Radioactive Waste

Desperation. Hunger. Burning desire.

His hands brush over your waist before they circle you, and then his head dips, hot, sharp breaths ghosting past your ear—he places a kiss to the shell of it, brushes over the curve with his lips, his hands splayed across your tummy.

Then, he speaks. No greeting. No excuse. No complaints about the stupidity of people.

Your world tilts ever so slightly as he does.

"You are a good wife," he murmurs, and you catch the strain in his voice. The sincerity in his tone tells you more than he'd ever admit.

That this isn't a rare compliment out of the courtesy of his frozen-over heart.

There's an edge to it—one you haven't heard in a long time. It makes your skin tingle, breath catching in your chest. The spoon stills in the soup you've been bravely stirring up until this moment—some of it boiling over, which snaps your attention back to the pot. To his favourite soup.

It's only—only that this is rare. This isn't something you expected when you first heard the keys turn in the lock. Your brain doesn't yet have a set response for it. This isn't what Tom does—not here in the kitchen, not when he's been gone for three days and would normally head to bed right after dinner.

And by all means, you understand.

He's been busy lately—occupied to the point he comes home after you fall asleep, and when the sunlight wakes you the next morning, his side of the bed has long cooled off. A note is all you get—I apologise for leaving so early, hope to see you soon. Important meetings today. Won't be home in time for dinner.

Often, you do not get to exchange more than a few sentences with him each day.

But it's okay. It's fine, you tell yourself. You've agreed to this—known what he's like since you first met at King's Cross station all these years ago.

You offer him stability—the kind of calm and normality he craves after a long and stressful week. And in return, you get security. Protection. An anchor in turbulent times as they are these days—knowing he is the turbulence, the root of the changes steering the entirety of the wizarding world bow first into a violent sea storm.

Today, as it seems like, you're his anchor too. Pulling him back down to earth from however far he thinks he has ascended to heaven on his way to become a manmade god.

He cages in your legs with his own—hips gently pushing you up against the edge of the counter whilst his lips explore down the length of your neck—kissing, nipping, biting down gently.

You exhale sharply when he finds what he's been looking for—the one spot which has your mind grow fuzzy, makes your skin tingle with the want for more.

He hums in satisfaction—working a bruise into your neck there, tongue swiping over it to soothe the sting before he repeats the same move just an inch farther down.

You begin to realise it now—a bit late perhaps.

He needs you.

That tonight, above anything else, he needs you.

He's been burning for you in ways you wouldn't understand even with complex mind magic. Been thinking about you—about this exact moment—since the morning he left a few days prior.

And thus, right now, he's more than grateful that you're understanding. That you're kind and willing to give yourself to him whenever he wishes you do.

That you submit when he requires it most.

Whether that be at night, when he's just come home and clings to the stress relief he finds as he joins you under the duvets and slips your pyjama shorts down your legs, or when he needs to find distraction in his study in the early morning hours with you on your knees before him.

You'd do it all for him. Have done it all for him.

Tom is aware, too. Aware that even here in the kitchen, after he's been gone for days, you'll allow him to ground himself again. Allow him to have all of you, feel your welcoming warmth envelop him—in more ways than just one.

While he's still preoccupied suckling on the sensitive skin of your neck, his hands travel south, finding the waistband of your skirt—fingers hooking in the stretchy material and easing it down the length of your plush thighs.

You gasp when the cool air, which accompanied him from outside, brushes past your heated skin, and he answers with an appreciative hum as his hand slips between your legs and he lets his thumb stroke over your covered pussy, feeling the dampness soaking through the cotton fabric.

"That's my girl. Look at you—so worked up for me already." he murmurs, giving the supple flesh of your ass a gentle squeeze before he turns you around swiftly and lifts you to sit on top of the kitchen counter, making you face him.

His usually harsh, dark brown eyes study you with rare softness, the mystical dark spots replaced by swirls of honey gold. When the corner of your mouth lifts into a subtle smile, his head dips slightly, lips connecting with yours for an unhurried, soft kiss. In the meanwhile, his fingers expertly work open the buttons of your blouse, one by one, so patiently it frustrates you.

The soup—now boiling on low heat—stands long forgotten on the stove. Your focus has been stolen by the man in front of you, smelling faintly of cigarettes and burnt paper, the spicy scent of whiskey flooding your taste buds when he deepens the kiss.

It doesn't take long for him to strip you of your top and undo the clasp of your bra, easing the straps down your shoulders and discarding the shed clothing on the floor of your kitchen.

His eyes roam over your body then—hungry, desperate to feel you again.

