Tom Riddle bitch

He turned off the alarm before it could go off and slipped out of bed; knowing today his wife needed rest, but the children, all three of them; 4th incoming soon,(not yet conceived but Tom wasn’t resting till he got his 2nd little girl.)would need tending to.

(y/n) tried to get up anyway as she felt the bed shift, trying to move with him but he gently pushed her back down. “Tom,” she said, sounding miserable, the word sounding more like ‘dom’ than his actual name.

“I’ve got it, you stay in bed, I mean it.” Tom murmured, leaning over to kiss her cheek as she complained, but her illness took her back under, and Tom tucked her in, making sure the cooling charms were working to keep her from overheating.

Tom stepped out of their shared bedroom, closing the doors softly behind him.

He had this, he’d dealt with children on his own before, from the orphanage to now, and half his followers were like damned children and besides; it wasn’t like he hadn’t helped out before, he was a present father after all.

How hard could this be?

-

By 6:15 am, he knew he was knee deep in it.

Arella; his oldest at 6, was complaining how he wasn’t brushing her hair right and was pulling too hard. Julian, his 2nd oldest at 4, was yelling from across the manor about his backpack.

And thankfully, Mattheo; his youngest at 2, was asleep still-dreaming away until his usual wake-up time.

“Daddy you’re pulling too hard!” Arella cried pitifully, her shoulders bunching up with every stroke of the brush Tom had in his hand-which Arella demanded he use. It was sparkly, pink. With a unicorn on it.

“Shh no I'm not,” Tom muttered, brow furrowed with concentration he usually saved for meetings or potions work, pulling apart the sections of her hair like he saw (y/n) do nightly.

“You are!” Arella almost screamed and Tom pulled away his hands, lifting them in surrender, feeling frustration bubble in his chest.

Then he saw her tears, and his heart melted. “No, no I'm sorry, I’m sorry,” the words felt awkward on his tongue, the vocabulary for ‘im sorry’ hadn’t existed till he started dating (y/n) nearly 16 years ago. “How am I supposed to do it?” Tom asked, picking up the brush again, setting it aside to look for the one (y/n) used on Arella, because the pink sparkly one sucked.

“From the bottom daddy, mommy starts it from the bottom,” Julian's voice came from the bathroom doorway, his hair a stuck-up curly mess, his favorite dinosaur backpack in hand. Tom nodded, parting Arella’s hair again and starting to brush from the bottom instead of the top or middle.

Arella eventually relaxed, letting him brush her hair free of tangles, and Tom glanced at his oldest son, who was brushing his teeth. “Thanks, Julian,” Tom muttered and Julian smiled, showing off his missing bottom teeth.

“You’re welcome daddy,” he said proudly, jumping off the bathroom stool and wandering back out of the bathroom. “Can we have oatmeal?!” Julian yelled down the hall. Tom wondered why he didn’t ask him that when he was in the same damn room.

Tom checked his watch-sighing. They had time.

-

Mattheo was babbling at his high chair, baby food oatmeal smeared across his cheek and his hands, his now-empty bowl in the sink; already being washed by the charmed soap brush. Arella had declined oatmeal, wanting eggs and English muffin toast with extra butter.

And the eggs had to be perfect, exactly how ‘mommy makes them’.

Thankfully, Tom had perfected (y/n) style eggs a while ago, and Arella liked them exactly like (y/n) did, over easy with salt.

“Daddy, the eggs aren’t heart-shaped!” Arella cried and Tom stared at her…since when did (y/n) make the eggs heart-shaped?

He flicked his wand anyway, the whites of the eggs turned into hearts, and Arella beamed, grabbing her fork and stabbing the eggs right in the yolk, making a mess of her eggs, giggling manically.

Yep. No DNA test needed. Tom thought with a smirk, cleaning up Mattheo’s face and turning to finish packing up Arella and Julian’s lunches, putting turkey one Arella’s and ham in Julians, cutting both into shapes with a wave of his wand and packing them in their lunch boxes with juice, an extra snack, and a small bag of muggle candy that they discovered last Halloween; M&Ms.

“Let’s go,” Tom said, hoisting Mattheo onto his hip, getting his oldest two to get their backpacks on with their jackets and to the floo. He grabbed the floo dust and threw it down in a flash of flames, Arella stepped forward towards her school.

“Bye daddy!” Arella yelled over her shoulder, and Tom absentmindedly nodded, waiting till she was in her classroom before grabbing another handful of floo dust, getting Julian to his preschool, walking him to class with Mattheo still on his hip.

“Be good, don’t bite anyone,” Tom warned, correcting Julian’s collar. Julian pouted, his matching doe eyes staring up at Tom. “No biting,” Tom says sternly again, gently shaking Julian’s chin, and Julian sighs, hugging Tom’s leg before rushing into his classroom, and Tom stood, heading back to the floo system; going through a list in his head.

Get kids up from bed, check. Get them dressed and ready for school, check. Get them fed, check. Get them to school on time, check. Stop at the market for soup for his sick wife, get back home and put Mattheo down for his nap, make sure he didn’t nap too long that he ruined his sleep, feed wife soup, clean up home while Mattheo Is down for his nap, entertain Mattheo when he is awake, make sure wife doesn’t die, clean kitchen, clean bathrooms, clean kids bedrooms.

Tom’s brain short-circuits halfway through the list; and it’s only the list for the first half of the day, not even including picking up the kids from school, getting Julien lunch since Preschoolers get out earlier, making sure Julien took his nap-

Tom grabs the floo powder, making a detour. “Malfoy Manor!”

Because who better to babysit than his closest follower, who had a baby of his own?

He steps into the manor, and Abraxas and the rest of the lot-Avery, Orion Black, Lestrange, and Rosier are all sitting together in the room, drinking. “Ah, Tom! Glad you could make it!” Abraxas said with a grin, and Tom remembered he’d been invited for a gathering, but it had slipped his mind; not that it mattered.

“Can't stay, wife's sick,” Tom said shortly, letting Mattheo be stolen from him by Avery, who instantly cooed and bounced Mattheo on his hip-Avery was expecting with his wife and had taken to adoring Mattheo and Lucius recently, to hone his new fatherly instincts. “Abraxas, you’re in charge of Mattheo,”

“What?” Abraxas stuttered, taking the diaper bag Tom handed over to him, watching as Tom up and left. “Tom!”

“I’ll be back at three,” Tom said, grabbing floo powder and disappearing.

