you say again, barely audible.

“Have I crossed the line?” he whispers, his palm pushing up your dress as it slides higher up your thigh.

When you don’t reply, Tom’s lips curve into a smile and he turns quite casually back to his plate, hand still on your thigh under the table as he reaches forward and lifts his goblet. “You did agree to tell me if I did,” he says softly, his fingers grazing up the inside of your leg and making you supress a shiver.

And you beg yourself to tell him to stop, to ask him to take his hand away, but heat is flooding your stomach and his hand is warm and firm on your skin, and there’s a burning look in his eyes when he glances at you that makes something between excitement and desire spark in every part of your body.

Tom’s hand moves higher and you lean your elbows on the table in front of you, staring unseeing at your plate as his fingers brush the hollow where your leg meets your hip.

“Are you going to choose?” he asks quietly, watching you.

You look up across the table in fear that someone, anyone might have noticed – but no one is paying you any attention in the slightest, the rambunctious conversation drowning out Tom’s words and the wine blurring their awareness of everything else.

Tom lifts his goblet, his eyes fixed on your face. “Tell me to stop,” he says softly, sliding his fingers across your underwear and making you grit your teeth to stop yourself from reacting.

“Tom,” you try again, barely audible.

“Tell me.”

His fingers are playing with the top of your underwear, and you look over at him, arousal and fear and nerves and excitement tearing in your chest. Tom’s eyes are alight with amusement, his attention still on your face as he smiles, brings his goblet to his lips for a slow sip that you watch him take, captivated.

You grit your teeth again and say nothing.

Tom’s smile grows and suddenly his hand is gone. You blink, cheeks flooding with sudden embarrassment and dread at what has just occurred, wondering if he’ll tell people what you’d let him do, wondering if he’d done it all just to mess with you –

“Make your choice,” Tom says smoothly, leaning back in his chair very languidly.

“You’re seriously trying to seduce me?” you manage to say under your breath.

“It appears to be working,” he smirks, glancing at you.

Your blush returns and Tom’s eyes roam your cheeks looking very pleased with the reaction, when he suddenly stands. “Some music, perhaps, sir?” he asks Slughorn with an unaffected smile.

Slughorn is delighted by the suggestion (of course he is), and in mere minutes the dinner party is milling around the room in small groups of conversation, reedy music blaring loudly from a large golden gramophone by the fireplace.

“Axel,” you say quickly, approaching him where he’s talking to three other boys you don’t know very well.

“Oh – haven’t seen you much tonight,” he says casually, glancing at you.

“No – listen, do you want to dance?” you offer, nodding at the small group of other couples a few feet away. Please say yes, please say yes, please give me a single reason to choose you, please do something –

“I’m in the middle of something,” Axel says distractedly, turning back to the three boys, “maybe later.”

He’s already back in conversation before you can reply. You stare at him, your disappointment almost as potent as your absolute absence of surprise.

A hand around your wrist makes you jump, and you wheel around to find Tom already insistently leading you towards the back of the room. “What are you –”

But Tom just casts one last look over the party before he tugs you into a very small, shadowed alcove behind a large wooden column out of sight and pushes you hard against the wall. “You’re going to have to be very quiet, can you do that?” he asks softly, resting a forearm on the wall above your head as his other hand slides up your leg again – though this time the touch is anything but slow.

“Tom,” you gasp, looking back out of the alcove – but no one is there. No one can see you.

“Tell me to stop,” he whispers again as he leans down. Your breath catches in your throat and suddenly Tom’s lips are pressed against your neck and his hand is sliding teasingly along the band of your underwear again. Anything you might have said dies in your throat.

“Go on,” he murmurs against your skin. “Tell me to stop.”

“Tom,” you breathe again, your hands lifting without conscious thought and lacing around his neck.

You hear his little laugh, feel it brush warm across your neck, and he’s pulling your underwear down, and with a touch that feels like fire he slides his fingers against you. Your moan barely slips out from between your lips before Tom’s arm drops from the wall above you and his hand presses firmly over your mouth. “Didn’t I say to be quiet?” he tells you softly, but his fingers are stroking at you and you can barely breathe, your eyes closing tightly as dizziness and pleasure storm in your body.

You hold onto his arm just to stay grounded, his hand over your mouth stifling the noises threatening to escape as his fingers send pleasure coiling low in your core, his lips teasing your neck and making heat spread tingling across your skin.

Tom lifts his head and looks down at you breathing hard beneath his hand, his fingers making you shift with pleasure. “Can you be quiet for me?” he murmurs.

You nod. You would have agreed to anything he’d asked you in that moment.

Tom’s hand vanishes from your mouth and he’s kissing you, soft lips, tongue hot against yours, and you’re dizzy and delirious, kissing him back without thinking, without caring about anything else –

“Look at you,” he murmurs against your mouth, “legs spread for me, so wet for me –”

“Tom,” you moan, whisper-quiet.

“Say it again,” he commands softly.

“Tom.”

