dark angel under the night sky

He was the kind of guy who’d drape his jacket over your shoulders in the middle of a freezing safehouse without a word during a mission and then spend the rest of the night pretending that you didn’t exist. He’d let his thigh press tight against yours whenever you sat side by side in the cramped helicopter - heat bleeding through his combat gear, only to sit opposite you the next morning at breakfast like you were contagious. Recently, after far too much whiskey in some godforsaken run down motel in eastern Europe your squad was hiding in, you’d fallen asleep your head in his lap. Cute right? No. Even though you’d woken to the slow drag of his gloved fingers running through your hair and his breath totally uneven, he gave you silent treatment for almost a week after that.

He was like a ghost. Ghost. His code name while on the clock. Always yes, then no. Come here, ahhh - but not that close. See him and then wonder about his location for a day or two.

Fortunately, you’d learned to play his game just as cruelly. Hell, you had to in order to survive being the only female around. It was fine - six years of working side by side as each other's partners meant a line was drawn. Professionally. You’d never cross it. Well… until the night that everything fractured.

You were sitting in the kitchen on base after dark between his knees as he cleaned a shallow cut along your cheekbone you’d gotten from an earlier combat practice session. Rookie mistake. You let your guard down. You knew you were in the wrong.

Theo’s touch was clinical. Efficient. His breath however, kept catching every time his thumb brushed across your skin which was more times that you could tell he would have liked. The dim light in the kitchen overhead cast harsh shadows across the skull mask he wore that he never removed in front of anyone. Not even you. Six years of working beside him and you could only ever bring yourself to imagine what was underneath.

Watching the movement of his fingers, out of curiosity, you lifted your own to the bottom edge of his mask and let the tips curl beneath it softly. His hand shifted from your cheek and snapped around your wrist near instantly.

“Don’t.”

You held his gaze. Your mother had once said that blue eyes told no lies. Perhaps that was the reason you trusted him so much. Biting your bottom lip, you let out a heavy sigh that broke midway and flickered your glance down to your fingers momentarily.

“Why?”

Theodore stared at you for so long that the silence felt like a held breath. You watched the wars you’d both been in replay behind his eyes - the instinct to slam every wall that had just crumbled back into place. His jaw tightened beneath the mask. He blinked. His body shifted like he was about to push you away and then… he loosened his grip.

“Because, sweetheart. You’ll get attached.”

His voice was rougher than usual. One you usually heard on the field; not when you were alone. You smiled. Not that you wanted to. It just happened. Your lips shifting both small and aching. Like he didn’t already have a fucking clue.

“Theo… I already am.”

The confession should have ended it. The moment. The awkwardness you both found yourselves in. It should have brought a quiet that was peaceful back into the kitchen. Still holding his gaze, you saw the exact second that “Ghost” tried to take over. His shoulders went rigid. A retreat was already forming beneath the mask. You were used to this. It had been happening since the day you were assigned to work together. Instead… his free hand caught the seat of your chair, sliding it closer - the wooden legs dragging unorthodox across the linoleum floor with a squeak. Then, unexpectedly: he reached up and grabbed at your waist, pulling you closer - hard enough that you gasped.

Hot. Cold. Stay. Go.

Theo leaned forward; his forehead resting against your own for a second of quiet surrender to the moment. Then he did the unthinkable. He reached up and took his mask off himself; tossing it onto the table beside you both like it was the last thing either of you cared about.

Fuck.

You barely had time to register the sharp, beautiful lines of his face - how they complimented his pale eyes, how he had a scar through his right brow, how his lips were full… Jesus! His mouth was already parted as he dragged you closer and brought his lips to yours for a kiss that told you he was emotionally starving.

Oh, it was NOT soft. It was backed by teeth and tongue and pants and gasps which equated to years of denial exploding between the two of you. Youtook the opportunity to climb into his lap; straddling his thighs which earned you a groan into your mouth that you swallowed like it was a prayer. His hands slid unsure beneath your shirt to grip bare skin like he needed the feeling to keep himself anchored down to what was happening.

“This is a bad fucking idea…”

The words rasped against your mouth as he started to pull back.

“Probably.”

You chased him by leaning forward, nipping at his bottom lip that caused Theo to whimper.

“We shouldn’t be doing this.”

His fingers dug into your skin at your hips almost hard enough to bruise.

“Definitely not.”

Your reply caused Theo to make a broken sound you’d never heard before as he slid you closer in his lap; kissing you deeper as one of his hands crept up along your spine to knot into your hair roughly.

Shit.

His cock was already hard beneath you; thick and insistent through his tactical gear he hadn’t taken off yet. You rocked your hips just once, grinding against hims slowly and he cursed in a language you’d never heard - probably an ancient one that was dead before bucking up to meet you.

“Fuckin’... stop that.” The words spoken were almost growls as he roughly shoved your shirt up over your head and tossed it across the kitchen. From the corner of your eye, you saw it land on a toaster - not that you cared. His hands latched onto the cups of your bra, yanking it down before his mouth latched onto one breast, sucking hard enough to make you back arch and elicit a moan from you that sounded holy.

Threading your fingers through his hair, you held him there; rocking your hips against the rigid line of his cock like it was all you needed to survive. “..make me.”

It seemed that that was enough.

