#palestinian reader

Tom wants to reach forward and slide his hands around your waist, press the pads of his fingers into the plump flesh of your hips like a snake constricting you to bend to his will. The look you give him dares him to do so again, the last time he did he was quickly swatted with a pretty manicured hand.

“If you keep looking at me like that, I believe my head will melt off,” he says, lips quirking into a sly smirk, a challenge. He straightens his back into the chair he had found himself situated in when one of your fellow dancers had guided him to this quiet, secluded back room.

“If only I could,” you hiss, hands smoothing the silk scarf wrapped around your shoulders. Moving then to readjust the veil with golden jewelry covering the lower half of your face for modesty. Your actions come off as sure and calm, but Tom can plainly see just how nervous, just how unprepared you are. He remembers the way his friends commented on your attire.

“You think he wears that thing to cover his face because he’s ugly?”

“With a body like that he has to have at least an average-looking face.”

“Who cares about the face? I would bang that Palestinian boy from the back so I forgot he was a man.”

“I’d like to see you try,” his voice comes out softer than he wants. The edge of it is flimsy and soft. His hands clutch the arms of the chair, an absent thumb rubbing the texture of it.

Your eyes light up at the playfulness he has slowly started to exude, intrigued and more than interested in this man’s true intentions. Stalking forwards, legs peaking through the slit on each side of your leg, you circle around his sitting figure. You try to disguise the slight pain that shoots up, ass tender from when his friend had gotten much too handsy.

“H-hey! You can’t do that!”

“Slapping you wasn’t a big deal now, was it really?”

“He was begging for it, look how red his face is!”

Tom notices, he notices everything. He wants to ask if your alright, to decline this private dance he asked for. But the way you looked was too much for him to pass up. He had to know more about you, this is the first idea that came to mind. Not his brightest moment, but he was with you now wasn’t he?

“Paid for like a common whore,” the sneer you let out sends tingled down the entirety of Tom’s spine. You come full circle around the chair, leg raising high to press a bare foot, golden ankle bracelets tinkling and shining in the dim light, upon his chest to push him back against it. “Who do you think I am?”

Tom’s answer is quick, gray eyes blazing, breath letting out the lightest gasp. “I don’t know, but I want to.”

Your hands clench subconsciously, pretty eyes glancing away from him. Who does he think he is. To say things like that so easily. You turn your head to stare back at him, just a bit more subconscious with your bare chest open for him to gaze at. At least it is covered with sheer material like the rest of your outfit. You can keep some of your dignity, even if his friend had not.

“He has his whole body practically exposed, no shame at all.”

“You say that like your not drooling from seeing his legs so out in the open.”

“Eh, if only he was English and not some nasty Middle Eastern trash.”

You soften your voice, feeling his chest heave slow with your foot on it. “Then let me show your, sir.”

You move your foot down, anklets clanking softly together as you raise your hands and begin your dance. He watches your every movement with abated breath. Your beautiful and in the low glow of the light through the oriental cafe’s lamps your skin shines. His eyes don’t move from your figure, ears ringing with the melodious sound of golden jewelry that shakes with the movements of your hips.

Your hands, decorated with a candescent shine of rings, flow through the hair whipping and forming it as if carving a sculpture. The only is, Tom thinks eyes drinking you in, you are the sculpture. If only he could open his mouth and say how beautiful you are. To tell you he cares not for your differences in culture, in religion, in anything that may separate you. All he cares about is getting to know you, understand you. You don’t know how much he wants you, in every possible way.

You turn, twirl, and twist in every which way. Your belly dance is a miraculous display of power and unfathomed control. Who knew a boy could move in such an incredibly feminine way?

“Can I get closer?” Tom realizes you are asking him, asking his permission. Where did both their feistiness go that had held fire in the air earlier? When had everything dissolved into sugary sweetness and schoolboy nerves?

He comes back to his sense when he notices he has yet to answer, your eyes holding onto his fingers twitching worriedly. He gulps and pokes out his tongue to wet his lips, speaking just loud enough to not frighten you. “Yes, please.”