He kisses you hard again and you feel the pleasure in your gut start to build and build. “There,” Tom murmurs, pulling back, “there it is. You’re going to come for me, aren’t you?”

“I…”

“Ask me for it,” he says softly.

“Tom, please –”

“Tell me you’re mine.”

You look up at him. Tom looks back with his burning dark eyes, his hand cupping your jaw and pulling your closer to his lips barely breath away from yours as his fingers keep building the smouldering pleasure in your core. “Tell me,” he whispers.

And you nod.

“Say it.”

“I…”

His fingers slow against you and your head falls back against the wall in frustration, your eyes falling shut.

“I want you to say it,” he murmurs, tilting your face up to his again.

You look up at him, and for a second you just stare, watch his eyes drag across your face, drinking in your expression. You try to focus, try to ignore the achingly slow caress of his fingers between your legs, the pleasure right out of your grasp, the dark heat in Tom’s eyes that’s making you crave giving in, making you wonder why you’ve been resisting at all.

“I’m yours,” you whisper.

Tom’s lips curve into his most dangerous smile as he leans back in, kissing you very softly as his fingers press a little harder, as you breathe harder, your arms wrapping around his neck again and he’s not slowing down anymore and you’re right on the edge, feeling yourself start to tip –

“You’re mine,” Tom says softly, and it breaks over you so hard that his hand smothers your mouth again, holding you tightly as you shift and writhe beneath his touch, unable to stop the moans.

Somehow, no one notices the two of you slipping back to the main party, no one comments on it, and for the first time, you’re glad that Axel pays you less than no attention because your absence passed him by entirely without detection.

“Time to go?” Axel asks you near ten o’clock, shrugging his coat on.

“I’m afraid you’ve lost your date, Pembroke,” Tom says smoothly from where he’s standing beside you.

Axel blinks at him, and you expect that a similar expression is on your own face, too. “Excuse me?” Axel says disbelievingly.

“Perhaps you might be more attentive, next time,” Tom continues casually, offering you his arm. “Very rude of you to ignore someone for weeks on end, you know, and that unpleasantness when you arrived tonight… shameful…”

You don’t hesitate before slipping your arm through Tom’s, and he immediately gives you a heated, knowing look that makes you smile up at him reflexively.

Axel’s gobsmacked gaze turns to you. “Are you serious?”

You shrug lightly, feeling strangely empowered.

“Goodnight, Pembroke,” Tom says very pleasantly, stepping towards the door and leading you with him. “Do find a new date to the next gathering, won’t you? Mine is spoken for.”

Enamored Extra Scene - 15

[Set in : After chapter 36]

Warnings: Explicit language, drinking, Regency era social norms, mentions of sex

“Remind me again why we are meeting here instead of the gentlemen’s club?”

Continuar lendo

He Knows - Simon “Ghost” Riley Pt. 14

An: Well, it only took 36,000 words to get here, but here we are! It's a long one and I had so much fun writing this part, so I hope you like it! My school is ramping up again, so I won't be able to update as often, but I'm still working away!

Hi there, this is a series about Simon Riley from COD. This series does not follow any of the established plots or timelines from the games. While I use the names of some characters, they are different from the ones in COD.

Summary: You’re held captive by 141 for reasons unknown.

Word count: 6100

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Reader

Warnings: 18+, Smut, nsfw, angst, military setting, explicit language, graphic depictions of violence, use of guns.

Image credit: @ave661 (they're amazing!!)

I’ve never shot a gun before, but as I hold Ghost’s in my hand, I try to imagine what it will feel like.

The weapon is like solid lead in my hands. I weigh my options as I click the safety on and off. I feel like a broken scale and I’m indecisive at heart. Tonight is no different.

I twist the weapon around to get a better look at the black coating. It’s well taken care of. Everything Ghost does is so meticulous and thought out. So, to see him leave the cabin in such a haste is cause for concern on its own. Did my words really affect him that much? Or was that all his own doing?

Part of me wonders if he’s watching through the window. Does he think I’d risk attempting to shoot him? I could turn the gun around in my hand. He wouldn’t expect that. None of them would. But then neither of us would get what we want. I’d never see my family again. There’s no satisfaction in the thought.

I also know I couldn’t kill anyone else either. No matter the harm they’ve done. There’s already so much pain in the world. Who am I to add to it? Who am I to decide who gets to live or die? I’m no God.

Yet, I can’t help but wonder if the world would be better off without men like him.

So, I set the gun back down on the table. And then I pick it up again. I slide the magazine out and take each bullet. I slip them into my pillowcase. This is as much power as I take back tonight. Whatever Ghost does if or when he returns is all on him. I am staying as far from this game as possible. I never wanted any part. There are enough men dead because of me.

I sleep with the sound of bullets quietly rubbing and clinking against each other beneath my skull. When I feel his hand cold against my skin, I swear I see Death himself.

The ragged gasp for air feels like my first breath. My heart is racing. I feel the hot, meaty muscle as it climbs its way up my throat and suffocates me as it beats against my windpipe. Thump, thump, thump. My eyes immediately lock on the ominous shadow.