He lifted you suddenly, tossing you down onto the kitchen table and half pinned you beneath him. His eyes were unguarded as he drank in the sight of you; every single naked inch that he stripped bare, tearing your clothes away with a teenage urgency. When you reached for his belt: Theo caught your wrists, pinning them together with one hand high above your head.

“Don’t get attached.”

It was a warning. It was a threat. His voice was wrecked. He shoved two fingers between your thighs and found you already soaked.

“Too late.”

You gasped beneath his touch; thighs falling apart wider as he began to fuck you with two fingers as if it were a punishment. Each thrust was deep and relentless. His thumb circled your aching clit until you were shaking. Every time you got close, he slowed down - drawing it out; watching you face like he was memorising how you were falling apart for him. Like he’d thought about this perhaps as much as you had.

It didn’t take long for you to finally beg for more. You knew that Ghost had a thing for control and Theo… even more. Releasing your wrists, he unbuckled his belt and let his pants and boxers fall to his knees before spitting into his hand, stroking his cock once and pushing into you with a brutal thrust that caused you to scream.

Hell have no shame like two coworkers fucking in a semi public place.

The stretch was perfect. Fuck, it was overwhelming. Your nails dug into his back as he buried himself to the hilt and stilled, breathing into the crook of your neck all ragged.

“Fuck, you feel…”

He cut himself off with a groan before his hips began to move again. Slow at first. Like he wanted to savor the drag he knew he’d never feel for the first time again before shifting harder, deeper; the sound and slap of skin on skin filling the kitchen.

Theo fucked you like it was his given right to try ruin you for anyone else. Like he fucking hated how much he needed this. Every thrust tore the breath from your lungs. Instinctively, you wrapped your legs around his waist and met him stroke for stroke, whispering his name like it was the only word your brain could functionably recollect unti it made him shudder.

Without waiting or any warning, Theo pulled out and flipped you onto your stomach hauling your hips up as you dragged across the table with a gasp. The new angle let him drive into you even deeper. Fisting one hand into the back of your hair, he tore your head back, keeping you submissive and snaked an arm around your waist as his hand slipped between your thighs again, pressing his codename and ID number onto your clit like a claim.

For a moment, the only sound shared was your ragged breathing before reality kicked back in.

“Come on my cock.. Fuck.. need to feel it.”

It doesn’t take anything more. Your body shatters with a broken moan, cunt clenching around him so hard that Theo’s rhythm stutters. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release until one final slam in deep is met with a guttural groan and his hips jerk with a twitch as he spills inside of you.

Your breathing envelopes the room. Then he releases a few pants which are hot against your skin as he tries to catch his breath. You feel his body tense before Theo drops his head down between your shoulderblades for one last second of closeness.

Footsteps start wandering up the hall. Probably someone keen on a late night snack.

“Dont.” You get the word out only just before he can pull away. “Please… not yet.”

So he stays. For the first time ever, Theo actually stays. His arms tighten around your waist like he never wants to let go. His cock still buried deep as it begins to soften slowly. His lips brush across your back and then up to the nape of your neck, but still, he doesn’t move. Even as the footsteps get closer.

“This was a fucking bad idea…”

His murmur holds no weight as he chuckles into your hair before kissing the back of your head almost reverently.

“The worst”, you agree, as you smile to yourself; and for once, not Theo, not Ghost, not the man you’ve just seen without the mask on… doesn’t argue with you.

Because not only is your boyfriend a nerd who spends nearly every single minute of his free time combing through a massive pile of books and documents, no, he's also a needy freak, contrary to the belief of perhaps… everyone else.

Believe it or not, he enjoys being on top of you more than he enjoys being on top of every class—he said so himself after all, intoxicated by the feeling of your sweet pussy squeezing around him, his mind hazy with lust.

But still, they were his words.

And Tom lives up to them. No matter how tired his eyes are or how much his back aches from being hunched over books all day, he still finds time for you, finds the energy to rut his thick cock into your warm walls, even if gently and awfully slowly so.

Today has been no different. You've been in his dorm for hours while he is preparing for an upcoming Potions project, which he's only aware of because he's Slughorn's favourite student and he let him know. Claiming he needs to be ahead of everyone else if he wanted to score another Outstanding, Tom naturally hasn't rested since.

You do not try to argue with him anymore, try to tell him that even if he started two weeks after everyone else, he'd still receive just the same grade.

Instead, you've been watching him, splayed across his huge bed, which he has the honour of owning as a Prefect and Head Boy, distracting yourself with a novel (non-educational, obviously) until he had enough and joined you. The sun had just started to set at that point, weak rays bathing his dorm in a subtle golden glow. Tom crossed the bed, crawled over you, and fit his body perfectly between your legs, resting his head on your chest.

And now, just a few minutes later—all of his usual innocence has evaporated at last. His hips rut his full-blown erection against your lower tummy, his hot breaths coming fast and laboured as his face stays buried in the crook of your neck.

"So good to me," he whimpers, one of his warm hands on your thigh, holding you open for him, the other interlocked with yours. "So patient."

You hum in agreement, angling your hips upwards so as to encourage him to finally get on with it—and Tom gets the hint, although a little differently than you anticipated.

He flips up your skirt, having it pool around your waist, and then sits back and studies you. His gaze is fixed on the damp spot that has formed on the cotton lining of your panties, swallowing the urge to be inside you.

