Lovebug🍰

You didn't mean to become Crux's cat.

It wasn't something you planned, or even something you noticed happening. It just sort of... happened. Slowly, gradually, in a way that was so subtle you almost missed it. 

But now, sitting on his worn-out couch in his disaster of an apartment, watching him rummage through his fridge for something that wasn't expired, you realize the truth with the kind of clarity that makes you want to laugh and cry at the same time.

Somehow, impossibly… you had become his cat.

The thought hits you like a brick to the face. You're not actually a cat, obviously. You're still you, very much human, and capable of complex thought and conversation and all the things that separate people from pets. Unlike cat’s brain ro a human is widely compared to a large english walnut or a human pinky finger. 

But the way you live now, the way you exist in his orbit, the way he treats you—it's very much undeniable. You've been claimed. You've been adopted.

And you have no idea when it happened, or how, or why you let it.

You're brand new to this dimension. That's the first thing anyone needs to understand. You arrived here with nothing, not even a clue how you got here, and everything about this place is wrong. 

The night sky is tinted green, a sickly sort of color that makes you feel like you're underwater. There's no sun here, just a perpetual twilight that never quite becomes day. The rules of reality are different, flexible in ways you don't fully understand. 

You're lucky—so lucky in fact—that you found Crux. 

Or rather, that he found you. He took one look at you, a lost, confused stranger in a world that wasn't yours, and he decided you were his problem.

He set you up with a pretty livable lifestyle, all things considered. You have a place to stay, money that somehow appears in your account, food that arrives at your door without you asking.

You don't question it too much after all you too grateful, overwhelmed, and focused on surviving. But somewhere along the way, you started spending more time at his place than your own. 

His house, with its mess and chaos and strange esoteric symbols on the walls, cigarette buds, random documents and interesting books, became your default destination. 

You'd show up whenever you wanted, let yourself in since he he never locks his front door, and curl up on his couch like you belonged there.

Sometimes he's there. Sometimes he's not. You still sit in his space, surrounded by his smell of cigarettes and something unidentifiable, and you wait for him to come back. You never ask yourself why. It just feels right. It feels like where you're supposed to be.

And honestly? He never told you to leave. 

Never even seemed surprised to find you there. He'd just walk in, see you sprawled across his couch, and say something obnoxious like, "Make yourself at home, why don't you," as if you hadn't already done exactly that.

You were on the corner of his worn-out sectional couch, the one with the perfect amount of sag in the cushions and the best angle to the window where you could watch the perpetually green-tinted sky of this bizarre dimension. 

Just curled up in your corner, one of his books in your hands—something dense and philosophical that he'd shoved at you days ago with a "Here, you'll like this, it's about how everything is meaningless" and then walked away before you could argue. 

You were actually enjoying it, surprisingly. 

The prose was pretentious but engaging, and the way the author kept contradicting himself made you want to throw the book across the room and pick it back up at the same time. It was the kind of reading that made you feel smart and furious in equal measure.

You heard the front door open. The familiar sounds of Crux's arrival filled the house—keys clattering into the bowl by the door, shoes being kicked off with no regard for where they landed, a long, theatrical sigh that suggested he'd had a day and was about to make it everyone else's problem. You didn't look up from your book. 

You'd learned that acknowledging him too quickly only encouraged him. If you ignored him long enough, sometimes he'd just wander off to his room and leave you in peace.

But today was different. 

Today, he walked into the living room, stopped, and stared at you. You could feel his eyes on you, that familiar weight of his attention that made your skin prickle. You kept reading because you were not going to give him the satisfaction.

And then he did—“Pspspspsps."

You froze. The book in your hands suddenly felt very heavy. Your brain short-circuited for a moment, trying to process what you'd just heard before hearing—"Pspspspsps." 

He did it again. Louder this time. The sound of a human calling a cat, the universal language of ‘come here, little creature, I have something for you.’ And he was directing it at you. At you, a fully grown adult human being, curled up on his couch like you belonged there.

You slowly lowered the book. Your face was carefully blank. 

Your eyes met his.

He was leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, a smirk so wide it had to be hurting his face. His dark green eyes were dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. He looked like he'd just won the lottery. He looked like this was the best idea he'd ever had.

"Did you just ‘pspspsps’ me?" you asked, your voice dangerously calm.

"Pspspspsps," he repeated, just to make sure you knew he was committed to the bit. "I was wondering when you were going to look at me. You've been ignoring me for like five minutes. It's rude."

"You're calling me like a cat. In my face. While I'm reading. In your house."

"Well, you're in my spot," he said, gesturing at the couch. "That's my couch. You've claimed it. You've claimed the whole corner. You're like a cat who picked a sunbeam and refuses to move. So I'm treating you like a cat. It's just logical."

"It's not logical. It's insane. And you don't even get sun in this dimension. There's no sun."

"Don't get technical with me. You know what I mean. You're sitting there all cute and curled up, reading my books, living in my house—"

"I don't live here."

“Yet you’re here every day. You've got a spot. You've got a routine. You've got more stuff in my house than I do at this point. You're basically a cat. A human-shaped cat. A cat with thumbs. A cat with really cute feet, actually—"

"Don't."

"I was just saying—"

"I know what you were saying. Stop saying it."

He was not, in fact, going to stop saying it. This was Crux, after all. He never stopped. He just kept pushing, kept prodding, kept finding the exact nerve that made you twitch and pressing on it until you exploded. 

It was his favorite hobby really. He'd told you once, very seriously, that being annoying was the only thing he was truly good at. You'd thought he was joking. He was not.

He pushed off the doorframe and started walking toward you, his steps slow and deliberate, like he was approaching a skittish animal. Which, given the situation, he probably was. His eyes were locked on you, and there was something in them that made your stomach flip—not fear, exactly, but something close to it. 

You didn't move. Again, you didn’t want to give him the satisfaction.

He reached the couch. He loomed over you for a moment, that whole six-foot-seven frame of his blocking out the weird green light from the window. He reached out his hand, slowly, like he was going to pet you. Like what he’s doing was normal.

Your foot connected with his chest before his fingers could touch you.

It wasn't a hard kick—you weren't trying to hurt him. It was more of a firm shove, your foot pressing against his sternum, keeping him at a distance. He stumbled back half a step, more from surprise than force, and you used the moment to push yourself up straighter on the couch, your book still in your hands, your face completely expressionless.

"Don't touch me," you said flatly. "I'm reading."

He stared at you for a long moment. The smirk was still there, but something else behind it—surprise, maybe. Or delight. It was hard to tell with him. He looked down at your foot on his chest, then back up at your face, then back down at your foot.

"You just put your foot on my chest," he said. "You put your foot on my chest and pushed me away. Like a cat. A cat who's done with its owner's shit."

"I'm not a cat."

"You're literally pushing me away with your foot. That's the most cat thing I've ever seen. I'm not even mad. I'm impressed. That was a really good push. Your core strength is impressive. Is that from yoga? You should do more yoga. I like it when you're flexible."

"You're deflecting because I just embarrassed you."

"I am not deflecting. I am appreciating the firm nature of your foot against my chest. This is a new experience for me. I'm learning things about myself. I might be into this."

"Please stop talking or I will throw this book at your head."

“Noooo, don’t do that.” He playful whine, “That's a first edition. I stole it from someone important. It's worth a lot of money. Also, are you're enjoying it? You had that face you get when you're reading something that makes you feel smart. The slightly angry face. The 'I'm annoyed that this is interesting' face."

You didn’t bother to reply, just threw a pillow at his head. 

He caught it, laughing, and you felt something warm and complicated settle in your chest. He was infuriating and impossible and the worst person you'd ever met. 

Ever since the pspspsps incident, Crux had been relentless. 

It was like he'd unlocked a new level of annoying and was determined to reach the highest score. The cat jokes didn't stop—they escalated like hell. And with each passing day, you noticed more and more little things that made you question everything about your existence in his orbit.

It started with the bowl. 

While eating you realized he'd served it in an actual ceramic bowl. Not a plate. Not a normal human bowl. A shallow, wide bowl that looked suspiciously like… 

something you'd feed a pet out of. 

You stared at it for a few seconds because at first you thought you were legit tripping, once you confirm that you wasn’t, youb then stared at him. He was watching you from across the kitchen, pretending to read something on his phone, but you could see the corner of his mouth twitching.

“I know you’re not feeding me out of a pet bowl," you said flatly.

"It's not a pet bowl. It's a decorative bowl. I found it at a thrift store. It's vintage."

You face frown in disbelief, “…It's shaped like a cat bowl. It has little paw prints on the bottom."

"That's a design choice. It's artistic. You're being judgmental."

You wanted to be upset, angry even. You really did but you then realize that fighting him on these things was pointless. After all, he would just find another way to be insufferable.

For example, these damn toys. 

Which was soemthing you found, just scattered around his house—little crinkly balls, a feathered wand thing, even a fucking laser pointer that he definitely bought specifically to torment you. 

You'd be sitting on the couch, minding your own business, and suddenly a red dot would appear on the wall next to you. You'd watch it move slowly at the corner of your eye, and you'd feel this primal urge to chase it. But you won’t catch, of course. 

You’re person. A damn human being. You had dignity. 

You were not going to chase a laser pointer like a—

The dot moved faster, and your hand twitched. You clamped it down on your thigh, hard, and glared at the wall like it had personally offended you. From somewhere behind you, you heard a quiet snicker.

"You're a fucking bitch,” you said, not turning around.

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Crux said, his voice dripping with false innocence. "I'm just... pointing a laser at the wall. For fun. It's relaxing."

"Stop it."

"Stop what?"

"You know what."

“Aww, such a shame, I really don't."

You spun around to face him, and he was standing there with the laser pointer in his hand, looking like the cat that got the cream. Which, given the situation, was deeply ironic and probably intentional. "Give me that," you said, holding out your hand.

"No."

"Crux."

"Say please."

"Give me the laser pointer or I will throw your book out the window."

"You wouldn't. That's a first edition. It's worth more than your entire existence."

"You don't even know how much my existence is worth. I could be very valuable."

He looked at you for a couple seconds then sighed,

"You're valuable to me," he said, and the sudden sincerity in his voice made your heart do something stupid. Then he ruined it by adding, "As a cat. A very expensive cat. A purebred, probably. You have good bone structure."

You threw another pillow at him. He ducked, laughing, and you decided that was enough interaction for one day. You grabbed your book and retreated to your spot on the couch, determined to ignore him for the rest of the evening. 

The final straw came few weeks later. 

On a Saturday. Or maybe it’s Sunday? The days all blurred together in this dimension, with its endless green twilight and no sun to mark the passing of time. 

You only knew it was a Sunday because Crux forced you to go Church and after the prayer session, he had mentioned something about a package arriving—adding on the fact that packages deliver on Sundays was something different, regardless…

You didn't know why. You didn't ask.

Once the both of you return to his place, you return to your usual spot on the couch when the doorbell rang. 

Crux bounded out of his room, fully dressed out of his church clothes with an enthusiasm that was quite frankly suspicious. He'd been acting weird all day—more fidgety than usual, glancing at his phone, smirking to himself like he knew something you didn't. 

You'd ignored it, mostly because you were used to him being weird or anonymous as fuck. That was his baseline. His normal state of being.

But now he was practically skipping to the door, and that was not normal. Crux didn't skip. He shuffled. He slouched. He moved with the kind of deliberate laziness that suggested even walking was too much effort. 

He opened the door, grabbed the package from the delivery person, and shut it with his foot. He was holding the box like it was made of gold, turning it over in his hands, examining the label with an intensity that made your skin prickle.

"What is that?" you asked, finally looking up from your book.

He glanced at you, and his smirk was back. That particular smirk, the one that meant he was about to do something terrible. The one that meant you should run. But you were on the couch, and running required effort, and you'd committed to your spot for the evening.

"Nothing," he said rather too quickly.

"That's not nothing. That's a box. With things inside it. You're being so weird about it. What did you order?"

"You know what? I think it's a surprise. For you. A little… treat. Something special."

You narrowed your eyes. "Crux. What the fuck did you order?"

He didn't answer. He just walked over to the coffee table, set the box down, and started opening it with the kind of theatrical flair that suggested he'd been planning this moment for weeks. 

You watched him, your book forgotten in your lap. Again, your instincts was screaming at you to get up and leave now before he show you something unforgivable. But atlast, your curiosity was stronger than your self-preservation instincts.

He pulled out the contents of the box with a flourish, and your brain stopped working.

It was a cat outfit...? Particularly, a sexy cat outfit. 

Complete with ears and a tail and just everything. The kind of thing you'd see in a costume shop, definitely not meant to be worn in public and only for the bedroom , the kind of thing that made your face go hot and your mouth go dry.

You stared at it then look over at him. He stared back, his grin so wide it looked like it hurt.

"What is that?" you asked, your voice unnaturally calm. You’re already know what it is, but you just wanted a check of course, making sure it ain’t yours.

"It's a costume," he said, like that wasn't obvious. "For you."

Well fuck, it was yours, obviously.

"I thought, you know, since you're my cat, you should have the proper attire. It's only fitting. You can't just be a cat in spirit. You have to commit to the bit. You have to look the part. This is an investment in your cat aesthetic." 

You closed your eyes, pinching the bridge of your nose, letting out a small sigh, “Ah... I am going to kill you."

"Kill me after you try on the outfit. I want to see it first. I need to know if I got the right size. I had to guess, by the way. You never let me touch you, so I had to eyeball it. It was very difficult. I spent a lot of time thinking about your measurements. For research purposes."

"Research purposes...?”

"Cat research. It's a very serious field of study. I'm a dedicated researcher. I'm very committed to this project."

You stared at the costume in his hands. The fuzzy ears. The tail. The little bow with the bell. Then you looked at him—that insufferable, self-satisfied smirk, the gleam in his eyes that said he'd already won, the way he was practically vibrating with anticipation like a kid on Christmas morning.

And you made a decision.

You weren't going to give him the satisfaction of a fight. You weren't going to argue, or throw things, or threaten him with bodily harm (well, not yet anyway). You were going to do something far more dangerous.

You were going to play along.

"Fine," you said, snatching the costume from his hands before he could react. "I'll go try it on."

He blinked. For a fraction of a second, his smirk falteredlike he'd been expecting pushback, like he'd been prepared for a fight and didn't know what to do with your sudden compliance. Then the smirk returned, wider than ever.

"Wait, really? You're not gonna—" He gestured vaguely, "—yell at me? Throw something? Tell me I'm a piece of shit?"

"I can still do all those things," you said flatly, already walking toward his bedroom. "I'm just choosing not to. For now. Consider it a gift."

"A gift? You're giving me a gift? By dressing up in a sexy cat costume? That’s—holy shit, that's the best gift I've ever received. I'm gonna cry. I'm genuinely emotional right now."

"Don't. It's not that deep."

"It's very deep. This is the most romantic thing anyone's ever done for me. I'm writing this in my diary tonight."

You shut the bedroom door in his face, muffling his delighted cackle. And then you stood there, alone in his room, holding the costume in your hands, and you wondered what the fuck you were doing.

This was insane. 

This was entirely, completely, fucking insane. You were about to dress up in a cat costume for someone who had been relentlessly annoying you for weeks, who had turned your entire existence into a bit, who had somehow, impossibly, made you his without you ever agreeing to it. 

And you were doing it. 

So you stripped off your clothes, and you put on the costume. It was soft. Plush. Embarrassingly comfortable. You were careful not to look in his mirror, because you knew that if you saw yourself, you'd lose your nerve.

But you still felt the fabric against your skin, the way the top cinched around your body, the velvet softness of the ears against your hair, the weight of the tail brushing against your thighs. 

You could hear the little bell on the bow jingle every time you moved. And you could feel the full weight of what you were about to do settling in your stomach—a mix of nervousness and something warmer, something you didn't want to name.

You opened the door.

Crux was leaning against the wall across from the bedroom, arms crossed, looking like he was about to make another joke. But when he saw you, the joke died on his lips.

Nothing came out.

His eyes roamed over you, just taking in every detail. The fuzzy ears. The bow with the bell. The corset-style top with its crisscross lacing. The tail. The garter bands around your thighs. The little bells at your ankles that jingled softly with every step. His Adam's apple bobbed once as he swallowed hard. 

"Cat got your tongue?" you asked, your voice sweet and innocent in a way that was absolutely intentional.

He blinked. His mouth moved, but no sound came out. This might've been the first time you'd ever seen Crux Hertz speechless, and it was glorious.

"I—" he started. Stopped. Started again. "—oh."

"Oh?" you repeated, stepping closer. The bells jingled with every step. "That's all you have to say? After all that 'pspspsps' and all those toys and the research?" 

You stopped right in front of him, close enough to see the way his  pupils had blown wide, the way his breath had gone shallow. "I thought you'd have more to say."

He swallowed again. His hands twitched at his sides, like he was physically restraining himself from reaching out. "You're... you're actually—holy shit,” He gestured vaguely at you, at the costume, at everything. "You're doing this. You put it on. You actually put it on."

"I told you I would. You didn't believe me?"

"I thought you were gonna come out and throw it at my head. I was prepared for that. I had a whole bit ready. I was gonna say something like, 'You look so cute when you're angry,' or 'The cat's out of the bag,' or—" He stopped, shaking his head. "I didn't think you'd actually—"

He gestured at you again, helplessly. It was the most flustered you'd ever seen him. 

And it was... rather intoxicating, fun even.

"What's the matter, Crux?" you asked, tilting your head. The ears shifted with the movement. The bell jingled. "You've been calling me your cat for weeks. Now you don't know what to do with me?"

He made a sound—something between a laugh and a groan. His eyes were dark, hungry, locked onto yours like he was trying to figure out if this was real or if he was hallucinating. 

"I knew you were gonna be hot in this," he said, his voice lower now, rougher. "I knew it. I knew it. But I didn't think you'd—" He shook his head again, "Fuck. You're so pretty. You know that? You're so fucking pretty it's unfair."

Your stomach did a flip. You kept your face neutral, but the heat was rising in your cheeks. “Aww, you're stuttering. You never stutter."

"I'm having a moment. Give me a second. My brain is—" He gestured vaguely at his head. "—processing. This is a lot. You're a lot."

"And yet you wanted this. You planned this."

"I didn't plan for this." He gestured at you, at the costume, at the whole situation. "I planned to annoy you. I didn't plan for you to be hot in it. That's not fair. That's fucking cheating."

You stepped closer again, close enough that you could feel the heat radiating off his body, smell the familiar scent of cigarettes and something unidentifiable that was just him. The bell on your collar jingled softly.

"So," you said, your voice dropping to something quieter, something softer, "do you want to play with your kitty or not?"

His breath caught, audibly. His hands twitched again, and this time, he didn't stop himself. One of them came up to hover near your waist, trembling slightly, not quite touching, like he was asking permission. “Uh…” He swallowed, his eyes falling to the bow at your chest, the bell jingling softly. 

“Come on, I won’t bite. Please?”

That was all the permission he needed.

His hand closed around your waist and pulled you to him, and then you were on his lap, straddling him, the bells on your ankles and collar jingling with the movement. 

The couch sagged beneath both your weights, and you could feel the heat of his thighs under yours, the solid warmth of his chest pressing against you, the way his breath hitched when you settled on top of him.

His hands found your hips, gripping them like he was holding onto something precious. His thumbs traced circles against your waist through the soft fabric, and you could feel the slight tremor in his fingers, the barely restrained desperation in every movement.

"Fuck," he breathed, tilting his head back, his eyes drifting closed for just a moment. "Fuck. This is—you're—"

"I'm what?"

He opened his eyes, and they were dark, dark, dark, pupils blown wide, the green of his irises reduced to thin rings around the black. "You're going to kill me," he said, his voice rough, reverent, almost worshipful. "You're going to sit on my lap in this outfit and kill me, and I'm going to die happy."

"Don't be dramatic, or I will get off you right now.”

“Noooo,” he playful begged, “It's not dramatic if it's true." His hands tightened on your hips, pulling you closer, grinding you against him just slightly, just enough to make his breath hitch. 

"You feel so good. You feel so fucking good. I wanted to touch you for so long—so long—and now you're—" He let out a shaky breath, "—you're on my lap, and you're real. You're actually here. You actually put on the costume."

"You asked me to."

"I was joking, babe. I didn't think you'd actually—" He laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "You're so fucking perfect. You know that? You're so perfect it's impossible. It's not fair. None of this is fair."

His hand came up to touch your face, his thumb brushing across your cheekbone, tracing the curve of your jaw. His touch was gentle, almost reverent, like he was afraid you'd disappear if he pressed too hard.

"You're all I think about," he said, his voice softening into something almost honest, almost vulnerable. "All the time. When I'm not with you, I'm thinking about you. I'm thinking about what you're doing, what you're reading, what face you're making. I'm thinking about how you curl up on my couch like you belong there, and I'm thinking about how I want you to stay."

You opened your mouth to say something—what, you didn't know—but then his thumb brushed across your lower lip, and all the words died in your throat.

"Shh," he whispered, his eyes locked on yours, his thumb still tracing the shape of your mouth. His hand slid from your face to the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair. He pulled you forward, just slightly, so your foreheads were almost touching. So you could feel his breath on your lips.

"Can I kiss you?" he asked, and there was something desperate in his voice, something pleading. “Fuck, please just let me—"

You closed the distance before he could finish.

And Crux Hertz, the person who never shut up, the man who always had a joke or a deflection or a sarcastic comment—went completely silent. 

His plush lips were soft against yours, and for a moment he didn't move, like he was savoring it, like he was memorizing the feeling.

Then he kissed you back, and it was like a dam breaking.

His hands tightened on your waist, pulling you flush against him, and he made a sound that was almost a whimper—a desperate, hungry little noise that he'd never admit to making. 

His mouth moved against yours, slow and languid and achingly tender, his tongue tracing your lower lip before slipping inside.

You could taste him. Cigarettes and something sweet. The familiar taste of Crux, and it was so him that it made your chest ache.

He pulled back, just barely, his forehead resting against yours. "Fuck," he breathed, his voice wrecked, hoarse, undone. "Fuck. That was—I wanted to do that for so long. I wanted to kiss you for so long. I kept dreaming about it. I kept imagining it. And it's—" He laughed, a broken, breathless sound. "It's better than I imagined. You're better than I imagined."

"You imagined kissing me?"

He opened his eyes, and there was something raw in them, something unguarded. "I imagined a lot of things with you. All of them were—" He shook his head, a helpless little movement. "You're consuming me. Every part of me. I can't stop thinking about you. And I don't want to stop"

You tilted your head, the ears shifting with the movement, the bell letting out a soft little jingle. A slow, knowing smile curved across your lips.

"That's... that's a lot," you said, your voice dropping into something silkier. Givng playful and dangerous. "All that thinking about me. All that imagining. And here I am—right in your lap, dressed up like your little kitty, looking so tasty."

His breath caught. His hands tightened on your hips.

"But you know what?" you continued, leaning in closer, your lips brushing against the shell of his ear. "Closer to me, baby... I won't bite."

You pulled back just enough to meet his eyes, and the look on his face was devastated, just filled with hunger.

"You look so tasty," you purred, reaching up to trace the line of his jaw with one finger, "but I won't bite. Really."

"Liar," he breathed, his voice cracking. "you're going to eventually.”

You let out a soft, airy laugh—the kind of laugh that made his fingers dig into your hips. "I'm such a good kitty," you said, your voice dripping with false innocence. "I don't put up fights. I'm sweet. I'm well-behaved. I just sit here on your lap, all cute and cozy, jingling my little bells..."

His eyes were locked on yours, dark and wary. He knew you were up to something. He knew it. And he was absolutely, pathetically helpless to stop it.

"But if you trick me, baby..." You tilted your head, letting the bell jingle again, letting the moment stretch. "...it gon' get sticky."

His throat bobbed. "Sticky how?"

You smiled, slow and sharp, "You'll find out."

He swallowed hard. His hands were shaking slightly against your hips. "I—I don't know if I should be scared or turned on."

"Both," you said simply. "Definitely both."

He laughed, breathless and disbelieving. "You're going to ruin me."

"Maybe." You leaned in, your lips hovering just above his, close enough to feel the heat of his breath. "But I won't stop you. If you wanna do it, motherfucker... I won't stop you."

His eyes went wide. His grip on your hips tightened to the point of pain.

"What did you just say to me?" he asked, his voice low and rough and absolutely wrecked.

You pulled back, just a fraction, just enough to see the desperation in his eyes. "Do it, motherfucker," you repeated, your voice sweet as honey, sharp as a blade. 

"I won't stop you."

He made a sound—something between a whimper and a growl—and then his mouth was on yours, desperate and devouring, all pretense of control completely abandoned.

Then he pulled you into another kiss, deeper this time, more desperate, and the bells jingled as you shifted against him, and his hands roamed across your back, your hips, your thighs, mapping out every inch of you with hungry awe.

When he pulled back, his eyes were dark, and his voice was low and rough. "I'm never letting you go," he said but then his eyes flickered, something shifting behind them—that familiar mischief, that insufferable playfulness that made you want to strangle him and kiss him in equal measure.

"But you know what?" he murmured, his voice dropping into something silkier, "If you're gonna be my cat, you gotta learn how to behave. And right now..." 

His hand slid down your side, fingers tracing the curve of your waist, then lower, brushing against the fuzzy garter band around your thigh. "...you're being a little naughty, aren't you?"

You arched an eyebrow, even as your breath hitched at his touch. "Naughty?"

"Mhm." He hummed, his fingers dancing along the edge of the garter, teasing the sensitive skin just beneath it. "You're sitting on my lap all pretty, all dressed up, making those little sounds, jingling every time you move. And you know exactly what you're doing to me." His fingers pressed just a little harder, tracing circles against your inner thigh. "You're ruining me, and you're loving every second of it."

"Maybe I am," you said, your voice low, challenging. "What are you gonna do about it?"

His grin was sharp, giving very much predatory. "I'm gonna treat you like the bad kitty you are."

Before you could respond, his hands were on you—one sliding up your back, the other gripping your hip, pulling you closer, grinding you against him in a slow, careful motion that made your breath catch. 

He watched your face, his eyes drinking in every micro-expression, every flutter of your eyelashes, every parted-lip gasp.

"There we go," he breathed, his voice a low purr. "There's my good kitty." He pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck, his lips trailing down to where the bell sat at your throat. "Just be good for me. Just let me take care of you."

You shivered as his teeth grazed your collarbone. "I'm not gonna be good. You don't want good."

He pulled back, looking at you with something like admiration. "You're right. I don't want good. I want you." His thumb found a particularly sensitive spot on your thigh, pressing in just enough to make you gasp. 

"I want you writhing. I want you making those pretty sounds. I want you to forget your own name."

His hand slid higher, higher, until his fingers brushed against the heat between your legs, barely touching, just teasing—just enough to make you arch into him.

"Oh, aren’t you're so responsive," he murmured, his voice dripping with delight. "So sensitive. So pretty when you react like that. You're like a little animal. A little pet. My little pet.”

"Your cat," you corrected, your voice breathier than you intended.

