Enamored Extra Scene - 15

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

Enamored [35] - Sunshine

A.N: Thank you so much for your wonderful feedback my loves, you’re amazing!❤ I hope you’ll like this chapter as well, and please let me know what you think, thank you! ❤ And as always, thank you @theskytraveler for helping me with the chapter and the story❤

Summary: Happy news must be shared.

Warnings: Regency era society and social rules.

Word Count: 5200

Series Masterlist

You still couldn’t believe that you were going to get married to the love of your life, and judging by the expression on his face, neither could the Duke. He looked like he was waiting for somebody to announce that you were jesting while you bounced on the balls of your feet, excitement rushing through you.

For a couple of seconds, no one in the breakfast room talked and your aunt sat up straighter, clearing her throat.

“Let’s go to the drawing room for this conversation.”

“Or better yet, let’s just not have this conversation.”

Continuar lendo

Show Them

Tamlin x Reader. If you don’t like it, don’t read it :) I feel like after all of the events of books 2-5, he’s learned how and why he was wrong, and he’s been kicked a lot while he was down. It’s about time for him to redeem himself and find love too ok?? So here is my rendition of the start of his redemption arc. 

Warnings: Swearing, mentions of death, trauma

Word Count: 8.7K

You huffed a sigh, wiping your hands at the hem of your thin dress, ridding yourself of the flecks of mud and dry blood. With a squint, you picked at your palm, trying to pull the thick wooden splinter from your skin. Fourth one in an hour, you rolled your eyes to yourself, glaring at the pile of wood and debris - what previously held the roof over your head. 

You eyed the deep scratches embossed in the wood, the ones that no doubt belonged to the Naga that roamed the nearby forest. They’d looted and torn your house to the ground, much like your neighbor’s home and the shops in the town. After the High Lord had disappeared years ago, the hierarchy had fallen - there were no more sentries to guard the village, to threaten the Bogge and keep the wraiths at bay. 

Not that you had many belongings, but you needed to find as much food as you could. You dug around for scraps of food, money, jewelry - anything of value that you could trade for shelter. But fuck, you came up with nothing. Your house was nothing but a pile of dust, all your belongings gone with it. And it was getting dark, the sun almost completely disappearing behind mountains in the distance. 

You’d have to beg your neighbors for sanctuary, even if just for the evening. They were no doubt already locking up their homes and arming themselves with all the blades and spears they could find. Deciding you would return in the morning to continue, you turned away from the pile of remains - only for your eye to catch on a glimmer in the woods. 

The shadows had already long fallen over the forest, the black of night seeping in from the treeline before you. You were met with a pair of eyes, glowing and bright green, the golden sunset mirrored in the glossy shine. 

Your breath hitched in your throat, your heart stilling in your veins. There were many creatures that roamed the Spring woodlands, many more creeping in on the territory now that it lacked a High Lord. The water wraiths from the Summer Court encroached in the waters; after hearing that their neighboring sisters no longer paid the Tithe, they swam over in droves. Some were shifters, moving onto the unprotected lands to mark for themselves, others were sirens, with shimmering eyes that promised the brightest future, so beautiful that they lured the young Spring males to the coast, robbing and drowning them for pleasure. 

But these eyes were different, a deep emerald, slanted inwards and narrowed - canine, feral. Studying its prey, waiting for attack. You’d heard rumors of the Autumn Court hounds, the ones Beron and his sons roamed around with. How they could track Fae down between courts, tear their throats out without even revealing themselves - some were rumored to have two heads. But you watched those shining green eyes until the beast turned away, tucking itself back between the trees and disappearing into the darkness. 

___________________________

You were back on the street at the break of dawn, graciously thanking the family that housed you for the night, offering to bring them anything valuable you could find from home’s wreckage. You kicked at the dry sticks and stones on the dirt road leading to your little plot of land, cursing at the fallen trees and dying brush. 

It seemed the Spring Court curse wouldn’t be lifted any time soon. You’d worn a godsdamned mask for years - a doe: the most innocent animal of Spring, silent and small in a court full of sly foxes and brash wolves. The supposed cursebreaker returned to your court only to tear it apart from the inside out, playing spy for the Night Court the whole time. The Autumn Court emissary had left and your High Lord had disappeared - no heir or kin left behind. He abandoned you all and took his power with him. 

Some said he left and sought refuge in the Summer Court - that only Tarquin would be kind enough - naive enough - to offer him solace. Others thought he died, that Feyre killed him and there was nobody else to take the powers of the High Lord. You weren’t sure you believed either of those rumors. Nobody was brave enough to tread to Tamlin’s manor and find out for themselves; only the Mother knew what creatures resided there, Fae or otherwise.

The pile of wood and stone remained untouched overnight, you had to drag yourself over to your old land. It wasn’t worth anything, nothing was anymore. It felt barbaric, almost: digging through the mud and destroyed earth for something to barter with. It seemed that your court had been through nothing but devastation since you’d been alive. You were only just a hundred years old when the land was cursed by Amarantha - spent years in a mask followed by a stint under the mountain. When the curse was lifted, the Spring Court lasted about as long as the celebrations. As soon as life turned back to normal - whatever that truly was - the Night Court infiltration was exposed, Pyrthian was brought to war, and your home was destroyed. 

You groaned, both of your hands wrapped around a heavy log of wood, surely it was the heaviest in the pile. You groaned, gritting your teeth as you tried (and failed) to move it. Your hands slipped, dry bark breaking off the wood beam, causing you to slip and fall backwards right on your ass. You cursed, denouncing the Mother. Perfect start to the fucking day, you’d thought. A whole day of failure awaits. 

“Do you need a hand?” 

Your head snapped up, nearly giving you whiplash as you turned to the side. You narrowed your eyes, the tall male standing just in front of where the sun was rising, shadow cast over his front. But you made out his light hair, glowing in the bright light, a halo cast around his head. His shoulders were so broad, his white shirt tight around his arms but loose around his waist, the fabric shifting as the wind blew past. He held a hand out to you, palm raised. 

Your gaze dropped to his waiting hand, which you gladly took. His skin was rough, calluses around his palms and over his fingers. He pulled you to your feet, almost too easily, and had you balancing over the pile of bricks and shingles. “Thanks,” you mumbled, releasing his hand and brushing the dirt off the bottom of your dress. No use - there were days old mud stains all over it already. 

“Is this your home?” His eyes surveyed the debris you both stood over, face still shadowed from the sun. 

You rolled your eyes. “It was,” you’d scoffed, propping your hands on your hips. The male frowned, his shoulders hunched a bit. You cocked a brow at him, at the rainy evergreen smell that cascaded off of him. His blond hair was unkempt, sun-frayed and tangled at the ends. You took a step closer, onto the large wooden beam that had just bested you. 

“Sorry,” he murmured, cheeks tinged pink, chin tilted downwards. Ashamed.

You nodded, standing taller, walking across the wood so you were positioned on the other side of him. The male turned with you, not allowing his back to face you. He mirrored you, perhaps in self defense, as you looked like you were the one scouting your prey. His features became sharper as he faced the sunrise, shadows looming over his face now washed away. 

Those emerald green eyes watched you carefully, narrowed, just like those from the forest. His sharp brows furrowed as he watched you assess him, as you put together the pieces rather quickly. 

“What would you be sorry for?” You questioned the High Lord. “Did you knock down my house?”

Tamlin didn’t respond, just stood in front of you, those light eyelashes caressing the tops of his high cheekbones as he blinked at you. His jaw clenched, tongue ran over the back of his sharp teeth as he mulled over something to say, only to come up short. 

You took his lack of response as an answer in the negative. “Then you have nothing to apologize for.” 

“I didn’t stop them,” he replied, voice hoarse. It was as though he hadn’t spoken in years, as if he’d spent far too long roaming the forest in his wolf form. His body was wracked with shame, remorse, and anguish. He didn’t feel the pain when he was outside his Fae form - he didn’t have to bear the anguish of witnessing what happened to his court while he disappeared into the brush. 

You nodded in agreement. And while you spent these past hundred years angry, just so frustrated at what had become of your life, you couldn’t find yourself to be upset with him. 

Your home had been destroyed, your family gone, everything from the life you once had stripped away entirely. But what could you do? The past had already come and gone, there was nothing you could do to change it. 

The male before you felt the opposite, though. His mind was reeling with the resurgence of the memories from the past century. The masks, his friend and former lover gone - ran away to the Night Court, to the male that had murdered his family - under the mountain, the war, the Cauldron. 

Gods, all of it was his fault.

His court was destroyed, but it wasn’t the war, it wasn’t the other High Lords infringing on his territory. No, it was all him. It was the lack of his presence in his court that destroyed it from the inside out. And looking at your face, the dirt smudged over your brow, your cheeks splotched from spending days in the sun without shelter, he’d wanted nothing more than to tuck his tail between his legs and disappear back into the woods. 

But you were too captivating, your gaze leveled him completely. You didn’t tear into him, didn’t yell at him, didn’t hit him, not the way he knew so many others wanted to. He didn’t know how to help you, how to apologize for abandoning his court. He didn’t have any money to give you, no doubt he assumed the Spring Court estate had been robbed and looted. He wasn’t sure what valuables were even left anyway, after passing on money and jewels to the Archeron family. 