"So pretty," he murmurs, his thumb brushing along the length of your slick underwear, tracing your slit through the fabric until he reaches what he knows to be your clit—applying gentle pressure, circling slowly with just the tip of his thumb.

Tom observes your every reaction—from the way your lips part for a silent gasp to your hips bucking off the bed, chasing his touch, begging him for more. And if he is being truthful with himself… neither does he have the patience to wait any longer.

He hurriedly tugs his trousers and underwear down his legs, carelessly discarding them somewhere on the floor before he hovers over you again, pressing a gentle kiss to your lips—but as soon as you hook your fingers into your panties, he grabs your wrist and stops you.

"Don't undress," he whispers, looking down at you with his gentle, brown eyes, placing your hand beside you. "I'd like for you to keep them on for now."

You meet his gaze with a confused expression, but you nod nonetheless—anything if he finally lets you feel him.

His head dips to brush kisses down the side of your neck, and the next moment his body lowers to rest on top of yours—his cock perfectly nestled between your thighs, rubbing against your clothed pussy with every slight twitch of his hips.

"Tom, please, I—" you whine, wrapping your legs around his lower back, pressing yourself up against him. "I've been waiting so long, please don't— oh—"

"Shhh," Tom murmurs with a strained voice, nipping at your throat gently, grinding his length along your soaked panties, the head of his cock brushing over your swollen clit with every tender move of his hips. "Need you like this. It'll feel so good, I promise. You trust me, right?"

You nod eagerly, trying your best to concentrate on the blissful, tingly feeling in your core whenever you feel the slightest friction where you desire it most. "Yes, Tommy. Please, more."

He hums lowly in approval, his hands at the back of your head, tilting your head towards his to kiss you thoroughly this time. "Good girl. So perfect, allowing me to have you like this."

You open your mouth to respond, though the only sound that leaves you is a broken moan, thighs trembling as he sets a cruel pace, making sure to give your clit just enough attention to make you soft and pliant beneath him.

Tom continues with this for what feels like an eternity—rutting his hot, thick erection against your pussy, swollen and dripping with need at a cruel, slow pace. Your arousal has long soaked through the thin cotton fabric and inevitably coated his cock in a glistening layer of your combined arousal, his precum adding to the mess where your bodies are tightly connected.

You're so drunk on the feeling of his cock grinding over your pussy, you at first don't even recognise the warmth of your climax building low in your tummy—but he does.

Because it is not solely you whose senses are screaming for more.

Tom craves the feeling of your slick pussy, of your tight heat embracing him, pulsing around him—and so, he gently tugs your panties to the side, watching as his cock disappears between your glistening folds.

He nearly comes then and there just from the sweet, wet warmth of your skin on his, groaning as he slips upwards with ease, his hips stuttering at the increased sensitivity. "Fuck, darling— what on earth are you doing to me?"

His tip reappears to bump against your sensitive bud, having you moan in pleasure, tears pricking at the corner of your eyes, holding his gaze. "Don't— don't stop."

Tom shakes his head, lips parted as his breathing grows heavier with each passing second, and brushes a kiss on your jaw. "I wouldn't dream of it."

And then, a split second later, his pace quickens—he's grinding against you with purpose now, mumbling strings of praises while he makes you watch his swollen cock make a mess of your pussy, gliding between your folds as though it had belonged there all this time.

The room fills with your combined sounds of pleasure, with the slick noises of him gliding between your puffy, sticky folds and his endless praises for you.

When you get too wet, he uses his thumb to keep himself from slipping out, and you nearly lose it at the increased pressure and precision.

If he doesn't stop this soon, you'll lose your damn mind.

"Tom, I need you inside— inside, please," you cry out, your climax approaching fast while you can't do anything but take what he's currently giving you—perfectly angled thrusts right over your clit, which have you seeing stars.

But Tom has different plans.

He sits up just slightly, letting his cock slip free to guide it lower towards your entrance—but instead of pushing inside, he merely lets his tip bump against your drooling hole, with three or four shallow thrusts. Enough to give you an idea of what he'd feel like inside—heavy and leaky, thick veins bulging beneath his skin and stretching across his entire length, yet not to actually push inside.

Damn him.

As hopeful as you were—the feeling is gone as soon as it came.

"I want you to come for me," Tom rasps, grinding against your sloppy folds again. "Just like this. Nothing else—just me, here."

"You're— oh God, you're impossible," you whine, but cannot deny that your orgasm isn't far—and Tom knows it.

With every rough thrust, his hand guides himself to where you need him most, and within minutes he has you right where he wants you—on the very brink of your climax, begging the waves to consume you whole.

Tom too is close, breathlessly whispering praises as his head dips to your neck once more. "So beautiful, sweetheart, so good to me— always so patient and pliant, I— fuck—"

His thrusts falter then, cock twitching between your sticky folds, a throaty groan escaping him when ropes of thick, white cum paint your glistening pussy opaque white. It's so much, you can feel it seeping down the length of your slit, gathering at your neglected hole before it drips onto the silk comforter beneath you.

Tom allows his senses to return to him before he lifts himself off you, appreciating the mess between your thighs—and when you try to close your legs, he stops you.

"Just a little bit longer, darling. Show me how pretty you look," he says, and you obey.