"Mm, yes. My cat." He pressed a kiss to your temple, then your nose, then your lips, featherlight and teasing. "My pretty, naughty, devious cat. Who just needs a little discipline, right? Such a attention whore. A little—"

His fingers wiggled against you, not quite touching where you wanted, just tracing patterns that made your hips twitch and your breath stutter.

"A little taming," he finished, his eyes gleaming.

You gasps then something happen.

It was purely instinct—a small bite, just a sharp little nip at his lower lip, enough to make him gasp and break his pace. He pulled back, his eyes wide with surprise, and then that surprise melted into pure, unadulterated delight.

"Ah, there's that bite I was looking for," he breathed, his hand coming up to touch his lip where you'd bitten him. A tiny bead of blood welled up, and he looked at it like it was the most precious thing in the world.

"You deserved it."

His grin was sharp, feral. "That I'll do."

But then something shifted in his eyes as he leaned in, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his voice dropping into that low, teasing register that made your entire body shiver.

"Here kitty kitty," he murmured, the words curling around you like smoke. "Come here. Let me take care of you."

Before you could respond, his hands were on your waist, lifting you, repositioning you. He shifted you back against his chest, your spine pressed to his front, his long lanky legs bracketing yours. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, and you could feel the warmth of his breath against your neck, the steady thrum of his heartbeat against your back.

"There we go," he breathed, his voice a low purr right by your ear. "That's better. That's my kitty. Right where they belongs."

His hands slid down your sides, slow and deliberate, fingers tracing the curves of your body through the soft fabric. One hand settled on your hip, gripping just firmly enough to make you feel held. The other drifted lower, fingertips brushing against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, teasing, tormenting.

"I've been so patient," he murmured, his lips pressing against the curve of your neck. "So good. I waited. I gave you space. I let you come to me. But now..." His fingers pressed harder, finding that spot that made your breath catch. 

"...now it's time for me to play with my kitty."

His fingers hooked into the bottom of the costume, tugging at the fabric. "Lift," he commanded softly, and you obeyed, raising your hips just enough for him to slide the lower half of the costume away, leaving you bare beneath him.

The cool air hit your skin, and you shivered. But then his hand was there, warm and careful, sliding between your thighs.

"Fuck," he breathed, his voice rough with wonder. 

"You're already dripping for me. So ready. So eager."

His fingers circled, teasing, building a pace that made your hips twitch. 

"Look at you," he murmured against your ear, his voice dark and dripping with satisfaction. "Dripping for me. Just from a little kissing. Just from a little touching. You're such a needy little thing, aren't you?"

You tried to respond, but the words died in your throat as his fingers pressed harder, finding that sensitive bundle of nerves and circling it slowly,  "Uh-uh," he chided softly. "No words. Just feel. Just let yourself feel."

You could hear it—the wet sounds of his fingers moving against you, obscene and undeniable, the whole shlick—shlick—shlick of your own arousal making your cheeks flush.

"Listen to that," he murmured, his voice dripping with dark amusement. "Listen to how much you want this. How much you want me."

You couldn't respond, couldn't form words. All you could do was feel—feel his fingers working you, feel the tension building low in your belly, feel the desperate need coiling tighter and tighter.

And then he suddenly stopped.

You whimpered at the loss of contact. But before you could complain, you heard it: the wet sound of him spitting into his palm.

"Needy little thing," he murmured, his voice low and dark. "Don't worry, kitty. I've got you."

His hand returned, and this time it was slick, soaked with his spit and your own arousal, and when his fingers slid against you, the sound was so obscene. 

Every movement of his fingers sent a fresh wave of heat through you, the mess of it spreading, smearing, making everything slippery and wet.

"That's better," he purred, rubbing the mess all over your swollen sex, smearing it, spreading it, making sure every inch of you was glistening and wet. "That's what you needed, isn't it? To be taken care of. To be handled."

His fingers found your entrance again, circling it, rubbing it just barely before pulling back, teasing you relentlessly.

He groaned, a low, appreciative sound. "Fuck, you're so wet. So messy. All for me, isn't it? All for your Crux?"

You nodded frantically, not trusting your voice.

"Say it," he demanded, his fingers still moving, still stroking. "Say you're my whore kitty. Say you just wanted my attention. Say it."

"I'm—" You swallowed hard, your voice cracking. "I'm your whore kitty. I just wanted—wanted your attention. Please."

"Please what?"

"Please don't stop."

He laughed, low and warm against your ear. "I wasn't planning on it."

He curled his fingers, finding and squeezing that spot  that made your vision go white, and you gasped, your hands flying to his thighs, gripping them for purchase.

"Oh, you like that?" His voice was silk and sin, curling around you, settling deep in your bones. "You like when I do this?"

He did it again, curling his fingers just right, and you bucked against him, a broken sound escaping your lips. "That's it," he crooned. "That's it, kitty. Just let go. Just feel it." His other hand came up to your jaw, tilting your head back, exposing your throat. He pressed a kiss to your pulse point, then another, teeth grazing the sensitive skin.

"You're so good for me," he murmured. "So fucking good. Taking my fingers so well. Dripping all over my hand like a good little whore."

His fingers moved faster, curling and stroking, building that pressure until you were trembling, gasping, aching for release.

"Please," you gasped. "Please, Crux—I'm—I'm so close—"

"I know." His voice was calm, almost detached, like he was observing you from a great distance. "I know you are. I can feel you clenching around my fingers. I can feel how close you are. But you're not going to come until I say so."

A desperate sound escaped you—half moan, half sob.

"Shh," he soothed, pressing a kiss to your temple. "Shh, kitty. I've got you. Just hold on for me. Just a little longer."

His fingers slowed, pulling back to that torturous pace that made you want to scream. And then, without warning, he pressed his thumb against your opening and curled his fingers at the same time, and your vision exploded into stars.

“Cum,” he commanded, his voice low and firm. “Cum for me, kitty. Now."

And you did. You shattered against him, crying out his name, your body arching and trembling as waves of pleasure crashed through you. Your moan was loud, broken, and you could feel yourself soaking his fingers, dripping down his hand, making a mess of his lap.

But he didn't stop. He kept going.

Such a fucking tease.

His fingers moved through your climax, stroking you through the aftershocks, drawing out every last tremor. You whimpered, oversensitive, trying to squirm away, but he held you fast against his chest.

“Keep going,” he breathed against your ear, and then his teeth grazed the shell of it—a sharp, delicious sting that made you jolt. "That's it. That's my good kitty."

He bit down gently, just enough to make you gasp, and you could feel him smile against your skin.

“You can do it again, right?” he murmured. “Cum for me again. I know you can."

His thumb pressed harder, his fingers curled deeper, and you were building again—so fast, so overwhelming, the pleasure cresting before you could catch your breath.

And then, just when you thought it was almost over—just when you thought he was finally going to give you a moment to cum—you heard a new sound.

A soft, familiar buzz.

Your eyes snapped open. You tried to look down, to see what he was holding, but his hand was wrapped around you, kept you, only looking up at him. 

"What—" you started, your voice hoarse. "What is that?"

You felt him shift behind you, felt his free hand reach for something on the side table. The buzzing grew louder, closer, and then he brought it into your line of sight.

It was a toy. A sleek, green toy, curved and wicked-looking, with a little tail attached to the end. A cat toy. Specifically designed to look like something you'd play with a pet—but very, very obviously meant for something else entirely.

It even had a little bell on it.

You stared at it. Then you turned your head to stare at him. His grin was so wide it looked painful, his green eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief.

"You have got to be fucking kidding me," you said flatly.

"Kidding?" He held it up, letting it buzz in the air between you. "Why would I be kidding? This is themed. This is committed. This is—"

"This is insane," you cut him off. "You're insane. You're actually insane. You bought a—a cat toy? For me? A sex toy that looks like a cat toy?"

"I bought it specifically for you, yes. I had it custom made. It took weeks. I had to send measurements and everything. It was very embarrassing to explain to the nice lady at the shop."

"You're lying."

"I'm absolutely lying about the custom part. I found it online. But the intent was there. The vision was there. I saw it, and I thought, 'That's perfect. That's exactly what my kitty needs.'"

"I'm going to kill you."

"No you're not. You're going to thank me. You're going to beg me. You're going to—"

"Shut up, Crux."

He laughed, bright and delighted, and the sound of it made something warm curl in your chest despite yourself. He was so insufferably pleased with himself, and you hated how much you loved it.

"Make me," he said, and there was a challenge in his voice. A dare.

You turned fully in his lap, facing him, and the movement made the bells jingle. You snatched the toy from his hand—he let you, because of course he did, because he wanted to see what you'd do—and held it up between you.

"You're such a fucking weirdo," you said, and there was no heat in it. Just exasperation. Just fondness.

"I'm your weirdo."

"Unfortunately."

He laughed again, and then his hands were on your hips, pulling you closer. "So what are you gonna do?" he asked, his voice dropping, “Are you gonna use it? Are you gonna let me use it on you? Are you gonna sit there and pretend you don't want me to?"

You glared at him. He stared back, unrepentant.

"You know what?" you said, and you pressed the toy against his chest, letting it buzz against his skin. "You're such a little shit. You think you're so clever. You think you're so funny. But I know what you're doing. You're trying to distract me. You're trying to—"

"I'm trying to please you," he cut in, his voice soft, sincere. "That's all I want~ I just want to make you feel good. Is that so wrong?"

You opened your mouth to respond, but then he took the toy from your hand and pressed it against you—and all the words died in your throat.

"See?" he murmured, watching your face. "That's better. That's much better."

Your breath hitched as the vibrations traveled through you, and you could feel yourself clenching around nothing, desperate for more.

"Look at you," he breathed, his eyes dark and hungry. "Look at how you respond. You're so—"

"Shut up," you gasped, but your voice was weak, breathless.

He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear. "Make me," he whispered again.

And then he pressed the toy harder against you, and you couldn't think, couldn't speak, couldn't do anything but feel.

"There we go," he murmured, his voice a low purr. "That's my kitty. That's my good, needy kitty."

The toy buzzed against you, relentless, and you could feel yourself climbing again—so fast, too fast, your body still sensitive from before. You tried to squirm away, but once again, his arm locked around your waist, holding you firmly against his chest.

"Ah-ah-ah," he tsked, his lips brushing against your ear. "Where do you think you're going? We're not done yet. I'm not done with you."

"Crux—" you gasped, your voice breaking. "I can't—it's too much—"

"Yes you can." His voice was soft, coaxing, but there was steel underneath it. "You can take it. You can take anything I give you. You're so strong. So perfect. So—"

He pressed the toy harder, angling it just right, and you cried out, your back arching against him.

"That's it," he breathed. “Don’t you want more, don't you? You want to come again. You want to soak my hand, my lap, everything."

You couldn't respond—couldn't do anything but nod frantically, lost in the sensation.

"Say it," he demanded, his voice dropping into something darker. "Say you want it. Say you want to come for me again."

"I—" You swallowed hard, your voice trembling. "I want it. I want to come for you. Please—"

"Please what?"

"Please let me come. Please—fuck—please."

He laughed, low and warm. "Good kitty. Such a good kitty. Asking so nicely. You deserve it. You deserve everything."

His fingers retuned on you, pressing down just as the toy buzzed against you, and the combination was too much—too intense, too overwhelming. You shattered again, your body convulsing, a loud, broken moan tearing from your throat.

But he didn't stop.

The toy kept buzzing, his fingers kept moving, and you were sobbing now, tears streaming down your cheeks, overwhelmed and oversensitive and so fucking gone.

"That's it," he coaxed, his voice a low, reverent whisper. "That's it, kitty. Let it all out. I've got you. I've always got you."

You were shaking, trembling in his arms, and he held you through it all—kept you close, kept you safe, kept you his.

Finally, when you were completely spent, when you couldn't take another second, he slowed the toy, pulling it away. He set it aside, and you heard it clatter against the table, forgotten. Even he stilled his fingers. You heard the wet sound of him lifting his hand, felt the absence of his touch.

And then you heard it—the soft, wet sound of him sucking his fingers clean.

"Mmm," he hummed, his voice thick with satisfaction, almost reverent. "You taste so sweet, kitty. So fucking sweet. I could get addicted to this. I am addicted to this."

His arms wrapped around you, pulling you even closer, and you could feel his heart pounding against your back—fast and frantic, matching your own.

"There we go," he murmured, pressing a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, then the corner of your mouth. "There we go, kitty. You did so well. So good for me. So perfect for me. Now here's your reward."

His hand found your chin, tilting your face toward him, and then his mouth was on yours—slow at first, almost tender, his lips brushing against yours like he was savoring the moment.

But then his tongue slid into your mouth, and it was filthy.

He kissed you deep, so deep you could feel him in your throat, his tongue sweeping against yours, tasting every corner of your mouth. And there it was—the taste of yourself on him, salty and sweet and intimate, coating your tongue, filling your senses.

You could taste the evidence of your own release, could taste how much he'd enjoyed it, how thoroughly he'd savored you. 

He swallowed your moan, his tongue curling against yours, and you could feel the mess of it—the slick slide of his tongue, the wet sounds of your mouths moving together, the way he was practically devouring you.

When he finally pulled back, there was a string of saliva connecting your lips, glistening in the dim light. His green eyes were dark, hazy, completely wrecked—and there was a smear of your taste still on his lips, still on his tongue, still in his breath.

"There," he breathed, his voice hoarse and raw. "Now you know. Now you know what you taste like. Now you know what you do to me."

He pressed his forehead against yours, and you could feel the slight tremor in his body, the way his hands were shaking where they held you. "Fuck," he whispered, and it was almost reverent. "Fuck, I love you. I love you so much it's terrifying."

You were too exhausted to respond, too wrung out to even reply. You just leaned against him, "Good kitty," he murmured, pressing one last kiss to your forehead. 

"Such a good kitty for me."

♤ — 𝓂𝒾𝓈𝒸𝑒𝓁𝓁𝒶𝓃𝑒𝑜𝓊𝓈 𝒾𝓃𝓀𝓎𝓁𝒾𝓈𝓉

iyayadonna, all rights reserved. — ⋆˚ ᓭི༏ᓯྀ ꩜ 。⋆ .ᐟ

𝒶/𝓃: Yes, I finished Reanimated Heart. let's thanks @doubledeadstudio for such a beautiful person. He's mine—just mysterious, insufferable, tattooed, and somehow my exact irl type down to the last contradiction. Will I write for the others? hmm... nope! This was just for fun. again Crux is mine and I'm keeping him <3

Your internship had left you with little time for student government, and to your surprise, Rennyn didn't argue with you when you asked to step down from your position.

In fact, everyone seemed surprised he let you go without consequence. Still, he had given you a job, and if stepping down from student government made it easier for you to complete that job, then so be it.

That didn't mean he wouldn't give you shit for it, though.

You felt your phone vibrating against your pocket. When you saw it was Rennyn, you couldn't help but feel compelled to answer. You looked around, getting up and shutting the office door before answering the phone. Even with the door shut, you spoke in a whisper.

"You can't just call me in the middle of the day like this," you hissed through gritted teeth.

"Sure I can. You've nearly been there a week, how's it going?" He responded casually.

"You essentially answered your own question. It's only been a week, that's not enough time."

You could hear him groan through the speaker, "so you've accomplished nothing and left me with all your shit. Why am I not surprised?"

Your absence came at a particularly busy time for student government; right in the middle of the planning for the Dream Festival, the biggest mixer of the Fall semester.

"You said it was fine!"

"Uh, no, that's not what I said. I said you could quit. I didn't say it'd be fine."

"Then…then what the fuck did you mean?"

"You know, for someone in accounting or whatever, your spreadsheets look like shit, by the way. Do you even know what a formula is?"

"That doesn't answer the question!" You struggled to keep your voice down. "I'm not in accounting but yes, I know what a formula is, the fuck is your problem?!"

"Okay fine, whatever. When are you done over there?"

"Five, why?"

"Don't go to the station, I'll pick you up there."

"What? What are you-"

Before you could inquire further, he hung up.

You let out a heavy sigh, staring back at your computer screen. You looked at the clock: 2:00 PM. There were still dozens of memos and notes to go over, yet you found yourself looking forward to 5:00 a little more than before.

-----------------------------

Sure enough, he was parked on the street right at 5:00. He was an ass, but at least he was punctual.

He rolled down the window as you walked towards his car. "Hey, get in."

You stopped in front of the door. "I don't know, are you going to drug me again?"

"For fucks sake, don't just say that out loud!" He hissed, rolling his eyes. "Just get in the fucking car."

You grinned, walking over to the door and stepping inside. He looked you up and down, then smiled before silently beginning to drive.

"What?"

"Nothing," he said with a quiet laugh, unable to hide the smile on his face.

"Come on, what's so funny?"

"It's nothing, really." It was very easy to tell he was lying.

"Rennyn," you playfully slapped his arm, "tell me."

"You just…" he stopped at a red light, looking back at you. "You look so stupid."

You had been dressing well the entire week, wearing something a bit nicer than business casual; today you were in a blazer and pencil skirt, a button-down shirt, and a tied up scarf around your neck. You thought you looked fine.

"What? What do you mean?"

"You look like a high school principal. But it's cool."

You looked down at the busy city streets. "…where are we going?"

"My family is having a party tonight, and lucky for you, you're invited."

You grinned, "and who exactly is inviting me?"

He rolled his eyes, "you're my associate, duh. It's not like last time, this is more…professional, I guess. Like my family and people that work for them. Think classy."

"Well, I think I look pretty classy already."

He snickered, "yeah, we'll call it that. Just don't be weird."

"Does weird include fucking your dad? Or is that different?" You laughed.

You figured enough time had passed for the incident to be alright to joke about. Yet the expression on Rennyn's face made it clear you were wrong.

He kept his eyes on the road, quiet. "Don't bring that up."

"I mean yeah, I wasn't going to bring it up there. Do you really think I'm that stupid?"

"I meant don't bring it up in general. Ever. Got it?" His voice was stern, frighteningly calm as his lips pursed into a frown. The car was quiet enough for you to hear his heavy breathing as he gripped onto the steering wheel.

"Yeah, I got it," you mumbled. The rest of the car ride was just as quiet.

It was only when you saw your college campus approaching did he speak up. "We're stopping at my place. I need a few things." His tone was still flat, almost emotionless.

"That's fine." You responded awkwardly, hoping he'd get over it soon.

'He's acting like he didn't have some stripper bouncing on his lap. The jealousy was cute at first, but now he's just being a dick.'

He parked the car before you walked to his apartment. To your surprise, he held the door open for you.

"After you," he said with a slight smile. Maybe he was starting to perk up a bit.

You smiled back at him, "thanks." You walked in front of him, and quickly felt his hand grab the back of your neck.

You let out a gasp, feeling a sudden warmth move from your neck to the top of your head. The heat rose, growing hotter and hotter. You felt like you were about to pass out.

Your eyes forced themselves shut. You were met with darkness, the world around you having disappeared. It was as if you had died, feeling your body still present but unable to move it. Unable to control it. Simply a vessel as the world continued to spin.

Then, you were awake again.

You were in Rennyn's room. Only this time, the room was surrounded by a pink haze, the air having a sweet scent to it. Everything felt…good. Calm. There was nothing to worry about.

"Strip."

Rennyn's voice. Not in your ear, but in your mind.

You obeyed, starting to take off your clothes. Why? You weren't sure. As you took off each part of your outfit, you felt as if you were watching yourself from afar, your body moving on its own accord, your mind nothing more than a bystander.

Even when you were completely naked, the air didn't feel cold, the warmth from when he first touched your neck lingering.

He sat down on the bed, leaning against the headboard before undoing his belt and taking his cock out. Immediately, your mouth began to water, the heat intensifying between your legs.

He smiled, starting to stroke his cock slowly. "You want it, don't you?"

"Yes sir." Your response was nearly instantaneous, not even giving yourself a moment to think before opening your mouth.

"Hmm…touch yourself for me. Sit in front of me, and touch yourself."

You sat down on the bed, spreading your legs before starting to play with your pussy. You didn't question it, you just did it. You stared back at him as your fingers brushed against your clit, your breath hitching as you kept your eyes on him.

"Good. Good girl," he cooed, addressing you as if you were a small animal. He continued to jerk himself off, "do you know who you belong to?"

You hesitated, but the answer came to you quickly. "You."

"That's right. Maybe you really do know it all," he grinned. "Now, come here," he said, beckoning you closer. You crawled towards him, resting your head on his lap, his cock right next to your face. He cupped your face in his hand, "I think this might be the prettiest you've ever looked."

You couldn't help yourself, your body moving own its own. You started to lick the base of his cock, but he quickly moved your head away.

"Ah-ah, not yet, sweetheart. You just need to tell me a few more things."

Your mouth was still hanging open, your tongue dangling out your mouth. This might've been the nicest he had ever been to you.

"Good. Patience," he said as he pet your head. "Now…you'd do anything for me, wouldn't you?"

You nodded.

"Lie for me? Steal for me?"

You nodded.

"Whore yourself out for me?"

You nodded.

"Kill for me?"

You nodded.

"How sweet." He leaned down and kissed your head. "You love me, don't you?"

You nodded, nothing more than a dog being taught new tricks.

"Say it. Say that you love me."

"I love you."

He petted your head again, "good girl. Now," he pulled your head up, moving it closer to his cock. "Suck."

You opened your mouth wide, licking the base of his cock up and down.

"Oh, you can do better than that," he commanded, still keeping up the sickly sweet tone of voice.

You opened your mouth, taking his entire length down your throat. He let out a moan, relaxing before placing both hands on your head, gently moving you up and down.

Your spit coated his cock, covering your lips. Your mouth was getting sore, but you didn't care. You gleefully let him use your mouth, unsure of how much time had passed when he pulled you off of him.

"Now, fuck yourself on my cock."

You climbed ontop of him, your pussy soaking wet. You sunk down onto his cock with ease. Despite his command, he grabbed your hips, fucking into intensely.

"God, you feel so fucking good," he moaned through gritted teeth. He pulled you closer, kissing you deeply as his hands grabbed your ass. You felt your tongue against his, his grip against you tightening as he fucked you even harder.

He eventually moved you onto your back, pushing your legs behind your head. It was clear he was losing control, feverishly thrusting in and out of you. Like this, you felt him so much deeper, the tip hitting your g-spot over and over.

You were in heaven. Nothing could feel better than this. You were his toy, his plaything, and you loved it.

His breaths grew quicker and quicker, and soon enough he pulled out of you. He positioned his cock back in front of your face, cumming all over you.

And then, the darkness returned.

-----------------------------

You woke up in Rennyn's bed. Your head felt fuzzy, the back of your neck unusually warm.

What happened? When did I fall asleep?

Everything felt…off. You sat up, and were immediately hit with a wave of diziness. The last thing you could remember was getting out of the car to walk to Rennyn's apartment.

"Oh, hey."

Walking out of the bathroom was Rennyn, dressed much nicer than even his usual ensemble. A button-up shirt, a tie, a vest; it looked far more classy than the typical business casual you were used to.

"You okay? You seemed kinda out of it, earlier."

"I…" his concern immediately caught you off guard. "Yeah. Yeah, I'm, I'm okay. What happened?"

"…what do you mean?" He seemed confused.

"Earlier. I, I don't remember falling asleep." You looked down, and you were still in the same outfit you had worn to work, minus the scarf and suit jacket.

"Seriously?" He said with a slight laugh. "I didn't know a desk job could be so debilitating. But you said you weren't feeling well, so you decided to crash out for a bit. Still up for the party?"

Right. The party.

You found yourself stumbling over your words. "Oh. Yeah, just…just give me a minute to get dressed."

"Sure. What you wore to work should be fine, you're not like, my date or anything. Just ditch the scarf, it looks stupid."

"Everything you wear looks stupid," you quickly retorted.

He grinned, "glad to see you're feeling better."

-----------------------------

Huh. No blindfold this time.

He seemed to have finally lightened up as he drove you to his father's house. You watched the city fade away into the background, the towering skyscrapers surrounding your workplace getting smaller and smaller.

The road was empty, barely any other cars in sight across the barren landscape. "So, you're finally going to kill me?" You joked. As soon as the words left your mouth, you worried you might've been right.

He rolled his eyes, a gesture that shouldn't have been comforting, yet put you at ease. "No, not this time. If I was going to kill you, I wouldn't be stupid enough to take my own car."

"Ah, so you'd get a rental?"

You could tell he was trying to hide a smile. "No, dumbass. The rental company would have a record of it."

"Yeah, that makes sense. You should really iron that out then." Perhaps your sense of humor was macabre, but he seemed to enjoy it. You were starting to like the sound of his laugh.

You arrived at the party, and you quickly realized you were underdressed. He was right, it was definitely a different type of party than the last one. No loud music. No drugs. No hookers. Hell, there were even a few kids running around in the yard expansive and well-maintained yard. Yet every woman there was wearing some sort of cocktail dress.

"Oh, god damn it," you groaned.

He looked back at you, confused. "What?"

"You said business casual, this is not business casual!"

"No, I said classy, which…" he looked you up and down. "I think you fit that description."

Never before had you been so pissed off at a compliment. "Yeah, but this is like, formal!" He parked the car, and before you got out, you saw his sister approaching. "Oh, no." You groaned.

You hoped that maybe he'd just ignore her, or keep their interaction short. Instead, Rennyn rolled down the window, sticking his head out. "Ah yes, the cunt of the hour makes her appearance!"

Leona stood in front of his car, looking annoyed, yet maintained her composure. She looked towards you. "Rennyn, get out. You, stay." She pointed.

"The fuck did I do now?" He groaned, rolling up the window before getting out the car. You watched as they began to argue, but was unable to make out what they said, their voices muffled. Yet the car remained on.

Leona then dramatically placed her hand against the car. You felt the car's engine sputter, then suddenly, the sound of an explosion.

While Rennyn looked horrified, Leona looked incredibly smug. She lifted her hand up, a small ball of light floating in her hands. Rennyn raised his voice, now loud enough for you to make out his words.

"YOU JUST BUSTED MY HEADLIGHT, YOU CRAZY BITCH!"

At this point, you got out. Sure enough, glass surrounded the front of car.

"Well, maybe think next time before you rat me out, dick!" She threw the ball of light as hard as she could, then walked away. The ball hit the ground, dissipating into a wave of gold before it disappeared.

"…what was that about?" You asked.

He sighed, "it's…it's a long story. I'll just…figure something out later. It's fine."

While you weren't happy about his sister exploding his headlight, it did mean your outfit was ignored. You'd take the win.

You stepped inside, and immediately were surrounded by strangers, all well dressed and engrossed in their own conversations. You weren't sure what to expect, but held your head high regardless.

Your skills from student government served you well as you talked to his various relatives and associates. You knew how to be polite, how to shake hands, how to make small-talk. He simply introduced you as a friend, an associate that was helping out with networking.

Networking. That was…certainly one way to put it. Throughout the night, you never saw his father. You figured that might've been for the best.

You started to notice a trend as the night went on; almost every person you talked to was incredibly vague regarding their job.