Abraxas stared, stunned, looking at Mattheo in Avery’s arms, who shrugged. Abraxas sighed, running a hand down his face. “I’ll go get Lucius.”

-

Tom returned home as quietly as possible, putting the paper bag on the counter and waving his wand-the living room and kitchen put itself back together with ease and he padded down the hallway, opening the master bedroom to check on (y/n). all he saw was a wheezy lump of breathing bedding and he sighed softly, turning back and cleaning the kids rooms with a flick of his wand; returning to the kitchen, putting on an apron and rolling up his sleeves.

He washed and chopped up vegetables, dried and seasoned chicken, cooked the vegetables, poured in chicken stock, added the chicken-let the chicken cook, took the chicken out; pulled it all apart since it was nice and tenderized. It was a system, one thing after the other, he mixed up eggs, regulated them with some of the soup mix he had put aside and then poured the eggs into the whole soup and put the chicken back in, let it simmer, and then made a bowl for (y/n); pouring a hefty ladle of soup into a bowl with bread on the side.

He grabbed a pepper up potion and made his way down the hallway again, gently knocking. “mmmff,” (y/n) groaned, peering at him from under the blankets, and Tom spoke softly. “I have soup,” he murmured, sitting beside her on the large canopy bed, helping her sit up as the tray of soup hovered beside them.

“Don’t wanna,” (y/n) muttered, and she frowned as he spooned some of the chicken soup, blowing on it gently. “Did you make it?” she asked, her voice raspy and quiet from her sore throat and congestion, and Tom gave a smirk, holding it up to her lips.

She took a sip of it and closed her eyes, feeling that warm broth go down her throat and sit in her belly and oh was it heavenly. “oh, that’s good,” she murmured, allowing him to keep spoon feeding her, closing her eyes at the flavors that set pleasantly on her tongue and in her belly. “its good.”

Tom smiled. “Learned from the best,” he murmured, as he hadn’t known how to cook at all before she made him learn while their first, Arella, had gotten sick and wanted some soup. (y/n) smiled, eyes tired; and he could tell every part of her ached. Tom sighed softly, and (y/n) ate as much as she could hold down, and he gave her a pepper-up potion, tucking her back in, making sure her pillow was cold and blankets pleasantly warm, not too hot.

“Thank you,” (y/n) murmured, and Tom kissed her exposed temple.

“Anything for you dear,” he murmured, taking the nearly empty soup bowl and heading back out to the kitchen, cleaning up the mess. At 12 he picked up Julien, got him home and fed, then down for a nap, did laundry, woke Julian up and gave him some apple slices, let Julian help him fold laundry, and prevented Julian from bothering mommy because she didn’t feel good.

“Can I make her something?” Julian asked so innocently and Tom sighed, rubbing his face. He’d gotten mostly everything done, but making stuff with kids was a headache. They wanted to do every step and then got frustrated when things didn’t go their way or it didn’t turn out perfect. “What do you want to make her?” Tom asked instead.

“Bunny apple slices,” Julian said, and Tom sighed, okay; that wasn’t easy, but better than a cake or something.

“Okay, grab an apple,” Tom said, grabbing a knife and cutting board while Julian raced to the fridge. Within a few minutes, the apple was cut up into little bunny-shaped slices, using some toothpicks.

“now be quiet, mommy doesn’t feel good and loud noises hurt,” Tom said softly to Julian, who nodded like it was an important mission to give his mommy some apple slices as quickly and quietly as possibly. “now hold still,” Tom murmured, casting the bubble head charm on Julien so he didn’t catch any germs, because sick kids were no fun.

Tom pushed open the door and Julian stepped in. “mommy?” he asked quietly, walking towards the bed. (y/n) lifted her head slightly and smiled, she looked exhausted still, sniffling.

“Hi baby, what's that?” she asked softly, her whole body melting as she saw the bunny shaped apple slices. “Oh for me? Thank you baby,” (y/n) murmured, taking the plate and eating an apple bunny. “It's delicious Juli, thank you.”

Julian smiled and left the room with Tom, who quietly closed the door behind him, letting (y/n) return to her nap.

“Did I do good, daddy?” Julian asked Tom, who smiled softly, bending down to kiss Julian's temple.

“Yeah Julian, you did good, Mommy really appreciated the apples,” Tom murmured, gently guiding Julian forward into the living room for him to play while Tom cleaned up the kitchen again.

At 3, Tom collected Arella from school and Mattheo from Abraxas, Arella babbling about the art projects she completed that day that she just had to show mommy. “you can show mommy later, she still doesn’t feel very good right now and I don’t want you getting sick either,” Tom said, adjusting Mattheo in his hold as he tried to get Arella safely into the floo system without her squirming away.

“But I wanna show mommy! It has special sparkles!” Arella cried, showing him the drawing of the….dragon?

“it’s very pretty sweetie,” Tom said flatly, grabbing a handful of floo powder. “Now hold on, we’re going back home.” Arella pouted but grabbed his leg, Tom tossed down the floo powder and in a flash of green flames-Arella raced out into the living room, booking it down the hallway “Arella!” Tom hissed, hoisting Mattheo higher on his hip. “you’re mother Is trying to sleep!”

“But I wanna show her!” Arella whined, putting on her best teary-eyed expression, and Tom sighed, running his hand down his face. oh curse his weakness to the women in his life. “fine, but be quiet and don’t jump all over her, she doesn’t feel good.” Tom grumbled, casting the bubblehead charm on her face so she didn’t get sick or spread more germs to (y/n) while she was already down.

Tom hardly opened the door before Arella bolted in, climbing on the bed. “Mommy mommy look what I did at school!”

(y/n) let out a soft groan but sat up, curling her arms around Arella as she twisted around in her lap-showing her the art she made. “its wonderful Arella, wonderful use of colors and the sparkles for dimension,” (y/n) croaked out softly, smiling as Arella beamed and nuzzled into her. “I’d love to hear all about your day and what you did at school, but mommy doesn’t feel very good,” (y/n) murmured and Arella pouted, sinking into Tom’s arms as he scooped her up. “be good for daddy sweetie,” Arella let out a whine but pushed her cheek into Tom’s shoulder as he left the room, (y/n) set Arella’s art aside and sank back into bed.

-

She woke up a little later to the sounds of child chaos, screaming, crying, babbling, and more screaming. She slumped out of bed, blanket curled around her shoulders, shuffling out into the kitchen to see it just, a total mess.

Mattheo was smashing his fists into the highchair he sat in, Julian was sobbing on the floor for not being allowed to help make dinner, and Arella was screaming, curled up into Tom’s arms as she held her hand out, a burn mark clear on her finger.