"You're beautiful," he says, placing a kiss on your collarbone—eyes locked on yours, even as his mouth explores downwards. Brushes kisses down your sternum, cups your tits, and kisses you there too.

Soft moans escape your barely-parted lips, one hand tangled in his gorgeous brown curls as you let him have his way with you. You're entranced—entranced in the way his lips kiss every last sane thought of yours away, his touch fiery in a way you chase after the burn, utterly addicted.

Your eyes blink open when he takes a step backwards, the faintest hint of a smirk turning his expression into something almost human. However, before you get to dwell on it, he lifts you off the counter and turns you around again—pressing his hips against yours as his chin rests on your shoulder, hands holding you steady.

Letting you take it in. His want. His lust. His desire and devotion, as he had not too long ago sworn to before the altar. Tom wants you to know what you do to him. The ways you wreck him, bare what is left of his soul, melt the thick layer of ice around his numb heart. He almost laughs at the irony of it.

No enemy could ever come close to the sheer amount of power you hold over his very being.

And you are oh so blissfully unaware of it all.

His lips find your pulse point, nipping gently as he ruts his erection against the curve of your ass. "You feel this? What you do to me?

You try finding purchase at the surface on the counter, holding yourself up best as you can—but with everything he's telling you, with every touch, you only lose more of your control to him. "Yes, Tom— yes, I do. Fuck—"

He growls lowly at the sweet sound of your voice—laced with the same need he's been experiencing these past few days.

"All day, all night. I could not stop thinking about you. Not once. You're plaguing my every thought, haunting my every dream. You are wherever I go. Without you, I am lost," he whispers, so silently, it's carried away faster than you'd like by the breeze sweeping past you through the open window in the adjacent living room.

You swallow at his words—want to taste them on your tongue for longer, weigh them—their meaning, figure out why all of a sudden he's become like this—but you're once again interrupted by the absence of his heat against your body.

Tom works open the button and zipper of his trousers, allowing them to fall to the floor alongside his underwear—and before you know it, the length of him rests snugly between your thighs. Not inside, but there—allowing you to feel the heat of him.

Oh, how you've missed this. Missed having him like this, pressed up against you, groaning when he feels your arousal coat his painfully hard cock.

His hands push your legs together as tightly as possible before he starts moving—gently thrusting between your thighs, his tip, swollen and leaking with precum, nudging against your clit with every movement of his.

"Darling, I need you. I need to feel you—all of you. Will you let me have you?" he rasps out, his gaze focused on the way his cock disappears between your thighs each time he thrusts forwards, the way your slick has soaked him each time he withdraws halfway.

You are lost for words. Logic has left you, and so has the ability to speak.

You moan instead.

Tom takes it as a yes.

He pushes inside—slowly, savouring every inch. Every hitched breath of yours. Every slight tremble of your walls around him—stretching to take him, accommodating him after all these weeks of neglect.

The burn is intense—but so is the urge to take him all. Feel him wreck you without care—as he has so often.

"So fucking tight, barely letting me in," he grumbles, eyebrows drawn together in concentration, coaxing your legs apart ever so slightly. "So good for me."

It takes him concentration and willpower not to bury his entire length in you with one quick thrust—his cock throbbing with every inch enveloped by your slick cunt, warm and snug around him.

You both gasp when his pelvis is flush with your ass—he allows you to get used to him so deep inside you again, all of him buried to the very base. One of Tom's hands sneaks from your hips to your lower tummy, pressing down gently when he finds what he is looking for.

"Feel this? Feel me right here?"

You whimper in response—a broken sound that makes his lips curve into a smile as they brush a kiss over your shoulder blade. How could you do anything other than that? How could he expect a coherent answer when he's nestled so deep inside you, your lungs burn with each shaky inhale?

"You do, don't you? And this?" he asks, voice strained with desire, giving you a subtle thrust and feeling himself move inside of you. He drags his cock against your walls so slowly, you feel every single ridge. Every single vein stretching beneath the thin skin, as well as the thick, familiar one on the underside of him.

You think you may lose your mind if he does not finally ease the ache that has built up in your stomach.

He repeats the same move when only your mouth opens, but no sound leaves you.

"Oh god, Tom— yes, I do!" you whine, arching into his touch. "Please, more. Need more."

So, he gives you more. His thrusts start gentle, only withdrawing half of him before easing back inside your dripping walls—but not for long. He's been wanting, craving you and this moment for nearly a week.

Now that he has you, he might as well take you properly.

Slow and tender soon turns rough and frantic, the sound of his skin smacking against yours with every snap of his hips filling the kitchen, drowning out any other sound but your combined moans.

With one of his hands delicately wrapped around your throat to keep you upright and pressed against his chest, the other on your lower tummy, intrusive thoughts return like rats to a wheat barn.