No answers exceeded three words. Marketing. Sales. Management. Human Resources; that one could be taken literally, in this case. Everyone seemed as if they were putting on a front.

All but one person. A person Rennyn didn't seem eager to talk to.

You had been leaning against a wall with a lukewarm glass of wine in your hand, watching the 'party' from afar.

"I hate shit like this," Rennyn mumbled under his breath. "It's all so pointless."

"More pointless than the hookers and drugs at the other party?" You joked.

"Honestly? Yeah. The hookers and drugs are a distraction for the actual shit happening. Meetings and whatnot. All of this is just…a waste of time."

"Spending time with your family?"

"Yeah. I thought if I brought you, everyone would leave me alone, but-"

"Rennyn, who's this you've brought with you?"

Standing in front of you was an Elvish man appearing as polished as fine silver. He wore a custom-tailored suit, his eyes nearly the same shade of wine red as Rennyn's, albeit his complexion a bit darker.

"A friend." Rennyn answered shortly, the same way he had the rest of the night. "Why do you care?"

Despite his harsh words, the man seemed unphased, maintaining his friendly demeanor. "Well, I was just curious." He turned his attention towards you, holding out his hand to shake. "Hi, I'm Elias. I'm Rennyn's older brother."

You knew plenty about his sister. He hadn't ever brought up an older brother. Based on the look on his face, you figured there was a reason why.

You introduced yourself, and out of everyone at the party, Elias was the most open about what he did for his father.

"I'm an attorney, I specialize in business law. Nothing too exciting," he laughed. Still not much detail, but much more jovial and open than others.

With your internship, you found yourself intrigued. "Actually…"

You ended up talking to him for quite some time, and every minute that passed caused Rennyn to look more and more annoyed. Still, you enjoyed the conversation, it equally informative and entertaining. Despite Rennyn's annoyance, you didn't feel a rush to leave.

You were only interrupted when a small child approached, tugging on Elias's sleeve. He appeared to be no older than three, with the same vibrant red eyes as Rennyn and Elias.

"Daddy, when are we leaving?" The child asked, looking up at you with curiosity.

"Oh, we won't be here for too much longer," Elias said, giving him a a pat on the back. "Did you want to say hi?"

He nodded, before turning to Rennyn. "Hi Ren-Ren."

The obvious look of discomfort on Rennyn's face almost made you laugh. He could barely look at the kid. "Hey," he said quickly, his tone flat and emotionless. He didn't even look him in the eye.

The child turned his attention towards you, speaking slowly, as if he had rehearsed each word. "My name's Lukas. I'm three."

He seemed a little shy, but the way he concentrated so hard on speaking correctly made you smile. You introduced yourself to him, leaning down to shake his tiny hand. He seemed elated, smiling and giggling.

His laughter infectious. "Well, it was very nice to meet you Lukas." You said before standing back up.

"Alright buddy, go see mama," said Elias, pointing to a woman on the other side of the room.

Your eyes followed where Elias pointed, and you watched as Lukas walked over to a woman who had to be his mother. Only then, did you notice his mother had been staring at you.

She looked at you with pure terror in her eyes. You weren't sure what you did, or if it was even you that did anything, but she looked horrified.

She quickly picked Lukas up into her arms, then left.

You weren't sure what to make of it. When you turned to look back at Elias, everything seemed normal. "Well," he said, holding his hand out once more. "It was wonderful to meet you. I'm sure our paths will cross again soon." He smiled, then walked back towards his wife, who now appeared completely normal.

You couldn't pinpoint what it was, but something felt…off.

You tried not to think about it too much. You turned your attention back to Rennyn, who looked as if he was about to fall asleep.

"Ren Ren. That's so cute," you teased, laughing."

"If you ever call me that, I will kill you with my bare hands."

Even if he didn't find it funny, you didn't take his threat seriously whatsoever. "Yeah, yeah, sure you will."

You expected a retort. You had become so accustomed to his teasing, your petty arguments were a hobby by now. Yet he was…quiet. Just like before when you joked about his father, he shut down. Only this time, you weren't sure why.

He was still staring at his brother, watching as his sister-in-law knelt down on the ground to help Lukas put on his tiny jacket.

"I…I never knew you had a brother," you said, desperate to break the silence.

"I don't talk to him much," he answered curtly. "If I knew he'd be here, I wouldn't have come. He hasn't come to anything in forever, always tied up with his kid, or whatever."

"He seems nice."

"He's a prick," he spat, looking back at you. "A condescending asshole who thinks he's the smartest motherfucker in the room."

Clearly, a nerve had been struck. You stayed quiet. You observed the family from afar, and his sister-in-law just kept staring at you.

"…his wife, she-"

"Just stop." He cut you off. "I've had enough, I'm gonna lose my fucking mind." He grumbled, beginning to quickly walk away. "Come on, we're leaving," I'm over this.

You didn't argue, following him as he walked through the large house. He led you to a large garage filled with a variety of cars and motorcycles.

The keys to each vehicle hung on a pegboard. He looked over them carefully, before grabbing a set of keys.

"You're just…taking someone else's car?" Sure, driving with a busted headlight wasn't safe, but…

"No. I'm taking Leona's car."

"Oh."

Suddenly, you felt much better. Is it really stealing if the keys are right there?

He unlocked it, the lights to a silver sports car flashing. While you wouldn't normally advocate for stealing his sister's car, you weren't about to protest.

It was clear she hadn't driven it much, the car still smelling new. Rennyn started the drive, and as soon as you were off his father's property, he let out a sigh.

"Can I ask you a favor?"

"…depends on the favor, but-"

"Don't fuck my brother."

"…What?"

"I take back what I said the other day. Fuck whoever you want. Hell, fuck my dad if you really want to. But please." He looked back at you with unfamiliar sincerity. "Don't fuck my brother."

You weren't sure what to say to the strange request. "I…I wasn't planning on it."

He nodded, leaning back and staring at the road ahead. "Good."

It seemed like this drive would be just as awkward as the first.

WE'RE SO BACK

This one took me FOREVER and I was really struggling with some writer's block, but yippee!! I hope you enjoyed it! but holy shit it kicked my ass . i def feel like i know whats happening next tho, teehee! Sorry it took so long, work got so fuckin crazy. Freelancing literally goes from “ooooh I got plany off time” to “AAAAAAH” real fast sometimes

When I first wrote this, I didn't really know who this dude was gonna be, or that he was gonna tie back to my other stories, so other than being a half-elf, not much was mentioned about magic and what not; especially considering the reader in this one isn't able to use magic. But, there's two scenes here that used magic, so that's fun! ;D

Leona using light magic to bust his headlight is iconic. I love her so much. I want her to spit in my mouth. Unrelated, but thought id share.

also, the plotline with his brother was mentioned in his OG story awhile ago. if you wanna spoil yourself, go read that. if you dont, then...don't read that. but if you know...oh boy. yep.

AS ALWAYS THANK U FOR READINGGGGGGGGGG

(y/n), a sweet, chubby halfblood Hufflepuff girl who…confused Tom. She was…kind, kind in that way that made no sense to Tom. She smiled all the time, laughed a lot too, and always seemed to have some sort of sweet in her hands-usually a baked good.

He just…didn’t understand her. She was nice, but he never sensed any reason for her to act like she was. She, just like everyone in the school got bullied, usually by those who wanted to see her smile disappear or watch her waste away with cruel comments aimed at her body.

Tom’s hand clenched at those comments, and if several students were found hanging from the rafters-unable to explain what happened or who happened-well, Tom had too good a record for anything to be traced back to him.

But regardless, even with cruel comments, or a small group of friends, or with the war going on in the muggle and wizarding world, she was still…good. kind.

He didn’t get it, didn’t understand why.

She had nothing to gain from being…kind. Nothing, she gained no extra friends from it, no favors, no kindness returned other than plain and emotionless thank you’s with no plan to return her help.

And yet (y/n) persisted. Especially with her bloody baking.

She made something every single weekend, every Friday night; using the student kitchens he always forgot existed unless it was late and he was starving, and she baked. Cookies one week, tarts the next, and then cupcakes the week after that.

And she always made enough to feed an army, going around and offering her baked goods to anyone she came across, friend or not.

And no one suspected she might have slipped something-a potion or poison-into the baked goods, she was too nice for that.

Tom just struggled to understand why and…why it bothered him so damn much. Why his chest burned when he saw (y/n) hand out her homemade goods to someone else, when she offered that smile of hers to someone else. Why did he feel so…intense about her.

He needed answers.

You hummed lightly to yourself as you poured the lemon curd mixture onto the still-warm shortbread cookie layer. It was Friday once again, and once again, you were in the student kitchens-the apron your granny gave you for Christmas(perfectly spring themed) wrapped snugly around you, keeping your clothes safe from any spills or mishaps.

You scraped the bowl clean and wiped your hands down your front-another point for the apron-and slid the glass baking dishes(of course you made enough to feed a horde) into the pre-heated oven, tapping your wand to set a timer for 20 minutes.

With another wave, all the bowls and utensils you used to make lemon bars floated into the sink and began washing themselves. With a happy sigh, you untied your apron and charmed it clean, folding it on the counter as you did some extra kitchen clean up; as was the agreement to let you use the kitchen outside of home education classes.

This was your happy place, a weekly comfort to end the school week with fresh-baked treats to share. It hadn’t gained you any friends, other than the few you already had before you started this weekly routine, but you didn’t let It stop you; and everyone seemed to enjoy Saturday a bit extra because of it, even putting in requests once in a while.

Everyone but one. Tom Riddle. Your cheeks flushed at the very thought of him and his dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin, and smooth voice. Of course you had a crush on him, nearly every single person in the school did. Top of every class, a perfect prefect, disarmingly charming, and was surrounded by the richest high class pureblood boys in Slytherin.

And devastatingly handsome.

You sighed again, leaning against the kitchen counter, tapping your wand to check the timer as the now clean dishes were magically dried and put away.

Tom had never taken one of your offered baked goods. Though you’d never gathered the courage to go up to him and offer one, you knew better.

Tom Riddle never took food he didn’t serve himself or saw prepared. Even from his friends, if he was given a box of pre-wrapped tarts, or some girl gave him chocolates; he rejected each one. Tom didn’t trust food, which was understandable, with how love potions were oddly unregulated and with how big his fan club was; he probably was under attempted love potion attacks on the daily.

But you’d never do that to him, so you settled for making something fresher, less sweet, and easy to make.

Lemon bars, you’d noticed him eat lemon candies before, and if he had the choice; always drinking lemonade over pumpkin juice.

So, you hoped, he’d enjoy some lemon bars. The acidity in lemons caused a chemical reaction with potions, making anything with natural lemon’s very hard to lace with potions. It’s why the lemon jelly beans or any charmed candy had fake lemon flavoring and not real lemon.

You jolted as your wand made a whistling noise and you waved it-the trays of lemon bars floating out of the oven to rest on the cooling racks you got out earlier. With a gentle wind charm and making sure the lemon curds had set correctly, the lemon bars steadily cooled to room temperature and you put them in a charmed cold cabinet to set overnight(wizarding worlds version of a refrigerator), tomorrow you would dust all the lemon bars with powdered sugar and cut them into squares.

You smiled to yourself, closing the cabinet and cleaning up one last time. You hoped Tom would accept, and like, the lemon bars.

You set the finished lemon squares into a large basket to hold the horde of goods you made. Maybe too much even?

Well, probably not, there were easily 300+ students in Hogwarts and you’d made around, maybe 200 squares; ready to be devoured. You took one for yourself, humming with delight. Sweet and tart, a perfect mix.

You took the basket and left the kitchen, and already you were being flocked by students who knew your weekly routine; they’d take a lemon square with a bright ‘thanks!’ and walk off without another word.

You walked through the school, offering the treats to anyone you walked by, including the professors-many of which who happily accepted a lemon bar.

And then, it was time.

You stood at the doors of the great hall, it was 11:30am, just the start of lunch time-and Tom was always one of the first at meal times-preferring to be there before any food appeared on the tables so he could be sure none of his admirers got any funny ideas.

And you saw him at his usual spot, sitting in the sun-he liked soaking up its warmth-making his lunch plate. None of his friends were around just yet, but you could hear them behind you, talking loudly, almost obnoxiously, with each other.

It was now or never. You took a breath and went forward, handing off a lemon bar to a few people when they stopped you, until you were in front of Tom, cheeks hot, hands trembling.

His deep brown eyes locked onto your own and you momentarily forgot how to speak, but he did not snap or snark, just waited. “uh-I’m-hi-“ you stuttered and Tom smirked a little, you had to pause to restart your brain. “um, i-I know you’re not one to take sweets but um, I made lemon bars,” you offered the basket full of lemon bars.

-

Tom couldn’t believe his ears.

Or his eyes.

Or his heart with how stupid fast it was beating.

Lemon bars?

(y/n) was right behind him in potions class, she had to have known how natural lemon reacted with potion ingredients, especially love potion ingredients.

She did know. He realized, watching as she held out the basket to him, nervous, shy, hopeful. She’d made lemon bars in hopes he’d take one without fear.

He could feel eyes on them, from his admirers, from his friends, and even a few professors. They all knew Tom Riddle did not take food or sweets from anyone he did not trust. And even then.

So; he had to hold back a smirk when he heard a gasp of outrage from Olive Hornby when he reached out and took a lemon square. (y/n) beamed so brightly when he did, it made him want to take several more, even though he hadn’t had his first.

He ate it right in front of her, in front of everyone; the message was clear to her.

-

‘i trust you’

You couldn’t help your grin as Tom ate the offered lemon square, and he let out a low hum, licking his lip-drawing your attention for a split moment. “This is…quite good,” Tom murmured, eyes locked onto the lemon bar. He finished it with a second bite, brown eyes drifting back to the basket full of lemon bars. You smiled bright, setting the basket down for him to take freely from, and Tom grabbed four more squares before leaning back, and you took the signal to take the basket back.

“I’m glad you like it!” You said with a grin so big you thought you might rip your face. Tom’s face, for just a moment and only for you, melted into a smile-his eyes a molten brown in the late morning sun. You felt your cheeks go hot, and you quickly raced away before you could melt into a puddle at his feet.

-

Tom swallowed hard as (y/n) ran away from him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright and starry. With just a bite of a lemon bar, he’d made her so happy.

He wasn’t sure why, but it made his heart beat out of his chest, and made him want to do that over and over again until she couldn’t contain her joy anymore and spilled it into him.

He bit into another lemon bar.

He wanted to carve her sweetness from her chest and let it pour into his hands and drown in it.

He wanted to see more of it, all of it, and horde it like gold.

He stared at his plate full of lemon bars.

He wanted to give her a taste of her own kindness back, even if he didn’t understand why she did it. Perhaps it would help him understand, perhaps it would make her smile at him again.

…

Tom rolled his jaw.

It wouldn’t be so hard to bake…would it? It was just like potions. Precise and with deliberate instructions.

He looked down at the lemon bars again and then found (y/n) across the great hall, sitting with her small group of friends, still smiling brightly.

Yes, he could bake.

How hard could it be?

Turns out. Really bloody hard!!

Tom glared at the batch of brownies which were just a huge block of coal, he even knocked on it with his fist! It sounded like a door!

“Merlins-fucking-goddammit,” Tom cursed, waving his wand, cleaning the space again. This had been his 5th attempt, brownies took a little while to bake, so it had been a few hours already, and it was now nearing curfew.

He dropped his head to let it hang between his shoulders, leaning on the counter, sighing heavily. Bloody hell, who knew baking was so hard?? It was just like potions, and he was practically a potions master!

He stood, rubbing his flour-dusted hands down his face, looking at the cleaned space once again before grabbing the flour once more.

One more try.

-

Fuck.

Tom was frustrated, and over it, he wove his wand and cleaned up his final mess of the night. He tried cookies this time, and they were just a crumbly mess that tasted outright awful.

Tom put the bowls away with a grunt, the metal inside crashing in the cabinet as he slammed it shut.

Baking just wasn’t in the cards for him. Dammit, he’d wanted to-oh he didn’t even know anymore; why did he even think of baking something for (y/n), she could do it all on her own anyway.

He paused.

She could bake…and perhaps…perhaps he could get her to teach him how…it would probably make her happy too, she seemed to enjoy sharing her hobbies after all.

This could work.

You blinked in shock.

Tom Riddle, heartthrob of Hogwarts, just asked you, YOU! to teach him how to bake!

“i-um-yes! I mean-why?” you stuttered, fingers twisting into your skirt. Tom chuckled lightly, a sound that had your ears burning and your gaze locked onto his face. He was so pretty.

“I’m interested in learning, and why not learn from Hogwarts resident baker?” Tom said with a charming smile, and your heart was beating a mile a minute in your chest.

“I’d be happy to teach you,” You said breathlessly, and Tom’s smile widened. “Uh, meet me at the student kitchens, Friday night, okay?” Tom nodded and, with a flustered grin and a stumble, you ran off to go tell your friends.

Tom stared after you, pressing his hand to his neck-feeling his pulse flutter rapidly beneath his fingers.

Friday night came along, and you stood nervously in the student kitchens-you had everything prepped for something easy yet delicious, chocolate chip cookies.

A recipe that required no chill or resting time and weren’t overly messy.

You smoothed down your apron for the 7th time. Was it too much? It was very cutesy, maybe Tom would prefer you wear a plain apron? You had time to change, you could just pop out of for a moment and-

Tom entered the kitchens, and this was the first time you’d seen him out of uniform-even on weekends, he always wore his uniform-if only just abandoning his robes.

But here he was, in slacks and a slightly oversized green sweater. His hair was…loose as well, his curly locks free from the hair gel he used every day.

“Evening,” Tom greeted you cooly, and-oh merlin he was rolling up his sleeves TOM RIDDLE WAS ROLLING UP HIS SLEEVES! AND HAD A WATCH ON.

You could die right now and be happy.

You cleared your throat, avoiding the look of his pale, lean arms. Dammit, why were rolled-up sleeves so-hot?! You didn’t understand!

And why did the accent of a watch make it all the more sexy?

“Evening, um-okay? Let’s-let’s start simple, what do you know about baking?” you asked, voice cracking at first, but it smoothed out as you began talking about what you were comfortable with. Baking.

“I know it is not unlike potions, requiring exact measurements and temperatures,” Tom said, personally ignoring the fact that he’d had 10 failed baking attempts the previous Saturday. You nodded.

“Okay, a good start. Now everything has a use and a reaction, just like potions. Flour is a binder and thickening agent, baking soda is what makes things fluffy, and baking powder helps things rise-now they are, almost the same thing, but powder has some more chemicals in it that requires no acid to activate it like baking soda does.” Tom watched and listened as you began to ramble off, a slow smirk growing on his face.

It was fascinating.

“And so! Because baking is actually super complicated, we’re starting with something simple and easy to just pop in the oven, chocolate chip cookies!” You beamed, holding up the recipe card. Tom took it between his fingers, nodding slowly. “Sound okay?” You asked, giving a shy grin now.

Tom smiled and nodded, setting down the recipe card. “Sounds good.” He said softly, and you beamed again. You handed him a plain apron, and Tom slipped it on, pushing up his sleeves a little more and washing his hands as you grabbed all the ingredients.

“Why vanilla bean paste over extract?” Tom asked, watching as you grabbed a bottle of thick vanilla bean paste.

“Just a stronger flavor, cant go wrong with a good vanilla taste,” you said with a grin, setting the bottle aside. “First things first, butter. Now this recipe calls for melted butter, which is fine, but I find using softened butter helps me not overmix the batter and provides a more stable cookie.”

Tom slowly nodded, opening the butter bell, watching you measure the butter out without even looking at the recipe. “You’ve made this before,” He commented, and you nodded, measuring out a 3/4th cup of butter.

“Lots, it’s a personal recipe, I’ve made it for ten years now,” you said with a fond smile. Tom returned it softly, measuring the brown sugar and white sugar at your instruction. When that was done, you grabbed the flour. “Now, flour. We need two cups, and it’s best to fluff up the flour with a fork, and spoon it into your measuring cup, and level it off with a knife-as you can get an incorrect measurement if you just scoop it,” You said, and Tom nodded, watching you fluff up the flour; and then spoon and level the measuring cup.

He copied you for the second cup, which you then poured into a sifter. “Why a sifter?” Tom asked, leaning against the counter, watching you with interest.

“Gets out lumps and impurities, makes it airier, and helps make mixing easier,” You said, sifting the baking soda and salt as well. Tom took a whisk at your instruction, whisking the dry ingredients together, watching as you took a metal whisk and creamed the butter and sugars together until pale and fluffy.

“Now, this step can be done at once. One tablespoon of vanilla, and one full egg and egg yolk,” you said, showing Tom how to crack an egg and divide it from the whites. Tom poured the tablespoon of vanilla into the sugar butter mixture, blinking as you handed him the whisk. “now whisk till just combined, and then we’ll start adding flour,” You said with a grin, and Tom grabbed the bowl with one arm and whisked with the other, getting quite the workout once you started adding the flour.

“Don’t whisk too fast or-“ You burst into giggles as Tom spun the whisk around the bowl hard after you added the first half cup of flour, and it flew out-some flying into his face. Tom snapped his eyes shut, feeling it on his lashes and in his hair.

He let out a single wheezing cough, shaking his head as you took the bowl and lifted your apron to clean his face. “What in the hell,” Tom coughed again, keeping his eyes closed as you went to get a towel damp and cleaned his eyes.

You were still giggling, and Tom sighed, drying his face with his apron, raising his brow at you. “Flour has a mind of its own,” You said with a shrug, and Tom pursed his lips, dipping his fingers into the flour and flinging it at you. You gasped, jaw dropped as you watched him hide a snicker behind his shoulder.

You grabbed the bowl of flour-cupped some in your palm-and threw it at him. Tom let out a very manly shriek and ducked away from you; it was all in his hair and face, falling on his clothes. “Hey! What happened to baking?!”

“You started it!” You squealed with laughter, grabbing the still-wet dough and throwing it at his back. He stumbled as the wet glob of butter and sugar splattered. Tom dodged another toss of dough and grabbed the container of brown sugar, grabbing the sticky sugar in a handful and throwing it at you.

You squealed and ducked, the sugar hitting the stove behind you.

You grabbed an egg and cracked it on the table-throwing the egg at Tom. He yelped as it hit the side of his shoulder, and egg splattered everywhere. You burst into giggles and ducked behind the counter again as Tom grabbed the flour container and tossed the flour inside at you. The flour exploded into a cloud as it flew, and you squealed, covered in the white powder.

You grabbed the bowl with the dough from the counter-gasping as you felt Tom grab it from the other side. “No!” you squealed-standing and yanking at the bowl, Tom grinning at you, competition in his eyes. You grabbed the dough from the bowl-half of it wet, the other half scraggly and covered in flour-and released the bowl. Tom yelped, stumbling back, and then he was being bombarded with cookie dough. He slipped on egg and tumbled to the floor, curling up as you continued to wail on him with cookie dough until it was all out.

Everything settled, and you were giggling. Tom was breathless. You both stopped, catching your breath. Tom looked up at you-the two of you covered in flour, egg, sugar, and cookie dough.

You burst into hearty giggles, and Tom couldn’t help but laugh too, tears building in the corner of his eyes from the force of it.

He hadn’t laughed like this, ever.

You sat on the floor with him, still giggling. Both of your faces were hot from laughter and exertion. “That was really fun, I've never had a food fight before,” You said brightly, and Tom grinned.

“Neither have I, that was indeed; fun,” Tom replied, shaking his head, sugar and flour falling from his dark locks. With another burst of giggles and catching your breathes; Tom waved his wand and cleaned everything, including the two of you, up.

After making a truce, the two of you whipped up another batch of cookie dough, pouring in the chocolate chips and mixing it all together. “Now, temperature, how long it bakes, and even what you’re baking it on, can affect how the cookies bake.” You said, grabbing the two metal baking sheets from the cabinet, lining them with parchment paper.

“If you want huge thick cookies, you’d use an ice cream scoop, but those will take a little longer to bake and sometimes might get underbaked if baked on light colored pans or are placed in the wrong spot in the oven,” you said, Tom listening intently as you went into baking mode again.

“I prefer using a small cookie scoop like this, they’ll be smaller but just as thick if baked right.” You said, scooping a few cookie rounds out, and Tom nodded, grabbing another cookie scoop, doing the same as you on the 2nd sheet.

Soon the sheets were full of cookies, and the oven was ready.

“What do you prefer to bake brownies in?” Tom asked as the two of you slid the baking sheets into the oven, and you hummed; closing the oven doors and setting a timer on your wand.

“Glass, it bakes way more evenly, but brownies are even more sensitive than cookies; overmixing it can turn it into a brick. And it’s easy to overbake them,” Tom hummed, ah, so that’s where he’d been going wrong when making brownies. He’d been using metal pans and mixed the brownie batter for longer than he had to.

“Brownies are usually a ‘till just combined’ mixture, you don’t want any lumps in it, but overmixing it will just make them tough and sometimes even make the ingredients separate, like the oil.” You rambled on and on, and Tom only nodded, he’d done that too-the oil was leaking out of the ruined set of brownies like the greasy face of a pre-teen.

“You know quite a lot about baking, it’s fascinating,” Tom said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. Your cheeks flushed.

“Thank you, I’m self-taught,” you said softly with a smile, and Tom’s brows rose in surprise. With all you knew, he’d assumed you had training or went to a culinary summer school.

“Self-taught? Impressive,” Tom murmured, smirking at you a little. “Any plans for this in the future, or is it just a hobby?”

“Honestly? It’s just a hobby for me, I really do enjoy baking, but I don’t really see it as a career, I feel like it would just take all the passion out of it for me,” You said softly, and Tom could appreciate that. It was rare to meet someone who wanted their passion to stay their passion.

“What’s your plans after Hogwarts then?” Tom asked, watching as you wove your wand-all the bowls and tools they’d used for the cookies cleaning themselves up, dunking into the soapy sink.

You let out a long sigh, chewing on your lip. “Don’t judge me?” You asked quietly, and Tom only stared, you took that as agreement. “I don’t have a big, fancy plan. I don’t want to work in some grandiose job in the ministry and change the world, I don’t want to put my nose to the grindstone and, cultivate my own bakery…I want to settle down, find a nice cozy job to make rent for my own flat in London, maybe get a dog, meet someone, marry someone, have some kids, and just…be loved, and be content. Maybe travel the world?”

You trailed off, staring at your shoes. “Lot’s of girls want to do big and grand things, and they should, I’m proud of them. But…I just want to find love, and keep it.”

You looked up at Tom, his dark eyes seeming to stare right through you. “What a Hufflepuff ideology eh?” You joked weakly, and Tom let out a low hum that rattled your chest.

“No, your ambition is simply…calmer. I can understand that, admire it. You know what you want, even if it’s different and…more traditional, than what the modern era witches want.” Tom reached out, tucking a hair behind your ear, cold fingers grazing your cheek.

“Do you think I’ll find what I want?” You asked quietly, and Tom smirked.

“I know you will,” He murmured, the gears in his mind already turning.