Tom was desperately trying to console her, shushing her and trying to see the burn on her finger.

“Hey hey, its okay, I just a little burn, nothing I can't fix,” Tom said softly, his head snapping up as he heard (y/n) step into the kitchen. “(y/n)! go back to bed,” Tom ordered, standing up with Arella in his arms as she sobbed.

(y/n) sniffled and let the blanket drop from around her shoulders, bending down and scooping Julian up to put him in a kitchen chair. “sweetie, your daddy’s working very hard right now trying to take care of all of us, and sometimes that means its easier for him to make dinner on his own, you can help with dessert.” (y/n) murmured and Julian sniffed, hiccupping as his sobs eased.

“Darling you’re sick, go back to bed I’ve got this,” Tom murmured, holding Arella still in one arm, curling his arm around (y/n) as she stumbled a bit, closing her eyes as a pounding headache rolled in.

“Mommy?” Arella said softly as (y/n) gave a pained smile.

“Be good for your daddy, sweetie. I know you wanna help but-“ (y/n) coughed into her elbow and Tom sighed softly, setting Arella down.

“I’ll be right back to help with your burn Arella, in the meantime, you can make sure Mattheo doesn’t throw anything towards the food, okay?” Tom asked softly and Arella saluted, turning and rushing to Mattheo’s side as Tom scooped (y/n) up and carried her back to bed.

“You don’t have to,” (y/n) murmured against his shoulder, her eyes fluttering closed as he pressed a soft kiss to the ridge of her brow and laid her back in bed, flaring the blanket over her and tucking her in just the way she liked it.

“I want to, even when it isn’t easy,” Tom murmured, kissing her knuckles and disappearing back to the kitchen, wrangling his children together and getting dinner done.

(y/n) smiled to herself, snuggling into his pillow.

Dark lord or not, Tom Riddle was a wonderful father and husband.

That was how you two came to an agreement about doing schoolwork together. In the library. Under the watchful eyes of Madam Scribner, who sure was older than Hogwarts itself. Great. Perfect. As if the creaky chairs weren’t unbearable enough, add to that terrible draughts creeping under your skin! And, for Merlin’s sake, was it necessary for this weirdo Mulciber to spawn at every given opportunity? Ugh, why did even the lighting in here have a specific way of pressing down on yo—

“If you find the place so… unfit, you should’ve stayed in the common room.” Came out Tom’s low, hushed voice.

He turned over another page of the book where the text, had it not been bound by the tattered edges, threatened to spill over the narrow margins. Long, graceful fingers knew no rest in tracing every word written in Latin, wishing for the ink to hold the secret of immortality. As if. Human Transfiguration!

“And listen to Lucretia’s whining about Avery’s lack of affection for her? I’d rather not.”

Tom didn’t respond, although the corner of his mouth twitched. It was his second (the first being when you showed up three minutes late) remark in the past hour, and you had even begun to forget what your boyfriend sounded like. Velvety voice that could easily make your knees weak, raspy, breathy notes peeking out in his scoldings of your indecent behaviour. Oh, you would do anything to hear him falling apart again. You wished you were anywhere else but this wretched pla—

Wait.

You scanned the library. At this hour, a few students were scattered like lost souls. Somewhere between the tall, dark-wooden shelves, your small table granted much-needed privacy. Save for the lurking shadow named Mulciber a couple of tables further. Half-melted candles flickered overhead, their light caught in the black stone of the ring Tom wore without ever taking off. You stared into its endless darkness while your ‘purest’ fantasies swirled in your brain.

A cold wind sneaked under your shirt, and you shivered, involuntarily leaning into Tom. His warmth and the clean smell of his cologne enveloped you like a tight embrace.

“I told you to dress properly.”

“And I told you I don’t like libraries.”

The scratching sound of his quill stopped, yet Riddle didn’t lift his gaze from the parchment. He could feel your breath just where his collar met the skin.

“Care to remind me why?” Finally, Tom tilted his head.

Too close. He was so close you could see your own reflection in his dark, enticing eyes. Even at ten in the evening, Tom Riddle was impeccable in every aspect of existence: not a stray curl out of place, a neatly pressed shirt and trousers, a polished Head Boy badge, and, of course, entirely yours. Perfection required admiration, and you were pretty good at worshipping.

“They are dull and try to make you feel stupid when they should do quite the opposite. And Madam Scribner is so-o-o…” You began to count.

As if summoned, the librarian popped up from behind one of the shelves and shushed you so loudly that even if you’d been screaming, your voice would have been drowned out. Both of you winced, lowering your heads.

“Yeah, that’s what I mean,” you muttered, placing your chin on his shoulder.

He pressed a quick, chaste kiss to your forehead and returned to the patiently waiting notes. Your own, almost untouched, lay on the table in a chaotic attempt to complete a Transfiguration essay.

You tried. Really tried to focus on long and dreary sentences that had no end, seemingly determined to put you to sleep. But if Tom Riddle were to be the one to wake you up with a kiss of true love, you sure had to shut your eyes and let the dreams take over. A small smile touched your lips, heat crawled up your neck, and your touch danced on his knee under the table. The writing did not falter, and no reaction crossed his face. Just a perfect Head Boy working hard on his homework and ignoring his longing girlfriend.

B-o-r-i-n-g.

Your nail traced the straight line of the pleat up his thigh, until your fingertip brushed the dark leather of his belt.

“Dumbledore would not be pleased with yet another dreadful essay of yours.” Tom clicked his tongue, the sound of his rising annoyance fueled something mischievous inside you. “Nor would I be pleased if we were to be kicked out of the library because of your lack of control.”

Another page was turned, the dust motes swirled up from the book. Had Riddle not grown used to it, he might’ve scrunched his perfect nose or even let out a sneeze or two. Even when your lips brushed the sensitive spot under his ear, the one you liked to abuse with your teeth, and your hand moved to the inside of his thigh, Tom Riddle gave away nothing.

“We both know you wouldn’t let me blemish your reputation, Head Boy,” you purred, full of the dark knowledge of how his title said by you could turn him on. “It’s not the end of the world if my essays are not as flawless as yours. Besides, I’m good at other things.”

Tom quelled the need to ask about those things. The sly undertone of your words held all the answers he desired. Maybe he should stop your attempts to unbuckle his belt before the librarian or a student saw how little it took to make his pristine thoughts fog. But how could he refuse you? Refuse your sweet nothings whispered oh so softly into his ear. Refuse the warmth of your breath on his neck. Or, most of all, refuse the fire spreading through every nerve your slightly trembling fingers had ignited.