Ghost slowly retracts his hand. He smells like sweat and the outdoors. The cold scent lingers on his clothes and mixes with the smell of burning wood present in the cabin.

Moonlight filters in through the window and mixes with the warm glow of the fire. Between the two, I can just make out the watchful eyes behind the balaclava. He sits on the edge of the bed with both hands now resting on his thighs. I didn’t even feel the dip.

I sit up and pull my knees to my chest and away from him.

“How long were you there?” I don’t expect much of a response. I don’t know if I want one. Once I open this door, there are only so many places it can lead.

“A while,” Ghost’s voice is quiet and strained. He says he’s been here a while, yet his hands are still cold. Or maybe I just imagined they were cold. None of this feels real anymore, only my drumming heart demanding resolve. “Where are the bullets for my handgun?” his question catches me off guard. I didn’t think he’d notice so soon. Maybe he has been here a while? Maybe he already knows. I glance at the table to see the shadows of the weapons in the same spot as before, visibly untouched.

“I hid them,” I say without making eye contact. If I do, he’ll know for certain where they are. There’s something about him that’s almost angelic in the way he reads people. It’s utterly terrifying.

“Why?”

“I’m not sure anymore,”

“Y/n, you know I’m not going to shoot you,” It almost comes out like a question. I know, in theory at least. He can’t shoot me because he needs me, but does that mean he won’t?

Part of me knows he won’t because there are better ways to kill a person. Cleaner ways. More personal ways. They could make it look like an accident. 141 could erase me from existence - make it look like I was never born - if they haven’t already.

“Why are we doing this?” my voice is barely audible. His actions over the last day have left me feeling more confused than ever. First, he says it was all a part of his plan and now he’s saying it wasn’t. Deciphering the truth has become more frustrating than ever. 

“Could you recognize the men who did this to you?” I hear the strain in his voice again, like he’s holding back.

“I was blindfolded,”

“Their voices?”

I shake my head. “They all blend together,” A pent-up breath escapes my chest. “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It does,” he lowly urges. “Y/n, I need you to know what happened to you was unacceptable. That was never the plan. You were to be kept on a low dose of drugs for a limited amount of time, just enough to disorient you. What they did – those marks on your skin – should have never happened. Never,” He insists. I wrap my arms around my knees as he shifts closer. An anxious feeling creeps up the back of my neck. “I can’t punish them if I don’t know who they are.”

“I don’t want more people getting hurt because of me,” I finally look at him. He leans toward me with one hand resting on the bed. There’s a nervousness in the air. 

“Not because of you. Actions have consequences,” he says. “Their behaviour will be corrected.”

“Please don’t,” I quietly beg as I shift onto my knees. I take a risk and gingerly grab onto his forearm. “It’s not worth it,” I’m livid it happened in the first place, but their punishment is just spreading the pain around in my name. I don’t want that. I want it to end.

“If I don’t, it’ll happen again,” Ghost says as he looks down at my hand. His words are resolute. There’s a sinking feeling in my stomach. His strong arm is tense under the henley, but I don’t pull away.

“What about the man behind this one?” I reach to pull my shirt over my shoulder. His soulful eyes latch onto the bruised skin. Ghost’s chest heaves with a deep sigh. He knew this was coming.

“He needs more than just correction,” Ghost’s eyes are glued to the marks.

“Like what?” I risk the question. It’d be so easy for him to shut me out. To turn around and leave. But I need to know. What kind of a person is he? How does he perceive his own cruelty? I silently pray he stays. 

“Only Hell can help him,” Simon finally looks up. His eyes are filled to the brim with so many emotions, they’re hard to discern. But what stands out the most is how much pain is evident behind that mask.

“I don’t believe that,” I grip his arm tighter. Part of me is afraid of his answer. I don’t know the truth behind his words. I only have a small idea of the violence he’s capable of. I’ve only glanced through a crack in the window of pain he’s caused and even that was significant.

“You don’t know half the things I’ve done, y/n,” his hands tighten into fists. 

“I’ve cut, burned, fucking butchered people without a second thought. I kill men. It brings me so much pleasure to watch those animals die, y/n. I’m not someone who can live without violence,” Ghost starts to tremor. ”There are only so many places for a man like me.”

I shake my head. “I don’t…I don-”

“Believe it,” Ghost cuts me off. “Look at what I did to you,” he moves closer as his other hand reaches up to my exposed arm. Ghost’s fingers lightly trace the bruises. His hands are hot, different from how I remembered them moments ago. There’s a warmth to him, even if he refuses to acknowledge it. Part of me wants to make excuses for him: that it was the heat of the moment, or because I knowingly withheld information that put us all at risk. That doesn’t make it okay. None of this is okay. My moral lines have become so blurred within the last several weeks, it’s hard to know when they’ve been crossed.

I don’t know what to say to him. I focus on the feeling of his gentle fingers on my arm.