The cookies were a few minutes later. “Now, with cookies; you don’t take them out when they’re perfectly golden brown, you want a faint golden color to the edge, and then you take them out and let them rest on the baking sheet for a few minutes. That way they’ll finish baking evenly and be crispy on the edges and chewy in the middle. A perfect cookie,”

You told Tom as you took the cookies out of the oven and set them on cooling trays to rest for a few minutes before transferring the cookies to another cooling sheet to finish setting.

All of which took about 10 minutes. Tom poured out two glasses of milk(if you’re lactose intolerant I’m sorry), and you clinked cookies, watching with a grin as Tom ate his first homemade cookie, having watched and helped with every step.

He hummed low, nodding to himself. “That’s a good cookie,” he muttered, and you giggled brightly, enjoying your own cookie, sipping some milk between chocolate-heavy bites. It settled into a comfortable silence of eating cookies and the clinking of glass. After you both ate your fill of cookies, you boxed them up into two boxes; half for you and half for Tom.

He gave you a soft smile as you held out the box to him. “You did a great job for your first time baking,” You told him with a shy smile, and his grin widened a little-oh little did you know of his many failed attempts.

“I just happened to have a good teacher,” Tom murmured, his fingers brushing against yours, and you swallowed hard, feeling sparks go down your spine. “Thank you, (y/n).” He said your name softly, almost reverently.

You chewed the inside of your cheek with a small bashful grin. Ugh, why was he so hot, and cute?! The combination was going to destroy you. “It was my pleasure Tom, uh-goodnight,” you said softly, grabbing your box of cookies-the two of you making your way out of the student kitchens, going your separate ways.

“Goodnight, (y/n), sleep well,” he murmured, staring at your back as you departed, before heading to the Slytherin common room/dorms, already planning for his next encounter with you.

And planning for everything after that.

You wanted a life of love and comfort? To explore the world and settle down?

Tom smirked to himself, running his thumb over the cookie box he held close to his side.

He had pretty high ambitions, but who said he couldn’t have a pretty little wife and some children, safe and cozy at home in a forest cottage? He did plan on traveling as well, after Hogwarts.

Yes yes, this could work.

He may not understand why you were so unfathomably kind, but he wanted to hoard it; keep it locked up tight-only for himself and offspring to have.

You would be his. And if his suspicions were correct, your heart was already his, he just had to make a few more moves on the chess board you didn’t even know you were playing on.

Tom slipped into the student kitchens a week later, Saturday night; a slim potion vial in his hand.

With a flick of his wand, he summoned some bowls, whisks, measuring cups, and ingredients floated out onto the counter. He rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a recipe card; and with the knowledge (y/n) had taught him last week, he got to work.

Halfway into the recipe, it told him to melt some chocolate over a double boiler, which, thanks to potions; he knew how to do, and that’s when he took the potion vile and cooked the potion into the melting chocolate. The pink viscous potion mixed in with the chocolate, and the faint smell of pomegranate ebbed away, overwhelmed by the chocolate.

Tom smirked to himself. It was underhanded, sneaky, and crossed a lot of boundaries.

But Tom Riddle always, always got what he wanted. No matter how he got it.

He mixed the chocolate with the egg and sugar mixture before mixing in the dry ingredients until it was well combined, pouring it into a glass baking dish. He slid it into the oven and set his timer, waving his wand to clean everything up.

The brownies came out perfect, with that crispy crust on top and soft inside. He let them cool and cut everything up, he nearly tried a bite but stopped himself-remembering the potion he slipped inside.

The brownies were slipped into a box, and he scrawled her name on the top, smirking to himself.

Checkmate.

You got a box full of brownies the next morning, Sunday, during owl mail time, jaw dropping open a little as you caught the brown box that had your name on it. “From TMR,” Your friend read quietly beside you, gasping. “Tom Riddle?” She nearly squealed, and you shushed her, catching Tom’s eye from across the great hall, and he rose his brow, hiding a smirk behind his goblet.

You opened the box, finding brownies, and you gasped, smiling brightly. “Aww how cute, he got you brownies? Someone's got a cruuush~” Your other friend cooed, and you shook your head, unable to help your smile and flushed cheeks.

“Not just got, made, from scratch,” You whispered, and your friends gasped again, shaking your shoulders as you giggled. No one had ever made you from scratch baked goods before, other than your family. Your friend dipped her hand into the box, but you smacked her away. “Mine,” you playfully snapped, and she snickered.

“Greeedyyy,” She teased, and you huffed, pouting a little.

“Well, usually I’m the one making stuff for everyone else, and I barely get to have what I make, so this whole box of brownies is mine,” Both of your friends giggled and had to agree. You did so much for everyone every single Friday, you deserved a good baked treat all for yourself.

You took a brownie, catching Tom’s eye again, and took a bite, grinning. ‘Delicious,’ you mouthed from across the room. Tom smiled back, hiding it behind his goblet once more.

At first, you hadn’t thought anything was…wrong, the brownie had been delicious, and you hadn’t tasted anything odd. In fact, that thought never even popped up in your mind; but something was happening within you. like a tiny flame had been ignited and was growing stronger throughout the day.

At first, it was barely noticeable, and with the air outside so cold-you hadn’t noticed how warm you felt. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold, fingers biting cold from scooping and throwing snowballs at your friends.

And later, when you settled down in the common room, warming up in front of the fire-you had to move away, you were getting a little too warm; but nothing outrageous.

Then came the invasive thoughts.

At first; you thought nothing of it, because you’d had them before. Tom with the sleeves of that green sweater rolled up, and how exposed his neck had been while baking with you. The sound of his laughter during the food fight, how deep and smooth it had been, the look of his smile, the clench of his hands as he stirred a bowl of cookie dough.

And then they escalated. You were sitting in the library, studying for the potions test tomorrow, when the image of Tom’s thin and long fingers folded through a page, but far more-sensual-than intended, popped into your brain. You slammed your hands down and forced yourself to stop, breathing heavy.

“Stop, he-ugh-“ you couldn’t even argue with yourself.

Curse your damn hormones, you must’ve been ovulating or something to feel so…feral about Tom.

The mental images of Tom being too hot for you to function kept coming after that.

Especially when you passed by him in a corridor, or saw him in the great hall. The darkness of his eyes pulling you in, watching as he licked cream off of a spoon during lunch, the dexterity of his fingers as he flipped through another book.

You swallowed hard, averting your gaze.

What was wrong with you?! You’d never felt this-crazy-about him, you’d of course had thoughts like these before, it was only natural for a girl your age to think about a boy like that. But-the frequency and intensity were slightly alarming you.

Not enough for suspicion, but to make you want to lock yourself in your room so you didn’t just-jump his bones for merlin’s sake!

Through the afternoon to the evening, thoughts about Tom invaded your mind-growing more and more sexual by the hour.

By dinner, you decided to stay in and try to put these fantasies to use. You ducked beneath your bed and dragged out your trunk, cheeks flushed as you opened it and unwrapped your most precious secret; a muggle ‘handheld massager’, charmed to work without being plugged in and to be silent. You shuffled onto your bed, drawing the curtains.

-

(y/n) wasn't in the great hall, Tom thought, looking at her usual spot between her friends, but she was missing. He tapped his fingers on the table, jaw rolling. He wanted her to be at dinner, wanted to see her squirm and try to control herself, only to fail and throw herself at him when the heat and thoughts became too much.

He’d wanted to drag her off into a closed-off classroom and devour her whole.

Tom sighed, rubbing his hand across his face. “What is with you and that half-blood?” Dimitri Mulciber asked quietly, and Tom glared, eyes flashing scarlet.

“None of your bloody business,” He whispered threateningly, and Dimitri flinched back and cowered, eyes directed to his dinner plate.

“I saw your little Hufflepuff has been in a tizz all day, been staring at you too, more than usual,” Nicholai Avery murmured from two spots down Tom’s left, Abraxas leaning away. He had no interest in talking about this; he was betrothed, and happily so-he did not want to be involved with…whatever was going on with Tom and the chubby Hufflepuff half-blood.

Tom let out a huff. “I made her brownies,” They all stared at him, but Tom ignored their shock. “I laced it with aphrodisiac. I wanted her to be mine, but she’s more adept at controlling herself than I thought,” Tom grumbled.

“How much did you use?” Elija Nott asked, leaning in with interest.

“Only a half tablespoon, any more would’ve been too strong and made her vulnerable to anyone, I wanted her to want me and only me.” Tom muttered, knuckles scraping against the tabletop.

“Hmm, well,” Druic Rosier began to speak, sitting across from Tom. “It should still be in her system, and be pretty strong right now,” Tom raised his brow at Druic, urging him to get on with it. “Have one of her friends draw her out, and get her alone; that should be all you need to get her.”

Tom smirked, eyes locking onto (y/n)’s friends that sat across the great hall.

That could work.

Yes, it would work quite well.

-

“Hey (y/n)?” Your friend, Kaylee, asked from the other side of your bed curtains. You had long given up on trying to rub one out and try to calm down, nothing was working, so you were just lying there, body overheated and so fucking horny.

“Yeah?” you asked, voice cracking a little.

“Tom asked for you, says he has something to tell you,” Kaylee said, and you sat up, mind flashing with very inappropriate images of Tom.

Like your tongue on his throat as his hands slid up your sides while yours undid his belt-okay brain! Enough!

“O-okay,” you said, voice cracking again, swinging your legs around, pushing away the curtain, and walking past Kaylee, who gave you an encouraging smile. It felt like walking to your doom. Merlin, what did he want? Had he noticed something? Had you not noticed something?

“Hi,” You whispered, stepping out of the Hufflepuff common room, meeting Tom’s dark eyes.

-

“Hi,” she said softly, her voice cracking a little. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was flushed and heaving just a little, fingers trembling from where she held herself, her legs were shaking too. Tom licked his bottom lip, forcing himself to look (y/n) in the eyes.

“Hi,” Tom replied just as softly, though his mind and body were in a whirlwind, his pants already growing tighter. “You weren’t at dinner,” He commented, and (y/n) chewed at her inner lip-his eyes following the motion.

“I’m just…not feeling that great, was staying in bed,” (y/n) said, pushing her hair back, avoiding eye contact with him. Tom hummed, lowly, straightening as he saw her react to that small noise. A full body shudder, and she squeezed her thighs.

“Food poisoning? I hope my brownies didn’t do you wrong, I’d feel terrible,” Tom cooed, and (y/n) shook her head quickly, her fingers pushing into her cheek.

“No, no! Nothing like that. I just…I think I have a fever, been warm all day,” (y/n) choked out, and Tom hummed, stepping forward, intent in every step and movement as his hand came up and pressed against her forehead-her eyes wide as she looked at him, her mouth agape.

“You do feel warm,” he murmured, his eyes finding hers as the back of his hand trailed down her face, fingers brushing around the curve of her cheek. “Have you gone to Madam Tegner?” Tom asked, and (y/n) shook her head, swallowing hard as his knuckles brushed her jaw, and stayed there.

“Uh-i-no-no it’s, it’s fine, I’m fine, just…just a fever,” (y/n) croaked out, her eyes darting around; trying not to look at him, because if she did-with him so close-she didn’t know if she could control herself anymore.

“Mmm,” Tom hummed again, smirking a little as he felt her shudder, and her pulse go wild beneath his fingers. “Perhaps I should escort you, you seem…out of it,” Tom murmured. He was standing nearly against her now, staring down at her-his pupils consuming the deep brown of his eyes.

He breathed across her lips, and it had the exact effect he wanted. Her eyes locked with his-her own pupils consuming the color of her eyes-and she surged up. He met her halfway, consuming her with a groan-slipping his fingers into her hair at the back of her head, the other hand wrapping around her waist; pulling her even closer as (y/n) breathed hot across his cheeks.

It was heated, messy, new, and thrilling. He knew the aphrodisiac potion only elevated whatever feelings she had towards him, as it wasn’t like a love potion-but a simple elevation of feelings.

Her lips and body against his, were not forced, simply encouraged by the potion.

He stepped forward, pressing her against the corridor wall, kissing her hot and heavy, pulling away to kiss down her cheek and jaw-her hands clawed at his lapel; pulling at his perfectly set tie, yanking it down and loose. Tom groaned, biting at her jaw, pressing his tongue to the curve of her skin, smirking as (y/n) let out a noise that sent lightning down his spine.

“Tom-“ (y/n) breathed out, and he kissed her again, drawing his hands down her sides and then grabbing her thicker thighs-lifting her up and encouraging her to wrap those delicious legs around his waist-pressing her against the wall, using it to hold her up against him; grinding himself against her.

His eyes fluttered at the sweet, sinful sound she made, pulling away to breathe heavily before she yanked him back in, her tongue against his-against his teeth even-oh how easy it was to corrupt this sweet soul.

Now his. All his.

Tom pulled away to pepper kisses down her jaw, neck, thanking whatever god that was listening that made (y/n) wear a silky pajama top that exposed her shoulders and the top curves of her breasts, pressing his lips to the warm, plush skin and trailing downward still.

“W-wait-“ (y/n) choked out as he pushed up the fabric of her top and began kissing down her stomach, looking up at her with those dark eyes of his, black with heat.

“Denying me now?” Tom cooed, pouting a little, resting his chin on her belly-he was kneeling now, her leg over his shoulder. “But I’ve been waiting for you so patiently,”

(y/n)’s cheeks went bright red at his words. He liked her back?! Well, of course he did! she thought stupidly. He wouldn’t be kissing her stupid and be so close to her crotch-clear intent in his eyes-if he didn’t.

“I just…were in a public corridor,” (y/n) whispered, and Tom, while slightly thrilled with the idea of someone seeing her so sweetly under his control, knew he couldn’t take (y/n) for the first time in a corridor.

“Mmm, you’re right,” Tom murmured, and he stood, taking her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “My dorm it is,” (y/n) sputtered, stumbling behind him as he turned and led her from the Hufflepuff common room to the Slytherin common room; he muttered the password, and the passage revealed itself.

“Woah,” (y/n) muttered as Tom guided her into the Slytherin common room. It was practically the opposite of how the Hufflepuff common room was, the Slytherin common room was mostly stone, filled with grey/green/blue hues from the black lake windows, Slytherin colors and banners everywhere.

Tom tugged on her hand and took her down the male dorm room corridor, slipping into his dorm room. He turned to her, dark eyes taking her in, she was flushed-eyes wide as she took in his room. Her eyes met his and he didn’t waste another second-yanking her towards him, pressing his lips to hers.

He chuckled at the squeak she made and then groaned as her fingers tangled into his hair and her nails scratched his scalp. Picking (y/n) up by her thighs again, he tossed her onto his bed, crawling atop her-knee sliding between her thighs.

There were no words, just quiet sounds and the feeling of clothes being pulled away to reveal skin. (y/n)’s breath caught as he pulled off her top and his kiss swollen lips traveled downward again, her head rolling back as he mouthed over her breasts and still continued further, shifting to kneel on the side of the bed, kissing down her belly-making eye contact with her as he pulled off her shorts and panties.

“Tom,” (y/n) breathed out, leading into a gasp as his warm and wet tongue met her clit, her thighs closing around his head. Tom let out a low sound, wrapping an arm around each of her thighs, gently pulling them apart and diving into places once untouched.

(y/n) moaned, body rolling, eyes fluttering as his tongue flattened and pulled from the base to the clit of her sex, her hips beginning to roll into the feeling, gasping and fighting the urge to pull away from it. She looked down-he was still watching her, his eyes nearly black. He adjusted his hold, sitting further up on his knees, sucking her clit into his mouth-swirling his tongue around it.

“Fuck-Tom!” (y/n) gasped, trembling; reaching down and tangling her fingers into his already messy hair, nails digging into his scalp, pulling him to get a certain pressure on where it felt best. Tom obeyed, pressing harder with his tongue, repeating the motion when she rolled into the feeling.

He let go of one of her thighs, slicking his fingers up with her gathering arousal, he could smell faint traces of pomegranate in it, the aphrodisiac still in her system. On his tongue. He watched her expression as his middle finger sunk into her, she was tight-untouched.

He pulled away to breathe-only to chuckle as (y/n) yanked him right back towards her, her thighs closing around his head again, ankles locking behind his shoulders. He had no problems with that, nose buried in the coarse hair below her navel, tongue pressed hot against her clit-swirling it in the way that got the most delightful reactions from (y/n).

(y/n) gasped, saying his name tight and breathless, her body trembling-he focused on her clit in the way he just was, curling his fingers-and he felt her clench around his fingers; pulsing. He groaned, swirling his tongue once more, grinning as she shoved his face away and pressed her thighs tight together-squishing his face between them.

“Not that I mind this,” Tom chuckled, lips shiny and swollen, chin slick, eyes dark. “But I can’t move,” His grin turned sharp and seductive. “And I would like to keep going.” (y/n) somehow blushed harder and let her shaking legs fall open, swallowing hard as Tom stood and moved atop her again.

-

You watched with heaving breath as Tom finished undressing, his trousers sliding down his thighs, his boxers going with them. You don’t see much but a flash of flushed skin, you feel it first-the heat of him sliding against you; ready and more than willing.

“Tell me you want this,” He whispers, laying over you-so close to slipping inside. You shudder, eyes fluttering as your hands curl over his thin shoulders; nails digging into the skin of his back.

“I want this,” You whisper, and he kisses you, breath warm against your cheeks as you feel him slide against you-dipping lower-and then;

“Ah-“ you gasp, brows pinching together, it’s a strange feeling, pinching and deep. Tom shushes you, soothing and quiet, kissing your temple and the tear that escapes your eye, settling deep inside you; staying like this for a moment, maybe two.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, trailing his lips from your temple to your lips, kissing you deep, lips moving against yours as if he might die if he didn’t. Tom doesn’t move until you squeeze his shoulder, and then he’s moving, a slow repetitive motion of his hips that has you gasp, and your upper body rolls without your consent.

Tom chuckles against your jaw, pressing hot desire into your skin as his hips continue to slide against yours, learning what made you tick, what made you roll, sigh, and twitch. Your knees shake on either side of him, ankles soon locking behind him, breathing hard and quick; eyes fluttering and rolling upwards as Tom finds a specific angle. “There-there-“ You beg, and Tom does exactly that.

Again and again, until-you cry out faintly, body sparking as pleasure rolls through you from your spine, down to your toes, and up to your head; continuing as Tom continues to slide hard against you, until his own pleasure crests and a faint warmth pulses inside you.

Tom groans lowly, kissing your throat before sliding out and rolling to lie beside you, sliding an arm behind your head and curling you towards him. He pressed a hard kiss to your sweaty forehead, smiling against you. “My girl, okay?” He whispered, asked.

You had no reason to deny him, especially since you did like him already, and he liked you. Clearly.

“Okay,” You whispered, and Tom curled his other arm around you, pulling you even closer to him, hooking one leg of yours over his hip, your sweaty skin cooling rapidly in the now muggy dampness of his room.

“You’ve been baking way more recently,” Your friend comments a month later, noting the newest box of baked goods you had in your hands. This one was a smaller batch, a set of lemon bars. “Though; not as big as you used to,” Your other friend says with a knowing grin.

You still made the friday treats for the whole school, but on Saturdays and Thursdays, you made a more-private batch, for one particular person, though he always shared with you.

“Baking for a special person~?” Your friend teases, bumping her elbow with your shoulder, and you fluster, tapping your fingers against the box, which you had tied a green thin bow around it.

“i-well-um,” You stuttered. You and Tom were still new, so you hadn’t told your friends yet, and you had no clue how Tom wanted to do anything, so you tried your best to keep quiet until you talked.

However-

“Are those for me?” His deep soothing voice coos from behind you. you and your friends turn, your cheeks burning as Tom smirks, a hand held out. Your friends quiet their squeals as you nod and hand him the box, your shoulders rolling up as Tom pressed a kiss to your lips, a thank you.

Infront of everybody in the school.

He gives you a wink paired with a smirk, nods to your friends, and struts off to his spot across the hall.

Your friends turn to you, along with every eye of Tom’s admirers, and you sigh, closing your eyes as your friends squeal and his admires shriek.

Tom grins, biting into a lemon bar.

-end-

But you had been too caught up in all the excitement of Hogwarts to notice his shadowy figure. Who could blame you, boarding the train to Hogwarts for the first time was as exhilarating as it gets.

You’d been pushing your trolley full of luggage and your owl, eyes everywhere but in front of you, and Tom was too preoccupied to notice you barreling straight for him.

He hadn’t had a trolley. He’d gotten there early and loaded up his belongings before the other students showed up.

The impact was shocking to the both of you.

Tom thought he was being attacked from behind. You thought you’d hit a wall you hadn’t seen.

He’d been thrown forward onto the ground, but he was quick to whirl around to face whoever had been stupid enough to attempt to start a fight with him, so used to the children in the orphanage picking on him. But whoever had shoved him would learn just like they did.

The sight before him had him pausing in mute surprise.

Your eyes were wide, hands gripping the sides of your head as you stared down at him in horror. “I am so sorry!” You cry out, racing down to help him.

The first touch had been like a bolt of electricity down his back. You were stronger than you looked; or he was smaller than he remembered in the memory. You had helped him up without him even having a chance to really protest.

You placed him back on his feet and squeezed his arm in a manner that was completely unknown to Tom at the time.

It was caring. It was gentle.

He had been at such a loss for words that he’d just stared at you dumbly. He was mortified.

“Sorry again!” You apologized to him once more before grabbing your trolley and carrying on.

Tom had watched as you loaded up your belongings on the train from behind a pillar, after that. He hadn’t known what to make of it.

You had embarrassed him. You had made him look weak. He never accepted help - he didn’t need it.

But you had touched him in a way that was kinder than anything he had ever known. He didn’t know why his stomach had been turning since you’d squeezed his arm.

Tom had eyes on you since then. From the beginning. An odd curiously of sorts.

He had watched you for a year before you’d interacted again, the next time you had boarded the train. He’d arrived early again. Bags, and what little belongings he had, already on the train.

He could’ve boarded and chosen a room to himself, but he waited, as he did last year. He had a thing for watching. Observing. He’d look at the passing faces of students, new and returning, and just simply survey the area.

He’d been in the middle of staring at a Slytherin boy trying to keep his multiple belongings from falling off his cart when it had happened.

Again.

But Tom was a little older. He wasn’t as easy to knock over as the previous year.

He’d merely stumbled a few feet before catching himself. He knew immediately who it was.

A gasp comes from behind him.

He was no longer an unknown boy to you, he knew. He had made a name for himself already at Hogwarts from the first year he’d attended.

“O - Oh, Tom, I’m so sorry!” Comes your voice. Just as apologetic. Just as worried.

Tom is not angry, no. He just gathers himself and turns, ready to unleash a few colorful thoughts he had about your lack of spacial awareness, when the words catch in his throat.

Your hand is on his arm.

He cannot fathom why you would touch him, especially now. He was known as the ruthless first year Slytherin, smarter than anyone in the class, and cut down anyone who got in his way.

It’s just as gentle as it had been the first year.

You offer him a wary smile. “It must be fate, I remember running into you last year as well.”

“Or you are as stupid as you were last year,” he remarks coldly.

This doesn’t offend you; in fact, it makes you give a laugh that has his nerves on edge. He had never made anyone laugh before. He hadn’t meant it as a joke.

Your hand is still on his arm. He doesn’t make any comments on it.

When you do remove it, he feels the breath he’d been holding let out.

“Just as witty as always. See you at Hogwarts!” You tell him, and disappear into the crowd.

He does see you at Hogwarts, but you do not see him unless he allows it. He lurks in the corners. Hides behind columns in the hallways to catch a glimpse of you talking with you friends.

It is a strange fascination he has; he doesn’t know why he has latched onto you until a few weeks into his second year.

Tom was smart. Everyone knew this. And everyone’s learned better than to ask him for help. He merely sends them one of his icy glares and it is enough to have them running back to where they’d come from.

You happened to share a potions class with him. And lucky him, you also happened to sit next to him.

Your lack of personal space was made clear on the first day you had been placed next to him. Your elbow was always in his space. Your chair far too close. He would never admit to it, but he hadn’t minded it.

He hadn’t given it much thought really, he had just acknowledged that you were always within arms reach and moved onto his assignment.

Not much was spoken between you two other than you greeting him every day, and bidding him goodbye.

He was already a master at whatever piece of work was handed to him so it came as no surprise to him when you’d asked him for help.

It had started with a gentle nudge to his elbow with yours. The point of contact was like when you touch someone after rubbing your socks on a carpet, it had sent a little shock through his skin.

He’d jumped in his very seat, quill dragging across his page.

Tom turned his head slowly towards you in annoyance. You hadn’t seemed to notice what he had done, and gave him a small smile as you asked him for help on a question.

Your elbow was still pressed into his.

He had wordlessly examined the question you needed help on, and turned to you with a judgmental brow raised.

“You do not know the answer to such a simple question?” He had drawled. He was playing with you. He was planning on giving you the answers, but you had to play along.

Your expression turns sheepish. “Um… I don’t. Do you?”

“Of course I do,” he replied in a snippy tone.

Your elbow leaves his, only for it to be replaced with your hand squeezing his bicep. He is a little bewildered at your willingness to touch him. It is like you have no fear of him. He clearly hasn’t made it known to you well enough that he is something to be feared, then.

You ask him again, once, and he caves faster than he’d wished.

It’s like a door had opened that day.

When he realized that your touch was almost… welcomed.

Tom didn’t know what to call it - companionship? Definitely not friendship. He didn’t have friends. He didn’t need a group of fools who thought he was a good person; he needed the beginnings of a core team for the mission he was planning for himself.

He just doesn’t know how you fit into those plans. You were smart, but not the brightest. You were good with spells and potions, but there were those who were better. You were above average at best when it came to magic and Tom believes it is because he is there to guide you with a steady hand.

He doesn’t think you would’ve made it as far without him. It is almost as if you needed him to keep up. To stay ahead.

Tom didn’t like stragglers. He cut off those who were weak in mind and magic.

But you are not just one of his cronies who do his bidding.

You are just merely there, observing.

He doesn’t know exactly what to make of it. Thinking of you treads into uncharted territory in his mind. Unknown feelings he is yet to explore.

All he knows is, you are not as annoying as those around him. Most of the time. Actually, scratch that - you are a constant annoyance that chews at his very patience.

But all is well with a simple touch to his arm, a hand on his shoulder, a fleeting finger skimming his knuckles.

It is like he can breathe in those few moments of contact. His stomach warms and he is weightless for the few seconds your skin is on his.

He wishes he could merely wave away the thoughts on why this is, like he had once been able to do.

It isn’t until he’s older that it starts becoming a problem.

He broods on it. Deeply.

He is a man now. It is his last year at Hogwarts. You both are in a train cart alone, it has been a tradition since third year.

No one dared enter Tom’s cart. They knew better than to disturb him, especially if you were with him.

Tom’s nose was buried in a book, eyes skimming the pages on the lore of an artifact he’d been hunting. He’d been in the middle of reading its last known coordinates when you stood. He hadn’t paid much attention until you sat down next to him, and, Merlin, put your head down on his lap.