How cute, you being nervous when, in fact, he was the one with his trousers straining and his cock twitching.

“Are you sure of it, sweetheart?” Tom smirked when you nearly broke your nail trying to undo the first two buttons; then he schooled his features back to the mask of a model student who wasn’t very happy with his girlfriend’s insistent disruptions to his study time.

“Mhm,” was all you could muster before you finally unfastened his trousers.

First, you caressed his inner thigh, your nails teasingly raking up and down, purposefully avoiding where he needed you most. Still, he gave no other reaction than a slight tightening of his grasp on the quill. Scritch-scritch-scritch. The next sentence of the essay on Human Transfiguration did not end with the conclusion he had in mind, but with a small drop of ink falling from the nib. You leaned down, the chair squeaked, and you kissed the shell of his ear with a weak, breathless “Tom” dripping from your lips like the most exquisite drink he had ever had.

Inching closer to his crotch, your light touches seemed to irritate him more than your academic failures. As hard as it was for him to stay put, one could be envious of Tom’s ability to sit with a neutral, almost cold expression of someone whose insides were simmering with a honey-like thirst.

The usual, late-night rendezvous you two shared rarely involved fooling around in public (on special occasions he would allow you to suck him off with his back pressed to the cold wall of the corridor), but this—he swallowed hard when your thumb brushed his tip through the fabric—this was something else. A quick glance at Mulciber, who was too absorbed in his book to notice, a slight shift in the atmosphere, a stolen look over your shoulder at Madam Scribner passing by, and he let himself part his legs further. Nothing more.

“Shouldn’t you be reading your very important books, Tom?” you murmured, your own skin felt scorchingly hot under the layers of your starched shirt and woolen vest. Now, you weren’t cold at all; if anything, you were melting just from the mere thought of how lewd and vulgar and immodest the study session had become. And everything in between those words.

Just how you planned.

He didn’t turn, yet his nostrils flared and his brows knitted. If anyone dared to pay attention to Tom, they would see careful focus on his face, as though the text he was reading had suddenly transformed into a manuscript too dense to understand. Neither the ink soaking his last paragraph, nor the bead of sweat trailing down the sharp line of his jaw, nor even the painful hard-on under the table betrayed the truth.

You, in contrast, were about to combust and take Riddle with you. Heat painted your cheeks and neck, your lust-filled eyes gawking at Tom’s profile, your awkward fidgeting, which could easily be mistaken for a reaction to the uncomfortable furniture biting into your backside, on the stupid chair. In reality, the damp fabric of your underwear clang to your slick folds, forcing you to squeeze your legs together to soothe the aching throb of your pussy.

“Shouldn’t you be showing me what skills you consider more important than your critical thinking?” The next words he wrote failed to follow the ruled lines he pictured in his head, instead—they dipped, just how your warm and sweaty palm slipped inside his underwear and wrapped around the thick length.

A traitorous sigh escaped his lips, and Tom pressed them tighter together, chewing on the lower lip as if pondering his next thesis. The soft skin of your hand against his cock made every hair on his body stand on end. Up—your finger smeared a bead of precum—and down—you gripped him at the base. Not too hard, but not too light either. A perfect mix of teasing and electrifying anticipation of what you’d do next.

Mulciber’s distant look suddenly turned into questioning. You stroked Tom, the wet sound of his precum dripping onto your fingers and spreading along his cock sparked a desire to wink at Mulciber, to smile, or even smirk. But you only stared with your face dusted with fervour and polite indifference. How could you possibly do that? Contradiction on contradiction. With contradiction underneath.

“He doesn’t like me,” you said, stopping your movements when Mulciber returned to his work.

“I wonder why.” Tom’s lips quirked into a grin before being pressed into a thin line as you leaned closer to his face and trailed his jaw with your kisses. “Shit… if someone sees us…”

You never let him finish with your palm twisting around the tip just where he was sensitive to the point of his vision blurring. The quill squeaked at the harsh treatment of Riddle’s fist, ink staining his accurate argument as to why Human Transfiguration was not one of the most dangerous branches of magic.

“Then make sure not to give us away!”

That was hard to do when his mind struggled to form a coherent thought. Tom’s blood, hot and seething, seemed to rush downward as his hand slid from the book and dropped beneath the table to squeeze your knee until his knuckles turned white. It was your turn to bite your lip.

If a look could kill, you surely would’ve been dead the moment Tom’s black eyes locked onto yours. It felt like every ounce of your being was torn apart to be put back together with such love and devotion that the pain became the poison your system craved.

Not air.

Tom Riddle.

Your mouth opened in a silent plea to taste him, your heart thrummed in a feverish need to be as close to his as possible. The raw intimacy of the moment faded, yielding to the crushing yearning for Tom alone. He had the same impulses, if not far more ravenous ones. He knew what it took to make you beg, to make you squirm, and to make you cry. He knew what it took to drive you insane without ever touching you in return.

And he made sure to remind you of his talents at every chance he got.

You picked up the pace, and the stifled sounds you made amused Tom. He wasn’t doing any of the work, yet you were the one breaking for him all over again. Adorable.

Madam Scribner had shushed a student just an aisle away. And for a brief second, Riddle imagined what it was like from the side. Just two students during an unspoken battle of wills? Sure. If they risked to glance down, they would see how his cock, angry-red and swollen, throbbed in your grip.

Mulciber, who planned to keep an eye on his dearest friend and his girlfriend (he really hated you), wore a puzzled expression: his eyes narrowed and his jaw clenched. What in Salazar’s name was happening?! A lesson on Legilimency? A conversation understood by those whose hearts had forgotten how to beat alone?

Poor Mulciber.

“You are doing a terrible job,” Tom taunted, his gaze traveled down your body to inspect the way you moved over him. You just needed a push, and what could do it better than a little teasing? “Next time you better work on the essay—not everyone has a penchant for the carnal.”

“Oh, yeah?”

With that, you tightened your grip around the base, then slowly moved up. Your nail grazed his tip, pressing slightly onto it until fresh drops of precum gathered under your thumb. Tom’s eyes rolled back, and his mouth formed a small ‘o’ that sent a wide grin spreading across your flushed face.

“You sure of it, Head Boy?”

The light twists of your wrist never stopped, forcing Riddle to bite his words back. Even your own arousal soaking through your trousers did nothing to tame your competitive nature to prove Tom wrong.

