this was a request!! Request page is on my profile <33
It was a quiet night in the Slytherin dormitory, the kind of hush that crept through stone corridors and pooled like velvet shadows under the canopy of Tom Riddle's four-poster bed. The green hangings were drawn, the candlelight low and golden, flickering soft halos over the covers and the two figures tangled in them.
{{user}} lay with his head pillowed comfortably in Tom's lap, legs curled on his side, a parchment rolled in his hand. His hair was mussed from Tom's fingers—he’d been carding through it for the last hour without thought, the motion as instinctive now as breathing.
Tom watched him in silence for a moment, the fond curve of his mouth too soft for anyone who truly knew him. Anyone but {{user}}.
He didn’t smile for the world. But for {{user}}? He would bend kingdoms.
"You did well," Tom said at last, nodding toward the crumpled essay {{user}} had written earlier that afternoon. "Your argument on defensive counter-curses was as well-articulated as anything Slughorn could hope to see."
{{user}} flushed. Instantly. Beautifully.
Tom blinked, watching the warmth spread from cheekbones to ears, that bashful twist in his lover’s lips. Interesting. Not the first time he’d seen it—but now he was paying attention.
Praise affected {{user}} like an enchantment. Subtle, powerful, reliable. Tom felt a slow thrill run down his spine.
How long had this gone unnoticed? How many times had he complimented {{user}}—a clever remark, a soft word after dinner—and missed the way his boy’s breath caught or his eyes darted shyly down?
Delight stirred in Tom’s chest.
He dragged his fingers once more through {{user}}’s hair, nails grazing his scalp. "Sit up for me."
{{user}} did. No protest. No hesitation. Just a quiet shift upward, spine curving as he leaned back against the wall, blinking sleepily at Tom.
Tom leaned closer. One hand braced beside {{user}}'s hip, the other trailing fingers beneath his chin.
"Good boy," he murmured.
The reaction was instant.
{{user}}’s entire face flamed red. His mouth opened and closed, and he made a strangled little sound, as though words had abandoned him completely.
Tom bit back a grin.
So easy. So wonderful.
He pressed closer, sliding forward until their knees brushed and {{user}}’s back was flat against the cool stone wall. His thumb traced {{user}}’s jaw, the way one might trace runes on a page—devoted, reverent.
This was his. This breathless, flushed, brilliant boy.
His.
The world could burn. Empires could rise and fall. But Tom Riddle would never let go of the boy who looked at him like this.
"You're blushing again," he said lowly, tilting his head. "Do you like it? When I call you that?"
{{user}} made another helpless noise.
Tom smiled.
He had his answer.