“I’d like to help you…” Tamlin trailed off, the words lost. His eyes roamed over the fallen house the two of you stood on. “Rebuild.” His green eyes flitted back up to you, to the doubt and surprise laced over your features. You swallowed, shoulders shrugged in indifference. Gods, you probably hated him. Wanted nothing to do with him. “If you’ll let me.”

“I’m not sure what there is to rebuild,” you replied, kicking at some stone with your dirty boot. “I’m just looking for...” What were you looking for? “Anything.”

Tamlin nodded in understanding. He wasn’t quite sure what he was expecting to come back to, didn’t know what he would stumble upon after he’d returned to his home court. While he was no stranger to being alone, to feeling like an outcast, utterly unworthy of his position in life, he’d never been able to relate to his old friend Lucien so much. While the Vanserra had been banished from his home court, Tamlin felt like the Spring subjects would band together and exile him from his own court, too. 

But the male stood still, nothing but the wind blowing his tousled hair around his sharp jaw. He was surely waiting for you, for your permission to return to his life in Spring - a new life, perhaps: a chance to rebuild your home and his life. He needed to earn his place as the High Lord, hell - he needed to learn what it meant to be a leader, to earn the trust of the Spring citizens. 

“Well, help me move this, then,” you said simply, gesturing to the dark wood. 

You’d quickly come to realize the male just had pent up anger, stress that may have been best relieved by throwing stone and brick around. He was quiet, not speaking unless you’d ask him a question or give him direction to move some debris. Tamlin watched you carefully, just as he had the other night, eyes glossy and pointed, observing how carefully you tended to anything that may have once had value to you. But you hadn’t made much progress, finding just scraps of clothing, a broken necklace, or some rotten food. 

“I was in love once, too,” you stated out of nowhere. You kept digging through the pile of broken furniture and wood, head tilted downwards, eyes focused on the task at hand. 

Tamlin’s ears perked up and he straightened, wiping his hands on his trousers to remove some of the mud that had caked his palms. He wiped at his brow, the sweat that had built up over the past few hours. He wasn’t sure what to say, you gave him nothing to work off of, offering nothing but confusion for the poor male. 

You looked up at him only for a moment, plopping down on your ass with a sigh, resting your aching legs. “It can make you do some fucked up things.” 

He almost laughed, would have, if it didn’t burn his throat on the way up. “Even more fucked up things once you’re out of it.” 

The sound that pushed past your lips sounded like absolute heaven. It was the only salvation the male needed after years spent growling at beasts in the woods. The giggle that erupted from you - the pure surprise at the High Lord’s comment - it made his heart stop. 

But he couldn’t help the deep stabbing feeling through his gut. Guilt. He shouldn’t be enjoying the sweet sound of your laughter, the shine of the sun in your hair, your pretty smile. He shouldn’t enjoy life anymore, not after what he did to yours - to everyones. It was why he shut himself out, far in the thick Spring forest, away from all salvation, any shred of comfort he might have been able to find. After Feyre had left, after Rhysand returned to twist the knife in his once stone chest, there had been no point, no return at High Lord once everything had crumbled. 

“Well, Tamlin,” you sighed - the first time hearing his name on your lips. He quite liked the sound of it, but promised not to get used to it. “I think it’s about time we fix some of those fuck ups.”

He rolled his eyes, kicking a heavy log from the top of the pile. “And how do you suppose I do that?” 

You huffed another breathy laugh, raising your head and squinting up at him, the sun risen nearly fully in the sky. “You do nothing,” you replied simply, propping your elbows on your knees. “We are going into town.” You opened your palm, that broken gold necklace 

And Tamlin felt like folding himself in half and kneeling over that damn pile of rocks. The necklace you’d worked for hours to find ready to trade at the town center. He was absolutely sick. His mind flashed back to the days of the Tithe - how he sat atop his throne, gold jeweled crown atop his head, waiting rather impatiently for the Spring Court subjects to pay their dues. In a court where he did next to nothing to save them - after fifty years of looking for a way out of Amarantha’s plan - they still owed him. 

Tamlin had a lot of regrets. 

He didn’t know how to act, how to rule a court. Didn’t know how to save his people, how to make up for the lost years. 

There was a lot to make up for - he knew it better than anyone. 

He just didn’t know how.

You watched his mind reel, how his sharp green eyes fell to the pile of wooden scraps beneath his boots. His dark blond brows knitted together, lips pressed in a firm line, jaw clenched. His chest moved up and down with every breath he took, each one he forced in his lungs. The golden strands of his hair moved around his pointed ears, dancing over his shoulders in the wind. 

“I don’t think I can,” he replied, voice just above a whisper. 

You pushed yourself to your feet and reached out for him, for the tanned skin of his forearm. You held your fingers around his wrist, the touch shocking the male out of his daze. His breath caught, his mouth and throat suddenly ran dry. “You have to come back. You need to return to us.” 

He tried to force himself to swallow, to will his voice to work and reply. To us. He was the only one who could fix what he’d fucked up. He didn’t know exactly how, but you were right. It would start with the return of the High Lord, with the promise of forgiveness from his subjects. He’d have to beg for forgiveness, pray that they would grant him amnesty. 

He nodded though, which was all he could muster the strength for. He let you keep hold of his wrist - he didn’t even know how long it had been since another Fae had touched him - and guide him off the pile of debris, not missing how your boots skidded along the loose bricks. He reached out with his other hand to steady you, a firm hand on your hip as you stumbled to a halt, managing to remain upright. 

By the Cauldron, you felt good. Warm, delicate, you smelled like the gardens after a fresh rain. He dropped his hand just as quickly, before his mind really fell into the gutter. Perhaps the years of solitude had finally gotten to him, he thought. He had officially gone mad. So he stayed composed, letting you drop his wrist from your hand - not without a backward glance at him. 

“We’ll see what we can get,” you continued, beginning to walk towards the center of the town. You lived far enough on the outskirts that not many others passed by, none alerted to the fact their High Lord had returned. “The blacksmiths will probably be the only ones who will trade for it. Nobody really has use for gold anymore.” 

He noted the drop in your voice, the bleakness that laced your tone. Tamlin walked only a half step behind you, yet he towered over you, his chest cleared above your head, shadow fully engulfing you. “How is the food supply?”

You knew it felt foreign for him, especially to ask now after years of his disappearance into the woods. But you could tell he was trying, gathering his bearings and reassessing the court - where he needed to start first. “Not great, honestly. There are only a few who have enough weapons to hunt in the woods.” 

Tamlin knew all too well what lurked in the woods. They would be lucky if they could catch deer or rabbit, let alone an elk or mare. “I’ll see what I can manage to catch tonight,” he replied grimly, lips pressing into a frown. Under the moon was the best time to hunt, where there were surely no endangered Fae out, when the large beasts went to roam the woods, using the cover of night to avoid the hunters. The only thing that would be able to catch them lurked just behind you: a wolf. 

You eyed the clouds that began to roll in overhead, dimming the sun’s bright light. “That would help,” you replied, hoping the words of encouragement would ease his mind, but not sound too desperate that they scared the male. 

You walked the rest of the way in silence, peaceful albeit awkward. Tamlin’s fingers twitched at his sides - it was almost as though he barely remembered how to walk as a Fae male. You knew those green eyes that watched you from the forest were his. The second you saw the High Lord that morning, you realized you’d stared into his wolfish eyes - hungry and chilling, sad and remorseful. 

His gaze shifted from left to right constantly, walking through the clutter of buildings and broken wood. Half the buildings had been looted, some torn down entirely. Fae gathered around stands and what was left of the remaining shops. He felt their eyes burning into him, heard the murmuring ringing in his ears. Some were confused, others outright scared, but none approached him. 

You took Tamlin to the dim stone building, the only light pouring in from the window and cracks in the walls - no faelights or candles in sight. “He and his wife have the baked goods - there aren’t many other iron pans left in the town, he’s got the bulk of them.” Your eyes flitted around the shop, at the pile of iron ingots stacked on one of the tables. “I could never manage enough to get one, to bake my own bread over the fire.” You shot Talmin a sharp look, then eyed the shop owner across the room. “Good morning, Oleander,” you greeted the old male, hunched over a table lined with gleaming metal knives. 

The hairs on the High Lord’s neck stood, a chill running down his spine at the sight of the swords hanging on the wall, the bows and arrows piled in the corner. “(Y/N),” he replied gruffly. “What brings you in?”

You turned back to Talmin, getting eyes on the male to ensure he was still in toe. “I was wondering what you might give me for this gold.” You held the necklace out to him, the cracked pendant and broken chain gleaming in your dirty palm. 

“Ah,” he breathed, grabbing the necklace with his own filthy hand. “Given the condition, I’m afraid I can only give you…” He squinted at the old pendant, what seemed to be a depiction of the Mother with flowers braided throughout her hair. Tamlin’s mother once had a similar one. “Last week’s bread.”

“Old bread?” Tamlin couldn’t help but scoff, crossing his arms over his broad chest. 

The blacksmith’s eyes show up toward him, as if his eyes and ears deceived him. Oleander, clearly half blind, squinted at the High Lord. “Do you have an issue with my pricing?” He questioned Tamlin - who was certainly not used to the bite back from his subjects. “I think I’m being more than fair to the female.” He looked Tamlin up and down. 