His fingers trace the white residue, smearing it where it belongs—in between your folds and over your clit. You whimper, back arching off the bed at the touch, and just like you've wanted it all along, two of his long, slender fingers gently slip inside your warm walls, using his cum as additional lube—not that you need it, but the mere sight of it has his cock hardening once more.

Tom curls his fingers just right—rubbing over that perfect spot inside you while his other hand takes care of your puffy clit.

"Tommy, mmph— fuck!"

A smirk tugs on his lips at the state of you—all fucked out even though he never let you feel him inside you in the first place, his fingers eliciting the sweetest moans from your bite-swollen lips, teary eyes staring up at him.

Just how he likes you.

"Come for me, pretty girl. Show me how good you can truly be."

thank you so much for reading! <3 feel free to reblog and leave feedback! :3 — masterlist. | oneshots.

©2026 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

𑁤 main taglist:

@glowingatdawn @whimpurrin @cb97s-babyygirl @cexoria @yuunarii-arii @kzylvr @eleventhboi @melodymoo2 @venomous0 @dreaming-of-epiphanies @simplyastra @revesephemeres

yall vs me (ily baby)

When you first called him ‘Tom’ instead of ‘Riddle’ in your head, the plague had already spread through your system—it took a mere matter of seconds to realise how deep the rabbit hole was.

Avoiding him had been your number one priority since your sixth year, pushing all other needs aside for the past two years. But was it easy to avoid someone whose presence had invaded the last safe place in the whole castle? No.

Your dreams bore witness to that.

Tuesdays with double Potions, History of Magic, Transfiguration, and Arithmancy were the cherry on top of your mental weariness. A whole basket of cherries, carried by none other than Tom Riddle, with whom you shared every class! Then came study sessions in the library, where the spot you had claimed and carved your initials into happened to be sat right next to the table Riddle spent most of his time at. After dinner, a peaceful minute in the courtyard with someone’s gaze boring into the back of your neck. Solitary Hogsmeade outings barely felt enjoyable anymore—as if another person had invited himself along and weaved his presence into your much-needed alone time.

Nothing was out of place. No one followed. Nothing extraordinary.

But it was there.

In brief glances across the corridor. In a lavender taste of the sleeping draught. In every flash of anger rushing through you. In every fucking dream the draught failed to keep away: where his touch felt like embers kissing your skin and his name tangled in breathless moans.

He.

Was there.

***

Ugh, how infuriatingly frustrating it was for Tom to talk with a wall. Another attempt to bait you into a discussion on a complex Arithmancy theory the professor had shown was met with a bleak stare of your bloodshot eyes. His lips curled, brow furrowed, but he said nothing when, instead, the professor pulled Avery into the dialogue. You looked away, out of the grimy window, eyelids heavy with the sleep you’d lost in the middle of the night.

He could lure you into an argument so easily that it became his daily sweet treat to hear you raise your voice and spit curses at him for being a thick-skulled forest troll. Of course, the two of you shared the same views on almost everything, so it had become his favourite game—to hear what other names you’d call him.

When the fun stopped, Tom knew something was wrong. A direct approach was out of the question, and threatening your best friend was, unfortunately, too. The solution came fast when you fell asleep in the common room some weeks before. Precision and care were all it took to slip through the breaches.

Since then, the game had adopted new rules.

***

The last students trickled out of the classroom, and you let out a tired sigh, shoulders slumping forward. Your bed was calling to you—left unmade, sheets crumpled, and a half-stripped pillow hanging from the edge. Another day born from an ounce of sleep and a sweat-stained nightshirt. Splendid.

Messing with your head was one thing, but torturing your heart was akin to going on a trip through hell. Maybe it was all your fault. Or Tom’s. Nah, definitely his. And the lack of physical affection. Out of all the male classmates you could’ve fixated on, your deranged mind had to choose him for the perfect candidate to satisfy your needs?! Really?

As if a single thought of Riddle’s hands on you, warm and pale, with long fingers and a map of veins stretching up his forearms, muscles hard from Merlin knows what extracurricular activi—well, a single thought couldn’t make your whole body shudder in disgust…

Your legs carried you up to your dorm, but before you made the final turn, your eyes involuntarily drifted to the black curls by the hearth. Please, let it be a night devoid of hushed grunts and assaults on your tranquility. Peace and quiet. No Riddles.

Please.

The door to your room closed. Tom sipped his coffee, the bitter taste soothing the irresistible temptation he felt in his bones. He took a deep breath, the darkness in his eyes swirled, and allowed his mouth to quirk into a smirk.

How he loved it when you begged.

***

Two other beds of your roommates were still made, covers neatly tucked under the mattresses so no crease would disrupt the Slytherin perfection. A small candle flickered on the nightstand; empty potion vials glinted in the golden light, their labels still fresh with your handwriting. Alas, they offered no escape.

You shrugged off your clothes, kicked off your loafers, and in one clumsy motion threw on a nightshirt, leaving a few buttons undone. The pillow, which usually felt like a lumpy sack of potatoes, now turned into heaven.

Drowsiness insisted on pulling you under the warm duvet where Tom’s snide remarks and sneers from today’s Potions were finally put aside. The edges of your consciousness blurred, and maybe somewhere in between the cloying taste of sleep and the chilly air of the room, you caught your first name spoken by the shadows.