“It was the only thing that fixed my father,” His voice deepens. I’m not prepared for where this conversation is about to go. I feel my heart racing in my chest, ready to break free. “I used to hate him for the things he did, how he’d hurt my brother and mum. Fuck, would he hurt her. He hated her and took every ounce of hate out on that woman. He left her beaten and bruised for years,” Ghost wraps his hand around my arm, under the dark bruise. “And look at me now. Look what I’ve done to you. You don’t deserve this.”

My throat tightens and I feel tears prick at my eyes. I tilt my head back and force them down. I feel his careful gaze follow down my neck, across my collarbones, then land on the damning marks above his fingers.

“You’re better than he is, Simon,” it’s barely a whisper.

“You don’t know me,” Ghost’s voice cracks.

“Maybe not. But you’re here right now. And that tells me all I need to know,” our eyes lock together. I see the distress behind his mask. How he so badly wants to believe me. “Simon, I forgive you.”

“You shouldn’t. You don’t know how this ends, y/n,” he murmurs. I shift closer to him again so that our legs rest against each other. His breathing deepens at our proximity. His hand leaves my arm to wrap around a strand of hair. He examines it quietly, his thumb slowly tracing the length.

I feel the heat and tension radiating from his body, yet find myself strangely at ease in his presence. He cares. He won’t dare say it, but I can feel it in his gentle touches, the way he looks at me when he thinks I’m not paying attention. He had my back when his men were making crude jokes in the van. I think of his concern for me when we were at the last safehouse and I didn’t have shoes. How he lingered to make sure I was okay. How he gave me an extra blanket and touched my shoulders when everyone else was sleeping. I remember when he immediately noticed something was off after the prisoner confronted me. The first thing he did was make sure I was okay. He’s always cared.

My heart still races, but not because I’m scared. My fear has morphed into a more dangerous emotion. One I can’t say out loud. One that would put both of our lives in danger.

When I look into his dark eyes, I see them mirroring my own. Shadowy pools of desire lap at his irises.

“Y/n,” he warns as I look up at him. His eyes flicker down to my bottom lip brawn between my teeth.

“Can I lift your mask?” his head starts to shake even before I’ve finished speaking. “Just a little,” my voice is barely audible. The warm glow of the fire bounces off the walls. Ghost is tinted red. He tilts his head down, searching my eyes. Part of him is still reluctant to trust me. There have been so many people in his life who’ve betrayed him, who’s to say I won’t do the same?

“Ok,” he whispers, dropping the strand of hair.

My hands meet the hem of the balaclava, resting just above his sternum. I slowly roll the fabric up, leaving time for him to stop me. This is the first time he’s ever allowed another person to do this. I feel his vulnerability with each shaky breath. The backs of my fingers trace along his neck as I move the fabric. The scruff that lines his neck and jaw brush against my hands. His adam’s apple bobs as he forces down a nervous swallow. “Just a little more.”

I move the mask just above his jaw. Like the rest of him, it’s sharp and strong. Dark hairs fill in the space after missing his daily shave. Ghost’s hands move to my outer thighs and his thumbs rub along my skin with a reassuring pressure. I bring the mask over his lips and rest the excess material over his nose. Ghost presses his full, slightly chapped lips together as he watches my eyes roam his face.

Part of me wonders why hasn’t he stopped me. Does he yearn for the same type of connection? Does he think about me in the dead of night with wandering hands? Is this something we’ll use against each other in the future? Will there be a future? All of this is a bad idea. But I can’t help the longing. The yearning. How badly I want to feel his hands on my bare skin. Tangled in my hair. Reaching the darkest parts of me.

When I look up, his eyes are so incredibly intense, it’s impossible to look away. A large hand cups my cheek and wraps around the back of my head. Neither of us dares to move any further. We stay frozen in a state of almost vulnerability. It’s not too late to turn back.

It’s hard to see where his irises end and pupils begin, they’re so dark. His eyes hold every word he’s too afraid to say. Words are dangerous. They confirm every want and desire. I’m no braver than he is, not by a mile. I bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.

Ghost leans down and rests his masked forehead against mine. The soft fabric presses into my face. His nose tenderly brushes against my own.

“Y/n,” he murmurs as his thumb tenderly traces along my skin. “You have no idea the things you do to me,” I feel goosebumps run down my back at his low, sultry voice. Simon’s cool breath fans against the nape of my neck.

The air between us is charged with tension. I feel a heat start to burn low in my stomach.

Ghost doesn’t move any closer. He has aired his desires. Now it’s my turn. How far do I want this to go? How far am I willing to take it? Nothing happens unless I initiate.

I run my hand along his strong jaw as I lean forward. I hesitantly brush against his lips, providing one last opportunity for us to turn back. Simon ghosts his lips above my own. My muscles tense in anticipation and my breathing is fast and shallow. I loop a finger through his belt loop and pull him closer. 

Ghost takes this as permission and gently presses his lips onto mine. The kiss is soft and fearful and longing. After a breath, I pull away ever so slightly to read his eyes. They open slowly and linger on my lips for a moment longer. Ghost swallows thickly before looking up. There’s an insatiable hunger swimming in those dark pools of desire.