“Fair?” Tamlin barked a laugh. “You own all of the weapons and food in the town and you’re telling me what’s fair?” He didn’t miss the sight of you backing up, right out of the corner of his eye. You inched towards the door, palms facing outwardly behind you, feeling as soon as your backside touched the door jam. Oleander stood, broad and burly, inching forward toward the both of you. By then, the shop had dimmed, dark clouds rolling over outside. The Fae had gathered around to watch, to see the High Lord for the first time in nearly decades. 

“Oh,” he laughed, standing, grabbing one of the polished knives. He raised his voice and stepped closer to Tamlin, cornering him out the door in the same direction you were fleeing. “The High Lord has returned to preach on decorum.” Tamlin dropped his hands to his sides, unclenched fists, not looking to start the physical fight, but prepared to defend himself. He could surely take the old male on easily, even if he had been armed with half the swords in his collection. “After years of abandonment, of leaving his people to suffer at the hands of the beasts, he’s come to exhort fairness and righteousness.” 

The Fae outside watched as you and Tamlin joined them outside the shop, many of their interests piqued at the sight of the golden haired male. 

“He’s back?”

“I thought he had died…” “He would be better off that way.”

“Never thought I’d live the day I would rather see Beron than him.”

“Shut up, he’s returned to help.” “No way - he’s just going to start the Tithe again.”

There were giggles amongst the murmuring crowd, laughing surely at the old Fae male that had the High Lord backing out of his shop. There were no words he could say to ease the crowd, to change their minds, to earn their trust. He wanted nothing more than to shift back into a wolf and hide away in the forest alone. 

“We didn’t come to make trouble, Oleander,” you spoke up calmly, empty hands raised in surrender. “He’s come to make peace.” 

He rolled his eyes, amongst another burst of whispering from the gathered crowd. “Peace,” he spat. “That’s what we all used to know before he abandoned us and left us for dead.” 

Tamlin’s jaw set, anger flashed through his eyes. There were some agreements exchanged by the other Fae. There were very few who sought to give their High Lord a second chance. 

Fuck, second or third? Or fourth chance? Tamlin couldn’t count. 

“We’re leaving, okay?” You inched closer to him, right until your shoulder pressed up against his bicep. “But please - ” you turned to face the crowd, what Tamlin could only assume were your friends, others you could consider almost family. “Please, just keep an open mind. If you’d been shunned, abandoned in the woods, you’d want us to accept you back.” There were a few nods, but many blank stares as you began walking away from the town, back towards the forest clearing. “No more hatred. We’ve had decades of spite, of shame.” Before you turned on your heel, before you grabbed Tamlin’s forearm to pull him away with you, you added: “Let us find peace again. Together: united as one court.” 

Fuck, Tamlin thought. You’d spoken all of the things he should have said. He wondered if you’d practiced that little speech, if one day you secretly hoped he’d come back so you could preach that very surmon. 

Tamlin pushed that thought far down in the depth of his mind. 

But perhaps Oleander had a point. Perhaps they would all be better off taking care of themselves without the rule of an artificial High Lord. They surely managed to come this far. It wasn’t like Tamlin would be able to protect the town himself - he’d have to rebuild armies before infrastructure, to guard the town from the forest before they could sift through the remains of the down. 

You’d dragged him along nonetheless, guiding him anywhere but the town. It was back toward your home - what remained of it, anyway. But the sky was grey by then, dark clouds shielding you both from the once bright sun. The soft crackle of thunder reverberated from the Summer Coast. “I’m - ” you cut yourself off with a sigh, dropping his arm, but continuing on your trek. “I’m not sure where we can get shelter for the evening. I don’t think anyone will let us stay for the storm.”

You were surely not on your way to make any amends, though. You just kept walking back towards your little plot of land, not that there was anywhere for you two to take cover until the rain washed away. 

Tamlin kept his eyes trained in front of him, not daring to spare a look at your shining eyes as he spoke. “Follow me.”

So you did. You almost didn’t recognize it, afterall, it had been almost a century since you’d walked that path. Nature had reclaimed most of it, the trail completely gone. Tamlin’s long legs stepped over vines and fallen logs, and he held your hand for balance as you followed in his footsteps - he’d even lifted you through particularly muddy patches, simply lifting you up and placing you down before him like you weighed nothing. 

The walk to his manor would have taken a mere half hour on horseback, perhaps just over an hour had the path remained. But it would take a few for the two of you to find your way back to the Spring Court Estate in the condition of the forest. Especially as the rain started to fall, the heavy droplets hard against your skin as they fell from the sky. 

You walked for what felt like the whole first half in silence. Nothing but the sound of Tamlin slicing thick leaves and branches, clearing what he could from the once barren path. You listened to the rain, to your own ragged breath as you struggled to keep up with the male. 

You watched his golden hair darken as it became damp with rain. His white linen shirt clung to his back and arms, you’d noted the ridges carved deep into his body as his muscles flexed, working around the forest that overtook the path. He slowed once the two of you stumbled upon a clearer area, falling into step beside you. 

You could feel the tension radiating from him, his fists were clenched at his side, the hairs on his arms stood up. He wasn’t used to wondering the woods as a Fae, hell - he hadn’t been in Fae form in years. Those woods felt all too familiar to him out of his wolf form, reminded him of all the times he’d fucked up in that very spot. He needed to distract himself, clear away the memories of his friend Lucien, his once lover, his newfound family. 

“I was in love once,” he said, voice gruff, muffled from the sound of the rain falling against the wide leaves. He repeated your sentiment from earlier - an acknowledgement of his past, perhaps even an apology. “But I’m pretty sure she was fucking my emissary.” 

You’d nearly choked. 

“That’s - uh - ” Gods, what do you say to that? 

He shrugged. “My feelings for her weren’t fake,” he continued, nonchalantly, as though he’d had nothing but time to come to terms with what had transpired. You supposed he did, though, and were sure that was the only thing on his mind. “I just didn’t know how to act.”

“We don’t have to talk about it,” you replied, crossing your arms over your chest, trying to keep what little body heat you had, as the cold water sent shivers down your spine. 

He shrugged. “Someone ought to hear the truth - ” Tamlin paused, only for a moment, as his green eyes narrowed in on the estate before you both. Trees covered the once stony walls, vines and thick ivy woven up all the windows and over the balconies. “You seem to be the only one who will listen.”

“I don’t not believe you, Tamlin.” You let him lead the rest of the way, pushing past the thick brush that guarded you from the estate as you neared the large castle. “Sometimes people aren’t who you think they are.”

At that, Tamlin dipped his head, turning to the side only slightly, just enough for him to catch a glimpse of your solemn expression. The rain had dripped down your face, over the curve of your nose and over your cheeks. He admired the way they clumped on your eyelashes, how you didn’t have a care in the world all covered in rain - perhaps you had more important concerns. Much too worried about where you’d sleep that night, where you next meal would come from, if you’d have shelter from the beasts, than to worry about his sob story. 

But you caught his gaze from the corner of your eye, where you’d found those bright emerald eyes washing over your form. Shadows cascaded down his straight nose, his eyelashes nearly touching his cheekbones. You’d wondered if it was the wolf in him that gave him those long eyelashes and thick hair, his sharp teeth and chiseled jaw. He carried himself like a High Lord, shoulders back and chest puffed out - perhaps the closer he got to his home, the more normal he felt. It was a routine, the same path he’d often walked with his friends: Lucien, Bron, Alis, Hart, those that worked for him yes, but also the only ones he could consider truly his family. 

Tamlin used the small knife he had to cut though the thick vines over the stairs. He’d moved each of the fallen logs, twice as heavy because they were waterlogged, and cleared the pathway to the front doors. He wanted to create a wide opening, should you decide in the middle of the night that you’d want to escape - run away from him, from the court. He didn’t want you to feel like a prisoner - he scoffed to himself, he apparently had a knack for that. 

He’d opened the door for you, watching as you gathered the hem of your soaked skirts and your muddy boots squished against the stone steps. You nodded in thanks, unable to move your eyes away from the entryway. The ceiling was fully glass, and despite the rain and clouds, cast a looming light onto the marble walls and floors. The rain echoed in the walls, the fat droplets hitting the roof hard. The heavy curtains and canvases on the walls had been ripped to shreds, rock and stone cracked and scattered along the hallways. The grand staircase was broken, missing a few steps, the railing half gone. 

You wondered what war went on here, while Tamlin tried to forget exactly that. 

He hadn’t been to his home in years. But he knew what would be left to salvage, the rooms he’d lost the energy to tear completely apart. So Tamlin followed you in, guiding you down one of the corridors. “We should be able to find some blankets and clothes this way,” he said, voice just above a whisper. It was so deep that it vibrated in your bones, sending shivers down your freezing spine. 

He’d stirred you through the wide halls, pulling you away with a firm hand on your hip when you’d tried to move toward the great dining room. His hand was hot on your waist, right at the curve of your back as he pulled you one step closer to him. “Not that way.” His eyes were fixed on the mahogany doors, hiding whatever may lie beyond. While he was almost certain he’d left you with the idea there may be Naga or wolves or some other beasts beyond those walls, he didn’t want to correct you with the truth. The gross truth that that’s where he left the elk Rhysand brought him so long ago, no doubt rotted away and disintegrated into the table - that, or it would have been swept away by some creature, perhaps for food or simply to play with its carcass. Either way, he didn’t want to find out. 