Every syllable was stretched and savoured by the lips that travelled down the column of your throat. Wet, open-mouthed kisses leaving trails of heat. He always started right under your ear before moving down the slope of your shoulder. Teeth nibbled at the skin, tongue soothed the sting, but what brought even more pleasure was the velvety voice, close to the purr of a well-fed Kneazle.

“What’s wrong, love? Did I upset you? You’ve been avoiding me lately,” he cooed against your jaw, his hands wandering up and down your sides—gripping, caressing, toying with your thinning patience.

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Instinctively, you tried to push him away: a shove to his chest, a kick to his leg, a hopeless struggle to squirm out from under the overwhelming weight pressing onto you. To your brain, it felt as though a great fight was putting up against Tom. In reality, your movements were sluggish, drunk, pliant body ignoring the mind.

“Shh, sweetheart, it’s okay.” A hot mouth hovered over your ear, his nose gently ruffling your hair.

How could you be okay when Tom Riddle was there again?! The emerald canopy hung loose over your bed, and in the small gap you could see silhouettes flickering—roommates or ghosts. Either way, no one would help you. You had learned it the hard way. A scream never came out from your parted lips. Panic surged, scratching at your insides with ice-cold fingers and inviting nausea. Too vivid to be a dream, and yet.  

Tom’s fingers worked at your buttons, a smug smile forming on his face at the sight of your cheeks flushing with embarrassment and treacherous arousal. It wouldn’t take long to make you give up. A quiet word here, a soft kiss there, and you would be melting as a candle lit by his own magic.

“Beautiful.” His breath tickled your already stiffened nipple, lips traced the delicate bones of your ribs, which kept your thrashing heart from escaping. “Despite how many times I have had you like this, I still can’t stop craving more.”

You felt him drawing lazy circles over your bare thigh, and your skin broke into goosebumps that erupted into fireworks where Tom’s touch lingered. And what a fatal mistake it was to look at him. A sinful, insatiable monster tilted its head, feigning an unabashed innocence. For a second you questioned yourself, wondering if Riddle truly was the one responsible for this madness.

Maybe it was your own consciousness all along. At the bidding of your heart, it had decided to feed you exactly what you desired. Where was the truth?

“Stop thinking,” he rasped, a low sound made you flutter. “It’s just a dream. Let it be.”

Definitely not there.

Tom tugged your knickers down, exposing your slick heat to the cold air. His nose, carved out of the finest marble, brushed your navel and moved lower; butterfly kisses marked the path to your centre. Your protest was caught somewhere in your throat. The muscles of his shoulders tensed under your palms, and you refused to name what that gesture was about—pushing him away or pulling him closer.

The white shirt hid his tall, lean frame, but the power underneath was unmatched, no Quidditch player could compare to the raw force of someone whose words and curses wounded more than good old fists. Honestly, it’s downright annoying to have a walking piece of art for a rival.

Your eyes met. He didn’t look away, nor could you bring yourself to break the contact. What he did next helped you a lot.

The first lick was tentative, fleeting, yet the shudder that ran through you felt ten times more intense than you could’ve imagined. So fucking real. It shouldn’t feel this good.

Another one came right after, the tip of his tongue traced the slit of your pussy, drinking in your wetness. When the taste of you hit his senses, his hips gave a weak thrust into the mattress.

“So sweet…” Tom swallowed, and a hungry sparkle ignited in the depths of his irises; he spread your thighs further to give himself better access to the main course.

Your nails dug into his shoulders, back arched off the bed, though at first, no sound left your mouth. Giving you no time to catch your breath, Riddle sucked on your clit with a low, satisfied hum. It all broke.

Never in your life had you thought you could make a sound like this—a pure, blissful cry of pleasure you should be ashamed of. With how hard your nails racked Tom’s back, you could swear you heard his shirt tearing. The relentless, eager strokes of his tongue against your clit did something terrible to your perception of reality: your vision blurred, and the ringing in your ears almost drowned out the pathetic whimpers spilling from your lips.

Surely, he had heard them many times before. Whether it was from his cock stretching your cunt, or his mouth leaving dark marks all over your neck and chest. Every time, they sounded better than the last, and Tom couldn’t help but find new ways to hear more of them.

“Give me some more.” Riddle slipped a finger inside you, curled it so perfectly your pussy squeezed it in no time. “Good girl—fuck!”

His mouth worked wonders on your sanity. You couldn’t care less about hurting him with your nails or how disgustingly needy you had become for his tongue within a few minutes. Tom groaned in response when your thighs clamped around his head; the sharp, irritating sting of your marks on his back only spurred him to go harder, faster, moving his tongue and finger with the same absolute confidence he applied to everything in his life. His cock throbbed painfully, and he ground himself against the mattress to ease the tension.

If it hadn’t been another illusion, the obscene slurping, mixed with your incoherent blabbering and breathless pleas, would’ve threatened to wake the whole castle

Waves of heat rushed down, pooling low, forcing more arousal to seep from your core onto Tom’s tongue, who gladly lapped up everything you had to offer. His free arm wrapped around your leg to pull you impossibly closer to his face—a necessity to have you as close as physically possible.

Your toes curled, hips rocked against his face, riding him.

“Yes, come on… show me how much you hate me with my mouth on your little cunt. Do you get this wet when we fight, hm?” That ‘hm’ vibrated deep through your belly, and the slow, heavy drag of his tongue down your slick made you tingle with strange excitement. “I know you do.”