He groaned, his long eyelashes fluttering. And that poked something primal. You drifted towards him, not caring about who might see you in such a compromising position, and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek.

“Come on, Tom.” Your next kiss landed on the side of his mouth, inches from swallowing the pitiful noise he made. “I know how much you want to come.” A sweet kiss to his nose. “Mulciber watches us, Tommy. Come on, love, just…”

Inside, he moaned so loud that Madam Scribner might have had a stroke, but outside he dropped his head onto your shoulder and bit down on the grey vest you wore. The bitter, sticky mess of his cum covered your entire palm in white, and you chuckled. He came so hard, the stars danced behind his closed eyelids, and the tiny shreds of shame he might feel was evaporated by your lips on his hair.

Absolutely destroyed by his own weapon.

The trembling in him didn’t ease even after a couple of minutes, and the blood that still hummed with aftershocks of pleasure had yet to return to Tom’s head. Now he could only inhale and exhale while he drew lazy circles over your knee. The bruises he had left from the rough grip pulsed with sweet pain. Everything turned dizzy and viscous, as if moving through the very a thick mass of hot syrup; your every nerve tingled, hands trembled with his cum clinging to your fingers.

“See? No need to be cruel to get what you want, right?” You patted his thigh.

Riddle slouched back in his seat, tousled curls, damp with sweat, sticking to his forehead. His chest heaved with every shallow breath he tried to take, just to have his lungs filled with the heady taste of air and your triumph. Mulciber, the colour of the Gryffindor crest blooming all over his face, bumped into a nearby table on his path of retreat and some of the books dropped, bringing in the furious librarian.

Tom drank in your beaming smile and rolled his eyes. The broken quill was swept aside, and the essay he had worked hours on was, too, crumpled and tossed into the trash.

“What are you doing?!” he hissed when the hand you had used to torture him, was brought to your mouth.

“What do you think? Cleaning up after the intense study session we had.”

At that, Tom made sure you would never be seen with him in the library ever again.

She’s obnoxious.

Tom thinks as he watches her laugh the loudest he'd ever heard as her friend face plants into a pile of snow, tumbling over herself as her other friends join in, snickering and laughing as their friend lay in the snow—defeated.

She’s annoying.

Tom thinks as she covers the front and inner cover of her potions notebook with stickers, a flower there, a snake on the other side of that, and then a fairy over here. She offers him a sticker, a skull with a snake curled around it.

She says it suits his aesthetic.

He doesn’t say a word, but the sticker ends up in his bag and then on the back inner cover of his diary.

She’s strangely morbid.

Tom thinks as she oohs and awes as he shows her a dead snake, which had been eaten clean by beetles, and she asks him if he knows how to preserve a skeleton.

He says nothing, and a week later she finds a perfectly preserved snake skeleton at her usual library seat.

She’s overly friendly.

Tom thinks as she tells him they were friends now, he took her sticker, he preserved the snake skeleton, and now he stood before her, letting her hold his hand as she declared no take-backs, returns, or exchanges.

He doesn’t know how to respond to that.

She’s clingy.

Tom thinks as she hugs his arm after catching up with him in the crowded corridor, using his height to get through the other side. Later, she’s sitting next to him in the library, moving from her usual spot to his. She’s shoulder to shoulder with him

 He’s not sure if he hates it or not.

She’s overly friendly.

He’s thought this before, but he thinks it again as she greets everyone with a smile, even those who sneer back or talk about her cruelly when she isn’t around.

They don’t deserve her kindness, he thinks, holding back a smirk as the petrified students are escorted into the hospital wing after being found in a flooded corridor.

She’s such a Hufflepuff.

He thinks, cheeks pink from the cold and so much more as she wraps her black and marigold scarf around his neck—it’s still warm from being around her neck and smells like her perfume.

She smiles at him, and he wonders what the hell he’s done to deserve it.

She’ll devour him alive.

He thinks, his mouth bruising against hers as she pins him to his floor, back to his plush dorm room rug, his wrists pinned down as she moves her mouth against his in a way that makes his head spin.

He’s going to let her.

He thinks as he arches into her, gasping as her hot mouth engulfs him, and he hasn’t had control for the last hour, and he likes it, he thinks foolishly.

She’s going to destroy him.

He thinks, head hazy with pleasure, barely able to moan as she bounces on top of him, hands on either side of his neck—constricting his air, and it makes his head spin and toes curl. She lets go just as he reaches the peak, and he literally blacks out, sucking in air as she gingerly lifts off him and collapses on top of him—his arms wrapping around her tightly.

She’s oddly devious.

He thinks, watching her chew on the stupid pom-pom end of her pen, a green one in his hand because she stole his quill and lied about it, saying if he truly needed to write then he could borrow one of her many pens!

He lies to himself that he hates it. He lies to himself that her grin when he took the pen didn’t make butterflies swarm his stomach.

She’s full of surprises.

He thinks, blinking at the ferret at his feet, familiar eyes staring straight back at him. they have a staring contest for a solid minute before he finally asks if that’s her, and she lets out a stupid sort’ve noise that almost has him laughing and he leans down, opening his sleeve to her and she’s up his sleeve and on his shoulder so quick he barely has time to blink.

She’s clingy.

Once again, he’s stated this before, but since becoming an Animagus, it’s impossible to keep her off him—Not that he minds. She’s in his sleeves, his shirt, his hood, around his neck—she falls asleep easily—soaking up his warmth and trading some of her own back when curled around his neck like a living scarf.

It’s terribly unfair how cute she is as a ferret, and she’d be the only cute one in the world to him.

She can be delightfully protective.

He realizes as she full-on tackles and begins to brawl with Olive Hornby for trying to spike his drink with a love potion, his eyes nearly starry as she beats Olive’s face until it’s bloodied, and as a prefect—he has to pull her off.

As her boyfriend, he wants to let her keep going, but he can't—so he drags her off to an empty classroom and snogs her stupid.

She’s tenderhearted.

He thinks as she stares at him teary-eyed as he tells her about his childhood, about the damp closet he got locked in for ‘looking cruel’, about the forced exorcisms when he ‘spoke in tongues’, about how his mother died giving birth to him, about how the orphanage reached out to his muggle father—yes he even told her that part of him he was ashamed of—and his father had never responded, didn’t even send a single pound to support his son.

She hugs him, nearly knocking him onto his back on his bed—and sobs into his chest; apologizing for things that were not her fault.

He never wants her to cry like this over him ever again.

She’ll abandon her own morals for him.