There were holes in the roof, in the floors above, that leaked through the halls. You stepped around the puddles, dodging the stream of rain that fell from the ceiling. Tamlin pushed open one of the many doors in the long hallway, a dark bedroom on the other side. “It’s not my room, don’t worry.” 

You turned up to face him. He looked weary, uneasy being back in this estate. “I wasn’t worried, Tamlin.”

He released a breath, his chest visibly falling at your words. He followed you in, closing the door to shut out the cold that the rain had brought to Spring. He’d brought you to one of the guest rooms, never had been occupied by a member of his court. It went untouched during Tamlin’s rage, there had been no evidence of life to destroy. He’d managed to rummage around and quickly find some candles, digging through drawers and closets to find a dry book of matches. 

While Tamlin lit the room, you were drawn to the soft couch in the corner, pulling every blanket and piece of cloth you could find. Gods, it had been so long since you had a good night’s rest, since you sat on a plush sofa and had the softest blankets around you. But you had to wait. Your dress was soaked, you’d been dragging water and mud behind you that whole time. “Do you have any…” you trailed off with a sigh, assuming the male didn’t have any spare dresses lying around. 

You actually would be more concerned if he did. 

“There may be something,” he replied, picking up on your predicament. He sifted through the armoire again, the flickering candles aiding his search. He’d come up with some clothes, a few linen pants and loose shirts. He held everything out to you, a pile of clean fabric. 

You couldn’t remember the last time you’d worn clean clothes. Tamlin noted how your eyes widened, like you’d hit the jackpot, like you’d never seen pajamas before - clean clothes. He cursed himself once again for cursing his people, for abandoning them and forcing them to live in destroyed homes and a looted town. 

You pulled a handful of clothes from his offering, your wet skin crying out for warmth. “There’s a bathing chamber that way.” He nodded to the door far off in the corner. “Doubt there’s any water but…” he trailed off with a shrug. 

“Thank you,” you replied, legs practically begging to take you to the bathroom and change into the pajamas. So you’d scurried away, grabbing a candle to light your way into the bath chamber. The mirror was cracked, covered in dust. But you quickly shucked off your wet dress, grabbing the shirt from the pile and wiped yourself dry, wringing out your hair in the fabric. You pulled on the next shirt, the huge cotton long-sleeve that fell halfway down your thighs. No doubt it had been designed for the High Lord, perhaps even his emissary. But you’d take what you could get, throwing on another shirt for warmth, then the linen pants. You fisted the waist, pulling one of the strings from your dress bodice to tie the pants snugly around your waist. 

Through the dirty mirror, you made out the dark circles under your eyes, your tired eyes and wild hair. You suppressed a sigh, too tired to care one bit. So you returned to the drawing room, finding the High Lord in a fresh set of clothes as well.

He was trying to busy himself, sifting through the pile of blankets you’d managed to create, even adding a few more to your pile. He didn’t want to be rude, to fall onto the soft couch or bed without first making sure you were taken care of. 

His heart stopped when he turned, seeing you swimming in the Spring Court clothing, even just those too-large pajamas. You looked so relieved, so comfortable and, honestly, ready to pass out for the evening. So he cleared his throat: “You can have the bed.” It was all he said, added a head nod towards the other end of the room, where the mattress was, nothing but some sheets atop it. “I was going to give you these.” He gestured to his pile of blankets. All the soft looking ones in one pile, the thin scratchy material separated behind him. 

“We can share the bed, no?” You made your way toward him and grabbed an armful of the blankets he’d folded. “We could both use the nice bed, I’m sure. I imagine it’s been longer for you than me.”

Tamlin cocked a brow, watched as you trudged over to the bed, dumping everything atop it. “I’ve managed just fine.” 

You glanced over your shoulder at the male. “Bring those other ones,” you called out, ignoring her words. “We’ll probably need them if this rain doesn’t let up.”

Tamlin shook his head to himself but did as told, not in the mood to argue with the female, especially not the beautiful one wearing his clothes. So he brought over the rest of the blankets, even the scratchy ones, and helped you make the bed. It was haphazard, sure, some of them not big enough to cover the whole bed, a patchwork of covers, some yours, some his, then the ones stitching you together down the middle. 

You climbed in immediately. 

The sigh you let loose from your lips almost had Tamlin on his knees before you. Your back cracked when you laid down, plush mattress cushioning your spine in a way you hadn’t felt in a long while. You slept on the hard wooden planks of your neighbor’s floor since your house had been torn down, freezing and stiff. You hadn’t remembered the last time you’d had a full nights rest. 

The same went for the male beside you. He’d been holed up in some cave on the Spring-Autumn border, where the wind whistled past and the cold seeped through the rock into his bone. His thick golden fur only did so much to protect him from the chill. He was surprised he hadn’t gotten himself killed out there, and he didn’t even want to think about everything he himself had killed in those past years. 

“What made you come back?” Your soft voice pulled him out of his thoughts, he blinked a few times before pulling the covers back and joining you on the opposite end. He was careful to leave space, to not encroach. His palms caught on the scratchy fabric of the blanket he’d laid on his half, calluses hard and broken, left from his many years of tearing apart flesh with his paws. 

“I was tired of being a coward,” he replied humbly. “I ran away from everything that happened. Pretended like it never happened and shut myself away.” He ran a hair through his half-dried hair, fingers getting tangled at the ends. 

“You were alone?” It was a cross between a question and a statement, he wasn’t sure which you were going for - probably the former. 

“I’ve been alone my whole life. Everyone I come across either leaves or tries to kill me.”

He felt you turn, shift on your side to gaze at him with what little light remained of the candle. Tamlin kept his eyes trained on the covers above him, unable to face the pity that probably laced your features. “Did they try to kill you?” Your voice shook, afraid to even ask the question, terrified of the response. 

He offered you a half shrug. “They left…willingly,” he’d added, mulling over the words in his head. “Though I suppose I not-so-willingly let them. I don’t know how to keep friends, it seems.”

“I suppose that’s better than the other option.”

Them killing him. “Better when it’s not your own family, too.” It was no secret the previous High Lord had a knack for starting wars, for sending his sons to fight his battles for him. Tamlin had a reputation far before his powers even matured - his brothers’ even more so. But what you didn’t know was that they were ready to kill him the instant he matured into a stronger male. He wasn’t glad they were dead, but he was glad he was safe - even if only for a little while. He had found few friends before the curse, a lover afterwards, even. But just like his father and brothers, he could not show love, no matter how hard he willed it, he kept fucking up. 

That’s what it felt like, at least. He supposed he was the jester of the Spring Court in the end. The friends he’d had and the lies they told him: you never made me feel like a prisoner - her voice rang in his head. Soon they were gone, twisting the opposite tale to the male that murdered his family. Nothing could be forgiven in Prythian, no reconciliation to be made between courts. There was no coping, no help from his friends, no one to confide in. So he did the only thing he knew how: shut himself out. Just like he had his former lover, keeping her safe in that very estate. 

He kept every Fae who remained in Spring safe from himself, even if that meant casting himself into the woods. 

You shifted only a bit, but close enough that you reached over and tucked your soft blanket around his shoulders, over his chest that had nearly gone cold from the rain and chill outside. You were close enough that Tamlin could pick up on your flowery scent, that he noted the small hint of honey and cherry blossom lingering along your skin. 

It had been so long since he’d touched another Fae, since he felt someone care for him. He couldn’t help it - his head fell onto your shoulder, right where the crook of your neck met your collarbone, a perfect fit for the crownless male. “And how have you fared, Tamlin? Now that you are a free male?”

Free. 

Free from what? From his duties as a High Lord, surely he’d abandoned them years ago, letting the Naga and the beasts of the Spring Court take over the sacred land. Free from Amarantha’s glamor, the shackles she’d chained him with under the mountain? Free from the binds she kept on his mind, the nightmares - memories - he relived each evening? 

He wasn’t sure if he’d ever be free from it. 

He didn’t know how to cope. Not when the only people he’s ever cared about left. Not when his best friend left him when he clearly needed the most help, not when his lover left to wed his mortal enemy, then bare his child. But he apologized to her, for all the trauma he must have caused, locking her away, fearful of who else from Prythian would come to spite him by taking away the female he loved, by he saving her mate. 

He cursed himself. Surely, someone ought to have a happy ending. Might as well have been her. 

He was upset, in fact. When it all came down to it, everything was traced back to his anger. He was blind to his own emotion, it’s what caused him to act without thinking - a strategy he’d never seemed to master, not like the other High Lords. It ended up causing him his newfound family, his Court, it got the Archeron sisters caught and thrown into the Cauldron, it spurred the war. He was a failure, he’d lost the Spring Court and his pride alongside it. He’d been played like that godsdamned fiddle. 

And Tamlin let himself lie in that dark cave night after night, rotting in a lifetime of regret. 

He could only shake his head, nose rubbing against your skin that poked out from the loose collar of your  - his - shirt. “I swear I will rebuild the Court, (Y/N),” he whispered, breath warm on your skin. His lips just barely touched your skin as he spoke. “I promise it, I’ll run the beasts out and fix the mess I’ve made. Even if nobody believes me, if they’ve lost all faith in me.”

