Sin.

It comes to your favour that he, of course, very well knows what you were aiming for. You wanted to provoke a reaction, and that, you have. Now, it's his turn to show you just what that'll mean for you.

"You knew what you were doing. Testing me. Wanted to see just how far," he moves your panties to the side and exhales sharply at the sight of your glistening pussy on display right in front of him. "fuck— just how far I'd go, is that it?"

The truth is, you didn't exactly intend on going there that night. Sure, these parties were especially fun to attend due to the risk they brought—but after a long week you were exhausted, and getting out of bed seemed a task nearly impossible. 

Just when you’d abandoned the thought of joining your friends, you remembered a rather important detail you’d nearly forgotten. 

It's Professor Riddle who’ll be patrolling the corridors that day alongside the prefects—and he's never been kind enough to let students enjoy themselves as other professors might after the exam season. 

Now, knowing this, you could’ve warned the others in time and prevented them from getting caught—but you didn’t. 

Instead, you put on the tiniest skirt you could find in your wardrobe alongside a low-cut crop top and snuck your way along the dark corridors towards the Slytherin common room.

Looking back, it was a petty thing to do. You knew that, if he were to see you amongst the others, he'd not just let you off with a meagre detention slip the others would receive. No, you would be spending the night in his bedroom and pay for your sins in a different way.

You'd take whatever he gave you—just like you had countless times.

・・・

“Look at you. All wet, and I haven’t even touched you properly—fucking pathetic.”

You whimper at his tone—cold and detached, like he speaks with everyone else—and try your best not to grind your clit against the solid outline of his cock, which has formed beneath his fine, hand-tailored dress pants.

You shut your eyes when the memory of making a mess on one of his most treasured pairs comes to your mind—or rather, the memory of how he made you apologise for it.

One of his digits dips between your folds, trailing along the length of your slit until he reaches your entrance, but he doesn't give you what you were hoping for—he keeps it there, the very tip of his finger applying just enough pressure to make you squirm, but not to push inside your slick, wanting pussy.

"Greedy fucking girl, and so damn wet. All for me, isn't it?" he murmurs, groaning when your tight walls practically try to suck him inside, and he pumps his finger a few times into the warmth of your pussy. "Or did you walk around like this, fancying someone else?"

His finger withdraws again, and you whine in protest. "No, no, I didn't— please, it's all for you. Only you."

Tom drags you backwards by your hips, far enough that his face is a mere breath away from your flushed pussy—and then, he circles your entrance with his thumb a couple times before he leans in, the low rumble of his voice sending vibrations through your entire body.

"Good, because this hole right here is mine, and mine alone."

Before you even get to react to his words, his index and middle finger spread to form a V-shape on your pussy, coaxing your sticky folds open. Tom murmurs something under his breath, adjusting his hips beneath you just so his bulge rubs against your upper stomach—way too far from where you want him.

Then, without warning, his hot tongue swipes through the mess he's made of your pussy, gathering your arousal and shoving it, alongside his tongue, back inside your drooling hole.

A pornographic moan leaves your lips, and your pussy clenches in pleasure—Tom though tsks behind you, his flat palm connecting with the curve of your ass with a mean slap!

"So sensitive," he purrs, pressing a soft kiss to your clit. "Missed me?"

Fuck you, you want to say—but you know better than to ruin your already minimal chances for release tonight.

"So much! Please, I need you, Tommy." You squeal when his hand strikes you again, more harshly this time.

"That's not my name, darling. You can do better than that."

"I— I need you. Please, sir," you mumble, watching the first tears roll over your cheeks in the mirror in front of you. You are so fucking frustrated, aware he won't give you what you're begging for any time soon.

He chuckles lowly in response, his arms circling around the front of your upper thighs to keep you anchored to him, his mouth back on your cunt, salvaging your taste before he fucks you with just the tip of his wet tongue, drawing frustrated moans from your bite-swollen lips.

"Too bad, sweetheart. Bad girls don't get what they want, let alone the pleasure they crave."

He unbuckles his belt, discards it on the floor without much care, and frees his aching cock from the confinement of his trousers—wrapping his right hand around it tightly, pumping himself at the sight of your puffy, drooling pussy, imagining just how good it'd feel to arch your back, shove your head into the pillows, and wreck you—as he has done so often, you both have lost count.