The book groans in Tom’s grasp when he tightens his hold on it to keep from gasping out.

It takes all his composure not to react.

It is a common thing now; the touching. But it still gets an involuntarily rise out of him. His frozen heart aches inside of its cage of ice and blood.

“What are you reading?” You ask, completely unaware of what you are doing to him.

Tom’s eyes stayed glued to the book but he is no longer reading the words on the pages. He cannot even focus long enough to finish a sentence.

“Nothing of your concern,” he answers dismissively.

You pluck the book from Tom’s hands like taking a lollipop from a baby. He was staggered at the boldness you were displaying, but he reminds himself that it is normal between you two.

You were not afraid of him. He was your friend.

But to him, you were a… persistent spirit ever trailing beside him.

“Boringgg,” you say as you close the book and drop it onto the seat beside him. “You obsess over the strangest things, Tom.”

If only you knew the truth behind your words.

“Maybe to small minded individuals,” he utters.

You are sprawled across the seat like a cat, head pillowed on his legs, with your arms stretched up to start messing with Tom’s perfectly styled hair.

He sighs out soundlessly, a chill to his bones, his eyes scanning your face.

You are an enigma to him. A force he wishes to understand. But your secrets are not hidden away in any book he reads.

You are the most open person he has ever met, and yet, he cannot figure out this unwavering attachment you have to him. He doesn’t know why it happened. He doesn’t know what drew you to him. He was cold and cynical, and you were everything but so.

You were the first patch of warm sunlight after a persistent, dreadful rain; he was a bucket of ice water poured over one’s head.

It didn’t make sense, and Tom has never stopped searching for answers in your bright eyes.

He has studied you for years. He knows everything about you. He knows who your friends are, your favorite foods, the smell of the hand lotion you favor. He knows it all.

You, on the other hand, know the same.

Tom was used to his isolation, to his solitary life before he’d met you.

You are a shock to his system with every little detail you remember about him. No one knows such things about him, and it should scare him. You know too much. It could ruin him one day, if you ever became an enemy to him.

You knew where he excelled and were less than brilliant in certain subjects.

Tom places his hand upon your head in a rare display of him returning the fire of physical affection. He is never one to initiate, he doesn’t need to.

You are always the first one to reach out.

You are always there to make him feel the beginnings of a small supernova expanding in his chest.

The book is long forgotten as you start rattling on about something Tom has no interest in hearing.

He should be reading. It was important.

But he surrenders to the feeling of your warm hand playing with his hair, your head pressed into his legs, and allows himself to simply exist in your presence.

The train to Hogwarts is as smooth as ever. You and Tom exit the train and begin the rest of the journey up to Hogwarts in a fluid manner. It is practiced. You both knew what to expect, but unlike every other year, this is to be the last.

Tom glances at you almost nervously when you give a little sniffle.

He knew you were an emotional person. He had to deal with the ever constant changing of your emotional state on the daily, but he was never very good at consoling you when you cried. He didn’t know how.

He didn’t like tears. They were a sign of how fragile the human mind was. It was a burden.

“It is our last year, Tom,” you tell him through a watery smile. “It hasn’t hit me until now.”

“There are better things awaiting us outside of the castle walls,” he replies. He doesn’t know if he is trying to soothe you or simply get you to stop putting on such an uncomfortable show of waterworks.

You nod, because you two have already talked about life after Hogwarts.

Tom would work at Borgin and Burkes, where he had already secured a job after graduation. It had been rather easy. He hadn’t needed to prove himself to them. They’d already known about him and his legacy at Hogwarts.

You’d work at Slug and Jiggers Apothecary.

That, on the other hand, needed a spell or two to secure your position.

You hadn’t known that.

Tom had eliminated all other competition. They had mysteriously vanished, leaving you as the best candidate for the job. He’s sure you would’ve gotten the job anyways, with your grades and knowledge because he had been the very one to teach you after all, but he hadn’t wanted to leave it up to chance.

The plans were set. He had already known which apartment he would rent just east of Diagon Alley.

You had been the one to suggest you move in together. Tom had to stop himself from jumping to agree with the idea at the very moment it had been voiced.

He had said he’d need time to ponder on it. He let you fret over his answer for a week before he had agreed.

The hug after he had said yes was worth the wait.

He wasn’t sure if it was from your freakish strength you’ve possessed since the first time he’d met you, or the simple act of receiving a hug from you that had made him dizzy in the head.

This had been agreed upon the year before, late at night, in his room when it was past curfew and you should’ve been asleep. And now it would be a reality after the school year ended.

The first night back at Hogwarts feels like home. Tom has his Prefects room all to himself, and within these walls, is where he is allowed to feel a sense of freedom after another summer at the orphanage.

Every summer he goes back to the orphanage is another summer spent in waiting. Reading. Solidarity.

And every year he returns to Hogwarts, on the first night, you are with him for as long as the night permits this.

You’d started the tradition year four, when he still shared a room with others. He’d spell them into a heavy slumber and sneak you in without alerting anyone that you were there.

It was an easy feat compared to everything else he had already done.

He’d close the curtains around his bed and you two would simply… breathe each other in. It hadn’t meant to be anything more than catching up on what had occurred over the summer.

But you were an ever unraveling gift of surprises.

And you’d gotten tired, year five.

Tom had seen the way your eyes were dropping in the dim light from his wand. He had never expected for you to crawl towards him, not even a hint of uncertainty or panic in your gaze. He had gone all too willingly down onto the bed from your hand guiding him back into his pillows.

He remembers the way his whole being lit up when you’d laid down on his chest and closed your eyes. He had been stiff as a board. He didn’t want to move in fears you’d leave.

Tom hadn’t slept that night. He had been awake for hours, listening to you breathe, feeling your heartbeat from where his fingers were pressed into his neck.

The steady rhythm of your heart had stirred at the ever growing feelings of intensity that swelled with every year he knew you.

Now, alone in his Prefects room, Tom was allowed the privacy he craved with you. Away from prying eyes; he never liked the thought of anyone watching the two of you. He didn’t want anyone to see the softness he held for you.

It was most likely too late to hide such a thing, but it didn’t make it any easier.

Your body was draped across his, your head resting on Tom’s shoulder, your leg and arm thrown across him in a way that felt secure. You always loved trapping him into the bed.

If anyone saw him like this, it would surely ruin him.

Tom had an image to uphold. Cuddling with the girl he’s been reluctantly obsessed with since their first meeting, when he was supposed to be their future Dark Lord, would perish any thoughts from their minds that he was capable of such horrific acts.

It is why he tried to put on an act whenever anyone else was around. He didn’t want to appear weak. He didn’t want anyone to question him.

But when you two were alone, he was allowed to behave freely without the need to uphold such an image.

Tom’s hand finds your head again, his palm smoothing over the softness of your hair all the way down to where he only had touched a few times. Your waist. It felt like reading a forbidden spell, touching you there.

The curve of your waist was as far as he’d touch. He had never gone lower.

He had always fantasized about it, dreamed about touching the bare skin of your hips, dragging his hands down to your thighs and - and -

The sharp exhale Tom unconsciously lets out has you lifting your head.

His hand on your waist feels like touching raw sunlight.

“Tom?” You ask into the quiet of the room. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” he says, but his voice comes out mangled.

You knew better than to push. Tom never revealed anything until he was ready, but it never stopped you from poking at the edges of his restraint.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

The weight of your body feels like lead. His heart jumps when you use your hand on his chest to push up so you are now resting on your elbow. You stare down at him in a way that is far too personal for him to understand.

It is well past midnight. It is late, and Tom should be tired, as should you, but there is a strange energy crackling in the air of his room.

Your eyes dance from the flames of the fire crackling in the corner of the room.

Tom stares into your unreadable gaze, your bottom lip between your teeth like you have something to say.

There were no secrets between you two. Or, rather, you had no secrets from him. Tom was less open about what you needed to know, but you were undoubtedly the most well informed wizard about Tom’s secrets.

“Maybe I should be going,” you say.

A string pulls in Tom’s chest. The confusion shows across his features as you sit up, and he follows. “Why?” He does his best to keep his tone firm, but it is shaky at the edges.

You have never left before the sunrise in all the years.

“I wish to be fit and ready in the morning for classes,” you tell him, straightening to fix your clothing that had gotten rumpled from laying down.

“You have never wished for this before,” he says accusingly.

He had been longing for this night all summer. Every night spent at the orphanage, he’d picture this night pressed up against you, allowing his heart to split open and drink in all the affection you hadn’t been able to give him while you were apart.

He felt like an addict watching his fix get up and walk away.

“It is my last year, Tom,” you say with a small puff of laughter. “I don’t want to fall asleep in class again, like last year.”

“But -“ Tom cuts himself off. He sounded small. He would never beg. It was an inferior act he would never perform.

You pause from sorting yourself out. The look you give him has him huffing, swinging his legs over the side of his bed with irritation. Your eyes held a streak of pity through them.

He didn’t need your pity. He didn’t need you.

“Leave, then,” Tom says with finality.

You scoot closer to him, a hand coming to rest on his shoulder, but it brings him no comfort.

You wished to leave. So be it.

“I’m sorry, Tom. But like you said, there is a life outside of these walls, remember?”

Tom feels the tightness in his chest slowly dissipate. That is right. Nights like these could happen every night, if allowed.

He feels an odd sense of embarrassment for his reaction. He had behaved like a child having their favorite toy taken away from him.

He spares you a glance as you sit down beside him, an amused grin on your lips because you had seen right through him.

Tom was supposed to be better than this. He wasn’t supposed to be so affected but such a simple request as you leaving his presence.

He has turned into a fool.

“I will see you for breakfast,” you bid him a goodnight and disappear into the night.

Tom has no worries of you getting caught. He has taught you how to maneuver the halls without detection.

What plagues his mind are the ever growing feelings he’s been having for you. He thinks back to the first time you’d met. The kindness you’d shown him. And all the times after that. The thoughtfulness of your actions has always haunted him.

Tom does not like when he cannot understand something. He likes to be the one in control of the situation. He wants to be the one at the reins.

But whenever you are around, it is like he surrenders himself to whatever affections you are willing to spare him. And he takes every touch with a greediness he has only felt for knowledge. For power.

It is an all consuming feeling he cannot fathom.

Tom does not sleep. His eyes are open the remainder of the night. Your absence forms a pit in his stomach that doesn’t go away until you sit down beside him for breakfast.

The tension bleeds from his body when your shoulder knocks into his. You keep yourself there, close enough for your shoulders to touch, the remainder of breakfast.

He barely eats. He doesn’t talk much, as he does when others are around. But he feels a sense of paranoia.

They must know by now. They must know of his afflictions.

Tom does not care for judgement, but he cares for respect. And if they lose respect for him because of you, he cannot allow it.

And yet he does nothing to distance himself from you.

He is at war with himself. He has been for years.

When he takes over the wizarding world, he wants you there by his side. He cannot see it any other way.

All of Tom’s classes go by painfully slow. He pays attention to his fullest capacity, but he is bored. He knows what is being taught already. He has read everything on the materials being covered.

The only class he is fully present for is potions. You are still his seat partner. You still sit too close, if not closer.

The professor had eyed you two at the beginning because of your proximity, but Tom had leveled him with a gaze that dared him to say anything about it.

It is not until halfway through class does Tom feel a hand suddenly take hold of his thigh. He jumps and it sends his other knee slamming up and into the table.

The sudden noise draws every eye in his direction.

Tom Riddle does not blush, but he feels heat travel to his ears at that. He scowls at them and it is enough to force their attention off of him.

He glances at you from the corner of his eye, infuriated. There is a small smug grin pulling at the corner of your lips.

You always loved to mess with him like this. It brought him immense displeasure, you acting so vulgar with other students around.

It had been something you’d caught on quickly to, how surprised he was to receive a sudden touch to any part of his body when he wasn’t expecting it, or looking directly at you. He’d always turn with anger, but it would soon melt away into something subdued and accepting as he relished in the feeling of contact.

He had threatened you, once, when you had touched him in potions during a test. You had done the same thing, placed a hand upon his thigh the entirety of the test. He had gotten the worst grade in all of his years at Hogwarts because of it.

He’d been so angry with you for distracting him that he had pulled his wand on you after class.

But, like always, his fury drained like a plug being pulled from a tub full of water when you’d cupped his face, and apologized.

The hand on his thigh has his leg going agonizingly still. He thinks it had been bouncing when you’d taken a hold of it. Maybe that is why you had done it.

They were not taking a test, simply listening to the professor rattle on about the uses of this potion and that. His mind had wandered. He had been thinking. He must have unknowingly been shaking their table.

“Are you alright?” You whisper to him.

He gives a sharp nod.

You do not let go of his thigh the remainder of class. It is what keeps him awake enough to get through it without falling asleep. His adrenaline had been pumping a steady stream of pinpricks through his leg where you’d been holding on.

Tom does not speak to you the rest of the day, only seeing you here and there in the hallways on the way to the rest of your classes.

You’d always give him a bright smile and a wave.

He would simply nod and carry on.

It is only the second day and yet he has been battling himself from the moment he’d laid eyes upon you.

It feels different. He is different. They have plans to be together after Hogwarts.

What would that mean? What could it lead to?

Tom never thought of himself as codependent. He never pictured he would ever need anyone but himself. He scoffed at those in relationships and always thought of himself superior for not wasting time on someone else.

But a line has been crossed somewhere along the years of knowing you. A certain bond had been set in stone, formed in those hours upon hours of being in each others presence, in the touching, in the talks of a future where they were still together.

Tom felt weak. This wasn’t Dark Lord behavior. This was the feeling a common man felt towards one he held dear to him.

It was driving him mad to compare himself to something so beneath him.

Tom needed to escape. He needed to end this.

But how could he?

You are his most prized possession. He had rare artifacts, books, and knowledge that no one else had.

You overshadowed such things.

If it meant choosing between losing the way of becoming Dark Lord, or losing you, he knows what he would pick.

And he cannot allow it.

He has worked too hard to gain everything he needed in order to succeed. He has poured his blood, sweat, and tears into his craft to one day use it to take control.

Tom’s mind has been spinning with endless plans on how to fix this.

But he is never satisfied with what he comes up with.

He is being eaten alive.

He is drowning.

He cannot breathe because of you, and your touch when you are apart; yet it is the only thing that makes such feelings go away when you are together.

“Tom?” Your voice brings him back to where he is perched on his bed, you across from him.

He looks to you without hesitation. “What is it?” He asks when you do not elaborate.

“Something is wrong. I can see it.”

He drops his contemplative gaze down to where your feet are pressed into his leg. It’s startling because he hadn’t even felt when it had happened.

His senses are dull. He is losing focus.

Tom needs to do better.

“Nothing is wrong,” he tells you.

This only prompts you to believe something is very wrong, Tom knows.

He is aware you can tell when he lies. He isn’t sure what exactly gives it away; he had mastered the art of lying. Deception. But you are never fooled, even for a second. It burns him to know you can recognize such things.

It gives you a power over him that no one should have.

You puff out a breath in indignation.

Tom tenses as you begin crawling towards him, pressing deeper into the wall as you tread dangerously close. His throat tightens when you follow through with a movement you have never done before.

You straddle him, legs on either side of his lips, and lower yourself down onto his lap.

A spark of something unnameable gathers in his belly. It is the same feeling you have brought forth in him, but it is slightly different. It has more of an edge. It bites into him with a newfound strength.

Tom does not know what to do with himself.

You are in his lap. Fully in his lap. You have rested your head there numerous times, placed your feet as well.

But never this.

Never this… intimate.

His heart is beating roughly into his ribcage as you stare down at him. You have all the power. He is helpless, at your mercy as you bring your hand to rest upon his cheek.

“What are you…” Tom’s voice comes out breathless.

“Do you trust me?” You ask him calmly.

He doesn’t want to admit he does. He doesn’t want to hand over the last shred of dignity he has.

You lean in closer, your breath fanning over his nose, his lips. He leans in without meaning to. He wants you closer. Always closer.

“I said,” you whisper against his skin. “Do you trust me?”

Tom breaks. “Yes,” he rasps.

He doesn’t know what to expect. He knows what he wants, but he rarely gets what he wants with you.

It is like his deepest, most hidden wish has come true as you close the distance and kiss him.

Tom is set alight with a new found fire, chest rising with a shocked breath, the spark in his belly igniting into a raging inferno.

He gasps into your mouth as you kiss him softly, gently, like the first time you had touched him at the train station.

He feels himself shaking beneath you, his hands coming to rest on your hips. And he cannot stop himself from slipping them beneath your shirt. Finally. Finally feeling the smooth skin of your waist under his hand.

The hunger of a god spills into his chest, dripping down like molten lava into his heart and consuming him.

It is the dam that has been threatening to break. It is the wall he has been building between you and himself in his mind.

You softly bite down onto his lip and the last shred of control for himself snaps.

Tom doesn’t break the kiss as he pushes himself up with one hand, and flips your positions in one seamless motion. You make a noise of surprise but it reaches deaf ears; Tom is possessed. He pushes you down into the plush of his mattress, your legs parting to allow him to rest between them.

His hand goes back to where your shirt is pushed up, and splays his fingers across your skin. He needs more. He would kill for it. He would die for it.

You move before he can even think, the gentle press of your palm touching the hard length of his cock straining against his trousers. The singular motion has his hips bucking, the fluidity of the kiss stuttering as he nearly comes from that alone.

This is what he has been wanting after all. For years. Without even knowing what it meant. What he really wanted.

Tom is a flash of movement. A tear sounds through the air as he removes his clothing, but it is the last thing on his mind. He pauses above you, his shirt gone, to stare down at you through heavy lids. He has never seen a sight more divine than you below him, your shirt already unbuttoned, panting with exhilaration.

“Tom…” you whine out.

He had always liked to stare. Take you in.

But he abandons the notion to work at your skirt. His fingers are trembling as he exposes you to the air, pulling your skirt and underwear down in a swift gesture.

Tom shudders in a breath as he meets your eyes, and cannot stop himself from leaning back down to kiss you. He makes a pained noise as he touches at the wetness already gathered between your legs.

He wants you like nothing before. Like you have been his one and only desire.

He is lost in the kiss, in rubbing circles into the bud of nerves that has you trembling with every prodded nudge he makes. He nearly forgets about his own need until you remind him with a finger ghosting along his exposed member.

He growls deeply into his throat, coming back to himself, feeling how he is throbbing from a pain he has never experienced.

Tom takes himself into his hand, slick gathered from your soaked cunt, and positions himself before you. He shakes with the fury of a monster begging to be released from its shackles.

There is no hesitation; Tom sinks into you, but slowly, as every inch he goes in deeper and deeper is another noise that rips from your throat.

The kiss is broken when Tom unintentionally bites down onto your lip from the overwhelming sensation of it all, drawing a gasp from your mouth. Neither of you seem to care, for a moment later, your lips meet again. The taste of blood floods your tongues but Tom is too caught up to care.

He fully sheaths himself in you, every nerve tingling with magic, every thought he has is of you, the feeling of himself inside of you, your mouth on his, everything.

Tom pulls back for an agonizing moment before he pushes back in, faster than the first time, unable to take it as slow as he had.

He was trying to be gentle, for you, which was unheard of. He was never gentle for anyone. The word didn’t exist to him.

But those thoughts go out the window when you moan a strung out note, his name somewhere within the mixture.

The crackling of magic rolls out across the room as Tom’s pace quickens.

Your head is thrown back with a sultry moan, exposing your neck to hungry eyes. He takes the opportunity to kiss you there, too, and you clench around him at the gesture. He kisses and sucks along you neck in desperation. It draws noises from you that has Tom’s pulse racing, breaths coming in quick spurts between each kiss, each thrust, until he is not sure he is breathing at all.

Tom has never felt such a rush before. He has never been a lustful person - but this -

He does not know how he will ever live without it again.

Without you.

It would be meaningless to be with anyone else. You have ruined him for another; he was yours, as you were his.

Tom bites a possessive mark in your neck, and you cry out, back arching off the mattress.

It is enough to send Tom to the brink of insanity as he spills inside of you, head spinning, every muscle taught as you follow only a second later. He shakes through every second of the orgasm, eyes clenched shut at the feeling of release - true release.

Tom’s arms strain to hold himself up any longer, and he shakily pushes himself back onto his knees, slipping out of you and drawing a small whimper from your chest.

He watches as his seed slips from between your folds in a steady stream of white, as a hunter watching his prey. The sight has him quick to avert his eyes, for once, as he would indulge himself for another round.

But Tom is quiet, breathes heavy, as he waits for you to move.

He doesn’t know what you will say. What you will do next. He is almost nervous to break the silence first.

Your head lifts from the bed to meet his eyes, and you extend a hand towards him. Tom sighs in relief that you still wanted to touch him. That you still welcomed him after he had given himself to you so completely, and you had accepted him.

His heart is heavy as he gathers you in his arms, so familiar, yet so new, skin to skin as he holds you close to him. You’re both a bit wobbly, bones rattling in your bodies.

“Was that… was that okay?” You ask quietly, nervous as well.

Neither of you wanted to ruin the bond you shared, it was clear.

“It was perfection,” Tom murmurs truthfully. Maybe the only time he’s really ever verbally praised you.

You nod against his chest, huffing a small laugh as you say, “I have been wanting to kiss you for years.”

Tom’s ability to be surprised at your words or actions never fails, despite everything. He does not know what to say. He merely runs a hand through your hair, staring up at the ceiling.

He wonders what this will bring to you both. He wonders where you will go from here. How it will change things.

“We are not getting separate bedrooms in our apartment,” you mumble into his skin.

“Of course not,” Tom agrees.

He doesn’t let you see it, but a rare smile touches his lips. Maybe it was fate, like you had said the second time you’d run into him. It surely felt like it.

The bond felt magical. It felt deeper than before.

He had found his match in the most unlikely person he’s come across at his time in Hogwarts, as you were not ruthless like he was. You could be cunning, but only at times.

You were his exact opposite in many ways. But maybe that is what made you two fit so perfectly. He was ice to your fire.

He had just hoped he’d never have to extinguish that very flame one day.

He has always worried you’d make him look weak to others, that your presence would make his followers doubt him. No one has ever said anything. No one would dare.

But it is a feeling Tom cannot shake whenever you two are together, especially after that night. He is paranoid they knew. He can almost feel their eyes staring into him with disapproval. He does not know if it was in his head or not, but the sensation was there. Knowing people were watching him with you. His fellow Slytherin brothers and sisters judging him that even the great Tom Riddle has fallen prey to love. He felt weak. 

Nothing but your touch soothed him, the very thing he was fearful of others judging him for.

It all comes to a head in his last month at Hogwarts. 

Tom had become more lax with his show of restraint of physical affection for you around others, despite all of his worries. He couldn’t help it. It was apart of him, so used to being able to touch you in private that it bled into his public life. He hated how soft he had become. He always withdrew his hand from ruffling your hair, petting your cheek with his thumb, or merely having his hand near yours. He would remembered himself, coming back to where he was, surrounded by students.

He had been caught by his peers, after pulling you into a secluded hallway to steal a kiss before dinner. 

A choked laugh had ripped Tom from your lips to find another student there, eyes wide, shocked to find the elusive Slytherin’s head boy kissing you. 

It was the first time anyone had caught the two of you in such an intimate moment, and to make it worse, Tom knew of her. She was a horrible gossip. The girl had ran off before Tom could even think to obliviate her.

That was the final nail in the coffin. It was his last straw. 

At dinner that night, word had spread. Everyone knew you two were close, but not that close. 

Tom had burned with embarrassment when whispers of your name and his trickled throughout the dinning hall. His reputation had gone out of the window over one small kiss. He did not miss the way Lestrange burned a hole into the side of his head.

It might’ve blown over. Gossip usually died down within a week, but Tom could not allow something like that to happen again. And he knew himself; it would, if he kept going down this path. If he kept you close.

Ending things with you had been on his mind since then, but whenever he’d even attempt it, your gentle hands had him forgetting why he even wanted you gone in the first place. He caved. Every single time. He couldn’t even get a word out, even speak about his thoughts, before you’d lovingly pull in him for a kiss, a hug, into bed. He needed each touch desperately. 

If only he had obliviated that girls memory of seeing you two together. 

But that thought has him forming another one of his own, in the middle of the night - obliviating himself. Riding himself of his memories of you. Then he wouldn’t have to formally break up with you, and he wouldn’t have to live with the memories of you haunting him for the rest of his days. 

He knows he would never willingly give you up if he still remembered you. No matter how hard he tried, and he has tried with all of his might, to be free of you.

Only, he stalls on that as well. 

Every night when he holds his wand up to his temple, he would fight against the tears that would unwillingly prick at his eyes. He would breath heavily through his nose, his wand shaking violently from the tremor that would not leave his hands. 

He had a choice to make; take over the wizarding world, or live a simple life with you. He could not do both. He had tried, but every meeting pulled him from your side, every late night quest was another night away from you. His work became tiresome. He stopped wanting to fight for his ideals and instead be with you.

Tom has worked too hard to give up everything for something as human as love. He would not allow himself to be weak.

So, he makes a plan. A solid plan. One he would follow through with.

He’d give you one last day. One more day of allowing himself to revel in your touch, and give you all his affections back. 

He chooses a Sunday, exactly a month before Hogwarts was to end, for your last day together. 

Waking that day and getting dressed was like preparing for his death. He knew a large part of himself was to die once you separated. You were the only reason he had any faith in humanity, and he was about to lose that. He does not know who he will become without your moral compass guiding him, steering him away from a life of destruction and power. 

Tom is almost excited for the wizard he will be. How merciless and driven he will be. 

It is what he tells himself as he makes his way to your meeting spot, previously agreed the following day. Tom tells himself it is for the better. He will be better, the world will be better, once you are gone from his mind. He will no longer be held back by his own feelings. 

Tom is trembling as he comes up to you, but he forces himself to stop before you can notice him. 

The book you’re reading is from Tom himself. He remembers he’d given it to you a while ago, and it seemed to be one of your favorites as he’d find you rereading it every few months. 

You’re so immersed that you do not notice Tom standing there. He takes the moment to observe you. He watches as the wind softly blows your hair, taking in the way your eyes hungrily drink in the words on the page. His hands clench within his jacket pockets. 

His resolve crumbles, just a little, when you finally look up and smile at him. 

Maybe… he didn’t need to go through with it. 

He could live a life with you, where his sole focus was to make you happy. Where the smile you gave him would never fade.

“Tom!” You say happily, closing the book and slinking up to his side. Your hands push your way into his leather jacket, wrapping around his body and pulling him in for a hug. You’d only seen him just the day before, but you greeted him every time with such enthusiasm that it makes Tom’s heart jump with every meeting.

Today, his stomach is to the floor as you bring him in. It would be the last time he’d experience this. This type of greeting.

Tom returns the embrace with both arms, hugging you tightly against his chest. 

“You must be happy to see me,” you say, moving to pull away, but Tom tightens his grip. He just needed another second. He sighs shakily into your hair, and after a drawn out moment, he allows you to depart. His eyes do not meet yours when you glance up at him. “Tom? Is everything… ok?”