Your hand fell downwards over the blanket you’d placed over him, fell down the soft fabric over his chest. “Actions, not words.” He tilted his head up, and those deep green eyes met yours instantly. His gaze washed over your face, over the sheer determination and strength, but in utter admiration as you spoke. “Show them.”

You lifted your hand, fingers twitching in hesitancy, but your mind worked too fast. You brushed your hand over his cheekbone, over the strong jaw and tanned skin. He nearly shivered, nearly broke out in a godsdamned sob. 

Tamlin was fighting to keep his emotions intact, to stop himself from absolutely crumbling apart in the safety of your arms. He slowly shifted upright, sitting beside you, back against the headboard just as you sat. You never moved your hand, save for your thumb running over his cheek, tracing where the light stubble had grown in over his jaw and cheek. 

His own hand fell to your hip, safely above the covers. But the added weight of him caused the shift, the simple weight of his large hand on you sparked something inside of you. 

So you leaned in. 

You didn’t know what it was. If it was the fact you’d hadn’t been held in years, the fact you laid in bed together, cold from the rain and nearly out of candles. If it was the fact that he’d opened up for what probably was the first time ever, the male with the worst reputation - his ill temper, his tendency to fight, how godsdamned beastly was - laid out and vulnerable in your arms. 

Your lips met his softly, a firm enough kiss where you felt equally matched, as if he, too, was waiting for you to do it; but soft enough that he would pull back if you did, that he would restrain himself from going further, should you realize you’ve made a mistake. 

You did the opposite, though, barely breaking away for breath, parting your lips just enough to gasp for air before pushing against him once more. Your hand raked through his long hair, so Tamlin had no choice but to do the same. His fingertips wove through your own hair as his hand rose from your hip to cradle your jaw, tilting your head to the side. 

He tasted sweet, not what you were expecting from the male whose scent lingered with the sultry forest and fresh morning dew. He was gentile, too. His tongue moving only to trace your bottom lip, nothing more. Your lips moved over each other in sync, breathing in tandem and letting those soft sighs escape between the two of you.

You pulled him closer, winding your other arm around his neck as you laid back, sliding further onto the bed where he had to drop a hand beside you to hold himself up. But he kissed you anyway, like you were the last breath of life for that dying male. 

Perhaps you were giving him life, that spark he needed to reignite the male inside of him who he once was. 

Your hand trailed down his chest as he continued deepening the kiss, lips moving quickly over yours, growing hungrier, more desperate. You fisted at his loose shirt, not even bothering to untie it, just slipped your hand underneath from the bottom where it hung so loosely from his body. His abdomen shivered under your touch, your fingertips tracing the hard rigid muscle. Tamlin sighed against your mouth, trying (and failing) to suppress the groan that built up in the back of his throat. 

So he’d pulled away, the sound of your lips parting from his loud and wet, a sound he’d practically forgotten about over the past decades spent alone. His forehead dropped against yours and you felt the tickle of his hair against your cheek. “I can’t - I’ve already caused too much destruction. I’ll hurt you.”

It didn’t feel real - he had to stop himself, break free of the dream he was surely living in. Another female, not only giving him the time of day, but who cared for him without even knowing him. He huffed a loose laugh, and muttered to himself: “I’m going mad.”

His lips were still far too close to yours. They barely touched as you spoke. “Take it out on me.” You tilted your jaw up, just barely high enough to capture his lips with yours. “I can take it, Tamlin.”

He shivered, I’ve heard that before. “I don’t want you to have to.”

You peered up at him where he gazed down adoringly at you, from underneath those long light eyelashes of his. He’d bent down for one more kiss, all his passion put behind that one last time of your lips pressed together. 

He only pulled away when he ran out of air. 

He slotted down beside you, his arm curled under your shoulders, the other crossed above the blankets, the piles of soft and scratchy ones, and fell over your bodies to rest on your hip. You fell asleep with your face buried in his chest and your arm flung around him, dreaming of the promise tomorrow held. 

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.”

Enemies to lovers type thing with Tom riddle where you’re forced to dance at the Yule ball together if you think you would enjoy writing that smut can be included if you want and could it have a happy ending I’ve had a rough week 🥲 thank you very much 💜

A/N: Y'all... no one @ me about this... 😳

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The Deal

Summary: You're stuck with the arrogant, charming Riddle at the ball and you can't imagine anything worse. Riddle appears to be imagining something else entirely. [AFAB reader ★ no pronouns ★ ambiguous house] Wordcount: 6.7k Content warning: SO MUCH EXPLICIT SEX OML. THE RAUNCHIEST THING I'VE EVER WRITTEN PROBABLY.

Permanent Tags: @grimdevil @voidmalfoy @weirdowithnobeardo @pearlstiare @fromthehellmouth @moatsnow @lucys-brain @arana-alpha @tallyovie @expectoscamander @nothinghcppens @itsjustfics @mikariell95 @suicide-sweetheart636 @toasterking @empath-bunny @hueanhdang @seriouslyginnychase @whoreforgeorgeandfred @lemirabitur @tm-mrvl-rddl @fish-eg @silverdelirium @cranberrypills @valentinecarnage

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

[GIF CREDIT]

“Wait,” Chen say, looking like she’s barely containing laughter as she places her hands on the table on either side of her plate. “So… Dippet wants the prefects to set an upstanding example of conduct and demonstrate unity by all going to this thing together.”

“Yes,” you say in a clipped voice.

“And… and you’re all required to attend.”

“Yup.”

She presses her lips together, brows raising. It’s impossible to tell if she’s more amused or sort of incredulously sympathetic.

You exhale in defeat and your head falls onto the table with a thunk. “Go on,” you mutter, knowing what’s coming next.

“Eugene and Ruby have been together since the beginning of time,” Chen narrates to your crumpled form. “Mandeep’s already asked Rosalie, and the Gryffindors are all going together and Chell asked Roger the same bloody day the ball was announced…”

You groan weakly in affirmation, unmoving in your permeating dismay as she lists of all the other prefects. All of them except…

You fold your arms around your face, trying to block out the inevitable conclusion of her words.

“Which means…” she manages to say without laughing. “The only prefect left for you to go with is –”

“I’m going to murder him by the end of the night,” you say flatly.

Chen’s snickers spill over. You shoot her a look of deep betrayal and she manages to compose herself (sort of). “Look,” she says around her suppressed smile, “I know you hate him, but he’s really not that bad –”

“I would rather eat a Flobberworm whole than go to the Yule Ball with Tom Riddle,” you deadpan.

“Well,” comes Riddle’s smooth, irritatingly pleasant voice from behind you and you nearly break your neck turning to face him. He’s got that stupid amused expression on his stupid face, one brow raised, lip half curled like everything’s just a big stupid joke. You genuinely have no idea how everyone finds him charming. “It seems you’re doomed to a rather dire evening, indeed.”

“Riddle,” you say tartly, eyes narrowing. “I didn’t realise that you’d slithered up behind me.”

“Clearly,” he intones, seeming deeply unimpressed.

“What do you want? I’m busy.”

Riddle’s eyes slowly flick to your empty plate, the napkin you’ve folded into a very poor attempt at a swan, the two goblets you’ve managed to balance on top of each other, and Chen’s bitten-back smile as she pretends to read a book that you’re pretty sure she’s cracked open at random. “Yes, you look positively overwhelmed,” he says in barely concealed sarcasm.

“Most people actually enjoy spending time with their friends, Riddle, but considering who you fraternise with I understand if that’s a slightly baffling concept to you –”

“You must have noticed by now that we’re required to attend the ball together,” Riddle interrupts, looking across the Hall with a slightly bored expression as he clasps his hands behind his back. “I’m here to formally offer the invitation.”

“I’m formally accepting it,” you say colourlessly, “now can you formally sod off?”

His eyes narrow and Chen chokes on a laugh that she hides (unsuccessfully) behind her hand. “Of course,” Riddle says coolly, jaw lifting a fraction as he looks down at you, “I wouldn’t dream of taking up any more of your precious time.”

“That’s very good of you,” you say with no small amount of snark.

“I’ll be in the Entrance Hall at seven,” he says, tone ice hard. “Wear something nice.”

“You wear something nice,” you retort grumpily to his retreating form.

Chen arches a brow at you very pointedly, and you lean down on your arms again feeling extremely testy.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

The Hall looks stunning, ice crystals hanging in long spires from the massive, blazing hearths, dancing snow falling from the starry ceiling, and everywhere everything gleams and glitters and shines like the whole place is covered in an early morning frost. You and the other prefects on set up duty finish decorating with mere minutes to spare, and you dash off full-speed to your dorm to wrestle on your dress. You sit down in front of the mirror to fix up your face right as the clock chimes seven.

“Shit,” you breathe, seizing your wand and beginning to Charm yourself to glamour at a truly reckless pace. Ten minutes later you’re sprinting back to the Entrance Hall, heels dangling wildly in one hand and dress bunched in the other.

Riddle is leaning against the stone arch of the Great Hall, music and voices and clinking of glasses already pouring from the open doors. He catches sight of you racing towards him and watches blankly as you skid to a stop in front of him. “You’re late,” he says flatly.

“Yes, thank you Riddle,” you pant through gritted teeth, balancing a little precariously on one foot at a time as you wrangle on your heels. “God, whatever would I do without you.”

You stand and exhale sharply, trying to settle yourself. For the first time, you properly assess Riddle.