You move faster than he anticipates, a gazelle with your pretty limbs and long shadowed eyelashes. He knows he can’t touch you but when you cage him with your thighs he can feel his self-control slipping from in between shaky fingers. How are you defeating him of all people so easily? Exactly who are you?

If he couldn’t keep his eyes off you earlier it is more than impossible now. The feel of your ass presses just right against the fabric of his pants that conceals his dick. If you keep that up he won’t be able to show you mercy for much longer. The breath is almost knocked out of his lungs when your hands come forward and push under his overcoat, nails trailing his white button-up. He wants you to rip his shirt open, feel your nails on his feverish chest.

You revel in the way his face contorts into semi-concealed pleasure. Does Tom know what kind of face he is showing? Does he know his cock has started to press harder into the crevice of your ass? You want him to touch you. You know you strictly told him not to, the fact of that paired with how obedient he is blossoming a warm feeling in the center of your chest.

Your eyes travel to the clock hanging on the wall, its hands crushing your spirit. “Time’s over.” You move, yet don’t when he speaks up.

“Hayat,” Tom says it in such a debauched way your toes curl upon pure instinct. “I’m not like them. I want you to know that.”

Your eyebrows crinkle together, “How do I know for sure? How do I know you won’t throw me away,” voice stern and strong.

He looks at you like nobody has looked at you before. “You won’t till after this. So all I can ask is for you to trust me.”

You have nothing to lose, not really anyway. Either way, you’ll have had a good night. You’ll have met a handsome man with wishes you could fool yourself were true. No matter what happens to your heart in the end.

“Then show me you’re different, habibi.”

It’s a moment of stillness before he brings his hands up to settle on the edge of your sheer mask. He silently asks your permission, that of which you give a silent nod to. Letting it fall from your face he has to take a few slow breaths to stop himself from devouring you. Oh god, you are beautiful, why are you hiding such a pretty face?

Lurching forward, lips meeting yours. His hands are big on you, one on your uncovered thigh and the other trailing to the curvature of your back to push your body fully against his. His palm on your back, skin to skin, is better than any wet dream you have ever had because this is reality. This is really, truly happening. A rush of resistance overflows within you.

Pushing hard you slip your tongue into his mouth, not caring that he tries to fight you. The slide of his tongue against yours is intoxicating. Roaming over his perfect teeth, his cute pink gums, the taste of him is being swallowed whole by you. His fighting is nonexistent now, his hold on you lax. Holding a hand against the column of his throat you can feel when he gulps a load of air as you pull away from his lips. His are shiny, wet, absolutely beautiful. His hair is a bit tousled from the struggle of it all.

“Hayat-”

“That’s not my name,” you say, revealing it’s but a stage name to protect your identity. He eyes you as you glance behind your shoulder at the door that separates you both from everybody else in the oriental cafe, before turning back to him. Moving close you whisper your real name in his ear, lips pressing a soft kiss to the shell of it.

“I’m Tom. Tom Riddle,” a smile more gentle than gentle playing upon his face, “so no more sir.”

Your heart bursts and shrinks at the same time in an unending paradox. You’re having a heart attack, aren’t you? Because you can’t handle what is occurring now.

You decide to not ponder it, coming forward to place skittish wet kisses on his throat, thumb tilting his head up for more room. His hips buck yours, a moan flying out both your mouths from the spark that starts to spread fast through each of your bodies. He begs for you to keep going, don’t stop, and right there, that spot. This man who sauntered in here, aura of a politician and sleazy racist friends, was whimpering beneath you. The power in your veins was is immense, you swore you had wings. Pulling away, the way he tries to catch your lips is endearing.

“Right here. Right now,” your voice run ragged already. Your eyes meet as he leans his head back down, a predatory look not hidden at all within the depths of his eyes. “Show me your different.”

The glint of his canines peeking from between his charming lips has your body quivering with a mix of excitement or fear. “My pleasure.”