Clearing his throat, Tom says gives a quiet, “yes,” that is swallowed by the wind. 

Tom takes another breath, your hand already in his, and steels himself. He would give you your final day without him getting emotional. He wouldn’t ruin this last memory you’d have of him. 

“Come along, now,” Tom tells you, pulling you behind him. It was early in the morning on a weekend, not many students were up at this time when they didn’t have to be, so he doesn’t drop your hand. He knows you’re suspicious of this as you trail behind him, but he does not pay you any mind. 

He had a schedule to stick to. He had one of his famous plans brewing. 

The first thing he has mapped out is a picnic. You’d always loved them, but you loved any quiet moment you had with Tom. He knew this because he also enjoyed them. Being alone with you, truly alone, was when he was the most at peace. He could think freely, speak freely, without fear of judgement. He didn’t need to put on the false persona he’s worn around others his whole life. With you, his mask was off.

Before you had even woken up, Tom had prepared everything. He’d set out a blanket by the lake, and had even gone out of his way to make you your favorite breakfast in the kitchens before anyone noticed he was there. 

You’re shocked when he pulls out the concealed plates of food within the picnic basket. He had even spelled the basket to be in the shape of a heart, which you comment on with a flustered smile, maybe one of the happiest moments Tom has seen you. 

You’re grinning from ear to ear, cheeks pink, as you happily munch of the food he’d prepared. 

Although Tom is pleased to see you’re happy with the setup, he cannot bring himself to enjoy it. Impending doom lingers at the back of his mind with every touch, every kiss, every little question you ask him that he has to take a moment to answer, because his mind is elsewhere. He’s disassociating at nearly every word. He has to force himself to be present, actively listen to what you’re talking about. 

All he can think about is that this is the last time he’ll see you happy. He won’t even remember that, and it makes him… sad. He wanted to remember everything about you. He didn’t truly want to obliviate you, but really, he didn’t see any other way. And he was young, and ambitious, and he wanted to succeed. 

“Look what I brought,” you say, drawing his eyes from staring out at the lake in deep thought. 

He turns to find you with a camera in your hands. He rolls his eyes. He’s always hated having his picture taken, and you knew that. But maybe today, he’d allow it, just this once. 

“Alright,” Tom agrees sullenly. 

“Really?” you ask with a gasp. 

Before Tom can change his mind, you jump up, and pull him to his feet. He scowls as you dart back to get a good view of him, but his expression doesn’t last long. He watches you fondly, inspecting how you try and find the best angle to take the picture from, and finds himself allowing a rare, genuine smile to pull gently at his lips. 

A flash goes off within a second, and Tom startles. He had been caught.

“That was perfect!” you cry out in success, jumping up and down as you wave around the camera. “Merlins beard, you actually smiled. And I got it on camera!”

He huffs out in embarrassment. “Yeah, yeah. Shut up,” he mutters, but he’s amused as you continue raving on and on about getting the picture developed, and having it framed. “Why don’t you… get a picture of us, together?”

You look up at him in surprise. “Another picture? Is today my lucky day?”

Tom’s brows twitch into a brief frown, with an agonizing stinging aching deep within his chest. Yes, it was. 

He merely waves you off and grabs the camera from your hands. 

“Wingardium leviosa,” Tom says with perfect precision. The camera raises into the air, waiting, as you two position yourself in front of it. “Tell me when to take it.”

Preparing for the picture, Tom resumes his usual stony expression. This time he wouldn’t allow any emotion to show on his face. He had just wanted a final picture of you two together, something you could look back on one day. 

“Now,” you say. 

Tom falters from taking the picture when you unexpectedly pull him in for a kiss, dragging him down with both arms draping over his shoulders. The shutter clicks just as your lips meet, and Tom is caught on camera for the second time that day, smiling. 

The camera falls softly onto one of the pillows he’d stuffed into the picnic basket as he doesn’t allow the kiss to be a simple brushing of the lips, and divulges into your mouth in desperation. His fingers hook into the loops of your jeans to bring your hips into his, overtaken with an emotion that burns so fiercely in his chest that it hurts. His eyes screw shut tightly as he fights himself with every kiss, every peck. 

He needed to erase you. 

He needed you. 

Tom didn’t know what to do. He thought this last day would give him some closure, but the kiss has drawn him right back in.

So Tom ends the kiss quickly, forcefully, and you’re left confused as you blink up at him. 

“We… we should be going,” Tom says stiffly. 

“What do you -”

“Hogsmede is opening soon,” he explains, using his wand to pack everything up in a second and picks up the basket. 

“Hogsemede? But you hate Hogsemede.”

“But, you don’t.”

You’re quiet as you follow him back up to the school, where he drops your hand at the first sight of other students roaming the halls. He can hear how you suck in a breath when he does so, but he can’t bring himself to look at you. You’re silent the rest of the way to his dorms, where he drops off the basket, and pulls you into his room for another quick kiss. 

Only, it is not quick. 

Your hands are everywhere on him, pulling, dragging his clothes away from his body to expose his skin where you immediately grab hold of. Tom is more than happy to do the same. His hands explore underneath your skirt, to the lace of your underwear. He plays at the edges as he ruts into the hand you’ve pressed into his trousers. 

He hadn’t meant for anything to happen, not so soon, but he is hopeless to his desires. 

Tom fucks you against the wall, a hand to your mouth to silence your cries at the ruthlessness of his thrusts, his hands squeezing at your breasts beneath your shirt. It is pure savagery; he doesn’t think he’s ever been so forceful. Not that you had fought him on it. You’d wanted him just as badly, but he’s always taken his time with you. He’d savor the feeling, revel in it. 

But he was on the brink of madness, the plan to obliviate you driving him into a state of derangement. 

He needed to feel you now. He needed to fuck you or he might lose himself, truly. 

The release Tom feels when he finishes is not like the other times - he feels as though he’s just spent a part of himself, left cold, chest a little hollow, as he takes a step away from you and hurriedly pulls up his pants. He watches as you pull down your skirt, breathing just as heavy as he was. 

When you turn, grinning, Tom is utterly relieved that you weren’t upset at how he had treated you. He had been almost nervous for your reaction. 

“That was… something,” you say teasingly. “What has got you so pent up?”

You, and only you. The only thing in this world that could get such a reaction out of him. He cared for nothing else enough for it to even influence his mood in the slightest.

In that moment, he nearly breaks and tells you everything. 

You had meant it as a joke, but he was losing grip on the objective at hand. 

Maybe he shouldn’t of done this. Maybe he should have just oblivated you last night. It was too late now, and Tom didn’t want to ruin the last few hours you had with him, so he merely waves it off. 

He smooths over your hair that he had messed up, straightens your clothes, and takes you to Hogsemede like he had planned. 

The rest of the day is a blur. His heart was not really in it. He hardly remembers anything from the trip, by the time you’re back at the castle. It was getting late. Curfew was approaching. The time to obliviate you, as well, if he could even really go through with it. He’s been doubting himself all day. He’d been so sure of himself last night, but being with you crumbles any resolve he’s built up when he was alone.

Tom is dropping you off at your dorms before he can really catch up to himself. The final moment with you was here. He felt on the verge of dropping to his knees, and begging you to forgive him for what he was about to do. He had put on an act all day, and it seems that you have bought it, because you do not ask him what is wrong again. 

You’re smiling, happy, like how he had wanted to leave you. 

“Wait here,” you tell him, before popping into your room for a moment. A few minutes go by, and Tom is a mess during all of them. He paces in front of your door, trying to reason with himself, a hand to his temple. You emerge before Tom can think on what to do next with the book you had been reading earlier. “Here, I’ve read it enough times.”

“Keep it,” he tells you.

You shake your head, and push it into his hands. “It’s yours.”

Tom accepts it, not knowing was concealed inside, because he had something else to give you. He shucks off his jacket, and drapes it over your shoulders. It was one of his only earthly possessions. He’d found it years ago with you in Hogsmede, before he’d really grown into it, and felt a claim over it almost immediately. It had been like a Horcrux of his before he’d even wanted to make one. 

And now it was yours. 

“Have this, then,” Tom says, but his voice sounded distant to his own ears. 

“Your jacket?” you bring your hand swallowed in the materials up to touch at the collar of the jacket. “But, you love this jacket.”

“Then you should understand the meaning behind why I am giving it to you.”

Your eyes search his. 

Tom has never said out loud how he really felt for you, but you knew. You had to have known. He was more of an actions speak louder than words, type of guy. He showed his love for you by walking you to class everyday, helping you study, teaching you secret spells, giving away parts of himself to you that no one else knew about or had.

And by giving you his jacket, one of his most prized possessions, was the closest thing Tom could ever get to telling someone he loved them.

“Are you… are you alright?” you question softly. Your hand reaches for him, but Tom flinches back in fears that if you touched him one more time, he would not follow through with what he had to do. You frown at that. “Tom?”

“Yes, I am fine. I should be going.”

Tom move to leave, but he sees the hurt flash across your face like a blade cutting into his flesh. He breaths out through his nose, before he turns and presses a final kiss to your lips. 

It is a goodbye. It is a promise that he will never see you again. 

“I love you,” you tell him, and the air is sucked from his lungs. 

He loved you too. He did. But you were in his way. You were holding him back. Now, he was to be free of you. 

Tom can’t stop himself from bringing his thumb up to trail along your cheekbone, mind dipping into the dangerous waters of accepting the nonverbal invitation to join you in your room. Curfew was approaching, but when has that ever stopped him. And he fears that anymore time spent with you will cave the already unstable structure of obliviating you. 

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, before he presses a final kiss to your brows, and finally allows himself to disappear into the hallway. 

He’s shaking again, hands trembling as he hugs himself, rubbing them up and down his arms to try and calm himself down. He has never needed to selfsooth before. He’s always had you there when a bout of anxiety flared up in his chest.

He had to do it now, or he would turn back around, and run to your side.

Tom takes his wand out once he’s sure no one is there, and ducks into a small passageway. There, he holds the wand to his temple like a gun, with his finger shaking over the trigger. It might as well have been. He was ending a life. The life he could’ve had with you outside of Hogwarts, sharing an apartment, living together. It was all about to cease from existence. 

Tom remembers the slow, maddening decent into falling in love with you. He’d also fought himself on it - he didn’t want to accept that he’d fallen prey to one of men’s many weaknesses. 

He remembers the first time he’d stopped pretending like he didn’t want you, and the freeness in his chest at accepting your touch. He remembers the late nights. He remembers the shared looks no one else could decipher. He remembers how shocked you had been when Tom had touched you, for the first time. 

He remembers it all. 

Tears falls from Tom’s eyes as he screws them shut tightly, and whispers “obliviate,” into the quiet of the hallway.

⋆˚꩜｡

What follows the morning after waking holds a softness to it that Tom has never really known. He’d gotten up before you to make breakfast, but he hadn’t slept, not really, though he hadn’t felt tired in the slightest as he went about the kitchen. 

He’d tired his best to be quiet. He had apparated to the store for a quick moment to pick everything up. He never had food in his fridge, but he had a strange feeling that was about to change. 

Tom silently made pancakes, eggs, and just about everything he could think of. He was so incredibly nervous for you to wake so he is sure to have made every type of breakfast food available to him. 

As Tom is putting the finishing touches on the mountain of pancakes, two arms snake around his middle. He tenses for a moment, before your hands smooth over his stomach, your face pressing into his back, and he relaxes. His heart picks up a steady pace as you peer around him to gaze at what he was doing. 

“Oh my god, Tom,” you say with a small laugh. Your eyes find the trays of eggs, bacon, waffles, and pancakes. And they were all overflowing with food. “I appreciate you doing this, but who are you trying to feed? An army?”

When Tom takes in everything he’s made, he grimaces. “I got carried away,” he tells you, almost sheepish. “I don’t know what you like, so I made… everything.”

It is another painful reminder that Tom doesn’t really know anything about you anymore, he only knows what he’s observed over the course of a few weeks of watching you. But that only meant he had a lot to learn; and Tom was a master at studying. You were surely to be his favorite subject.

“That is sweet. Thank you,” you murmur, before pressing a kiss to the side of Tom’s cheek. The gesture has his wand nearly slipping from his grasp as his eyes flutter shut. He would never get used to the smallest of affections you bestow upon him.

You and Tom eat as much as you can of the kings feast he has prepared, but ultimately Tom has to dump most of it in the trash. 

The both of you had work, but it is unanimously decided that you both would be calling out. 

Tom had a lot of catching up to do, and he wanted a head start. He wanted dates, a more in depth story of how you two had even met, how he had acted before he’d oblivated himself. He wanted it all. He was already well read when it came to your habits, but he picks up on new ones as he watches how you eat, how you meet his eyes now that all had come to light. 

Like in the bookstore, Tom is not sure how much time passes as you do your best to fill him in on all of the years you had known him. Time goes by within a blink of an eye when he is actually enjoying himself. 

He is extremely amused at the story of your first meeting - how you’d crashed into him, and had done so the following year. It did seem like something you would do. 

You weren’t inherently clumsy, but you weren’t as careful with yourself as Tom would’ve liked. He wishes you were a little more aware of your surroundings. How he’d managed to talk to you in the cafe proved his point.

“I’ve never heard that one before,” you say, rolling your eyes, before you go into a story from Hogwarts about how you’d nearly fallen off a cliff while you two had been out hunting for a secret magical item that would serve him when taking over the wizarding world. You go quiet then, hands pausing from where they’d been playing with Tom’s fingers resting on your leg. “Are you… do you still plan of following through with everything you’ve told me about?”

Tom had made that decision last night, and he intended to stick to it. He hadn’t known he’d have to tell you so soon. He wasn’t even sure how you’d felt about his master plans, he’d hadn’t even had time to ask, but he assumed you were supportive. 

But that reminds him; he had a meeting later in the week. It is when he would tell his followers he would not continue on as Lord Voldemort, and stay as Tom Riddle. He would not give away too much, as he expected the push back would be immense. He had promised them things. He had told them of a world that would no longer exist, at least by Tom’s hand. Just as every dark wizard fell, a new one rose. 

“Tom?”

He comes back to himself when you grip tightly to his hand, and the touch calms the slowly rising feeling of dread at what would unfold that night. 

“No,” he says. “I have no need to continue down that path any longer.”

Like you were relieved, you smile and squeeze his hand twice, before continuing on with more stories. In all of them, Tom comes to realize just how much he’d needed the feel of your hands on his, a fondness that he carries around to this day. Even before he’d come to know the true nature of your relationship, it had been something he’d craved from you since you’d barreled into him that night of your reunion. 

You even mention the small, petty fights you two would have, and you’d off handedly mention that Tom got over them all too quickly if only you’d touch him soon after the argument. You say it like you do not realize how much he needed the feel of your hands anywhere on his body. 

“You are like a cat,” you say, amused, freeing a hand from his to trail up his arm and thread your fingers through the hair on the back of his head, pulling softly, and he shudders into your palm involuntary. He then scowls at you, but does not move. “See? You act as though you hate it, but really -” your other hand is used to slowly make a path down Tom’s leg, where it stops at his hard-on already straining against his pants, “you love it.”

Tom clenches his teeth when you trace a frisky finger against his hardened length. 

You were saying it like you were trying to prove him wrong, but Tom had no objections to your words. He already knew what your touch did it him. He knew he didn’t want to seem like he needed it, but he came undone with any little brush against him. He wanted more. He needed it more than anything he’s ever come across in all his years of hunting cursed objects, in his hunt for power. 

It is why he had given up the title of Dark Lord so quickly. He didn’t need it anymore, like he had before you’d entered his life again. Being the Dark Lord had been what he’d been living for. 

But now, as you rise to your knees, pushing Tom further into the couch so you can straddle him, he sees his new purpose in life smiling down at him mischievously. He slots his hand against your waist like it belonged there. Like you were made for him, and only him. 

Your lips meet in a gentle kiss, so different from yesterdays desperate touching of limbs. It is slow, and loving, as you grind against him. Tom’s fingers dig into your skin to stop them from shaking, but he knows it is no use. He quivers like a leaf at the mercy of your wind, hoping he does not snap from his branch of sanity and plunge deep into the murky waters of darkness. He burns the memory into his mind, selfishly, so that no oblivation spell robs him of it. 

Tom gasps into the kiss when you circle your hips into his lap, fighting the urge to take control of the situation. He had no say in what was happening. It was you who was steering the ship, as you bit into his mouth, your hands rendering him into a puddle of affection as one continues playing with his hair, as the other began unbuckling his belt. 

He chokes out a moan when you take hold of him, freeing him from his pants and boxers, and stroke from the base of his cock up to play at his sensitive head. Without breaking the kiss, movements practiced, like you and Tom have done this before, you bring him to your the dripping entrance of your cunt. Tom’s back arches off the couch at merely touching you there, breathing harder ever second that you teased him, dragging the head of his cock between your wet folds. 

Tom was above begging - or, he thought he was, because a second later he gasps out a broken, “please, Y/n,” that has you smiling against his mouth. 

“I always loved it when you groveled,” you murmur, showing a rare streak of cruelty, but it only made Tom want you more. 

You do as he wishes, raising yourself up slightly to place yourself above his eagerly awaiting member, and sink down steadily. He does not have even a moment to adjust to the feeling of you swallowing him whole before you begin the same grinding of your hips against his, only this time Tom is already nearly on the edge of release. He has to break the kiss to concentrate on not coming immediately, too quickly, embarrassing himself. You do not make it any easier for him as you pick up your pace. 

“Y/n -” he croaks out, shuddering out another breath. 

“Come for me, baby,” you whisper into his ear, and Tom’s stomach lurches at that name. He had been close to the edge for the longest time, but being called baby has him tumbling right into oblivion. It’s almost painful how quickly he comes, a broken whimper falling from his lips as he arches off the couch for the second time. 

Tom is trembling when you climb off of him. He slowly sits up with heavy arms, a little bewildered at what had unfolded. No one has ever called him a pet name before, at least, he’s never liked it before. Maybe he’d liked it a little too much. He stares at you, almost wanting to hear it again. It does not come, but the chaste kiss you give him before going to clean yourself up is still enough to satisfy him. 

The next few days before the meeting are truly, without a doubt, the happiest times of Tom’s entire existence. He had been a shell of a person before you’d come back into his life. 

You moved in the day after he’d brought you home, your real home. 

Your apartment was lovely, but Tom’s held more space for two people. He allowed you to change anything you wanted, without argument, so that is how he finds himself with all of your pink appliances in his kitchen, your drapes and lace hanging from the walls and off his couches. You bring picture frames and dried flowers, and vases of new flowers and even more pictures to splash up along nearly ever surface of the walls. 

His favorite pictures are the ones of you two, together. Most of them he’s never seen before. Some of them were just of him, or of you, and he finds himself smiling to himself when he passes by them.

His apartment looks completely different on the third day, and it has him pausing to look around the room whenever he’d come home, or simply enter another part of the apartment. It’s a little like whiplash, but in a loving, positive way. He wasn’t used to there being color in the space that he lived. His world was a color wheel of monotone hues. 

Everything had been perfect; too good, too happy. He should’ve known the impending doom quickly approaching.

The meeting with his followers was to be held at a pub, to discuss further plans and such. He does not have a speech prepared for them, like he always did. He would merely tell them that his duties lied elsewhere. He had no interest in taking over the world.

Tom hadn’t expected it to go well, but the silence of the room is deafening. His stomach is curling uncomfortably in his gut as they all stare at him like he’d grown a second head.

“Why?” one of them asks. He cannot for the life of him remember their name.

“As I have said -”

“We know what you said,” says Lestrange boldly, one of his earliest, most devoted Knights of Walpurgis. “But we’d like the truth.”

“You forget yourself and who you’re speaking to,” Tom snaps. “Just because I am to no longer take over the Wizarding World, does not give you the right to speak to me as if we are equal.”

Lestrange doesn’t back down. In fact, he stands, meeting Tom at eye level. “It’s because of her, isn’t it,” he accuses. He does not need to give your name for Tom to know who he is speaking of. Lestrange knew of your relationship back in Hogwarts. He’d seen it unfold, how it made Tom weak. “You’ve gotten your memories back, then?”

Tom is taken aback. Had he been so obvious? Was it the subtle glowing of his usually pale complexion, that arose suspicion that the one thing that has ever made him happy was back? He didn’t like how transparent he was being. 

It shouldn’t be surprising that Lestrange, of all people, knew of you, and what he had done to himself. But it has Tom feeling a sense of protectiveness for him even mentioning you. 

And for him to be asking about it so openly, in front of everyone, has Tom fighting for restraint.

“That is none of your concern,” Tom dismisses. “That is all.”

“Wait!” roars a voice just as he goes to disapparate. Toms head whirls towards Lestrange, still angry, now with his wand out. “We didn’t fight all this time just for you to give up because of… love.”

The thing about the wizards Tom let into his inner circle - they were good with magic. Usually, Tom would not be fearful of his fate when faced with another’s wand, but he is rooted to the floor as he watches Lestrange’s movements carefully. 

“Obliviate her,” he says. “Or I will do it myself this time.”

A laugh rips from Tom’s throat at the absurdity of his words. “You dare threaten me? Threaten her? Do you not remember it was I who has shaped you into what you are today? You would be nothing without me.”

“That may be true,” he agrees. “But I am doing this for your own good. You will thank me some day. Obliviate!”

Tom reaches for his wand and blocks the spell with ease. He stares at Lestrange incredulously, never thinking that he would be attacked at his own meeting. 

Before Lestrange can throw another spell at him, Tom curses him where he stands. Green lights up the room, and the body of his first follower hits the ground in a heap. 

The room is deathly silent. Not even the sound of breathing reaches Tom’s ears. 

He looks out into the now darkened room, as the candles had blown out when he’d killed Lestrange. He cannot make out anyone’s faces, but he knew who was here. Some have been around just as long as Lestrange, or joined soon after. It was only a meeting for those higher up in command, so they could spread the word throughout his network of dark wizards without having to do it himself.

“Let this be a warning to you all,” Tom says through gritted teeth. “I will not hesitate to kill anyone who defies me.”

Tom disapparates without waiting for a response from anyone. 

When he makes it back to the apartment, he doesn’t realize he had been holding his breath nearly the whole time, until he sighs out a heavy exhale once he takes in the state of the apartment. His eyes scan the pictures you’ve put up, your shoes by the door, your blanket slung over the couch. 

There are pieces of yourself in every corner he looks. Every nook and cranny. 

It is home. 

“Tom!” 

Taken by surprise, Tom stumbles back a step when you apparate to his side and throw your arms around him. He is in fight or flight mode, but you posed no real threat, so he calms. He knows you had been worried for what he had to do tonight, and with good reason. He does not plan on telling you what had happened. 

When you ask him how it went, he tells you that it was fine, nothing truly happened. They had accepted it. He can tell you do not believe him. Maybe it had been the way his voice had a small tremor in it, or how he hasn’t let go of your hand since you’d reached him, that gives him away. 

He had been shaken up at nearly losing his memories of you again. The threat had been real. 

Tom just hopes he’s scared off anyone else at trying what Lestrange had attempted. Only time will tell. He didn’t like leaving things up to chance, though. He regrets not cursing everyone in the room, only because they now knew of you, of his weakness and why he was giving everything up. He had wanted to leave so badly, that he hadn’t thought of that, until he sees you now. There was no telling who else knew of you. It would be nearly impossible to track all of them down.

There were those from Hogwarts who would bound to remember the gossip of you and Tom kissing in the hallway. They were smart. They’d figure it out.

The anxiety stays curled up in Tom’s stomach the remained of the evening, until you’re both in bed, where your hand has been tracing lines up and down Tom’s arm absently. 

You’re emerged in a book, and so had he been, but he had lost his train of thought the moment you’d begun touching him. It was a simple passing of your fingers along his arm, but it was enough to bring goosebumps to his skin, and for his eyes to close to revel it. 

You must’ve not known how much he was enjoying it, as you stop not soon after. Tom goes a little cold when you return your hand to your lap. He stares at you, but does not want to ask if you could continue. He’s already shown enough weakness to last a lifetime. 

Your eyes lift from the book, and like you’d known what he wanted, you resume your actions. 

Tom sinks further into the bed and puts his book down on his chest happily.

“You know… I could give you a massage, if you’d like?”

The idea has Tom’s eyes snapping open, having not realized he’d closed them again. 

His reaction must’ve been an agreement enough for you, as you apparate into the bathroom and return with your bottle of lotion that Tom loved so much. It just smelled like you. Perfect notes of your favorite smells and perfume. 

“Lay on your stomach,” you tell him, and Tom nearly catapults the book off the bed as he quickly rearranges himself to your command. You give a gentle laugh when he turns to you expectantly. “You used to love this back at Hogwarts.”

Tom hums, and watches as you come closer, and to an almost shock to him, straddle his back. It was obviously for easily access to give the massage, but it has Tom’s face burning. 

“Tell me if I’m too heavy,” you say, but Tom waves it off, head shaking, because you weighted nothing to the ever constant pressure of expectations he had of himself already resting on his shoulders. And even if you were heavy, he wouldn’t of minded in the slightest. 

Tom hears you pump the lotion into your hand and rub it together for a minute to warm it, and at the first kneading of your hands into his tense shoulders, Tom’s eyes roll back into his head as he gives a moan. Your hands work magic into his skin as you use your thumbs to rub circles into his skin, squeezing and shaping the muscles of his traps beneath your palms. You then slide your hands down his back, on either sides of his spine, and back up again, and again. 

It must’ve only been 10 minutes, but Tom is putty under your hands. He feels one with the bed, from how relaxed he was into it. His body was humming with a gentle energy that he doesn’t think he’s ever really felt before; he was calm. Truly calm. Not the false sense of it that he’d wear. There was no underlying anger brewing, or anxiety, or the need to put on a show. He was just blissfully existing.

That is the last memory of the night that he remembers, because the next thing he knows, it is morning, and he is still on his stomach when he wakes. He blinks into the morning light, unable to process what had even happened. He immediately turns his head towards your side of the bed, and relaxes when he finds your sleeping form beside him. 

He must’ve fallen asleep during the massage, and stayed asleep the entirely of the night without tossing or turning once. 

How odd. Tom’s never had such a deep sleep before. Your hands must have relaxed him far more than he could’ve thought. 

And he feels lighter, throughout the day, than he usually did. He does not know if it was because he’d fully given up the Dark Lord title, or because of the massage. Maybe it was both. 

The feeling, as good as it was, predictably doesn’t last long. He has work, after all. 

Usually, it was uneventful, but upon walking up to the shop, he is rattled to find your name graffitied onto the front of the windows. It was a threat. A threat made by one of his followers, who knew of you, and knew it was your fault he had given up ruling the wizarding world. 

They had every right to be upset, they’ve devoted their life to his cause, but it made him angry all the same. It made him angry to know that another one of his followers, unknown to him, might take it into their hands to eradicate any obstacles keeping Tom from achieving everything he’d told them about. 