Typical.

Riddle looks gorgeous, the bastard, his black hair styled into very attractive waves, his robes simple but cleanly cut and maddeningly flattering of his lean, elegant form. At first glance they look black but upon closer inspection you realise he’s wearing an impossibly deep blue that makes his pale skin look smooth and creamy in the contrast. If you could have found him unattractive, you admit a little begrudgingly, you would have.

Riddle is looking at you, too, the dark angles of his brows pulling together in a slight but critical frown as he takes in your appearance. “I said wear something nice.”

“I hate you,” you say bitterly, turning towards the Hall. “Lets just get this over with…”

Dippet has the prefects on duty all night so you barely even have to see Riddle for the first two hours as you weave through the crowd snagging silver Shrinking Flasks of Firewhisky off rowdy seventh-years, re-Charming a long, tottering icicle before it impales someone, and rescuing a terrified-looking Ravenclaw fourth-year who had sprained her ankle and was promptly nearly trampled to death by the horde of the Gryffindor Quidditch team, who were dancing with such exuberance that they’d established a blast radius that no-one could enter without receiving at least one elbow to a soft body part.

You wearily push your hair back with a long sigh as you turn back to the crowd, the Ravenclaw girl limping away with the Matron behind you.

“Here,” Chen says dryly, handing you a drink in a wide-brimmed glass as she materialises beside you.

“Thanks,” you mutter, necking it.

“Rough night?” she asks, watching you with amusement.

You set the empty glass on the table and shoot her a look. “That Flobberworm is seeming mighty appealing right about now.”

She snorts. “Stop complaining. Half of this room would have torn limb from limb to go with Riddle, and you actually landed the date and you’ve not even spoken a word to him all night. It’s causing quite the outrage.”

You sigh in reluctance. “I suppose I actually have to dance with him at some point…”

“Well here’s your chance,” Chen smirks into her cup, turning away without another word.

Riddle comes to a stop in front of you and eyes your retreating friend. “Have I offended her in some way?” he asks smoothly. “She needn’t leave on my behalf.”

“But who would miss that chance?” you ask monotonously, looking around the crowd warily. “What is it? Is Diggory puking again?”

“No,” says Riddle with detached amusement. “I thought that you and I ought to dance at least once tonight.”

You suppress the urge to sigh again. “Yeah you’re probably right,” you mutter, stepping past him towards onto the dance floor, “right, come on then, don’t criticise my dancing, Riddle, I’m this bloody close to snapping and stabbing someone with an icicle.”

“Sounds like you’ve had quite the evening,” he smirks from behind you as he follows.

“Just be glad you were on planning and not set up,” you mutter, turning to him. “If I never have to cast another Frost Charm for the rest of my life I’ll be happy.”

“Such a low bar,” Riddle says softly, lifting his jaw slightly. “Though I suppose they say that simple things appease the very simple.”

You glare at him, but he just smirks at you again as he steps closer, and in one fluid movement he takes your hand in his and places his other on your waist. “You are such a prick,” you say brazenly, still glaring at him as you both step into a simple, muted dance that requires very minimal enthusiasm.

Riddle doesn’t look injured by this insult in the slightest. “You bring out the worst in me,” he says with disinterest.

You look away stonily. Now that Chen’s mentioned it, you suddenly notice the not insignificant number of slightly envious glares being shot your way now that you’re actually dancing with Riddle. “This is stupid,” you mutter, looking down, “I’m going to get absolutely strung up for being your date and I don’t even want to be here.”

“What do you mean?” he frowns.

You arch a brow, unconvinced by his confusion. “Don’t play dumb, Riddle, the list of people who wanted you to ask them to this thing was longer than the list of people who didn’t.”

Riddle’s expression slowly turns into amusement. He looks infuriatingly pleased with himself. “Lucky you,” he says smoothly.

“Oh yeah, lucky me,” you scoff, returning your gaze to your feet. He’s an excellent dancer, the bastard, and you’re having to watch where you step just to keep up.

A stiff silence falls for several minutes during which you make more discoveries that make your blood boil. Riddle, apparently, has the audacity to smell absolutely incredible for one, and worse he actually dares to display something half-way resembling decency. When a very drunk Hufflepuff boy stumbles backwards into you with flailing arms, Riddle turns you so sharply that both of your feet leave the ground for a brief second to get you out of his way and prevent a slightly catastrophic collision. You stare at him in silent shock but he just looks away and neglects to comment.

Hateful boy, you think bitterly. If he had any real decency he’d be holistically unpleasant and let me dislike him in peace.

The moment the song changes, you pull your hand from his and step back. “Right, done,” you say dully, looking away. “Now I have to go find Diggory and make sure he’s not passed out under another table.”

“Diggory’s fine,” Riddle says smoothly, “I took him to the Hospital Wing an hour ago.”

“Chen, then,” you mutter, looking around the crowd for her.

His lips twitch in amusement again. “She appears to be rather preoccupied at present.”

You catch sight of Chen through the crowd. She and Jacob Steed appear to be attempting to swallow each other whole right there on the dancefloor. You give a long, weary exhale. “Well, I’m sure I can find something to do.”

“Dance with me again.”

For the second time, your neck just about snaps under the velocity of you looking around at him. “What?”

Riddle’s expression is curiously neutral, standing there among the throng of people with his dark eyes on yours. A long second passes, and then he looks away himself. “No matter,” he says in an absent sort of tone, like this is all very normal, “enjoy the rest of your evening.”

And he turns and weaves his way away from you, vanishing into the crowd in seconds.

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

If you’d thought decorating the place had been rough, it’s nothing compared to the clean up.

“Go to bed,” says Professor Slughorn, waving a tired hand at the group of you a few hours later with bleary eyes and rumpled hair. “We’ll finish up in the morning… and well done tonight, all of you!”

You trudge out the door of the half-cleared Hall with the other prefects, your eyes drooping in exhaustion, and just outside the doors you stumble on your heels as fatigue gets the best of you.

A firm hand closes around your forearm and you look up at once, alert in an instant. You’ve not seen Riddle since the weirdness after you’d danced. “Careful,” he says smoothly, slowly releasing you once you’ve re-found your balance.

“Good idea,” you mutter, falling back against the stone wall beside the doors and lifting your shoe to finally remove it. “Stupid things… god my feet hurt.”

Riddle doesn’t reply, choosing instead to look around the empty chamber. Everyone has meandered off to the dorms, and there’s nothing for him to look at but utter silence.

You eye him as you fiddle with the strap of your other heel, leaning heavily on the wall behind you. “What are you doing?” you ask a little suspiciously.

He meets your gaze, seeming a little surprised. “Waiting,” he says with a small frown like it should be obvious.

“For?”

Riddle arches a brow. “Proof that you can walk straight.”

“I can walk,” you say, rolling your eyes, “I’m just tired.”

“If it had been possible to avoid asking you to be my date, I would have done so,” Riddle says suddenly.

You stare at him incredulously. It takes a long moment before you can gather yourself to reply. “Jeez Riddle,” you exclaim, “I get it, I’m repulsive to you, no need to go on about it –”

“I was more referring to your obvious displeasure,” he interrupts curtly, standing up a little straighter. “You were hardly subtle about the fact that tonight was less than enjoyable for you.”

“Oh yeah because you were such a joy to be around,” you shoot back, folding your arms, “I said wear something nice and all that –”

“That was clearly a joke,” he says coolly, eyes narrowing.

“Yeah it was hilarious. Was calling me simple a joke too?”

“And all of your insults?” he asks icily. "Jokes, are they?"

“I’ve cleaned up four different peoples’ vomit tonight and this conversation is honestly less pleasant,” you mutter, wrenching off your other heel. “Goodnight, Riddle, thanks for absolutely nothing.”

“You look very nice,” he says angrily.

You are once again rendered speechless by surprise.

“Is that what you want? Flattery?” he continues, waving at you furiously.

“I don’t want you to flatter me,” you scoff indignantly, “I don’t want you to do anything, Riddle, I don’t want anything to do with you at all.”

“Well my deepest apologies,” he replies in a cold, hollow voice, his dark eyes narrowing, “for depriving you of my absence for so long.”

He glares at you, and you glare back. You feel like you’re the only person in the whole school who can’t stand him, all his sickly charm and ease, his pretty face that makes people quite convinced that he can’t be part of all those nasty things his friends are rumoured of doing, his incredible grades, his ability to hold a conversation with literally everyone in the whole castle. He pivots so fluently from scene to scene that people don’t seem to notice that he’s doing it; bashfully modest and self-assuredly proud, soft-spoken and assertive, hard-working and effortless, popular and singular, charismatic and genuine. No one seems to notice that Riddle is everything at once. But no one is everything. Which means some of it, or most of it, or all of it is a lie.

You suddenly blink, coming out of your thoughts with a jolt and realising that you’ve both been stood there in conflictive silence for some time.

But Riddle has gone from a cold glare to a detached frown, looking at you with an expression that wouldn’t be out of place in an exam hall. It’s worse, somehow. You’re consumed with a slightly unhinged craving for him to go back to glaring at you, to go back to glaring at him yourself. But you can feel that you’re not.

You watch as his head tilts ever-so-slightly like he’s studying you, like he’s sifting through whatever he’s seeing on your face at the moment, because it suddenly feels like you have no idea what he’s finding there.