I long for those hot August days spent on the poolside almost as much as I long for him to drag me under the surface. I feel Ghost’s calloused hands moving up the side of my body like waves. Shivers run along my spine. My senses feel heightened. My lungs burn as icy water floods every cavity. I want him to hold me under until every breath of air is stolen from my lips.

Ghost shifts onto his knees and slowly stalks above me. His moves are calculated and predatory. There is only one thing he is on the hunt for. Only one thing that can fully satisfy his appetite.

I lean back as he moves closer until I’m fully pressed against the bed. Ghost leans down on his elbows as his knee urges my legs apart. A dull pulse throbs in my lower stomach. A large hand brushes the hair out of my face as he leans closer.

The kiss is harder this time, needier. Simon’s breath is hot against my mouth. My lungs smoulder with each breath, threatening to burst into flames. I run my hand under the back of his mask into his hair. I want more of him.

“Sweetheart,” my heart skips at the name. “How far can I take this?” his hands cup the side of my face. There’s a different type of seriousness in his eyes that I haven’t seen before.

“All the way,” I watch as he licks his lips in anticipation. “I want all of you.”

“No,” he shakes his head. “I have to be gentle with you,” but I don’t want him to be gentle. I want every pent-up emotion branded into my skin with an iron rod. He’s held back so much from me. I want everything out in the open.

“All of you,” I repeat, brushing my thumb against his jaw.

“Y/n,” he warns as his lips brush against my ear. There’s an exciting sharpness to his tone.

“Don’t hide from me,” I whisper.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he holds his head up to search my face. There’s genuine fear behind his eyes, but as they flicker down at my lips again there’s an even stronger desire. Once he starts, he doesn’t know if he’ll be able to stop. Every part of his life is so disciplined, that once he relinquishes control, all self-restraint is gone.

“I trust you,” I trace my thumb above his full lips, pausing in the center. His brows furrow, waiting for me to take my words back, change my mind, tell him I don’t mean it. But I do. “I trust you, Simon.”

He uses the last of his restraint to search my eyes one last time. There’s no uncertainty, no fear or hesitancy. I want all of him. Need all of him. Desire burns within my core and he is the only one who can satisfy it. 

His lips are hot and fervorous. Ghost’s eager fingertips drag across my pliable flesh as his hands skim under the hem of my shirt. I want to feel his touch everywhere, my lips, my neck, arms, and chest. I need him everywhere. I want to be consumed by him.

His sweet tongue slips between my lips. It’s a natural motion I welcome with my own. He’s gentle at first, cautious even. But then the hunger grabs a hold of him. His teeth latch onto my bottom lip and pull. Dark eyes test the waters as he gauges my reaction. How far can he really go? A small gasp escapes my chest and I almost miss the corner of his mouth twitching into a devious grin. 

“When I tell you to do something, say yes sir,” his husky voice whispers into my ear as a large hand lightly wraps around my throat.

“Okay,” I respond. He’s not the only one testing the waters. I feel the strong hand tighten ever so slightly. I can’t help a sly smile at his reaction. “Yes sir,” the words noticeably arouse him. Ghost draws in a deep breath as he drags his bottom lip between his teeth. I think of all the times I offhandedly called him that the last several weeks. I wish I knew what a hold it had on him. “Is that better, sir?” I tease.

“You’re trouble,” his tone is suggestive. I love the feeling of his hot breath hitting my neck. I want to feel it drift even lower.

Ghost’s hands are back at the hem of my shirt. He gently tugs at the fabric and I take the signal to sit up and slide it off. I toss it to the side as his eyes take in my figure. I notice how they falter on some of the larger bruises, but in another instant, they’re back on me.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he murmurs.

His rough hands travel up my torso - taking care to avoid the bruised areas - as his lips find my neck. He starts off slow, deeply kissing me behind the ear, before moving towards the nape as he begins to suck on my tender skin. One hand begins to tenderly massage my breasts. I feel my eyes flutter shut with pleasure, but then a small part of me remembers I don’t want marks left above the hem of my shirt, especially these kinds of marks.

“Your turn,” I tug on the bottom of his henley.

“That’s not how you ask,” he mumbles as his teeth rake against my skin.

“Please, sir?” he thoughtfully hums against my neck.

Ghost sits up as he straddles me to pull his shirt off with one hand. My breathing hitches. He is stunning. Years of relentless work have shaped him into the machine he is today. Ghost is built like a predator. Strong, sturdy, and sharp. Scars from past challengers and victims litter his chest like medals. His tattoo wraps around the entire length of his arm, around his shoulder, and spanning across half his chest. I’m left speechless as he leans down to meet me again.

My hands unapologetically travel across his vast chest. His muscles flex under the pads of my fingers and I’m reminded of just how strong he is. But I don’t get far, Ghost grabs both wrists with one hand and pins them above my head. He enjoys looking down at me, completely under his power. There’s something about our size difference that is thrilling. He is in complete control. He can do whatever he wants.