After a bad grade? Definitely. In the broom closet? Yeppp. In his classroom with unlocked doors when everyone else was watching the Quidditch championship finale? Fuck, yes. Summer holidays? Too fucking long, he'll teach you apparition before any of his other students just to take you on the creaking bed of his London apartment.

But this, this isn't about him today. This is supposed to be a punishment, a reminder of who's in charge—and who gets to tease whom.

Tom jerks himself slowly while his lips work on your clit, his tongue playing with the slick arousal now coating everything up to your inner thighs. When he senses you trembling, moans growing louder, hips greedier with the way they chase his touch—he takes one last glance at your pretty cunt, and then, as if you weren't sensitive and aroused enough, he spits onto the sticky mess between your folds, making you gasp.

With that, he shoves you further down the bed again, closer to the mirror placed so conveniently, you are able to see your mascara stain your cheeks.

"Now, I want you to look at yourself. Watch yourself in the mirror while I use your greedy pussy for my pleasure—and don't you fucking dare look away."

You cry out when he smacks the familiar, veiny length of his cock onto your swollen folds, and you're waiting—praying—for that heavenly feeling of being stretched wide around him, but it never comes.

Instead, he uses both of his thumbs to pry your folds open once more and guides his cock along your slickness, enough to coat his entire cock with your arousal in just a few thrusts.

"Tom— sir, please— please fuck me," you sob, at both the feeling of him pleasuring himself without giving you anything in return and the way a wrecked version of yourself reflects back at you as you stare into the mirror.

But Tom—Tom doesn't pay your pleas any attention. He's too focused on the way your drooling hole clenches every time he so much as comes close to it, how fucking wet you've gotten his cock with just a few slow thrusts between your folds.

His thumb curls over his length then, helping him not to slip from the warm embrace of your cunt as he increases his pace, slick squelching sounds filling the room, the air around you heavy with the scent of your combined arousal.

"So pretty, don't you think?" he rasps, not shifting his eyes to the mirror, keeping his gaze fixed on the way your pussy tries sucking him in with every shallow bump against your entrance. "The both of you, I mean."

"Please— I want, I need— inside, inside me, please," you babble, your head dipping forwards, wiping your tears on his sheets.

"No," Tom replies, urging you up again with his fingers curled into your hair, making you study your reflection again. "Keep watching, pretty girl. Watch as I make a mess of you."

You swallow tightly, nodding. Maybe if you behave now—

His hips slam against yours from below, and soon enough groans start spilling from his lips, losing himself in the pleasant, slick warmth your cunt is providing him. Never would he have thought fucking you like this—just having your sweet wet pussy pleasure him, not slamming into your tight walls—would feel this good.

But it does, and each time his cock, slick with his precum, spit, and your own arousal glides along your slit, nearly slipping inside your pulsing hole—he thinks he might as well fuck you like this every time you're deserving of some discipline.

No more deep, rough thrusts that have you screaming his name. No—he'd keep denying you, barely missing your clit each time he thrust between your sticky folds.

The mere thought of your frustrated tears pushes him closer to the edge, and after a few more thrusts of his hips, he abruptly stops—shoving you off of him completely, having you lie flat on the mattress.

You're confused for the split second between him eagerly thrusting up your folds and feeling his weight sink down on your thighs as he snaps his hips forwards, burying the entire length of his cock in your tight, wet walls with one single thrust.

You moan in relief—but Tom, he stays there, unmoving, watching your hole stretch around his base, feeling you pulse and clench around him.

Poor girl, thinking he'll finally give you what you've been begging for.

No.

One more slight flutter of your snug walls is all it takes to make him lose his composure, let him break.

"Fuck— good fucking girl, always so good to me—" he growls, his arm wrapping around your throat as his cock twitches and he spills himself inside you, coating your walls with his seed.

Your eyes roll back at the sensation of his hot cum flooding your pussy, but the mind-numbing sensation leaves you as quickly as it washed over you when he withdraws from your oversensitive walls, leaving you aching for more as he disappears in the bathroom and reemerges a few minutes later.

You turn your head towards him when his footsteps near the bed, scrunching your brows in annoyance. "Tom? Don't tell me—"

His lips curl into a mean grin, and he scoops you up, covering the both of you with his duvet, pressing a kiss to your forehead. "I told you. Bad girls don't get to come. Learn your lesson, and I'll fuck you properly next time."

You throw a pillow at him, which he catches effortlessly, and turn to the side. "I hate you."