“What are you doing?” you ask quietly, and immediately resent yourself for not sounding angrier. For not sounding angry at all.

Riddle is silent for a moment. You wonder if he’s going to step closer. You wonder why on earth you’re thinking about him stepping closer. He swallows, and you adamantly keep your eyes on his to avoid looking at his throat. “Waiting,” he says just as quietly.

You’re tired. It’s been a very weird night. This is the longest you and Riddle have gone without insulting each other and that’s extremely disorienting. That's why this is happening. That’s why your nerves start tingling in your stomach, why your chest suddenly feels too tight. “For what?” you manage to ask without wavering.

He frowns slowly, thoughtfully. His dark eyes seem to have pinned you there against the wall. You wonder if you even could turn and leave right now of your own accord. “I’m not sure,” he says carefully.

Riddle is a liar. He’s an actor. He’s very, very good at presenting whatever will get him what he wants at any given moment. That’s what he’s doing now. You think it must be what he’s doing now, and the nervousness prickling under your skin is wiped away by the hot resentment that whatever he’s doing was working. It was working on you and you’re supposed to know better.

“Do you think you can just bat your eyelashes at me and make me fall for you like everyone else, Riddle?” you ask coolly, lifting your chin a little antagonistically.

He actually laughs, a very genuine-looking scoff of disbelief and surprise, shaking his head slightly as he looks at you. “Is that what you think I’m doing?” he asks, arching a brow in a sort of resigned amusement.

“Why do you even bother with me, Riddle?” you ask in exasperation, shoulders falling. “There’s about four hundred other people in this castle who would be happy to fawn over you all you like. Is it because I’m the only one here who genuinely can’t stand you? Are you such a bloody narcissist that you have to prove that you can collect everyone?”

Anger flashes in his eyes. “I wouldn’t presume to understand my feelings, if I were you,” he snaps, “I don’t presume to understand them myself.”

You blink. The admission seems to register with him a second later and his lips press together hard, looking away in visible agitation.

But he doesn’t leave. He’s bound his gaze to some shadowy part of the Hall behind you, and he doesn’t say a word. You study the expression on his face, the tension there, the way its twisted on his lips. He looks like he’s annoyed with himself. Or maybe he’s just pretending to be. How could you tell the difference? How can you ever know what’s real with Riddle and what’s not?

You sigh with resignment, fatigue, curiosity, and drop your heels to the ground with a clatter that echoes around the dark stone of the loft Hall. Riddle looks back at once. “What are you doing?” he frowns, eyes flicking to your shoes.

You give him a long look. “Waiting.”

He stares at you. Above you, the flames in the wall sconce flicker slightly like they’ve been swept by a breeze and the shadows play down Riddle’s face.

You almost feel a little triumphant when Riddle does indeed take a step closer, slow and measured, watching your closely, and when you don’t say a word, he takes another. He doesn’t touch you, the scant space that remains between your bodies the last sliver of an alibi, the eleventh-hour chance for either of you to turn away. You wonder if he’s faking it now, the heavy way he’s looking at you, the strangely guarded expression in his dark, watchful eyes like he thinks if he moves too quickly you’ll bolt like a wild animal.

You wonder what he’s thinking as he slowly leans down to you, still watching, still wary, and you take a breath to try to settle the butterflies that bloom instinctively in your stomach as you watch Riddle’s lips draw closer and closer to yours. He’s barely a centimetre away from kissing you when he stops.

You immediately look up at him.

He’s unbearably close, he’s the only thing you can see, his smell flooding your thoughts and his body just inches from yours. You watch with surreal fascination as Riddle’s eyes flutter shut and he takes a long breath, his forehead coming to rest against yours and it’s weird seeing him like this, not just that he’s so close, but that he’s seemingly so uninhibited, usually so calculated and deliberate and refined. Riddle draws closer like he doesn’t even notice he’s doing it, and when you feel his hands come up and rest on your hips you suddenly realise that you very much don’t care if Riddle is faking it or not.

You lean in and kiss him.

It’s soft and tentative and warm and Riddle is only barely returning it, like both of you are just trying to figure out if this should even be happening – but you’re rather convinced that it should be, because this barest press of his lips is sending waves of heat under your skin that pool wonderfully in your stomach, and you wonder if he hears the breath you draw in, if he feels it, if he knows how frighteningly good this feels, how much the desire feels like you’ve lost your balance all over again.

After a long, fragile moment, you pull back.

You catch his eyes opening slowly. Somehow your hands have ended up on his chest.

Riddle’s eyes flick between yours like he’s trying to find something in one of them, waiting, perhaps, for the return of your insults, or perhaps for something worse.

For a moment, all you can hear is your heartbeat and the flickering flames above.

Both of you lean in again at the same time, lips meeting hard as his hands slip around your waist and yours lace around his neck, and this time it’s not tentative, this time it’s downright insatiable, hot and hungry and brazen, and your head is spinning so much that you forget to worry about someone walking in and coming across the two of you as you kiss him harder, and harder, and his hair is softer than you’d expected, his hands are warmer, his body firmer, and when his hand slides under your thigh and pulls it up against his hip to press in closer, you’re filled with such an intense hunger for him that you break the kiss, intimidated.

Riddle’s full lips are slightly parted and he’s breathing hard, staring at you. He looks very much like he wasn’t expecting this hunger either.

“I… I don’t think that we should…” you manage to say over your racing heart.

Riddle blinks and then lets go of your thigh at once, stepping back before you can even react. “Of course,” he says blankly, his eyes dropping with a frown, “my apologies, I didn’t mean to imply that –”

“Riddle,” you interrupt, rolling your eyes, “shut up, I was going to say that we’re being rather conspicuous and I’d rather not get interrupted by an unsuspecting ghost, they might die all over again from pure shock.”

Riddle either doesn’t know what to say to this or doesn’t think it even deserves a reply, because he just stares at you again.

You refrain from making some snide remark about this in favour of stepping forward, taking his face in your hands, and kissing him as hard as you can. There’s a broom closet on the other side of the hall and you very much intend to get him into it.

Riddle’s breath speeds up and he can’t seem to decide where he wants to touch you, your cheeks, your hair, your waist, your back, his hands dancing between them as you push him back across the Hall in long steps that he just barely stumbles on until finally his back hits the door of the closet. You kiss him deeper as one of Riddle’s palms come to rest against your jaw, and you realise he knew exactly what you were doing, what you were intending, because his other hand drops to the handle of the closet and the door springs open.

Riddle pulls you inside, slamming the door shut and pushing you hard against it, lips meeting yours in the dark so hungrily that you gasp right into his mouth without meaning to. Your fingers battle with the tie around his neck, pulling the knot apart and then moving on without hesitation to the buttons at his throat but Riddle doesn’t give you a moment to breathe. Something in him has snapped, all the hesitation and tentativeness and slowness has vanished, his lips are devouring yours, relentless and wild and full of craving, one forearm boxing you in and the other hand tangling in your hair to pull you closer still. The intensity of it isn’t frightening you anymore. Now it’s just making you very, very excited.

You finally shove his shirt out of the way and spread your hands across his chest, and in the darkness and the all-encompassing gravity of the way he’s kissing you, nothing exists but the way he feels, his warm skin, his body beneath your hands, the way Riddle exhales hard with something like frustration and slips an arm around your waist to pull you up, stepping in to pin you against the wall. Your legs wrap around his hips on instinct and Riddle’s hand is sliding up your thigh again but you can barely keep track because his lips move to your throat and pleasure explodes across your skin. You push your fingers into his hair and hold him there as his mouth moves in that same insatiable way against your skin, looking up in the dark and seeing nothing but blackness as Riddle draws a moan from your lips that you would have been ashamed of if he didn’t feel so good.

“You’re making this very difficult,” he mutters against your skin, lifting his head and kissing you again, and your eyes flutter shut even though it makes no difference anyway. You kiss him back desperately, wrapping your legs around him tighter, pulling him closer, and it’s a long moment before you remember what he’s said and that you should probably figure out what he means.

“Making what difficult?” you breathe, leaning in and placing your lips against his throat yourself, dragging your teeth across his skin.

His hand curls hard in your hair as he takes a wonderfully sharp breath. “Resisting,” he says tightly.

You scoff and pull away. “Why on earth are you resisting?”

“I don’t know,” he says in a hollow tone.

“Well stop,” you murmur, placing your palms against his cheeks.

Riddle doesn’t say anything. The silence is suddenly as permeating as the dark, tenuous and deafening.

Slowly, you feel him lean in, you feel the warmth of his lips hovering right above yours.

“There are things I want to do to you,” Riddle says quietly. His voice has gone heavy and deep.

Heat flushes your face. You try to stop yourself from breathing harder, but you can’t. “Like what?” you whisper.

His mouth presses right next to yours, electrifyingly slow. He can feel the way your chest is heaving, he can hear your breath, and suddenly you’re wondering how dangerous it is that Riddle can tell exactly what sort of effect he’s having on you. “Things to make you feel good,” he murmurs, and his hand on your thigh is moving up towards your hip, pushing up your dress as it goes, his palm warm and his fingers splayed hungrily against your skin. You press your lips together hard. “Things to make you…”

You shift in anticipation, unable to stop yourself, desire pulling so hard at your body that it feels like gravity is tipping over. Riddle pulls away, his hand frozen on your hip.

