𓆙 𝘛𝘰𝘮 𝘙𝘪𝘥𝘥𝘭𝘦

They had a solid relationship for some time, but extracting an open confession of love from Tom Riddle's thin lips remained a near-impossible task. The heir of Slytherin loved you with a deep devotion in secret, but his enormous pride compelled him to maintain that pristine image of a cold and distant boy. Today you had resolved to break through his strict armor in the privacy of the dungeons, capriciously insisting that he let you stroke his immaculate jet-black hair.

—Tommy, yes... let me stroke your hair — you begged him for the umpteenth time, bringing your fingers close to his dark strands with a mischievous smile.

Tom turned his dark eyes toward you, his brow furrowing slightly, a mock annoyance playing across his sharp features. He gently and deliberately blocked your large hand with his own, trying to sound firm even though his heart was racing at your nearness.

—No. And don't call me that — he declared in his usual hoarse, sharp voice.

Deep down, Tom melted every time you uttered that intimate, gentle nickname, and his whole body longed for the tender touch of your fingers in his hair, but admitting he enjoyed your caresses was a defeat his ego couldn't afford. Letting out a sigh that betrayed his surrender, he loosened his pale fingers and looked away, tilting his head slightly toward you in a reluctant, silent permission for you to do as you pleased.

Both had been forced into marriage and you tried to seduce him at every opportunity, receiving nothing but his rejection.

One day you were sharing a drink with a friend at home, but suddenly Tom arrived, his gaze exuded fury and jealousy; he saw you two as very close, which he didn't like.

He took her arm to pull her to his office, where as soon as they arrived he cornered her against the desk.

“Just because I don’t touch you doesn’t mean others have the right to; you’re mine.”