“Please—” you begged, writhing and holding onto his shoulders for dear life.

Carefully, he withdrew his finger. Covered in your juices, it circled your entrance for the last time before moving to your clit. A small pressure, a graze of the nail against the sensitive nerves, and you shook. Your thighs quivered, fingers clutched Tom’s hair, fisted his shirt—anything to keep from falling off the knife’s edge where one thing awaited. Humiliation.

“Please? I’m more used to hearing ‘eat shit, Riddle’.” He licked his lips. “But I would prefer to eat you, if you don’t mind.”

At that, the tip of his tongue was pushed inside you. The heat in the small world of your bed, hidden away by the canopy, crossed the point of no return. Salty tears streamed down your face, an unfiltered moan was ripped from your throat, deafening and pitiful. Tom nearly came in his trousers; he could’ve sworn his underwear was already ruined, stained by the pre-cum dripping down his shaft.

He looked utterly captivating between your legs: his brow furrowed in concentration, sweat beading on his forehead, and the lower part of his face glistening with a combined mess of spit and your own slick. The heady, musky smell of sex mingled with the faint trace of burned parchment. You knew that the dream was about to end. Driven by a newfound energy, you pushed yourself into his mouth, chasing the release you would never reach.

After all, it wasn’t real.

Tom grinned; his tongue was fucking you, a hand on your stomach pinning you down to hold you in place. Eyes, two black obsidians, devoured your every expression, gleaming with a devious flames, while triumph remained permanently etched into his angelic features.

Your orgasm approached—a promise of complete wreckage delivered by none other than Tom Riddle. The fast, cruel thrusts of his tongue almost crashed over you like a thunderbolt.

Almost.

Because the moment that knot was about to loosen, your eyes flew open to stare into the empty space. Sweat-damp sheets tangled around your limbs as if snakes were trying to bound you to the bed, their scales scraping against your sensitive skin. Every nerve, every bone, every heartbeat screamed with unreleased tension still seething in your belly. You pushed away the bedding. One step after the other, you dragged yourself out of the dorm and down the stairs to the common room.

Tom was awake—of course he was! Sitting by the fire, absorbed in a book undoubtedly stolen from the Restricted Section. What a fucking bastard. You would end it now, once and for all. By Avada or a kick to his balls. Didn’t matter anymore.

At such a late hour… Tom was surprised to see you breathing after a tedious Tuesday filled with Arithmancy equations and Binn’s droning. Surprised to the point where he let the corner of his mouth lift, his tongue slowly wetting his lower lip where the salty aftertaste lingered.

“I swear to fucking Merlin, I will kill you, Riddle.” Your voice, hoarse from sleep, broke on his name.

Tom put away his book, straightened his robes, and stood up when your figure blocked out the dying flames of the hearth. His watchful eyes swept over your disheveled state: flushed skin, blown-out pupils, rapid breaths, trembling legs, and clenched fists.

“Skipping the pleasantries already?” He tilted his head, towering over you with ease. “Aren’t you supposed to be sleeping?”

It took a lot of effort not to let your fist greet his nose. The same nose that had been buried in your pussy some time ago.

“Stop! I know it’s you! Do you get off on driving me insane, huh? Just tell me what you want from me, you insane, vile, psychopathic fu—”

His cock twitched in his trousers, yet he held the mask of a decent human being. “What are you even talking about?”

“Don’t play dumb! You messed with my head, broke into my dreams, and made it impossible to fucking sleep!” The words tumbled out of you; hurt, exhaustion, frustration—it all lay raw.

Tom blinked a few times, opened his mouth, closed it, opened again,

“What do you mean ‘broke into your dreams’?” he asked, tone dropping a few degrees.

Fiery tears burned your eyes, but you couldn’t stop now.

“I dream of you every damn night. How you fuck me, how you touch me, how you tell me all these things you would never tell me in real life! And the most disgusting part—I can’t stop looking at you not as the Riddle-I-hate-so-much-I-want-to-rip-his eyes-out, but in a… fuck-I-want-him-to-kiss-me kind of way!”

Maybe you weren’t supposed to reveal your deepest, darkest secret; however, how long could you let this keep building up? Until you fell down the stairs from the sheer exhaustion? Or until a Venomous Tenacula bit half of your head off?

The silence that followed was louder than your frantic speech. You stared at each other; the soft pop of embers was the sole sound in the night fading fast towards dawn. Tom’s eyes remained dark, nothing in them answered your call.

Only then did the tension drain from your body, and mortification finally overtook the anger.

Holy shit.

What had you done?

You stepped back, shaking your head, trying to rid yourself of the sickening realisation of having revealed too much. That should’ve stayed hidden; the moment the air touched it, the shattered pieces morphed into an ugly truth glinting off the edges.

“You want me to kiss you?“ Tom repeated, his perfect face showed no sign of remorse, nor a shred of understanding.

Mother of Morgana, had he really just ignored your entire speech for the single thing that could benefit him? UGH! Why did Riddle, of all people, have to make your brain to play such weird tricks on you—forcing to see a fucking man instead of the lanky boy from your childhood?!

Your teeth ground together, nails bit into the swell of your palms.

“Yes! Yes, I fucking want to kiss you! Is that a problem? Because I don’t care. You’ve already made my life unbearable enough to—”

You never got to finish your sentence, before Tom’s lips crashed into yours, rough and demanding, asking for no permission. He needed none. Never. He took what he wanted, when he wanted, and exactly how he wanted.