He wasn’t worried about your safety at the moment, as you were at work and he very much doubted anyone would even try to attempt anything with you there. Still, he stopped by every hour, possessed, just to check that you were alright. He’d apparate in front of the shop just to catch a glimpse of you, see that you were alive and smiling, and come back to the shop to resume his work. 

Guests come and go. Tom sells a locket to a shady man who hadn’t talked much, just said he’d needed something to torment an enemy he’d recently crossed paths with. Tom had asked him questions, trying to figure out something that suited his needs the best they could. 

“He has a wife,” said the man gruffly. “You got anything to give to her, curse her instead?”

Tom hadn’t been surprised the man had taken that approach. He did not judge. But it rubbed him wrong in the slightest way, until the man had opened his satchel to reveal a handful of gold coins, saying he’d pay handsomely for it. 

There was something that Tom had known was floating around the shelves. The golden necklace with a heart shaped locket attached to it had arrived weeks ago, not selling well, but he’s almost hesitant to sell it to the man. He could feel something off; something was off about every wizard who lurked these parts, but the man made Tom feel genuinely uneasy. He had this look in his eyes whenever they’d meet Tom’s. 

Nonetheless, Tom wanted him gone. It had almost been an hour since he’d checked on you. He wanted to go and make sure you were still alive and well. He’d already charmed your shop with an extra protection spell, but seeing you gave him peace of mind that you were still alright. 

“I do have something,” Tom says. He pops into one of the isles to gather the box the necklace was in. When he returns, the man is quiet as Tom goes on to explain the item. He simply nods at the end of it, and buys it off of Tom with his satchel of gold coins. 

That is that, and Tom goes on his way to check on you for the fifth time that day. Usually, Tom kept the shop open as late as he could stand, but he closes up when he knows your shift is over to accompany you home. He does so for a week before you comment on it.

“Don’t you usually stay at Borgin and Burkes until the late night?” you ask, snapping him into reality when your hands come to a stop on his back. 

The combination of the smell of your lotion plus the sensation of your hands rubbing into his back have him nearly falling asleep again. 

“Oh, I changed the hours,” Tom mumbles back.

“Why?”

“To spend more time with you.”

It wasn’t exactly a lie - but it wasn’t the entire truth, either. Spending the nights with you was an added bonus, but he was still paranoid of something happening to you, and has not let you out of his sights since the meeting. 

You were starting to grow suspicious, Tom knows. But he does not want to make you worry. He was worrying enough for the both of you. He wanted you to be happy, and live carefree after having to deal with such torment for nearly half a year. 

Tom does not know how he’ll ever make up for what you had gone through. He had listened tentatively when you’d told him the story of how you’d discovered he’d erased you with his heart in his throat. He cannot ever imagine experiencing something so painful. It was the cruelest thing he has probably ever done to another, worse than death, in his eyes. 

There had still been a month left of Hogwarts, and you had to endure seeing Tom everyday before you’d gone your separate ways. A month of seeing him everyday, almost hoping he’d remember, but that spark of recognition when he’d meet your eyes never came. He can only image how he’d treated you, with a fake front of friendliness you have never known before. He doesn’t even remember seeing you at Hogwarts. The first meeting after he’d obliviated you from his memories must have scared you off completely. 

You do not bring it up again until the next day, when you both have the day off - Tom had aligned all of his days off with yours so you wouldn’t be alone - and you give him a weird look when he invites himself to join you at the same coffee shop you loved.

“But you hate that place,”

“It is tolerable,” he argues.

“It is filled with muggles.”

“I can ignore them.”

“A vein bulges out of your head whenever you even see one,” you say, but do not fight him as he accompanies you out the door. 

You’re wearing his jacket, the one he’d given you, and it warms him to see you in it, knowing it was his. Before, it had been just an oversized lump of leather. Now it was a claim he’d staked on you. Whenever you wore it, it was like you were declaring you were his, and he loved seeing you in it. He loved seeing you in anything of his. 

Most nights, all you wore to bed was one of his oversized shirts. It made it easier for him, on a number of things, when you went to bed in only that.

The first few days after you had moved in, when Tom had first seen you in his shirt, he had been frozen on the spot. His shirt reached your midthigh, exposing the smooth skin of your legs but just long enough that your ass wasn’t completely hanging out. He had shamelessly craned his neck downwards to get a better look, and does so whenever you walk by. He cannot help it. It was like looking directly into the sun.

The muggle coffee shop is just as bad as it had been the previous time, but Tom does not utter a single complaint. You were amused with every glance you spared at his scowling face, so you do not stay long, not wanting to put him in more discomfort.

Luckily, the muggle coffee shop was the only outing of the day. There was coffee at home but you had wanted that coffee, despite Tom being able to prepare something just as good, if not better, with magic. 

The rest of your joined day off is spent at home, cuddling, and he even finds himself cuddling against you, with his head pillowed by your chest. 

It is the most wonderful thing, to lay on a woman’s chest. It was soft, and cushy, and Tom spends a good amount of time there before the embarrassment of the gesture has him clearing his throat and scooting to his side. He was an evil wizard capable of murder. Cuddling up to a woman’s breasts was not something he should allow himself to do for longer than appropriate. 

“Tom?” you question when he scoots to his side. 

Though, his side seemed to be the entirety of the bed, with you only having a small sliver, because most nights he found himself attaching himself to you and waking with you in his arms. He had no concept of personal space since you’d moved in. Your space was his space, and vise versa. 

Tom was learning more and more about you everyday, so he picks up on the small note of worry in your voice. You masked it well, but relearning your quirks came easy to him. It was like picking up a hobby after not practicing for a while. 

“I’m fine,” Tom tells you, propping himself on his elbow so he can press a slow kiss to your cheek. 

Giving the affection was a little more challenging than receiving, for him. They sent a hot rush of excitement up his spine, and sometimes, it was overwhelming. He was almost worried you would reject him with each kiss, each hug, and was thrilled when you accepted them; he knew you wouldn’t turn him away, but it was still all so new to him. 

“I’m hungry,” you say, and Tom knows he has approximately twenty minutes to find something before your mood turned sour. He had made the mistake of not taking you seriously the first time you had told him, and paid the price. You had been scowled at him, silently, and it had been amusing until you bodily turned away from him. 

It was a silly thing, to be mad over food, but Tom had gone cold all the same. He had taken you to a nice restaurant with a small ball of anxiety curling in his gut. It had been your first ‘fight’. 

Tom learned that day that being hangry was a real thing. He himself had never experienced it, never one to really enjoy eating, only out of necessity. 

“Take out?” Tom asks, and you nod, pleased. 

The list of menus from your favorite spots nearby whisks into your hands by a wave of Tom’s wand. You choose a spot, as Tom always lets you choose whatever you wanted because it truly did not matter to him, and he wanted you to be happy above else. You’re quick to find a spot, and Tom orders it, and with five minutes to spare, the food is delivered. 

Eating at the table has become the new norm for you and Tom. He lights candles, plays music softly from the radio you had brought, and sets the table. You had told him it was incredibly romantic. He kept it up every night, making sure to have at least one meal a day together and talk. 

Tom was never a big talker, only really speaking when spoken to, and when needed, but the conversation flowed with you. Whether it was about each others days, or whatever book you were reading. Tom hung onto every word. It was as interesting as ancient texts on magical items. You were just as interested when he talked. It felt right. Like he finally had an equal to be open with, instead of keeping to himself like he had done all his life. 

And most nights after dinner, Tom would turn up the radio, bring you close, and you’d sway to the soft music playing. Both of your eyes would be closed, holding each other close, and just enjoy the moment. It was healing. It was perfect. A lot of things felt like that with you - a happiness that only grew the more time you spent with him. 

Tom does not think he would ever get bored of you. He does not want these moments to end. He wanted more, desperately, everyday. He wanted to live forever just to be by your side for eternity. 

It brings forth something he’s been wanting to confess to you - thee confession. He was sure you knew that he loved you, but he’s been wanting to say those words that you have been murmuring to him every night, pressing an I love you sleepily into his chest, right into his heart. 

To you, those words came easy. To Tom, it was the hardest thing he’s ever faced. 

He was never good with expressing his feelings; his actions spoke louder than words. You’d told him that he rarely verbally praised you, before. Rarely ever said anything nice, but he was trying to change that. He wanted to be better than before. He almost felt in competitions with himself, who he was before he’d obliviated you, and after. 

Tom thinks extremely low of the person he was before he’d obliviated you. How could he had given you up, in the pursuit of power? Maybe he has given it up his power this time because he had tasted what a life was like without you - empty, dull, with the only excitement being from danger, and even then it was nothing special. With you, each day did not feel long enough. He wanted your attention from the moment you rose, to the second you fell asleep. It was a maddening feeling. 

So, the confession felt like the next step. 

Hell, marriage, something Tom has never considered before - or maybe he had - crosses his mind. He pictures you with a ring on your finger, from him, signifying the mortal bond you’d made. He wanted that with you. He wanted a life with you, where you were his in every sense of the word. 

No ring felt good enough, and Tom had looked. He’d taken a day off from work without telling you, and browsed jewelry shops all across town for something good enough for you. 

Nothing stood out. Nothing except the ring he already had, that he had made into a horcrux. Now that, was special. You’d be wearing a part of Tom’s soul on your finger. What could be more personal than that. 

He’d been mulling on that idea since practically the beginning, when you’d moved in. Maybe even before that. Since before you’d told him everything. He’s wanted you since he’s seen you, in every way possible.

Now, he wanted to make it a reality. The ring has been sitting in his desk for days. The need to confess his feelings also waited, eagerly, at the back of his mind. 

Where he would ask you, though, that was the real question. He does not even know where to begin to think of a spot. Most of your memories together were from Hogwarts, and he’d thought about taking you there, asking you at the spot by the lake you’d mentioned to him. The one where you’d spent your last days. He wanted to rewrite that memory, give it a new story instead of the horrible stain he’d left upon it.

You’re clueless to the storm brewing in Tom’s mind.

Not only was he worried for your safely, but he was also thinking about the future you two would have together, and how to make it immortal. 

Dancing at the end of the days brings him peace. You sending him off to bed with a massage as well. 

You are his biggest comfort, and his biggest worry. You are the love of his life, and the bain of his existence.

Ah, being in love. 

Tom has read about it countless times. He never understood it; it sounded terrible. Maybe the worst sin of them all. Tom has always hated human behaviors, their desires, never giving into lust, or greed, or love. But with you, he gave into them all, selfishly. Happily. Wanting more and more. 

How easily he caved. How easily he gave into his human desires, something he thought he long ago burned out of himself. 

Tom can only go so long without touching you, without making love to you. It is a craving he faces everyday. He thinks of your pliant body beneath the hard curves of his hand, so giving, so needy for him and only him. He tries to show any form of restraint - but each one of your touches only adds to those desires. He fights himself until he is shaking with need. 

Some nights, he fucks you slow, body warm with a fire of yearning in his chest that has him savoring every sound you make, every kiss. 

Other nights, it is like the first time. It is two atoms colliding and exploding, it is the creation of the universe, it is everything. He is a man possessed those nights. It does not matter where you are in his apartment - Tom has fucked you on nearly every surface, unable to even think as far as making it to the bed. He needed you in that moment, whether it was in the kitchen, on the couch, at the dining table. 

You took every side of Tom with grace, because you must have been used to it. You almost welcomed it. Like falling back into an old habit. You handled him like a master honing her craft. 

Tom only wished he could catch up. He learns everything about you that he possibly can. 

The next day, Tom drops you at work, before he apparates home and spends some time cleaning up, putting things where they were supposed to be because you had a habit of leaving things out, and heads to work. He goes through the usual motions, and checks on you every hour, not really expecting anything out of the ordinary. He had done it more so for peace of mind. Like he’d thought before, he didn’t think anyone was bold enough to attack you in a busy shop in Diagon Alley. 

Tom had been right, in a way. No one had attacked you.

But what freezes him on the spot, like a hand has reached into his chest and wrapped an iron grip around his heart, is the necklace you were wearing when you meet him outside of apothecary. 

You’re all smiles as you trot up to him, but it quickly slides from your face when you notice the shocked expression he wears.

“Tom?”

“Where -” Tom’s voice breaks off. “Where did you get that necklace?”

No. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t be the same one he’d sold, weeks ago to the man Tom hadn’t liked.

“You left it for me earlier with my coworker, did you not?” you touch at the locket with a frown. 

Tom shakes his head, at a loss for words. It was too late to remove it. The spell had already gone into effect. It did not matter if you took it off and Tom destroyed it; the curse had been cast. 

The curse being, that it erased the wearers memories, specifically of those they loved, until there was nothing left to remember. 

This time, it would be Tom erased from your mind.

It was the perfect curse. 

“Let me… let me see it.”

You unhook the necklace and hand it over, but Tom doesn’t touch it. He inspects it closer, hoping, that he was mistaken. But it was the necklace, undoubtedly. Tom’s knees weaken as he stared at the cursed piece of jewelry.

The man he’d sold it to - he must have been one of Tom’s followers in disguise. 

And Tom had sold him the very thing that would ultimately take you away from him. Worse than death. Worse than Tom losing his memories once more. It would be your turn to forget Tom, but unlike the obliviation spell, all of your memories wouldn’t be gone immediately. It would be slow. It would be agonizing. He would be forced to watch as you forgot things about him, little by little. There was no telling how long the curse would take to go into effect; there hadn’t been much information on it to begin with. 

This was Tom’s fault. He’d been too bold, too proud, to think that anyone would dare attack you here. He should’ve taken and hidden you away the day the threat upon your life had been made. 

Tom lifts his horrified gaze from the necklace up to your eyes. His lips part, but he cannot speak. His knees feel weak. His stomach is to the floor.

(y/n), a sweet, chubby halfblood Hufflepuff girl who…confused Tom. She was…kind, kind in that way that made no sense to Tom. She smiled all the time, laughed a lot too, and always seemed to have some sort of sweet in her hands-usually a baked good.

He just…didn’t understand her. She was nice, but he never sensed any reason for her to act like she was. She, just like everyone in the school got bullied, usually by those who wanted to see her smile disappear or watch her waste away with cruel comments aimed at her body.

Tom’s hand clenched at those comments, and if several students were found hanging from the rafters-unable to explain what happened or who happened-well, Tom had too good a record for anything to be traced back to him.

But regardless, even with cruel comments, or a small group of friends, or with the war going on in the muggle and wizarding world, she was still…good. kind.

He didn’t get it, didn’t understand why.

She had nothing to gain from being…kind. Nothing, she gained no extra friends from it, no favors, no kindness returned other than plain and emotionless thank you’s with no plan to return her help.

And yet (y/n) persisted. Especially with her bloody baking.

She made something every single weekend, every Friday night; using the student kitchens he always forgot existed unless it was late and he was starving, and she baked. Cookies one week, tarts the next, and then cupcakes the week after that.

And she always made enough to feed an army, going around and offering her baked goods to anyone she came across, friend or not.

And no one suspected she might have slipped something-a potion or poison-into the baked goods, she was too nice for that.

Tom just struggled to understand why and…why it bothered him so damn much. Why his chest burned when he saw (y/n) hand out her homemade goods to someone else, when she offered that smile of hers to someone else. Why did he feel so…intense about her.

He needed answers.

You hummed lightly to yourself as you poured the lemon curd mixture onto the still-warm shortbread cookie layer. It was Friday once again, and once again, you were in the student kitchens-the apron your granny gave you for Christmas(perfectly spring themed) wrapped snugly around you, keeping your clothes safe from any spills or mishaps.

You scraped the bowl clean and wiped your hands down your front-another point for the apron-and slid the glass baking dishes(of course you made enough to feed a horde) into the pre-heated oven, tapping your wand to set a timer for 20 minutes.

With another wave, all the bowls and utensils you used to make lemon bars floated into the sink and began washing themselves. With a happy sigh, you untied your apron and charmed it clean, folding it on the counter as you did some extra kitchen clean up; as was the agreement to let you use the kitchen outside of home education classes.

This was your happy place, a weekly comfort to end the school week with fresh-baked treats to share. It hadn’t gained you any friends, other than the few you already had before you started this weekly routine, but you didn’t let It stop you; and everyone seemed to enjoy Saturday a bit extra because of it, even putting in requests once in a while.

Everyone but one. Tom Riddle. Your cheeks flushed at the very thought of him and his dark eyes, dark hair, pale skin, and smooth voice. Of course you had a crush on him, nearly every single person in the school did. Top of every class, a perfect prefect, disarmingly charming, and was surrounded by the richest high class pureblood boys in Slytherin.

And devastatingly handsome.

You sighed again, leaning against the kitchen counter, tapping your wand to check the timer as the now clean dishes were magically dried and put away.

Tom had never taken one of your offered baked goods. Though you’d never gathered the courage to go up to him and offer one, you knew better.

Tom Riddle never took food he didn’t serve himself or saw prepared. Even from his friends, if he was given a box of pre-wrapped tarts, or some girl gave him chocolates; he rejected each one. Tom didn’t trust food, which was understandable, with how love potions were oddly unregulated and with how big his fan club was; he probably was under attempted love potion attacks on the daily.

But you’d never do that to him, so you settled for making something fresher, less sweet, and easy to make.

Lemon bars, you’d noticed him eat lemon candies before, and if he had the choice; always drinking lemonade over pumpkin juice.

So, you hoped, he’d enjoy some lemon bars. The acidity in lemons caused a chemical reaction with potions, making anything with natural lemon’s very hard to lace with potions. It’s why the lemon jelly beans or any charmed candy had fake lemon flavoring and not real lemon.

You jolted as your wand made a whistling noise and you waved it-the trays of lemon bars floating out of the oven to rest on the cooling racks you got out earlier. With a gentle wind charm and making sure the lemon curds had set correctly, the lemon bars steadily cooled to room temperature and you put them in a charmed cold cabinet to set overnight(wizarding worlds version of a refrigerator), tomorrow you would dust all the lemon bars with powdered sugar and cut them into squares.

You smiled to yourself, closing the cabinet and cleaning up one last time. You hoped Tom would accept, and like, the lemon bars.

You set the finished lemon squares into a large basket to hold the horde of goods you made. Maybe too much even?

Well, probably not, there were easily 300+ students in Hogwarts and you’d made around, maybe 200 squares; ready to be devoured. You took one for yourself, humming with delight. Sweet and tart, a perfect mix.

You took the basket and left the kitchen, and already you were being flocked by students who knew your weekly routine; they’d take a lemon square with a bright ‘thanks!’ and walk off without another word.

You walked through the school, offering the treats to anyone you walked by, including the professors-many of which who happily accepted a lemon bar.

And then, it was time.

You stood at the doors of the great hall, it was 11:30am, just the start of lunch time-and Tom was always one of the first at meal times-preferring to be there before any food appeared on the tables so he could be sure none of his admirers got any funny ideas.

And you saw him at his usual spot, sitting in the sun-he liked soaking up its warmth-making his lunch plate. None of his friends were around just yet, but you could hear them behind you, talking loudly, almost obnoxiously, with each other.

It was now or never. You took a breath and went forward, handing off a lemon bar to a few people when they stopped you, until you were in front of Tom, cheeks hot, hands trembling.

His deep brown eyes locked onto your own and you momentarily forgot how to speak, but he did not snap or snark, just waited. “uh-I’m-hi-“ you stuttered and Tom smirked a little, you had to pause to restart your brain. “um, i-I know you’re not one to take sweets but um, I made lemon bars,” you offered the basket full of lemon bars.

-

Tom couldn’t believe his ears.

Or his eyes.

Or his heart with how stupid fast it was beating.

Lemon bars?

(y/n) was right behind him in potions class, she had to have known how natural lemon reacted with potion ingredients, especially love potion ingredients.

She did know. He realized, watching as she held out the basket to him, nervous, shy, hopeful. She’d made lemon bars in hopes he’d take one without fear.

He could feel eyes on them, from his admirers, from his friends, and even a few professors. They all knew Tom Riddle did not take food or sweets from anyone he did not trust. And even then.

So; he had to hold back a smirk when he heard a gasp of outrage from Olive Hornby when he reached out and took a lemon square. (y/n) beamed so brightly when he did, it made him want to take several more, even though he hadn’t had his first.

He ate it right in front of her, in front of everyone; the message was clear to her.

-

‘i trust you’

You couldn’t help your grin as Tom ate the offered lemon square, and he let out a low hum, licking his lip-drawing your attention for a split moment. “This is…quite good,” Tom murmured, eyes locked onto the lemon bar. He finished it with a second bite, brown eyes drifting back to the basket full of lemon bars. You smiled bright, setting the basket down for him to take freely from, and Tom grabbed four more squares before leaning back, and you took the signal to take the basket back.

“I’m glad you like it!” You said with a grin so big you thought you might rip your face. Tom’s face, for just a moment and only for you, melted into a smile-his eyes a molten brown in the late morning sun. You felt your cheeks go hot, and you quickly raced away before you could melt into a puddle at his feet.

-

Tom swallowed hard as (y/n) ran away from him, her cheeks flushed and her eyes bright and starry. With just a bite of a lemon bar, he’d made her so happy.

He wasn’t sure why, but it made his heart beat out of his chest, and made him want to do that over and over again until she couldn’t contain her joy anymore and spilled it into him.

He bit into another lemon bar.

He wanted to carve her sweetness from her chest and let it pour into his hands and drown in it.

He wanted to see more of it, all of it, and horde it like gold.

He stared at his plate full of lemon bars.

He wanted to give her a taste of her own kindness back, even if he didn’t understand why she did it. Perhaps it would help him understand, perhaps it would make her smile at him again.

…

Tom rolled his jaw.

It wouldn’t be so hard to bake…would it? It was just like potions. Precise and with deliberate instructions.

He looked down at the lemon bars again and then found (y/n) across the great hall, sitting with her small group of friends, still smiling brightly.

Yes, he could bake.

How hard could it be?

Turns out. Really bloody hard!!

Tom glared at the batch of brownies which were just a huge block of coal, he even knocked on it with his fist! It sounded like a door!

“Merlins-fucking-goddammit,” Tom cursed, waving his wand, cleaning the space again. This had been his 5th attempt, brownies took a little while to bake, so it had been a few hours already, and it was now nearing curfew.

He dropped his head to let it hang between his shoulders, leaning on the counter, sighing heavily. Bloody hell, who knew baking was so hard?? It was just like potions, and he was practically a potions master!

He stood, rubbing his flour-dusted hands down his face, looking at the cleaned space once again before grabbing the flour once more.

One more try.

-

Fuck.

Tom was frustrated, and over it, he wove his wand and cleaned up his final mess of the night. He tried cookies this time, and they were just a crumbly mess that tasted outright awful.

Tom put the bowls away with a grunt, the metal inside crashing in the cabinet as he slammed it shut.

Baking just wasn’t in the cards for him. Dammit, he’d wanted to-oh he didn’t even know anymore; why did he even think of baking something for (y/n), she could do it all on her own anyway.

He paused.

She could bake…and perhaps…perhaps he could get her to teach him how…it would probably make her happy too, she seemed to enjoy sharing her hobbies after all.

This could work.

You blinked in shock.

Tom Riddle, heartthrob of Hogwarts, just asked you, YOU! to teach him how to bake!

“i-um-yes! I mean-why?” you stuttered, fingers twisting into your skirt. Tom chuckled lightly, a sound that had your ears burning and your gaze locked onto his face. He was so pretty.

“I’m interested in learning, and why not learn from Hogwarts resident baker?” Tom said with a charming smile, and your heart was beating a mile a minute in your chest.

“I’d be happy to teach you,” You said breathlessly, and Tom’s smile widened. “Uh, meet me at the student kitchens, Friday night, okay?” Tom nodded and, with a flustered grin and a stumble, you ran off to go tell your friends.

Tom stared after you, pressing his hand to his neck-feeling his pulse flutter rapidly beneath his fingers.

Friday night came along, and you stood nervously in the student kitchens-you had everything prepped for something easy yet delicious, chocolate chip cookies.

A recipe that required no chill or resting time and weren’t overly messy.

You smoothed down your apron for the 7th time. Was it too much? It was very cutesy, maybe Tom would prefer you wear a plain apron? You had time to change, you could just pop out of for a moment and-

Tom entered the kitchens, and this was the first time you’d seen him out of uniform-even on weekends, he always wore his uniform-if only just abandoning his robes.

But here he was, in slacks and a slightly oversized green sweater. His hair was…loose as well, his curly locks free from the hair gel he used every day.

“Evening,” Tom greeted you cooly, and-oh merlin he was rolling up his sleeves TOM RIDDLE WAS ROLLING UP HIS SLEEVES! AND HAD A WATCH ON.

You could die right now and be happy.

You cleared your throat, avoiding the look of his pale, lean arms. Dammit, why were rolled-up sleeves so-hot?! You didn’t understand!

And why did the accent of a watch make it all the more sexy?

“Evening, um-okay? Let’s-let’s start simple, what do you know about baking?” you asked, voice cracking at first, but it smoothed out as you began talking about what you were comfortable with. Baking.

“I know it is not unlike potions, requiring exact measurements and temperatures,” Tom said, personally ignoring the fact that he’d had 10 failed baking attempts the previous Saturday. You nodded.

“Okay, a good start. Now everything has a use and a reaction, just like potions. Flour is a binder and thickening agent, baking soda is what makes things fluffy, and baking powder helps things rise-now they are, almost the same thing, but powder has some more chemicals in it that requires no acid to activate it like baking soda does.” Tom watched and listened as you began to ramble off, a slow smirk growing on his face.

It was fascinating.

“And so! Because baking is actually super complicated, we’re starting with something simple and easy to just pop in the oven, chocolate chip cookies!” You beamed, holding up the recipe card. Tom took it between his fingers, nodding slowly. “Sound okay?” You asked, giving a shy grin now.

Tom smiled and nodded, setting down the recipe card. “Sounds good.” He said softly, and you beamed again. You handed him a plain apron, and Tom slipped it on, pushing up his sleeves a little more and washing his hands as you grabbed all the ingredients.

“Why vanilla bean paste over extract?” Tom asked, watching as you grabbed a bottle of thick vanilla bean paste.

“Just a stronger flavor, cant go wrong with a good vanilla taste,” you said with a grin, setting the bottle aside. “First things first, butter. Now this recipe calls for melted butter, which is fine, but I find using softened butter helps me not overmix the batter and provides a more stable cookie.”

Tom slowly nodded, opening the butter bell, watching you measure the butter out without even looking at the recipe. “You’ve made this before,” He commented, and you nodded, measuring out a 3/4th cup of butter.

“Lots, it’s a personal recipe, I’ve made it for ten years now,” you said with a fond smile. Tom returned it softly, measuring the brown sugar and white sugar at your instruction. When that was done, you grabbed the flour. “Now, flour. We need two cups, and it’s best to fluff up the flour with a fork, and spoon it into your measuring cup, and level it off with a knife-as you can get an incorrect measurement if you just scoop it,” You said, and Tom nodded, watching you fluff up the flour; and then spoon and level the measuring cup.

He copied you for the second cup, which you then poured into a sifter. “Why a sifter?” Tom asked, leaning against the counter, watching you with interest.