Ghost’s lips return where they left off, slowly moving down my delicate body. Past my neck, down my sternum, and right to the spot he is looking forward to the most. His other hand wraps around my back, finding the clasp to my bra. His eyes peer up through his mask, looking to me for permission to keep going. I give him a small nod and immediately I feel the release of the band. He slides the bra up my arms, letting go of my wrists only to free us of it once and for all before grabbing them again. Ghost’s other hand returns to my back, urging me to arch my chest to his lips.

Sharp teeth nip at my soft breasts between deep kisses that are certain to leave more bruises. Ghost adds more pressure to my back as he pushes me closer. He takes his tantalizing time teasing me with his tongue as it swirls around my nipple before the abrupt feeling of his teeth pulling on my skin takes over. I can’t help the gasp that escapes my lips. I press my lips together to hide my heavy breathing, but it doesn’t get past him.

“Let me hear you, sweetheart,” he tastes the tender skin. “No one around for miles.”

Both his hands wrap around my waist as he pulls me flush against his chest. I take the opportunity to run a hand along the waistband of his pants, slipping a finger just under the edge of the fabric. Ghost pauses as his chest heaves from the movement. I grab his jaw and guide his lips to mine again, mimicking his previous movements by tugging on his lower lip with my teeth. I can’t help the growing smile on my face.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, sweetheart,” his hand trails down my stomach, slipping between my pants and underwear. Two thick fingers circle around me above the thin piece of fabric with growing pressure. My head sinks back into the pillow as my breathing becomes more jagged. Sparks fill my vision from the intense pressure. 

“Oh fuck,” I whimper from his touch. His eyes are intent on my face as they watch the pleasure wash over me.

“That’s a good girl,” he says eagerly. “Wet for me already?”

My thoughts are too twisted to come up with a smart response. I press harder against him for more traction. If only he knew how much I’ve thought about his hands and all the things his fingers can do.

While slipping a hand under the fabric, he leans down letting his lips press against my neck. Our bare chests brush against each other and his other hand winders through my hair. Ghost fists the strands against the back of my head and slowly pulls back, further exposing my neck for better access. I feel the edge of his teeth take my tender flesh between them. I imagine the marks that will litter down my neck leading across my chest.

A thick finger slips into me while his thumb focuses on my clit. The feeling is so intense I can’t help the moans escaping from deep within my throat. Ghost pulls harder on my hair. A deep chuckle reverberates through his chest. He’s enjoying this. 

I wrap a hand around his belt, pushing the leather through the loop, ready to pull it off, but then a large hand clasps over mine.

“So soon?” Ghost teases. The intense pressure of his other hand leaves between my legs as he slides his belt off. The buckle jingles as he twists the leather into itself. When I look down, I realize what he’s created.

There are two spaces for a set of hands to slide through while the belt acts as a pair of handcuffs.

“Simon,” his name is breathy on my tongue.

“Arms up,” he orders.

I raise my hands above my head and feel the leather restraints slip over my fists. “Not tight,” I tell him. His eyes glance down at me and he seems to understand. He pulls the leather band, leaving just enough space that I could escape if I really needed to, before looping the leather back through the buckle.

“Okay?” he whispers and I nod my head in response. “Atta girl,” the side of his mouth quirks up.

I watch Simon trail his thoughtful lips down my torso. He pauses at each bruise, pressing a tender kiss lightly on top of each one. Butterflies swarm inside my stomach. I never thought I’d see such a man be so gentle.

Simon’s thumbs rub in circles over the corner of my hips as he makes his way even lower. There’s a growing anticipation between my legs as I wrap one around his back, pulling him closer.

The black mask lowers between my legs. Swollen lips kiss the inside of my thighs. The edge of his teeth grazes the tender flesh. I draw in a sharp gasp as he bites down. Hard. A full pain throbs along my inner thighs. His previous gentleness slips away. This will leave a bruise lasting for days.

“These are the only marks I want to see on your skin,” his passionate eyes look up from between my legs. The black balaclava covers the rest of his face aside from his lips. How I’d love to run my hands through his hair.

Simon’s arms wrap around my legs to hold me down by my hips. I grasp the belt with whitened knuckles as he moves up, leaving another mark, but not before pressing an apologetic kiss to the area. Small whimpers escape my tight throat as he switches legs and leaves a growing trail of marks closer and closer to the hem of my underwear. I want him to make me feel good again.

“Please Simon,” I feel his lips humorously twitch against my skin.

He pulls away and all of his delicious warmth leaves with him. Simon rests on his knees, his eyes hungrily taking in the sight before him. All I can think about is the heat of his hands as they travel over my skin. Fuck, I need him. I need him everywhere. In the darkest parts of my body and soul.

A rough thumb traces over my lips. “You still want this?” there’s doubt in his voice, like he’s expecting me to change my mind.

“So, fucking bad,” my lips move against his thumb. I take him in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the thick digit, lightly starting to suck on him.