He realizes with sudden surprise, eyes wide as she does not run as she catches him in the girls' bathroom, where Myrtle Warren's body lies, and the basilisk slinks back into the under-school pipes—he’s terrified she’ll run, that she’ll betray him.

He’s terrified to lose her, terrified for the first time. But she only gives Myrtle a cold, empty look and takes his hand, pulling him out of the bathroom. She stands with him later that night as Myrtle’s body was taken out by aurors, hand in his.

He needs her.

He realizes, hands dripping with pitch-black potion ichor, shaking as he reaches into his chest and pulls out his soul. She sits with him, she does not run, watching as he splits his soul and places it into her body—watching her tremble in pain as the potion stains her skin.

He loves her.

He realizes, holding her close as they sleep the events of the night off, he felt ill; shaking and faint. Her chest ached—feeling thick and heavy, but her face did not leave his chest, holding him just as close as he held her.

He’s going to make sure she never leaves his side.

He thinks as he watches her kill his grandmother, a deranged, pleased smile on his face as his father and grandparents lay dead. He snogs her against the grand table, watches as she splits her own soul mere hours later and places it inside his chest, snug against his own.

He’s going to make her his queen.

He thinks as they lie in their crappy Knockturn alley apartment over a year later, the humid air making their skin sticky and the bed far too warm for comfort.

He’s going to give her the world and more.

He thinks, staring down at her as she sleeps against his side, the gaunt ring on her finger—protecting a fracture of his soul twice over.

He’s going to marry her.

He thinks as they visit the shore side a week later, staring at her as she wears a white sun dress and laughs as the ocean curls around her ankles.

She’s still his Hufflepuff.

He thinks as she grins and hands him a stupid pink pom-pom-topped pen as he does his inventory at work, hiding his quill beneath the desk.

She’s loyal.

He thinks as he tells her they need to leave, the Hufflepuff cup and Slytherin’s locket clutched in his hand. She doesn’t question him and packs her things, taking his hand as he buys the first train tickets out of London within the hour.

He’ll miss her if she ever leaves him.

He thinks, several years into their decade of exploration, searching for dark artifacts—searching for Ravenclaw’s diadem to make another horcrux. They’ve wound up in a forest cabin, she’s cooking dinner and does the laundry; he cant help but imagine her as his perfect little housewife, and he has to stop himself from pinning her against the kitchen counter and putting a baby in her then and there.

She stays even as he begins to change.

Even as his skin pales and flakes, even as his eyes turn blood red, even as his body twists and transforms—she does not leave, she kisses him the same, loves him the same.

She returns with him to London.

She calls him by his chosen name.

She stays.

He kill her if she ever leaves.

She becomes his wife, and then the mother of his child.

She loves him even after he loses his mortal beauty and becomes monstrous.

He regrets very little, sometimes—he mourns the loss of his handsomeness, but he never regrets her.

He thinks, watching her sleep, curled up gently in the soft fabric of their bed, cradling her very pregnant belly. He moved them into a manor, a wedding gift from Abraxas—an old summer family Malfoy home—and he’s given her everything he’d ever wanted for himself.

Power, money, a home.

He leans close, kissing her temple and she mumbles out her affection—he smiles against her skin and tucks her in gently, making sure the cooling charms were working as he stands, returning to his meeting room with his death eaters.

He’s realized many things over the years, and she is his favorite.

-end-

He hates her when she’s sitting alone during lunch, in a lone corner away from everyone else because she thought she was too good to sit with anyone else. He hates her when she’s paired with him in potions class, working quietly beside him.

He hates her when she clings to his thoughts, even when she’s nowhere to be seen. He hates her when he’s trying to think of anything else, and all he can visualize, is her.

He hates her because he makes him feel. He categorizes it as hate, because its all he’s known since he was young, and scared, and strange. He hates her because it’s what’s safe.

He hates her when she speaks to him for the first time, he hates her as he stares at her bright eyes and slightly chapped lips as she speaks; she sounded differently than he’d expected.

He hates that her voice isn’t shrill or annoying, its—sweet. Deep in a way he hadn’t expected, but he hates it when her tone changes depending on who she’s talking to. He hates it when she speaks high when talking to a professor. He hates it when she speaks low when talking to a friend.

He hates her when she isn’t looking at him, talking to him.

He hates her as she entertains someone else as they flirt with her, he hates her when she’s laughing and touching their arm. He hates her as she flirts back.

He hates her as he corners her later that day, he hates her as they scream at each other.

He hates her as his lips crash against hers, he hates her as she bites his lip and yanks his hair.

He hates her as he tears her skirt from her hips, he hates her as he pushes his aching cock into her searing heat. He hates her as she moans his name, nails digging into his scalp; her thighs around his hips as her back scrapes against the wall behind her.

He hates her as he spills inside her, her clenched around him like a vice, almost refusing to let him go.

He hates her as he pulls away and runs, barricading himself in his room, leaving her behind—dripping with the evidence of what they’d just done.

He hates her as she corners him a week later, and kisses him stupid.

He hates her as she confesses.

He hates her as he kisses her back.

He hates her as the feelings burn brighter in his chest. He hates her when she smiles at him the next day. He hates her when she takes his hand and kisses him in front of everyone.

He hates her when he invites her to his little corner in the library so they can study alone. He hates her when she smiles at him, and he hates her as she steals his jumper and wears it around as if it belonged on her.

He hates himself as he spirals into madness. He hates himself as he watches green lighting connect with her body, and the light goes out in her eyes. He hates himself as he watches her fall. He hates himself as he breaks apart a piece of himself and puts it in the diary she bought him for his birthday, only months before.

He hates himself as he loses the only person he didn’t hate.

Y/N had thought it would be funny, that was the problem.

The entire prank had started because Mattheo had laughed and said, “You know what would be hilarious? Pretend to break up with Tom.”

In hindsight, taking relationship advice from Mattheo was always a terrible idea. Because now Y/N was standing in an empty classroom staring at her boyfriend.

Who was staring back. “…What?” Tom asked.

Y/N almost backed out immediately. Almost. Instead she crossed her arms and forced herself to continue. “I think we should break up.”

Silence.

Tom blinked, once, twice. Then, nothing. No anger, no argument, no reaction at all.

For about three seconds.

Then every door in the room slammed shut. The lock clicked. Several wards appeared across the walls.

And Tom stood up.

Y/N immediately regretted everything.“…Tom?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead he started pacing, one end of the room, then the other. Then back again.

Y/N watched him but he kept pacing. “…Tom.”

