slytherin boys react

tom riddle: as your summer fling

- had a secret spot he always took you to
- kissed the back of your hand at the end of each day before parting
- read a book to you until you fell asleep
- you once fell asleep on his lap and he braided your hair gently
- gave the book he read to you before you left
- promised to call and write you letters but never did
- "i promise, i'll write to you, i will. you've got me wrapped around your finger, dear."

--

the soft grass beneath you cushions your tired body, the sun warm against your skin. you lie resting your head on his lap, his fingers twirling through your hair as he engrosses himself in the book in his hand.

he finishes the passage he was reading, his voice trailing off as he caresses your hair absentmindedly. he closes the book, setting it aside as he looks down at you, his gaze tender. he looks down at you, his finger still twirling a strand of your hair as he mutters, "beautiful."

you glance up at him, unsure if he's referring to the book he just read or to you. you give him a questioning look, hoping for clarification.

he laughs softly at your reaction, his eyes sparkling with warmth and affection. "i'm referring to you, my dear," he says, his voice laced with a hint of amusement. "the woman resting in my lap, not the book i've just completed."

he moves his hand from your hair to caress your cheek, his touch tender and reverent. "the story i've just read pales in comparison to your beauty," he adds, his voice low and intimate. "you, my love, are the most beautiful thing i've ever laid my eyes on."

"i could read a thousand books," he murmurs, his voice low and velvety, "yet none would compare to this, you, in my lap, gazing at me as if i were the very center of your world."

he leans down, hovering over you, his face close enough that you can feel his breath on your skin. his gaze is intense, filled with a heat that sends tingles down your spine. "my dear," he murmurs, his voice heavy with desire, "i cannot think of a single thing more beautiful than you in this very moment."

--

it's been a few weeks since the summer ended, and you haven't received any letters from him as he had promised. each day you eagerly check the mail, hoping to see his familiar handwriting on an envelope, but there's nothing.

he sits at his desk, pen in hand, his face set in a frown as he writes. the pages in front of him are filled with his neat and precise handwriting. each word is carefully chosen, carrying a hint of both disappointment and longing.

'i strive to remain patient, to wait for your reply, but doubt gnaws at me, fear that my letters have not reached you, or worse, that something has gone awry.

each day without your word stretches into an eternity. i miss you in ways i never thought possible, and your absence leaves a hollow space within me. why have you not written back? have you forgotten me, or do you choose silence over a reply? i miss you, profoundly, irrationally, and terribly.

i long for your voice, your smile, your touch. please, my dearest, respond. put my mind at ease and quell the uncertainty that has begun to take root within me.

i ache for you in ways i did not think myself capable. my days are consumed by thoughts of you, and my nights plagued by dreams of what once was, of us being together again. if my letters have reached you, i implore you, do not ignore me. send me a sign, a word, anything to assure me i have not lost you entirely.'