“Fuck, y/n,” he mutters under his breath. His other hand slides beneath his jeans as I press my mouth further down on his thumb. But I don’t let him relish in the feeling.

“I need you, Simon,” I murmur. “Please, sir,” my voice is breathy and desperate.

I can feel the need pooling between my thighs. I ache for his touch.

His hands light my skin on fire as he slips my underwear off, pulling them down my legs. Simon wastes no time stepping out of his jeans, his large erection straining against his boxers.

“Of all thing things I’ve wanted to do to you,” he cups himself over the fabric. I wait for him to expand on his thoughts, but he doesn’t, simply leaving them to hang in the thick air.

Simon grasps himself over his boxes, slowly stroking as he watches me. My eyes never leave his. I feel the growing heat of the fire burning within me. With every stroke, he stokes the flames.

He leans down, lips hovering above mine. One hand gently holds my cheek while the other wraps around his tip. “Tell me if it’s too much,” he breathes into my mouth before tenderly meeting my lips. A small vein of nervousness is present at the back of my mind, but I channel all of my attention into my growing desire.

Simon adjusts his position as the boxers slide down. The anticipation is too much. He bites his bottom lip as the head of his cock traces my entrance. My heart is pounding. My hands grasp at the belt.

“Relax,” he glances up at me. “You’re tense.”

A gentle hand massages my inner thighs along the bite marks he left. The length of his shaft glides across my clit, sending tingles up my spine.

“Simon-”

“Look at me y/n. I want to see your face when I stretch you out,” my breathing falters at his words. I dare to look him in the eyes just as he pushes in for the first time. Fucking hell.  The feeling is completely unmatched. My breathing is heavy. Simon’s thumbs rub reassuring circles along my inner thighs to ease the sensation between my legs.

“Oh God,” I whimper, tensing around his thick tip. His eyes hungrily watch my expression, burning it to memory. The amount of pleasure he gets from watching is almost equal to that of participating. Simon’s fingers circle my clit with a heavy pressure. I feel the throbbing intensify as he begins to push deeper. I hold back a whimper as he pushes deeper, stretching my tight walls around him.

“Fuck, y/n,” he growls. “You’re doing so good.”

Simon gently moves back before thrusting further in. My walls pulse around his thick cock as he picks up pace. My legs are wrapped around his broad back. One of his hands roughly kneads a breast as he bows his head into the nape of my neck. The metal dog tags hanging around his throat swing in the space between us, bouncing against my skin.

Simon’s breath is hot as it travels down my neck and across my chest. With every clench around him, I’m rewarded with soft needy moans into my ear as he nips at my lobes.

“You’re doing that on purpose,” his breathy voice rumbles against my neck. I feel the tightness in my stomach begin to build as he thrusts harder and his hands press into my clit. The world around me blurs. I’ve never been fucked this hard before. He feels so damn good; it’s like he was made just for me.

His hand drags across my breast, up to my neck as he wraps his strong fingers around the vulnerable area. I should’ve known he wants complete control. For so long he had none, now it rules every aspect of his life.

“You take me so well, y/n,” my name drips sweetly off his tongue like honey. I want to hear him say it over and over again. y/n. y/n. y/n. Fuck, does that sound good.

Every muscle in my body begins to tighten. My breathing quickens. My heart is racing. Every sense feels incredibly heightened. A lucid feeling begins to take over as Ghost’s grip around my throat tightens.

“Don’t go quiet on me now,” his hand moves to my jaw.

“I’m close,” I gasp as the blood rushes back to my face. My cheeks feel hot under his intense gaze. “Simon I-” his name rolls off my tongue, but I lose track of my thoughts. With every thrust, I feel him deeper in my soul. All of the pain. All of the tortures of our diverged pasts are melding together. Right now, I have all of him.

Simon keeps his pace but thrusts his throbbing cock even harder. The sound of skin hitting skin overtakes the crackling fire. The heat is almost too much. Like a flame under a tank of propane. Pressure builds under the heat, ready to combust.

“I, I-” fuck, I can’t think. It’s too much. His hands are tightly woven into my skin. My fingers are white against the leather. My heartbeat is so damn loud. My face twists towards the covers as my body writhes under his touch.

“Don’t look away now sweetheart,” his voice is so incredibly thick with need. “I’ll stop if you look away,”

His dark eyes are a whirlpool pulling me in. Suddenly I forget how to swim. Simon drags me under as his thick fingers wrap around the sensitive bundle of nerves. I gasp as my lungs breathe in water. His lips are heavy against my own. My vision darkens and no other pleasure in the world can match the burning sensations coursing through my veins. My orgasm is the sun’s light from the bottom of the ocean.

I break the surface as Simon’s hot lips hastily press against my forehead. His movements quicken and his grunts deepen. His hands roughly grab onto my waist as he thrusts into me with uneven, jarring movements.

