Archive of Our Own ^beta

The door to your room is always open, but Tom is the only one who is allowed inside.

You have never officially invited him. He wouldn’t like that—the assumption that he cares enough to stop by. But your room is his, and your body, too. That is an invitation in itself.

Some nights, he comes to you. He crawls into your bed, he pries your legs apart. He slicks you up and fucks you, hard, while you hold still beneath him, breathing as loudly as you dare, his hands pinning your wrists into the headboard while the mattress creaks in protest.

His mouth finds your throat, his teeth sink into your jugular. Like he wants to tear you apart.

There is some prelude to these events, to finding yourself half-asleep, half-hard, his cock splitting you open. There are signs only you can see.

In public, Tom is cordial. He greets you as he might greet his professors. He moves around you as if you were nothing, no one. As if he has never known the flush of your skin against his, the sight and sound of your pleasure as you lose yourself in him, with him, surrounded by him.

You have learned to read, in this deliberate absence of attention and affection, the intimacy that you cherish. Tom avoids your gaze because he is acutely aware of it. His hand never brushes yours, even accidentally, because he knows what it would mean. If he speaks to you, it is calculated. If he mentions your name, it will be out of your earshot.

All this to say that Tom ignores you because he is paying attention to you, and that is all you need.

Of course, parts of him remain closed to you: his pride, his arrogance, his rage. They do not allow for what you want. You worry, sometimes, that they may not allow for you at all. He may come to you night after night, but more recently, you think you feel him slipping away.

So you always let him in. You let him take and take—steal your heart, rob you blind—everything you would freely give him if he only were to ask for it.

One night, you find him alone in the Prefect’s bathroom. He is beautiful, flawless alabaster drenched in moonlight, and as he turns to you, you notice his irises are shot through with streaks of crimson.

You reach for him, pull him into your arms. He does not protest as you wipe the dirt and blood from his cheeks, so you kiss him next: his lovely mouth, his perfect jaw. You smooth your hands over his chest, note how it trembles, and ask him what he needs.

His answering voice is torn. Wet, ragged edges. “You.”

“Yes,” you promise him, “yes.” Your gratification is unwanted, but he has it nonetheless.

When you slide into him, he grips you with cold hands, squeezes breath out of you, your warmth and life and love. He is desperate and needy in a way you have never seen him before. 

If you didn’t know better, you’d say he was frightened, only what could possibly frighten him?

Tom is everything, everywhere, unending. He fills your mind every hour of the day, and so it feels only fair to pour yourself into him in return, to feed him the pieces of yourself one by one. 

You slow your pace. You watch as each tense exhale of pleasure returns colour to his pale cheeks, and when he comes apart, you hold him together. 

He does not thank you, but he lets you, he lets you, he lets you.

As long as he lets you, you think. Only you. Then it is alright.

You still want to kiss him beneath the sun’s golden rays, to brush autumn leaves from his hair, to mingle his scent with a fresh bouquet of roses. You want to love Tom the way you think he should be loved, out in the open, the way only you can love him because you know him best.

But for now, you breathe in the afterglow, his body resting peacefully next to yours. His lashes settle over the shadows beneath his eyes, and his mouth is soft and curled against your gentle kiss.

In these moments, when he no longer denies himself, he feels like he is truly yours.