Still nothing

His hands were folded behind his back now, which somehow made everything worse because that was what he did when he was thinking.

And Tom Riddle thinking was always dangerous.

Finally he stopped. “No.”

Y/N blinked.“…No?”

“No.”

“Tom—”

“No.”

“Thomas.” That got his attention immediately.

He turned toward her, looking genuinely confused. Like she’d suggested something impossible. “My future self didn’t tell me this.”

Y/N froze.

Tom continued pacing.“You and I are supposed to be together forever.”

Y/N stared because Tom was serious. Entirely serious. “I’ve met our children.”

Y/N’s stomach dropped because he had.

Mattheo, Delphini, Marvolo, Albus, The twins and even Aurelia. All of them.

Tom stopped again, his expression tightened. “I’ve met all seven of them.”

Y/N winced as Tom looked genuinely offended by reality itself. “Not one of them mentioned this.”

“…Tom.”

“Not one.”

“Tom.”

“I specifically asked.”

“You specifically interrogated them.”

“Same thing.”

Y/N covered her face. This had gone so much worse than she’d expected.

Tom started pacing again.“You don’t leave.”

Y/N lowered her hands.“What?”

“You don’t.” His voice was firm, he voice was certain. Like he was reciting a fact, like gravity, saying like the sky being blue. “You stay.”

Y/N’s heart hurt a little. Because suddenly this wasn’t funny anymore. “My love, I didn’t mean to hurt you. “

Tom wasn’t angry. He was panicking, trying very hard not to, trying to solve it logically, trying to make reality fit what he’d already seen. “You didn’t hurt me,” he said immediately.

Which meant she absolutely had.

“You didn’t.”

“Tom—”

“I’ve simply identified an inconsistency.”

Y/N nearly laughed. Only Tom Riddle would call heartbreak an inconsistency.

Tom rubbed his forehead. “No.” There was that word again.

Then suddenly he stopped pacing, his eyes narrowed and Y/N watched the exact moment he convinced himself. “It’s a prank.”

“…”

Tom pointed at her. “It’s a prank.”

Y/N blinked.“…Tom.”

“It’s obviously a prank.”

“You sound like you’re trying to convince yourself.”

“I am not.”

“You are.”

Tom ignored that. “It’s a prank.” Then he nodded, once. Like he’d solved a difficult equation. “That’s what this is.”

Y/N looked at him. Looked at the boy she loved. The boy who had accidentally seen enough of the future to know she never left.

The boy who looked far too relieved to have found an explanation and suddenly she felt awful.“…It is.”

Tom immediately relaxed, not fully, but enough. “There.”

Y/N laughed weakly. “There?”

“There.” Tom looked pleased with himself, like he’d solved the mystery. “You aren’t leaving.”

Y/N shook her head. “No.”

“Obviously.”

Y/N smiled.

“Obviously.”

Tom looked vindicated, then crossed the room in about three strides. Wrapped his arms around her and refused to let go.

Y/N laughed. “Tom.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“You are staying right here.”

“I’m literally in your arms.”

“Good.”

Y/N buried her face against his shoulder.

Tom tightened his hold slightly, as if making extra sure.

“You know,” she said quietly, “most people would’ve just been upset.”

“I was upset.”

“You locked the door.”

“I was thinking.”

“You warded the room.”

“Precautionary.”

“You paced for ten minutes.”

“I was processing.”

Y/N laughed harder.

Tom looked down at her, then sighed, “You are not allowed to do that again.”

“I know.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “You frightened me.” That made her pause because Tom rarely admitted things like that.

Y/N immediately reached up and cupped his face. “I’m sorry.”

Tom leaned into her hand automatically. “I know.”

“I’m not leaving.”

“I know.” Y/N smiled.

Tom stared at her for another second then finally kissed her forehead, long and lingering.

Still holding her. Still refusing to let go and Y/N suspected he wasn’t planning to let go for several hours.

Just to be safe.

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With one boy, starving with the knots in his back, who went too far, whose blood turned black, and dark chocolate eyes turned red.

That boy was dead, and what rose in his place was a monster who transformed the world into one where he and his demons ruled.

Voldemort, the vampire lord, stood above all, with gleaming red eyes, a gaunt face, and a boy buried deep within that hadn’t seen the sunlight in 12 years.

That was soon about to change, for the better? Who knew.

-

The world had gone to shit about 6 years ago, in the winter of 1951, after a long slow-burning coup, made of vampires and dark creatures, suddenly toppled the ministry; And in its place; something else.

Something terrible.

Humans were no longer the top of the food chain, London hadn’t seen the sun in years, everything was just constantly covered in smog and clouds, the air forever thick and reeking of rotten blood and mildew.

You remember the old days, when even during the muggle war with the Germans, things were bright, hopeful. You remember the sun, you remember lying in the dewy grass at Hogwarts, you remember breathless kisses and whispers of a future together.

You blinked slowly, heavy, rolling over on the hard metal floor of the cage, lifting your left arm-the chain shifting against metal, screeching slightly.

Those days were long gone. Freedom, was in the past, maybe one day, in the future, but not in yours, not anytime soon.

You don’t know how long it’s been, while you’ve been here; trapped, drugged, useless. You think you remember being a part of a small resistance, you’d had a few werewolves, a few morally driven vampires who hated the world as it was, even though it favored them now; it was mostly humans, mostly wizards and witches.

You’d been on a mission, you think to…you don’t remember, maybe to free some captured humans that were being sold to a trafficking ring? You do remember being captured, a stunner at your back, followed by a needle in your neck.

Now you were here. Days, weeks, months? Years? You didn’t know.

But you could feel your ribs through your skin, your spine against the ground, you were a sickly color, gaunt now.

You could hear others, most, if not all, in the same state that you were.

Blood-bags. That’s what you were called, humans just meant to feed the vampires that ruled Europe now, kept just healthy enough to keep producing blood, but weak enough to be unable to fight back.

Drugs kept them weak, kept their magic-if they had any-weak, and chains kept them down, all kept in individual metal cages like dogs.

With no any room to stand, even if they had the strength to.

At least once a week, a vampire, one of high ranking or with a shit ton of money, came through the warehouse where they were all kept, and made their choice of a human to feed from. A sack of gold coins was passed, and then that was it, the crash of chains, a dry raspy pleading, begging, and then silence again.

You hadn’t been bought yet, you didn’t know whether to be grateful or not, staring up at the solid metal roof of your cage.

You reached up, your right arm free of a chain, and scratched at the metal above you with your brittle yet long nail, marking another tally into the half-rusted metal.