“Fuck, Simon,” the whimper is soft against his skin and the cause of his undoing. His hard cock throbs against my walls once more as he collapses against me from pleasure and exhaustion. Simon’s heavy body lays limp on top of mine. The weight is comforting and safe. No one else in the world can touch me. Only him.

Simon reaches up to undo the belt and free my hands which find their way to his broad back. I trace invisible pictures across the vast space, skimming across old scars and the edge of his tattoo. His hand gently runs down the length of my hair, petting the top of my head. I feel my eyes begin to droop as sleep creeps up from behind me. I want him to hold me forever.

He pushes himself up on his elbows, arms caging me in as his dark eyes peer down at me. The emotions behind Simon’s eyes are too conflicted to decipher. A cautious thumb brushes along the side of my face. For a moment, he simply stares at me, trying to memorize everything that’s just happened and the gravity of it.

“Y/n, I need you to listen very closely,” he murmurs, pulling the balaclava back over his jaw. I feel my brows furrow as a different type of tension takes over.

“Okay,” my voice is barely audible.

“No one can ever know about this,” Ghost’s tone is soft, but I don’t miss the significance that is present. I pause to think about his words. Really think about them. What are the consequences of what we’ve just done? Our actions have just irreversibly complicated 141’s entire mission. Possibly even damaged it.

“What happens if they find out?”

Simon doesn’t respond. I feel a growing, hollow, cavity within me as I consider what happens to the people who interfere with their missions.

This was a mistake. A consequential mistake.

The Lion and the Snake |2|

Summary: In the wake of Grindelwald’s trip to Hogwarts that left the students and faculty scarred, YN has healed quickly and is eager to find more answers as to what her family has to do with the monster terrorizing the wizarding world. But along the way, Tom Riddle becomes not only an unsuspected companion but something a little more as well.

Note: thank you for the support on the last part :D i cannot believe how many people actually wanted this second part so I hope I don’t disappoint! I’ll be honest, it’s more so fluff and angst in this part because I’m trying to spread enough of it out so just let me know your thoughts at the end.

The infirmary had one singular candle alight the following night after the Winter Ball.

You sat up in the creaky bed, the pillow propped up behind your back to ease the strain the white metal headboard put on your aching back and your mind would not allow you to rest after what occurred that night.

Grindelwald’s face was stuck on your mind, the fear leaving your body cold and the curse he had used leaving you still trembling at any given moment of the day. But now that it was night and there was little left to do, it all felt ten times worse. Grabbing your wand, you whispered your spell to light the chandelier above your head, bringing a little more life to the towering walls of the empty infirmary.

But the moment the dim lights came to life, you heard the urgently shuffling footsteps of the head nurse in her maroon and white gown, tiredly rushing into the room.

“Oh, Ms.L/N, are you alright?”

“Yes, I’m fine. I just wanted to keep the lights on!” you called back.

The woman sighed in relief, nodding her head as she turned back out of the room.

Once you were in the silence, you grabbed one of your books to read, But after a few moments of trying to keep your eyes still and turn the pages, the shakes had returned and you heaved out a frustrating sigh. During the day you were allowed to walk, eat, and have visits from Margot, Adis and your other friends, but your last night in the infirmary was becoming restless without having anything to do but sit and think. 

“YN, your parents have yet to respond to our Owls. We are working on sending someone out to your home to check. There is a possibility the Ministry has put your parents on a lockdown to keep them safe. Fear not, we’ve implemented the highest security that Hogwarts has to offer. Grindelwald would dare not make that mistake again.” Dumbledore assured.

But your pained and tired body was growing agitated, and you weren’t sure whether you wanted to cry or scream. Nothing was adding up.

“By the looks of it, it was one very calculated mistake. He knew where I was. He knew my family. What do I even do?” you argued. 

At your sides, Margot and Adis were there for comfort but they only began to feel like more bricks piling atop your back. 

The Headmaster, Dumbledore, and the nurse sighed in defeat. It was clear they were at a loss for words. 

“Why does he think I have anything to do with the Deathly Hallows? No one has seen them because they’re from a children’s book!”

“That’s what you may believe, YN, but I fear your family may have withheld this information for this exact reason.” 

Tears stung your eyes, but you weren’t sad, you were absolutely fuming on the inside. Whatever lies there were hiding in her family, she didn’t want to wait around for Grindelwald to find them first.

That was the only thing on your mind now. The only thing that had brought some comfort was the moments leading up to the second the windows came shattering down, replaying in your head over and over again; the dance with Tom Riddle. If there was one thing more bizarre than the wizard version of Hitler entering the school, it was the fact that you had found yourself in his arms dancing in front of everyone in the school.

Maybe hell had truly frozen over. 

As if on que, the heavy wooden door to the infirmary had opened again, and you sighed, trying to keep yourself looking pleasant in bed knowing the nurse was going to pester you about not getting your sleep.

But to your surprise, it was Tom Riddle who appeared behind the door and immediately, your stomach churned.

“What are you doing here?” you seethed, trying to straight out your hair and the Gryffindor Quidditch sweater you wore. 

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