At first, you froze, a cold shiver rippling down your spine, soon you answered his kiss with equal ferocity. He gripped your waist, bunching the damp fabric of your nightshirt. Every part of your mind shouted what the hell are you doing while your heart sang the sweet melody of epiphany.

Better. Much better than those stupid illusions.

Tom nipped sharply at your lower lip, swallowing your gasps and whimpers. Your arms wrapped around broad shoulders, and the sudden pressure drew a painful hiss from his throat.

Reluctantly, the two of you parted, breathing heavily, letting the moment of unwanted secrets stretch between you.

“Finally, not a fucking dream…” you whispered, lips still burning where Tom’s had been.

He smirked. And your heart dropped.

No.

“Are you sure?” Tom leaned in to murmur against your ear. “Wake up.”

Your body jerked awake in the dark, still haunted by the kiss that felt awfully real. It was easy to get lost in dreams, you thought, closing your tired eyes once again.

***

Even Professor Dumbledore noticed your high spirits. Of course! For the first time in weeks, you had a good night’s sleep. The fog had completely cleared, your body moved smoothly through the morning, and even the muscles of your face remembered how to smile.

During lunch, you spared a quick glance at Tom Riddle across the Slytherin table. He sat with the very same book you had seen earlier, not a single stray curl out of place, his polished Head Boy badge proudly pinned to the robes. Yet, something in his posture was off—he would occasionally roll his shoulders, upper lip would curl in discomfort every time he shifted in his seat.

he doesn’t break eye contact once, as he grabs the transparent bag containing white powder with a smirk on his face. mesmerisingly, you watch him stroke himself a few times before opening the bag and tapping it with his finger, the white dust coating his hard length.

using a credit card, he neatens into a perfect line before casually tossing it aside and crossing his arms in anticipation. “go ahead, bunny. drop to your knees.”

sliding off the couch, you crawl towards his towering frame, big eyes gazing up at him. he licks his lips just at the sight of you crawling, stealing a quick glance right into your low hanging top.

“close one nostril and snort through the other. try to be quick so it doesn’t fall off.”

you lower your head over his cock, pressing one nostril shut like he instructed. holding your breath, you snort the line as fast as you can. theo hums in approval.

you grimace as the coke travels through your nose, the bitter taste creeping down your throat. you blink hard, rubbing the underside of your nose with the heel of your hand.

“yuck!”

“jesus fuck, look at you.” he chuckles, eyes scanning you from head to toe. you lie flustered beneath him, your hair all messy and slick from sweat and alcohol, and your top long forgotten somewhere on the floor.

“i’m gonna fuckin’ marry you one day. you hear me, baby?” he sticks two fingers into your mouth, making you suck on his digits before wrapping them around his cock, coating it with your saliva. he props himself up on top of you, his length perfectly aligned with your tits. “gonna put a pretty ring on your finger and treat you like the princess you are.”

you push your tits together tightly, moving in rhythm with his sloppy thrusts. he hisses at the feeling. “every. fucking. day.”

“oh, shut up, nott.” you chide, body rocking with his movements as you bite your lip. “let’s talk again after that post-nut clarity hits.”

he sets a sloppy rhythm, hips stuttering from the alcohol and his quickly approaching orgasm. he doesn’t know where to look— your bouncing tits, your dreamy eyes, your plump, swollen lips. his eyelids hang low and his mouth’s agape in bliss.

“baby, you should—fuck—know by now that i want you no matter what, capito?” theo grabs your jaw, thumb slipping into your mouth. you suck on it without hesitation, earning a lazy smirk from him. “that’s a good girl.”

he lets out shaky breaths as he increases his pace. his hand, covered in your spit, glides down your face. sensing that he’s close, you stick your tongue out, making him groan loudly at the sight.

“oh, fuck, fuck, fuck. i’m gonna—” thick spurts of cum shoot from the swollen tip— landing not only into your mouth, but making a mess all over your face and tits as well. you close your eyes, feeling the warmth of his seed on your skin, and you obediently swallow what has landed on your tongue.

theo’s chest heaves as he catches his breath, sweat trickling down his temple and he grins at the sight of your face painted with his cum.

A whole day of silence passed, Theo’s favorite weapon. Mattheo was burning. On the outside, he played it cool, shrugging off the tension with that signature indifferent smirk, jaw tight as he stalked through the halls like nothing was wrong. But inside, irritation boiled under his skin, fists clenching and unclenching at his sides. He hated the quiet more than the fight itself.

When the usual whispers slithered through the corridor, something he only half caught about a sneering voice and “Son of Voldemort,”  — it was enough for him to snap. He didn’t bother with magic. He lunged, fists flying in a blind, furious rage. By the time it was over, the other boy was crumpled on the floor, and Mattheo’s knuckles were split, his lip busted, fresh cuts and bruises blooming across his cheek and brow. The familiar pain did nothing to quiet the storm still raging in his chest.

Until he spotted Theodore.

Theo was leaning against the stone wall in the courtyard just before dinner, half-listening to Pansy's rambles. A cigarette already between his lips. He flicked his lighter lazily, lighting hers first like the gentleman he pretended not to be, before lighting his own.

Mattheo didn’t even think.