You wonder what expression the darkness is covering on his face.

“There’s a table beside you,” he says quietly, voice splitting the silence and sending shivers down your spine. “I’d like you to put your hands on it.”

You stare at where you think his eyes would be. It takes a second for your brain to catch up with the fire aching in your stomach. You look to the side, but you can’t see anything in the darkness.

Riddle suddenly moves, hands taking your waist hard and slowly he lets you down – but his hands stay where they are. He turns you to the side and guides you forward a few inches until – sure enough – you feel the edge of a wooden table pressing against your thighs. Riddle steps in behind you, hands still grasping your waist, and you try very hard not to gasp when you his mouth suddenly presses against your throat. “Go on,” he murmurs.

The darkness hides the way your fingers are trembling as you place them as he asked on the surface of the table. Riddle has not yet relented in his slow, torturous kisses down the slope of your shoulder.

“Do you want me to make you feel good?” says Riddle very quietly, right against your throat, his voice dangerously soft and smooth enough to make your stomach twist.

You exhale, closing your eyes tightly. Slowly, you nod.

“You do?” he says, smirk audible. One of his hands slides down your hip at a teasing pace and takes a handful of your dress.

You nod again, wondering exactly what you’ve gotten yourself into as Riddle’s teeth press against your skin and he draws your dress up again.

“There are things you want me to do to you too, aren’t there?” he says softly, and you have to consciously suppress a gasp as Riddle’s hand slides up the inside of your thigh. “Hmm?” he prompts with another kiss when you don’t respond, fingers sliding up your skin.

You nod, wishing you could say something but your throat has closed up and you’re barely managing to stay standing, let alone speak.

“Things like this?” he murmurs, and without warning his fingers brush against your underwear, feather-light but he’s been teasing you for so long that even that makes pure electric heat shoot through your body and there’s no stopping your gasp this time.

Riddle’s hand still on your waist tightens. “You want me to touch you, don’t you?” he whispers in your ear, his fingers playing across the surface of your underwear and making you very, very aware of how wet they are. Riddle doesn’t give you time to feel self-conscious about this. “Tell me,” he says smoothly and you shiver again at his voice, the way you can feel it in your chest every time he speaks, his lips pressing just beneath your ear as his fingers continue to dance. “I want you to tell me.”

You dip your head and you try to gather yourself, to focus on the cool wood beneath your palms, to think, but your whole body is aching with how badly you want him, the feeling pooling heavy and almost painfully beneath his fingers and you nod without meaning to. “Yes,” you somehow say, and your voice doesn’t sound like your own, breathy and hollow and full of wanting.

His lips stay on your skin as his fingers press harder and your hips shift at the heat that blooms with his touch, your lips part with a gasp, and Riddle’s mouth curves into a smile on your skin as he breathes a small, warm laugh. “Do you want me to take these off?” he asks you, sounding like he knows the answer as he curls a finger into your underwear.

Your head falls even more. “Yes,” you whisper.

He pulls at them gently and they’re gone, Vanished, and before you can react Riddle’s hand on your waist is tilting you forward a little more, making your palms flatten on the wooden table –

His fingers slide slick against you and every thought in your head disappears as electric pleasure explodes in your body. Riddle’s lips never leave your skin as he touches you slowly, ceaselessly, somewhere between gentle and ruthless. His free hand grips your waist so tightly you can’t help but like it, and inch by inch he goads more and more heat into your stomach, you’re leaning more and more on the table as you start to spiral.

Right as you’re on the brink of release, Riddle’s fingers come to a still and you let go of a breath you didn’t realise you’d been holding, too caught up in the rise.

“Are you serious?” you gasp, panting.

He laughs again. “Yes,” he says softly, his hand releasing your waist and coming up to rest against your throat, gently guiding your face to the side as he presses his lips to your cheek. “I’d like to listen.”

And his fingers resume, slower than before like he knows it’ll be torture for you, and you force back a moan at the wave of pleasure that tears through you.

“Does that feel good?” he asks, lips a smirk on you skin.

You would have told him yes if you could speak but you’ve been wanting this for too long now, you body is on fire –

“There’s more I want to do to you,” Riddle whispers in your ear as he strokes you closer and closer to your climax. “Would you let me?”

“Riddle,” you moan, eyes shutting tightly.

“Would you?”

You think you know what he means. You don’t really care. You’ll let him do just about anything. “Yes,” you whisper, wondering if he means now or after he’s –

His fingers press harder and unbearable pleasure immediately blooms in your core under his touch. You fall fast, struck by your orgasm with such intensity that the breath is knocked from your lips and stolen from your throat, and Riddle’s fingers don’t still, he only holds you tighter as you moan. You’re gasping as you come down, chest heaving and an ache in your core.

“I’d like you to do that again,” Riddle murmurs, and then his lips leave your cheek and you barely have a second before his hand flattens against your back and he pushes you smoothly down onto the table. Your eyes fall shut and your pulse triples because you know exactly what’s about to happen, you feel him against you and it takes everything in you not to rock back into him but you don’t have to wait long.

In one unbroken movement Riddle pushes inside of you and your entire body comes alive with electric pleasure that has you gasping as he holds you there, as he draws back and pushes back in so hard your vision splits with stars and heat explodes beneath your skin. One of Riddle’s hands traces down your back as his other holds your hip tighter, and with gentle pressure he pushes you down a little more, tilting your hips in his hands and Riddle’s thrusts hit something inside of you that makes you choke on your moans, because you’re still so tangled up from his fingers teasing you that you’re close again already, and god he’s never going to let you live this down –

As you try to stifle the sounds he’s drawing from you each time his hips collide with yours, you hear him take a long breath, his hand tightening on your hip. “There,” he says quietly and his palm slides up your back, slipping across your shoulder and coming to rest very, very gently against your throat, too gentle to bear given how hard he’s gripping your hip, how relentlessly he’s fucking you – “You’re going to come for me again, aren’t you?”

You screw your eyes up tighter.

“Aren’t you?” he repeats smoothly, and he yanks your hips back an inch like he’s demanding you answer as he slams into you so hard that another moan is knocked from your lips and pleasure curls rebelliously in your gut.

“Yes,” you gasp.

“Good,” he says softly. Riddle suddenly pulls you up and you’re too malleable in his hands, you really are letting him do all these things to you, things you’re very much enjoying him doing, things he’s clearly thought about –

His hand slides up your throat to rest right under your jaw as he tilts your hips a little more, and your back arches even more, your head falling back against his shoulder as you open your eyes and look straight up into the darkness as heat and pleasure starts to well up in your stomach and your chest heaves harder and harder as you get closer and closer with each of his thrusts –

“You feel…” he murmurs, lips pressing hungrily against your throat, “very… very good.”

“Go on, Tom,” you say through your hard breathes, mimicking his own words from what feels like an age ago, “give me what I want.”

Riddle takes a slightly hollow breath, his forehead falling onto your shoulder, and there’s something a lot more uncontrolled about his movements that make a smile pull at the corners of your lips because you’ve just learned that for all his composure, Riddle rather likes someone making him lose a bit of control.

You’re right on the brink again, precarious before the fall, and the desperation and pleasure and heat spurs you on without a second thought. “Please, Tom,” you whisper, half just to see what he does. “Please, I want you Tom, I–”

Riddle turns his face into your shoulder as a sound half-way between a groan and an exhale falls from his lips, holding you tighter than ever and you tip straight into another orgasm as you feel heat burst inside of you, as his movements stutter and stop, as his breath comes hard against your skin, his arms somehow now wrapped tightly around you and holding you in place. You think it’s about ninety percent of why you haven’t collapsed by now.

You open your eyes, slowly coming back to your body and making sense of the world again. Both of you are breathing hard, and Riddle’s forehead is still slumped against your shoulder.

“Are you alive?” you ask in mumble, looking to the side as if you might look at him, your cheek pressing against his soft hair.

“I think so,” he murmurs, sounding very tired.

You breathe a laugh and push him away so you can turn to face him, sliding your hands up his chest and taking his face in your palms again. “Well what on earth happens now?” you ask, amused and tired yourself.

“I’m not sure,” he says in the same voice, leaning down and resting his head on your shoulder again. You suppress another laugh. Riddle likes closeness after sex, who bloody knew.

You lace your arms around his neck and he immediately leans in more, taking a very long breath that makes his whole body relax like its taking the last of his energy with it. “Are you going to go back to hating me?” he asks wearily.

“Probably. You are a bit of a prick,” you say against his hair, pushing your fingers through the soft waves.

Riddle hums and slides his hands around your waist, pulling you closer. “I suppose I better go back to hating you too, then,” he murmurs.

You smile, turning your face into the crook of his neck and closing your eyes. “Deal.”

･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ.

Enamored Masterlist

Summary: Everything you heard about matters of heart and desire told you the same thing; love could lead to heartbreak at best and disastrous results at worst.

Yet, you were convinced that everyone was wrong. They had to be, because love was supposed to make everyone happier, no confusion or pain in sight.

Regardless of how naive it sounded, you were sure that you were ready to fall in love and lose yourself in the infamous bliss.

That assumption right there was a terrible mistake, though.

You were nowhere near ready.

Warnings: Slow burn, mutual pining, Regency era society and social rules, angst. (Separate warnings included in chapters)

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