“Gets out lumps and impurities, makes it airier, and helps make mixing easier,” You said, sifting the baking soda and salt as well. Tom took a whisk at your instruction, whisking the dry ingredients together, watching as you took a metal whisk and creamed the butter and sugars together until pale and fluffy.

“Now, this step can be done at once. One tablespoon of vanilla, and one full egg and egg yolk,” you said, showing Tom how to crack an egg and divide it from the whites. Tom poured the tablespoon of vanilla into the sugar butter mixture, blinking as you handed him the whisk. “now whisk till just combined, and then we’ll start adding flour,” You said with a grin, and Tom grabbed the bowl with one arm and whisked with the other, getting quite the workout once you started adding the flour.

“Don’t whisk too fast or-“ You burst into giggles as Tom spun the whisk around the bowl hard after you added the first half cup of flour, and it flew out-some flying into his face. Tom snapped his eyes shut, feeling it on his lashes and in his hair.

He let out a single wheezing cough, shaking his head as you took the bowl and lifted your apron to clean his face. “What in the hell,” Tom coughed again, keeping his eyes closed as you went to get a towel damp and cleaned his eyes.

You were still giggling, and Tom sighed, drying his face with his apron, raising his brow at you. “Flour has a mind of its own,” You said with a shrug, and Tom pursed his lips, dipping his fingers into the flour and flinging it at you. You gasped, jaw dropped as you watched him hide a snicker behind his shoulder.

You grabbed the bowl of flour-cupped some in your palm-and threw it at him. Tom let out a very manly shriek and ducked away from you; it was all in his hair and face, falling on his clothes. “Hey! What happened to baking?!”

“You started it!” You squealed with laughter, grabbing the still-wet dough and throwing it at his back. He stumbled as the wet glob of butter and sugar splattered. Tom dodged another toss of dough and grabbed the container of brown sugar, grabbing the sticky sugar in a handful and throwing it at you.

You squealed and ducked, the sugar hitting the stove behind you.

You grabbed an egg and cracked it on the table-throwing the egg at Tom. He yelped as it hit the side of his shoulder, and egg splattered everywhere. You burst into giggles and ducked behind the counter again as Tom grabbed the flour container and tossed the flour inside at you. The flour exploded into a cloud as it flew, and you squealed, covered in the white powder.

You grabbed the bowl with the dough from the counter-gasping as you felt Tom grab it from the other side. “No!” you squealed-standing and yanking at the bowl, Tom grinning at you, competition in his eyes. You grabbed the dough from the bowl-half of it wet, the other half scraggly and covered in flour-and released the bowl. Tom yelped, stumbling back, and then he was being bombarded with cookie dough. He slipped on egg and tumbled to the floor, curling up as you continued to wail on him with cookie dough until it was all out.

Everything settled, and you were giggling. Tom was breathless. You both stopped, catching your breath. Tom looked up at you-the two of you covered in flour, egg, sugar, and cookie dough.

You burst into hearty giggles, and Tom couldn’t help but laugh too, tears building in the corner of his eyes from the force of it.

He hadn’t laughed like this, ever.

You sat on the floor with him, still giggling. Both of your faces were hot from laughter and exertion. “That was really fun, I've never had a food fight before,” You said brightly, and Tom grinned.

“Neither have I, that was indeed; fun,” Tom replied, shaking his head, sugar and flour falling from his dark locks. With another burst of giggles and catching your breathes; Tom waved his wand and cleaned everything, including the two of you, up.

After making a truce, the two of you whipped up another batch of cookie dough, pouring in the chocolate chips and mixing it all together. “Now, temperature, how long it bakes, and even what you’re baking it on, can affect how the cookies bake.” You said, grabbing the two metal baking sheets from the cabinet, lining them with parchment paper.

“If you want huge thick cookies, you’d use an ice cream scoop, but those will take a little longer to bake and sometimes might get underbaked if baked on light colored pans or are placed in the wrong spot in the oven,” you said, Tom listening intently as you went into baking mode again.

“I prefer using a small cookie scoop like this, they’ll be smaller but just as thick if baked right.” You said, scooping a few cookie rounds out, and Tom nodded, grabbing another cookie scoop, doing the same as you on the 2nd sheet.

Soon the sheets were full of cookies, and the oven was ready.

“What do you prefer to bake brownies in?” Tom asked as the two of you slid the baking sheets into the oven, and you hummed; closing the oven doors and setting a timer on your wand.

“Glass, it bakes way more evenly, but brownies are even more sensitive than cookies; overmixing it can turn it into a brick. And it’s easy to overbake them,” Tom hummed, ah, so that’s where he’d been going wrong when making brownies. He’d been using metal pans and mixed the brownie batter for longer than he had to.

“Brownies are usually a ‘till just combined’ mixture, you don’t want any lumps in it, but overmixing it will just make them tough and sometimes even make the ingredients separate, like the oil.” You rambled on and on, and Tom only nodded, he’d done that too-the oil was leaking out of the ruined set of brownies like the greasy face of a pre-teen.

“You know quite a lot about baking, it’s fascinating,” Tom said, crossing his arms and leaning back against the counter. Your cheeks flushed.

“Thank you, I’m self-taught,” you said softly with a smile, and Tom’s brows rose in surprise. With all you knew, he’d assumed you had training or went to a culinary summer school.

“Self-taught? Impressive,” Tom murmured, smirking at you a little. “Any plans for this in the future, or is it just a hobby?”

“Honestly? It’s just a hobby for me, I really do enjoy baking, but I don’t really see it as a career, I feel like it would just take all the passion out of it for me,” You said softly, and Tom could appreciate that. It was rare to meet someone who wanted their passion to stay their passion.

“What’s your plans after Hogwarts then?” Tom asked, watching as you wove your wand-all the bowls and tools they’d used for the cookies cleaning themselves up, dunking into the soapy sink.

You let out a long sigh, chewing on your lip. “Don’t judge me?” You asked quietly, and Tom only stared, you took that as agreement. “I don’t have a big, fancy plan. I don’t want to work in some grandiose job in the ministry and change the world, I don’t want to put my nose to the grindstone and, cultivate my own bakery…I want to settle down, find a nice cozy job to make rent for my own flat in London, maybe get a dog, meet someone, marry someone, have some kids, and just…be loved, and be content. Maybe travel the world?”

You trailed off, staring at your shoes. “Lot’s of girls want to do big and grand things, and they should, I’m proud of them. But…I just want to find love, and keep it.”

You looked up at Tom, his dark eyes seeming to stare right through you. “What a Hufflepuff ideology eh?” You joked weakly, and Tom let out a low hum that rattled your chest.

“No, your ambition is simply…calmer. I can understand that, admire it. You know what you want, even if it’s different and…more traditional, than what the modern era witches want.” Tom reached out, tucking a hair behind your ear, cold fingers grazing your cheek.

“Do you think I’ll find what I want?” You asked quietly, and Tom smirked.

“I know you will,” He murmured, the gears in his mind already turning.

The cookies were a few minutes later. “Now, with cookies; you don’t take them out when they’re perfectly golden brown, you want a faint golden color to the edge, and then you take them out and let them rest on the baking sheet for a few minutes. That way they’ll finish baking evenly and be crispy on the edges and chewy in the middle. A perfect cookie,”

You told Tom as you took the cookies out of the oven and set them on cooling trays to rest for a few minutes before transferring the cookies to another cooling sheet to finish setting.

All of which took about 10 minutes. Tom poured out two glasses of milk(if you’re lactose intolerant I’m sorry), and you clinked cookies, watching with a grin as Tom ate his first homemade cookie, having watched and helped with every step.

He hummed low, nodding to himself. “That’s a good cookie,” he muttered, and you giggled brightly, enjoying your own cookie, sipping some milk between chocolate-heavy bites. It settled into a comfortable silence of eating cookies and the clinking of glass. After you both ate your fill of cookies, you boxed them up into two boxes; half for you and half for Tom.

He gave you a soft smile as you held out the box to him. “You did a great job for your first time baking,” You told him with a shy smile, and his grin widened a little-oh little did you know of his many failed attempts.

“I just happened to have a good teacher,” Tom murmured, his fingers brushing against yours, and you swallowed hard, feeling sparks go down your spine. “Thank you, (y/n).” He said your name softly, almost reverently.

You chewed the inside of your cheek with a small bashful grin. Ugh, why was he so hot, and cute?! The combination was going to destroy you. “It was my pleasure Tom, uh-goodnight,” you said softly, grabbing your box of cookies-the two of you making your way out of the student kitchens, going your separate ways.

“Goodnight, (y/n), sleep well,” he murmured, staring at your back as you departed, before heading to the Slytherin common room/dorms, already planning for his next encounter with you.

And planning for everything after that.

You wanted a life of love and comfort? To explore the world and settle down?

Tom smirked to himself, running his thumb over the cookie box he held close to his side.

He had pretty high ambitions, but who said he couldn’t have a pretty little wife and some children, safe and cozy at home in a forest cottage? He did plan on traveling as well, after Hogwarts.

Yes yes, this could work.

He may not understand why you were so unfathomably kind, but he wanted to hoard it; keep it locked up tight-only for himself and offspring to have.

You would be his. And if his suspicions were correct, your heart was already his, he just had to make a few more moves on the chess board you didn’t even know you were playing on.

Tom slipped into the student kitchens a week later, Saturday night; a slim potion vial in his hand.

With a flick of his wand, he summoned some bowls, whisks, measuring cups, and ingredients floated out onto the counter. He rolled up his sleeves and grabbed a recipe card; and with the knowledge (y/n) had taught him last week, he got to work.

Halfway into the recipe, it told him to melt some chocolate over a double boiler, which, thanks to potions; he knew how to do, and that’s when he took the potion vile and cooked the potion into the melting chocolate. The pink viscous potion mixed in with the chocolate, and the faint smell of pomegranate ebbed away, overwhelmed by the chocolate.

Tom smirked to himself. It was underhanded, sneaky, and crossed a lot of boundaries.

But Tom Riddle always, always got what he wanted. No matter how he got it.

He mixed the chocolate with the egg and sugar mixture before mixing in the dry ingredients until it was well combined, pouring it into a glass baking dish. He slid it into the oven and set his timer, waving his wand to clean everything up.

The brownies came out perfect, with that crispy crust on top and soft inside. He let them cool and cut everything up, he nearly tried a bite but stopped himself-remembering the potion he slipped inside.

The brownies were slipped into a box, and he scrawled her name on the top, smirking to himself.

Checkmate.

You got a box full of brownies the next morning, Sunday, during owl mail time, jaw dropping open a little as you caught the brown box that had your name on it. “From TMR,” Your friend read quietly beside you, gasping. “Tom Riddle?” She nearly squealed, and you shushed her, catching Tom’s eye from across the great hall, and he rose his brow, hiding a smirk behind his goblet.

You opened the box, finding brownies, and you gasped, smiling brightly. “Aww how cute, he got you brownies? Someone's got a cruuush~” Your other friend cooed, and you shook your head, unable to help your smile and flushed cheeks.

“Not just got, made, from scratch,” You whispered, and your friends gasped again, shaking your shoulders as you giggled. No one had ever made you from scratch baked goods before, other than your family. Your friend dipped her hand into the box, but you smacked her away. “Mine,” you playfully snapped, and she snickered.

“Greeedyyy,” She teased, and you huffed, pouting a little.

“Well, usually I’m the one making stuff for everyone else, and I barely get to have what I make, so this whole box of brownies is mine,” Both of your friends giggled and had to agree. You did so much for everyone every single Friday, you deserved a good baked treat all for yourself.

You took a brownie, catching Tom’s eye again, and took a bite, grinning. ‘Delicious,’ you mouthed from across the room. Tom smiled back, hiding it behind his goblet once more.

At first, you hadn’t thought anything was…wrong, the brownie had been delicious, and you hadn’t tasted anything odd. In fact, that thought never even popped up in your mind; but something was happening within you. like a tiny flame had been ignited and was growing stronger throughout the day.

At first, it was barely noticeable, and with the air outside so cold-you hadn’t noticed how warm you felt. Your cheeks were flushed from the cold, fingers biting cold from scooping and throwing snowballs at your friends.

And later, when you settled down in the common room, warming up in front of the fire-you had to move away, you were getting a little too warm; but nothing outrageous.

Then came the invasive thoughts.

At first; you thought nothing of it, because you’d had them before. Tom with the sleeves of that green sweater rolled up, and how exposed his neck had been while baking with you. The sound of his laughter during the food fight, how deep and smooth it had been, the look of his smile, the clench of his hands as he stirred a bowl of cookie dough.

And then they escalated. You were sitting in the library, studying for the potions test tomorrow, when the image of Tom’s thin and long fingers folded through a page, but far more-sensual-than intended, popped into your brain. You slammed your hands down and forced yourself to stop, breathing heavy.

“Stop, he-ugh-“ you couldn’t even argue with yourself.

Curse your damn hormones, you must’ve been ovulating or something to feel so…feral about Tom.

The mental images of Tom being too hot for you to function kept coming after that.

Especially when you passed by him in a corridor, or saw him in the great hall. The darkness of his eyes pulling you in, watching as he licked cream off of a spoon during lunch, the dexterity of his fingers as he flipped through another book.

You swallowed hard, averting your gaze.

What was wrong with you?! You’d never felt this-crazy-about him, you’d of course had thoughts like these before, it was only natural for a girl your age to think about a boy like that. But-the frequency and intensity were slightly alarming you.

Not enough for suspicion, but to make you want to lock yourself in your room so you didn’t just-jump his bones for merlin’s sake!

Through the afternoon to the evening, thoughts about Tom invaded your mind-growing more and more sexual by the hour.

By dinner, you decided to stay in and try to put these fantasies to use. You ducked beneath your bed and dragged out your trunk, cheeks flushed as you opened it and unwrapped your most precious secret; a muggle ‘handheld massager’, charmed to work without being plugged in and to be silent. You shuffled onto your bed, drawing the curtains.

-

(y/n) wasn't in the great hall, Tom thought, looking at her usual spot between her friends, but she was missing. He tapped his fingers on the table, jaw rolling. He wanted her to be at dinner, wanted to see her squirm and try to control herself, only to fail and throw herself at him when the heat and thoughts became too much.

He’d wanted to drag her off into a closed-off classroom and devour her whole.

Tom sighed, rubbing his hand across his face. “What is with you and that half-blood?” Dimitri Mulciber asked quietly, and Tom glared, eyes flashing scarlet.

“None of your bloody business,” He whispered threateningly, and Dimitri flinched back and cowered, eyes directed to his dinner plate.

“I saw your little Hufflepuff has been in a tizz all day, been staring at you too, more than usual,” Nicholai Avery murmured from two spots down Tom’s left, Abraxas leaning away. He had no interest in talking about this; he was betrothed, and happily so-he did not want to be involved with…whatever was going on with Tom and the chubby Hufflepuff half-blood.

Tom let out a huff. “I made her brownies,” They all stared at him, but Tom ignored their shock. “I laced it with aphrodisiac. I wanted her to be mine, but she’s more adept at controlling herself than I thought,” Tom grumbled.

“How much did you use?” Elija Nott asked, leaning in with interest.

“Only a half tablespoon, any more would’ve been too strong and made her vulnerable to anyone, I wanted her to want me and only me.” Tom muttered, knuckles scraping against the tabletop.

“Hmm, well,” Druic Rosier began to speak, sitting across from Tom. “It should still be in her system, and be pretty strong right now,” Tom raised his brow at Druic, urging him to get on with it. “Have one of her friends draw her out, and get her alone; that should be all you need to get her.”

Tom smirked, eyes locking onto (y/n)’s friends that sat across the great hall.

That could work.

Yes, it would work quite well.

-

“Hey (y/n)?” Your friend, Kaylee, asked from the other side of your bed curtains. You had long given up on trying to rub one out and try to calm down, nothing was working, so you were just lying there, body overheated and so fucking horny.

“Yeah?” you asked, voice cracking a little.

“Tom asked for you, says he has something to tell you,” Kaylee said, and you sat up, mind flashing with very inappropriate images of Tom.

Like your tongue on his throat as his hands slid up your sides while yours undid his belt-okay brain! Enough!

“O-okay,” you said, voice cracking again, swinging your legs around, pushing away the curtain, and walking past Kaylee, who gave you an encouraging smile. It felt like walking to your doom. Merlin, what did he want? Had he noticed something? Had you not noticed something?

“Hi,” You whispered, stepping out of the Hufflepuff common room, meeting Tom’s dark eyes.

-

“Hi,” she said softly, her voice cracking a little. He couldn’t take his eyes off her. She was flushed and heaving just a little, fingers trembling from where she held herself, her legs were shaking too. Tom licked his bottom lip, forcing himself to look (y/n) in the eyes.

“Hi,” Tom replied just as softly, though his mind and body were in a whirlwind, his pants already growing tighter. “You weren’t at dinner,” He commented, and (y/n) chewed at her inner lip-his eyes following the motion.

“I’m just…not feeling that great, was staying in bed,” (y/n) said, pushing her hair back, avoiding eye contact with him. Tom hummed, lowly, straightening as he saw her react to that small noise. A full body shudder, and she squeezed her thighs.

“Food poisoning? I hope my brownies didn’t do you wrong, I’d feel terrible,” Tom cooed, and (y/n) shook her head quickly, her fingers pushing into her cheek.

“No, no! Nothing like that. I just…I think I have a fever, been warm all day,” (y/n) choked out, and Tom hummed, stepping forward, intent in every step and movement as his hand came up and pressed against her forehead-her eyes wide as she looked at him, her mouth agape.

“You do feel warm,” he murmured, his eyes finding hers as the back of his hand trailed down her face, fingers brushing around the curve of her cheek. “Have you gone to Madam Tegner?” Tom asked, and (y/n) shook her head, swallowing hard as his knuckles brushed her jaw, and stayed there.

“Uh-i-no-no it’s, it’s fine, I’m fine, just…just a fever,” (y/n) croaked out, her eyes darting around; trying not to look at him, because if she did-with him so close-she didn’t know if she could control herself anymore.

“Mmm,” Tom hummed again, smirking a little as he felt her shudder, and her pulse go wild beneath his fingers. “Perhaps I should escort you, you seem…out of it,” Tom murmured. He was standing nearly against her now, staring down at her-his pupils consuming the deep brown of his eyes.

He breathed across her lips, and it had the exact effect he wanted. Her eyes locked with his-her own pupils consuming the color of her eyes-and she surged up. He met her halfway, consuming her with a groan-slipping his fingers into her hair at the back of her head, the other hand wrapping around her waist; pulling her even closer as (y/n) breathed hot across his cheeks.

It was heated, messy, new, and thrilling. He knew the aphrodisiac potion only elevated whatever feelings she had towards him, as it wasn’t like a love potion-but a simple elevation of feelings.

Her lips and body against his, were not forced, simply encouraged by the potion.

He stepped forward, pressing her against the corridor wall, kissing her hot and heavy, pulling away to kiss down her cheek and jaw-her hands clawed at his lapel; pulling at his perfectly set tie, yanking it down and loose. Tom groaned, biting at her jaw, pressing his tongue to the curve of her skin, smirking as (y/n) let out a noise that sent lightning down his spine.

“Tom-“ (y/n) breathed out, and he kissed her again, drawing his hands down her sides and then grabbing her thicker thighs-lifting her up and encouraging her to wrap those delicious legs around his waist-pressing her against the wall, using it to hold her up against him; grinding himself against her.

His eyes fluttered at the sweet, sinful sound she made, pulling away to breathe heavily before she yanked him back in, her tongue against his-against his teeth even-oh how easy it was to corrupt this sweet soul.

Now his. All his.

Tom pulled away to pepper kisses down her jaw, neck, thanking whatever god that was listening that made (y/n) wear a silky pajama top that exposed her shoulders and the top curves of her breasts, pressing his lips to the warm, plush skin and trailing downward still.

“W-wait-“ (y/n) choked out as he pushed up the fabric of her top and began kissing down her stomach, looking up at her with those dark eyes of his, black with heat.

“Denying me now?” Tom cooed, pouting a little, resting his chin on her belly-he was kneeling now, her leg over his shoulder. “But I’ve been waiting for you so patiently,”

(y/n)’s cheeks went bright red at his words. He liked her back?! Well, of course he did! she thought stupidly. He wouldn’t be kissing her stupid and be so close to her crotch-clear intent in his eyes-if he didn’t.

“I just…were in a public corridor,” (y/n) whispered, and Tom, while slightly thrilled with the idea of someone seeing her so sweetly under his control, knew he couldn’t take (y/n) for the first time in a corridor.

“Mmm, you’re right,” Tom murmured, and he stood, taking her hands in his, kissing her knuckles. “My dorm it is,” (y/n) sputtered, stumbling behind him as he turned and led her from the Hufflepuff common room to the Slytherin common room; he muttered the password, and the passage revealed itself.

“Woah,” (y/n) muttered as Tom guided her into the Slytherin common room. It was practically the opposite of how the Hufflepuff common room was, the Slytherin common room was mostly stone, filled with grey/green/blue hues from the black lake windows, Slytherin colors and banners everywhere.

Tom tugged on her hand and took her down the male dorm room corridor, slipping into his dorm room. He turned to her, dark eyes taking her in, she was flushed-eyes wide as she took in his room. Her eyes met his and he didn’t waste another second-yanking her towards him, pressing his lips to hers.

He chuckled at the squeak she made and then groaned as her fingers tangled into his hair and her nails scratched his scalp. Picking (y/n) up by her thighs again, he tossed her onto his bed, crawling atop her-knee sliding between her thighs.

There were no words, just quiet sounds and the feeling of clothes being pulled away to reveal skin. (y/n)’s breath caught as he pulled off her top and his kiss swollen lips traveled downward again, her head rolling back as he mouthed over her breasts and still continued further, shifting to kneel on the side of the bed, kissing down her belly-making eye contact with her as he pulled off her shorts and panties.

“Tom,” (y/n) breathed out, leading into a gasp as his warm and wet tongue met her clit, her thighs closing around his head. Tom let out a low sound, wrapping an arm around each of her thighs, gently pulling them apart and diving into places once untouched.

(y/n) moaned, body rolling, eyes fluttering as his tongue flattened and pulled from the base to the clit of her sex, her hips beginning to roll into the feeling, gasping and fighting the urge to pull away from it. She looked down-he was still watching her, his eyes nearly black. He adjusted his hold, sitting further up on his knees, sucking her clit into his mouth-swirling his tongue around it.

“Fuck-Tom!” (y/n) gasped, trembling; reaching down and tangling her fingers into his already messy hair, nails digging into his scalp, pulling him to get a certain pressure on where it felt best. Tom obeyed, pressing harder with his tongue, repeating the motion when she rolled into the feeling.

He let go of one of her thighs, slicking his fingers up with her gathering arousal, he could smell faint traces of pomegranate in it, the aphrodisiac still in her system. On his tongue. He watched her expression as his middle finger sunk into her, she was tight-untouched.

He pulled away to breathe-only to chuckle as (y/n) yanked him right back towards her, her thighs closing around his head again, ankles locking behind his shoulders. He had no problems with that, nose buried in the coarse hair below her navel, tongue pressed hot against her clit-swirling it in the way that got the most delightful reactions from (y/n).

(y/n) gasped, saying his name tight and breathless, her body trembling-he focused on her clit in the way he just was, curling his fingers-and he felt her clench around his fingers; pulsing. He groaned, swirling his tongue once more, grinning as she shoved his face away and pressed her thighs tight together-squishing his face between them.

“Not that I mind this,” Tom chuckled, lips shiny and swollen, chin slick, eyes dark. “But I can’t move,” His grin turned sharp and seductive. “And I would like to keep going.” (y/n) somehow blushed harder and let her shaking legs fall open, swallowing hard as Tom stood and moved atop her again.

-

You watched with heaving breath as Tom finished undressing, his trousers sliding down his thighs, his boxers going with them. You don’t see much but a flash of flushed skin, you feel it first-the heat of him sliding against you; ready and more than willing.

“Tell me you want this,” He whispers, laying over you-so close to slipping inside. You shudder, eyes fluttering as your hands curl over his thin shoulders; nails digging into the skin of his back.

“I want this,” You whisper, and he kisses you, breath warm against your cheeks as you feel him slide against you-dipping lower-and then;

“Ah-“ you gasp, brows pinching together, it’s a strange feeling, pinching and deep. Tom shushes you, soothing and quiet, kissing your temple and the tear that escapes your eye, settling deep inside you; staying like this for a moment, maybe two.

“I’ve got you,” he whispers, trailing his lips from your temple to your lips, kissing you deep, lips moving against yours as if he might die if he didn’t. Tom doesn’t move until you squeeze his shoulder, and then he’s moving, a slow repetitive motion of his hips that has you gasp, and your upper body rolls without your consent.

Tom chuckles against your jaw, pressing hot desire into your skin as his hips continue to slide against yours, learning what made you tick, what made you roll, sigh, and twitch. Your knees shake on either side of him, ankles soon locking behind him, breathing hard and quick; eyes fluttering and rolling upwards as Tom finds a specific angle. “There-there-“ You beg, and Tom does exactly that.

Again and again, until-you cry out faintly, body sparking as pleasure rolls through you from your spine, down to your toes, and up to your head; continuing as Tom continues to slide hard against you, until his own pleasure crests and a faint warmth pulses inside you.

Tom groans lowly, kissing your throat before sliding out and rolling to lie beside you, sliding an arm behind your head and curling you towards him. He pressed a hard kiss to your sweaty forehead, smiling against you. “My girl, okay?” He whispered, asked.

You had no reason to deny him, especially since you did like him already, and he liked you. Clearly.

“Okay,” You whispered, and Tom curled his other arm around you, pulling you even closer to him, hooking one leg of yours over his hip, your sweaty skin cooling rapidly in the now muggy dampness of his room.

“You’ve been baking way more recently,” Your friend comments a month later, noting the newest box of baked goods you had in your hands. This one was a smaller batch, a set of lemon bars. “Though; not as big as you used to,” Your other friend says with a knowing grin.

You still made the friday treats for the whole school, but on Saturdays and Thursdays, you made a more-private batch, for one particular person, though he always shared with you.

“Baking for a special person~?” Your friend teases, bumping her elbow with your shoulder, and you fluster, tapping your fingers against the box, which you had tied a green thin bow around it.

“i-well-um,” You stuttered. You and Tom were still new, so you hadn’t told your friends yet, and you had no clue how Tom wanted to do anything, so you tried your best to keep quiet until you talked.

However-

“Are those for me?” His deep soothing voice coos from behind you. you and your friends turn, your cheeks burning as Tom smirks, a hand held out. Your friends quiet their squeals as you nod and hand him the box, your shoulders rolling up as Tom pressed a kiss to your lips, a thank you.

Infront of everybody in the school.

He gives you a wink paired with a smirk, nods to your friends, and struts off to his spot across the hall.

Your friends turn to you, along with every eye of Tom’s admirers, and you sigh, closing your eyes as your friends squeal and his admires shriek.

Tom grins, biting into a lemon bar.

-end-