Do rats chew cables?

Because certainly—Tom feels rewired. Something has changed. Something which he cannot exactly point out. Suddenly, the hand on your lower belly eases from where it's been glued this entire time—and instead, splays across the soft swell of your tummy, looking, searching for something that does not exist.

Not yet.

You've never spoken about the prospect of children. You never thought you would—given Tom's rather clear stance on the topic.

He's him. Tom Riddle—once a little, orphaned boy, begging for lukewarm soup and new donated clothes to replace his torn ones, looked down upon by society and his peers—now has the world laid out at his polished leather shoes.

He's reached this all himself. From scratch, from absolutely nothing, he's worked himself up to the most respected—and feared—wizard of Great Britain and far beyond.

Tom has never cared about passing on his legacy. Everything he does, every move, every discussion, every trade for information is for himself and for you—not for his name. Tom does not require an heir for greatness, nor to be remembered.

And yet—here, in this moment—he wishes for nothing more than just that.

To bury his seed so deep within your velvety walls, you'll grow round and swollen with his child—carrying and nurturing his heir.

He growls lowly at the thought—breathing heavily against the sensitive skin of your neck. He's so close, he can taste the sweetness of his impending orgasm on his tongue—his cock throbbing deep inside you, twitching with want.

And yet, he holds himself back. Just a little longer.

"The potion. Don't—fuck—don't take it tonight. In fact, throw it out."

Have you reached the final stage of delirium, or did you hear him right? You don't think you did. You think you may faint any second, instead.

"W-what?"

Tom's thrusts maintain their pace, rutting his cock deep inside you while he presses a kiss to the corner of your lips. "You understood me perfectly fine. Do what I say, darling. Trust me."

You shake your head, disbelieving, distrusting of what your ears made of his words. "I thought you didn't want—"

"My mind has changed." Tom rasps, hand still splayed across your tummy, the other descending to your chest, squeezing your tits. "Be a good wife and listen to your husband."

A wanton moan escapes you—at both the added stimulation and the insinuation.

He wants what you've long written off as a possibility.

Tom Riddle, the most influential wizard the wizarding world has seen in the last few centuries, wants you to be the mother of his child.

Fuck.

"As you wish," you gasp, every rough thrust of his knocking the air from your lungs. "I will— get rid of it."

Tom hums, cupping one of your breasts whilst his palm massages over your belly. "You'll make—god—the most beautiful mother. Round and swollen with my child. You want it too, don't you?"

"Yes," you hiccup, the knot in your stomach tightening, pleasure blooming low where his cock is nestled deep. "I've been— thinking about it. Often."

To put it lightly.

Tom growls at that, pulling you a few centimetres away from the edge of the counter—just so he can slip his hand between your thighs, finding your puffy, swollen clit.

He can feel your walls pulse around him, legs shaking, moans growing louder—he knows you're just as close as he is.

Whilst his fingers rub fast, tight circles over your sensitive bud, his thrusts grow faster if possible, hips smacking against your own with newfound motivation.

Fuelled by the urge to push his cum deep, to succeed at his first try to produce an heir with you. To watch your belly swell with his child.

To make you a mother.

Both of you reach your climax at the same time—your walls pulsing needily around him, nails scraping over the marble surface of the counter as you finally let your body sink down on top of it. You whimper when he follows not a second later, when you feel his cock twitch, and when he finally, accompanied by a low, throaty groan, spills himself deep inside your warm pussy.

Tom stays like this for a little while longer—buried all the way, keeping his cum right where it belongs—gathered at your cervix.

"That's it," he murmurs when he withdraws gently, inch by inch, as not to hurt your irritated, stretched walls. "That's a good girl. Took it all for me. All of it."

What you don't know: Tom is far from done.

Because this is Tom Riddle who you are dealing with, he quite obviously has done his research before his return this evening.

And from having read through countless books—both magic and muggle—he has gathered that, well, orgasms can help with increasing the chance of pregnancy.

He helps you straighten yourself, gathers you in his arms, and then carries you to the bedroom.

You ask about the soup.

He shushes you, eases you onto the bed, and parts your legs.

"Heard that it— takes better like this. When I make you feel good." Tom says, watching with interest as the first drops of his cum leak from your hole, his head so close to your pussy you feel his breath on your sensitive, glistening skin.

"Again," he murmurs, then pushes his cum back inside your cunt with two of his fingers, "again," his head dips, his wet, hot tongue licking a stripe up your slit, "and again." Finally, Tom's lips close around your clit, suckling gently, looking straight at you from between your legs as though that's where his home had been all this time.

Looking at you with promise.

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