He cut straight through the space between them, pushing Pansy aside without a word. Before Theodore could react, Mattheo’s hand shot up, fingers gripping Theo’s jaw with just enough pressure to tilt his face exactly where he wanted it. Their eyes locked. Mattheo leaned in close — close enough that their cigarettes touched, tip to tip. The ember on Theo’s flared as Mattheo inhaled, lighting his own. For a second that stretched too long, smoke curled between their mouths, strong eye contact burning. Part of Theodore wanted to ask about the fresh blood on Matt's face the other part already knew. A ghost of a smirk tugged at Mattheo’s bloody lips. A silent Fuck you for ignoring me. I missed you, you prick.

Theo’s cheeks warmed despite himself.

Mattheo pulled back slowly, eyes still locked on Theo’s as he took a long drag. Then, without another word, he turned and walked toward the castle, shoulders relaxed, pride rolling off him like he’d just won something important.

Theo stayed frozen for half a second, then he exhaled sharply, rolling his eyes even as the flush refused to leave his face.

Pansy raised an eyebrow, smirking. “Well. That was subtle.”

“Shut up, Pansy,” Theo muttered, jaw still tingling where Mattheo had grabbed him. He was still pretending to be mad.

He was still pretending to be mad. He wasn’t.

Yet no matter how fiercely they clashed, they were closer than anything, bound by something deeper than friendship. One always came back. One always forgave. Because at the end of the day, neither of them knew how to exist without the other.

THE END.

✦ who despises the fact that he wants or even needs to continually seek relief for the hardness in his trousers when he could preferably be researching Horcruxes or learning Dark Magic. He is able to satisfy himself the first few times, but when it becomes clear only his hand is not exactly cutting it, he knows he is forced to look elsewhere.

✦ who carefully reviews every available girl at Hogwarts– and the unattainable ones too, if he thinks he can dispose of their boyfriends without too much trouble– to decide who would be the best to help him rid his body of these ridiculous desires. He finally chooses you, deciding you will be discreet about it and perhaps rather pleasant to have assist him.

✦ who thinks he will only need to be with you once or twice to get these… sensations under control. He has remarkable self-control on everything else (or so he tells himself), so why should this be any different? Of course, as soon as he finds himself buried to the hilt in your tight, wet heat, he knows this will irrevocably not be a one-time thing. 

✦ who is insatiable, pulling you out of class and encouraging you to sneak out past curfew only to pull you into his dorm or a nearby broom closet, divesting you of your clothes and rutting into you like it’s been an eternity without him inside of you. You have no qualms, but are rather surprised at the intensity of the desires he told you in the beginning were merely a distraction. If anything, he’s addicted to you, or at least to the pleasure you bring him, and you most certainly feel the same.

✦ who cannot get enough of you, and it’s obvious to everyone around you. He was worried about you drawing attention to his activities, but if anything, he is the one causing problems. His eyes linger on your ass, peeking out of the bottom of the skirt you wore just for him, or on your breasts, visible through your thin shirt with just enough skin to make him hard by only looking at you. He draws you away from prying eyes any chance he gets, which only encourages more rumours, and is almost always seen wiping his fingers on the fabric of his trousers. 

✦ who takes advantage of every class he has with you, taking you to the back of the room and resting his hand on the inside of your thigh, his fingertips brushing against you through your panties until your breathing is heavy and he feels indulgent enough to dip his finger underneath the fabric. He enjoys being knuckle-deep inside of you while you attempt to write your essay despite the stroking and curling of his fingers between your legs. 

✦ who is not casual about this, at all. He’s angry at both you and himself for this constant need he has for you. He fucks you on the side but it occupies his every thought. His throat becomes dry in class when he pictures you pressed up against a wall, his fingers deep inside of you as you milk his cock, his cum spilling into you and dripping onto the floor below. He practically seethes at the thought of you doing the same to anyone else, and makes it very clear to you he expects his to be the only dick you take until he no longer has need for your services.

✦ who sneaks you into his room every night, fucking you until he thinks the Silencing Charms won’t hold and you’ll have lost your voice and the ability to walk normally the next day. If he’s not inside of you, he’s imagining it, and if he’s not imagining it, then something must be terribly wrong because he starts very seriously believing he won’t want to be immortal if you’re not there under him. 

✦ who realises abruptly that this has gone too far for too long. If he had any sort of common sense, he’d stop this right now and send you off before you keep filling his head with this nonsense and distract him from the whole point of this entire endeavour to begin with. Unfortunately for him, he’s in too deep and he doesn’t even try to pretend that you aren’t all he wants anymore.

✦ who, begrudgingly, asks you to be his girlfriend after weeks of contemplation. He doesn’t want to admit he cares about you, but it’s hard not to when you’re with him nearly every waking moment of the day, and even with him while you sleep. You accept with a laugh, saying the two of you have been exclusive for much, much longer than he’d realised. You’re right, of course. 

✦ who knows he could never really be casual about anything in the end. At least when it comes to you.

general taglist: @viperify @xgloomy-kittenx @sea-lit-stars @kenobi-baby @rvvencrux @beelzebzb @m-mally @s00ty-feet @sophiadauno @cherrytintedlens @lunxrstellx @peony-haze @h0eforjp @mintydew @voldemortcest @coryoslut @frederissa @inlovewithallmusic @priv-rose