Summary: "You must understand that while it pleases me to let you have me, you aren't in charge." 1948. We'll always have Paris...
作者写这篇是因为一个prompt：Tom Riddle/Antonin Dolohov. pre-1960's. Tom seduces Dolohov with the intent of having him join the Death Eaters. Consensual sex.
然后作者说Tom ended up subbier than I expected. 哈哈。
“And you," Antonin says, finding his voice at last. "What brings you to Paris?"
"Why, you, my dear fellow." Riddle laughter is rich and dark and infectious, but Antonin resists. No one is that chummy, that English, without trying.
"I'm flattered," he says sardonically, and folds up the newspaper.
"I've not been here for years," Riddle says thoughtfully. "Things have changed."
"The war is over," Antonin says, just as calmly, just as smoothly, but Riddle shakes his head.
"No," he says. "The war is just beginning."
By the time they come to Antonin's little flat on the rive gauche, Riddle has his arm around Antonin's shoulders and they're laughing as if they've known each other forever. The landlady, a plump blonde widow, eyes Riddle, but he ignores her.
"I've too much Wilde in me," he confides to Antonin, and they share a secret grin.
His flat isn't much, just one poky little room and a WC in the hall, but magic makes it more comfortable and Riddle sprawls elegantly on the settee as if he owns the place.
"I want you," he says.
Antonin stares at him. With the light from behind him, Riddle's hair becomes a golden nimbus. Antonin is reminded for a moment of Jesus Pantokrator, stern and sad and noble.
"Tom?" he says tentatively, and tries to think of how to put the words in English.
"Baise-moi," Riddle says.
双关啊双关，少年玩得一手好双关，法语也是一个很流氓的语言。fuck me还是kiss me？
And Antonin doesn't know what that means, because Riddle's French is clipped and sharp and British-sounding, and can he know that baiser means to fuck as much as to kiss? But then Riddle smiles crookedly, and his lips look so inviting that Antonin drops to his knees beside him and forgets to wonder, just kisses him.