One hundred and 28 tallys. Four months, you think, you’re not sure, but you’d slept 128 moons, that you remember. Thankfully, there's windows, sometimes you can count the stars, and barely enough food to survive; given daily by the men who took you and so many others.

Business would be bad if their stock got sick to the point of a infection, that was just bad Business. What vampire wanted rotten blood? You’d seen, heard, what happened a few times. The boss was a werewolf himself, so he could protect himself, but you remembered smelling blood once, when a vampire felt cheated out of a good meal he’d paid good money for.

That was 42 moons ago, you think.

It’s getting harder to wake up, to want to wake up.

You blink at the ceiling, your chest rises and falls with an ache deep inside your ribs.

You shift again as a door from the far end of the warehouse creaks open, moonlight drifts in for only a moment, and then three pairs of footsteps-two sets familiar, one…not, maybe? You’d felt you’d heard that gait before.

You turn your head to the walkway that splits apart all the cages, your gaze catching onto the man across from you, dark hair blended into the thin padding below him.

Three men are walking through the cages, two of whom you recognize just from their voices and stature. One was the boss of the whole trafficking ring, the other his right hand man-a fellow werewolf, the third? Had to be a vampire.

He was cloaked in black, pale from what you could see, with a lock of dark dark brown hair that just barely peeked out from the silver mask he wore; and red eyes that gleamed in the faint moonlight that came in from the ceiling windows of the warehouse.

The three men were talking to each other, too low for you to hear, and you didn’t have the will to listen deeper. You blinked slowly, shifting again. Red eyes glanced over you, continuing on for only a moment before they snapped back on you.

They stayed, you stared back for only a moment before shifting again, the chain around your wrist scratching against the metal bottom of the cage.

The vampire continued to stare at you as the werewolf boss prattled on about his stock, how they were kept weak and malnourished for a reason-to prevent any escaping, and kept their magic weak.

The vampire's voice is low, quiet, his eyes still on you. “And this one?” he asks, and for a moment you think you recognize his voice before forcing that thought away.

No, it wouldn’t be him.

He was dead.

“That ones been here for bout five months,” Someone kicks your cage and it rattles, you scrunch your eyes shut as it makes your head ring painfully. “Half-blood, still got some meat on her, but it’s burning out quick,” The werewolf boss laughs sharply. You hear the creaking of a fist that was clenched too tight too quick. “Reckon she’d make a fun fuck toy too, if that’s what you’re interested in-“

The werewolf boss is cut off by his own gargling grunt. Something begins to drip to the dusty floor of the warehouse, accompanied by the crunching of bone and the squish of soft flesh-or was it flesh?

You opened your eyes, watching-more hearing-as the vampire dug his clawed thumbs into the werewolf’s eyes, gleaming red eyes bright in the dark, as the bosses 2nd hand man scrambles back, eyes wide in horror.

The vampire says nothing, just glaring, the werewolf boss screams-cut off as the vampire draws a hand back, making a point with his claws, and then digs into the werewolf's neck; slowly splitting his head from his shoulders, until it pulls apart with strings of gore, and the spine snaps apart.

The body drops, the head is stuck on a hook that drips onto your cage with blood, but your eyes are on the body, watching as blood pours from the head and turns into a puddle.

The vampire turns to the 2nd hand man. “You’ve been promoted. Don’t be as foolish as this dog was,” The vampire snarls out, deep and almost rumbling through your chest as the 2nd hand man, now the boss of the trafficking ring, nods frantically, handing the vampire the set of keys when they’re demanded.

Your cage unlocks, you don’t have the strength to move. The other man-scared shitless-tries to help and attempts to drag you out by your chain but his hand is crushed, you hear him scream and scramble away, sobbing against another cage as two cold hands, covered in blood, cup under you and pull you from the cage.

The chains keeping you attached to the cage are broken off, and somehow a cloak is wrapped around you, it’s warm and smells familiar somehow, but you ignore that.

You’re just, so tired, you’d be dead soon anyway.

There was no way you’d survive being a blood bag for a vampire, you barely had enough in your system to survive another week.

“What is she on?” The vampire demanded, his voice deep and almost guttural, adjusting his hold on you-your head falls into the crook of his shoulder. It’s hard to breathe, everything felt too far away and way too close at the same time.

“i-uh-its-we put our stock on Oxy, Rohypnol, uh-uh-Barbiturates-and-and nutrition potions-to keep them alive-“ The vampire snarls hard, you hear the other man scream a little, there's a faint smell of piss now.

“How often, for the drugs?” The vampire asks, sharp and angry-why? You don’t understand. Why would he be angry? No other vamp was this angry about the treatment of blood bags, especially cheap ones like your lot- approaching the other man now, his claws dig into your shoulder and thigh.

“Every day!! Everyday-we-I have a schedule I can give you, her schedule! And the rest of the batch we use for her, for free! Please don’t kill me,” The other man said pitifully, terrified, and the vampire let out a snarl through his teeth, clutching you closer before he stormed out of the warehouse.

You take a breath, it’s the first time you’ve smelled fresh air in months.

You can see the stars, body limp, unable to move or break free and run for it.

You’re just so tired, it hurts to even breathe.

You wouldn’t be able to escape even if you tried.

The cushion of a carriage seat greets you, you wonder why this vampire is being so…gentle, and so does darkness.

You don’t know how long it’s been since you passed out, but you’re warm, you’re warm for the first time in months, warm and…wet?

You gasp, coughing wetly as warm, soapy water splashes around you. You’re naked and surrounded by a two women, both shushing you as you tremble and try to get away, you feel more awake-the sedative drug has worn off a little-it’s been maybe four hours then-they usually administer that every four hours to keep you down and out.

“Miss-please-you’re filthy!” One of the servants pleaded with you, a comb in hand, another’s hands were coated in sleek-easy to help the other get all the mats and knots out of your hair without shaving it.

“No-no no no-“ You breathe quick and hard, every limb shaking. “No no no no no,” you repeat the word, the plea, over and over again-you’re hurting all over, it’s hard to breathe, your limbs ache, and your head is splitting in two.

“Do it!”

“The lord said not to! To let them run their course!”

“We must! She is going to hurt herself!”

 Your head bashes against the tub faucet and then-a stunner in your neck, and then a pinch in your arm and everything floats again.

Through the blurring brightness of the bathroom, a figure in the doorway, with red gleaming eyes-wide in emotions you didn’t have the energy to name, or recognize.

He looks familiar.

Tears blur your vision further, and then it’s darkness again.