His hand dips between your thighs underneath the covers, dragging his middle finger down the length of your slit. "Sure you do, sweetheart. But this pussy—this wet fucking pussy—she loves me more than anything."

He doesn't let you clean yourself that night—you fall asleep with two of his fingers buried deep inside your painfully aroused cunt, keeping you plugged up, slick with your combined release.

And the next time you fuck—you have him tied up on a chair, humping his cock as though it were a mere toy.

Of course you don't let him cum—he's been a bad boy, after all.

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

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Your cheeks burned hot. The girls’ dormitory was supposed to be empty over break, but the faint creak of the old castle and the distant howl of wind outside made your heart hammer with the thrill of possibly being caught.

Yet the real embarrassment was lower—how shamelessly wet you were. Your arousal had completely soaked through the cotton, making it cling obscenely to every slick fold of your cunt. The fabric was translucent now, molded to your puffy lips and the aching little nub under his thumb. Every tiny shift of his hand made the wet material drag deliciously against your sensitive flesh.

His nervous silence stretched. You watched Theo’s throat bob as he swallowed hard, uncertainty flickering across his face. His hand started to retreat, ready to pull away and flee in awkward defeat—

Your fingers shot out and wrapped firmly around his wrist, stopping him.

“That’s fine, Teddy,” you breathed, voice a little shaky. “Just… erm, a bit more pressure?”

You weren’t exactly the world’s best sex-ed teacher. You’d had your share of fun nights, sure, but guiding your awkward, brilliant best friend through his first time touching a girl was something else entirely.

Still… he had asked so sweetly, eyes wide and hopeful behind those frames. And you really hadn’t expected him to be a complete virgin. Awkward? Yes. But hot? Undeniably. The glasses gave him that sexy-intellectual look, and the quiet hours he’d spent in the gym had carved lean, surprising muscle beneath his usual sweaters.

Theo gave you a shy, boyish smile that made your stomach flip, then refocused between your thighs with adorable concentration. His thumb pressed more confidently this time, rubbing firmer circles over your swollen clit through the soaked cotton. The increased pressure dragged the wet fabric deliciously against your sensitive folds, sending a jolt of heat straight to your core.

A soft, breathy moan slipped from your lips.

The sound seemed to light something up in him. His shoulders straightened, and when your hips rolled up instinctively, chasing more of that delicious friction, a flicker of pride crossed his flushed face.

“Can I— um…” He swallowed hard, cheeks burning crimson. “Can I see you?”

The words came out clumsy and mortified, like he wanted to crawl into a hole and die. He’d never been this close to a real vagina before, and the awkward phrasing made it painfully obvious.

You took pity on him. With trembling fingers, you hooked the drenched fabric of your panties to the side, fully exposing yourself to his hungry gaze.

Theo’s breath hitched sharply. His mouth actually watered at the sight of your pretty cunt—glistening, puffy, and slick with arousal. The cool air kissed your heated flesh, making your clit throb visibly under his stare. He couldn’t believe you were letting him see this, touch this… that you were trusting him with something so intimate.

“You can, um… use your fingers? Or your mouth… or whatever you’re comfortable with,” you offered, voice embarrassingly breathy. Even you sounded like a nervous virgin, too focused on chasing your own pleasure to give him any real instruction.

Theo didn’t seem to mind one bit.

His long, slender finger teased your weeping entrance, circling the slick, fluttering hole while his thumb kept up its steady, orbiting pressure on your swollen clit. The dual sensation made your thighs tremble.

“Mmm… you’re pretty,” he murmured, face flaming scarlet the instant the words slipped out. He couldn’t stop himself. You were pretty—devastatingly so. The prettiest girl he’d ever known. Always kind to him, always defending him when others laughed at his awkwardness. Your body was every single wet dream he’d ever had, soft and warm and glistening just for him right now.

“Pretty” didn’t even begin to cover it.

There was no time to dwell on the compliment. In the next heartbeat, his finger pushed inside you—slow, a little uncoordinated and timid, but eager. The stretch was delicious, his digit sliding deep into your tight, soaking heat until his knuckle brushed your folds. He curled it experimentally, searching, and the moment he grazed that spongy, sensitive spot inside you, your back arched off the bed.

“Ah—fuck, right there,” you gasped, hips bucking involuntarily into his hand. “Theo—yes, just like that…”

Theo was drunk on your praise. The handsome boy’s eyes darkened behind his slightly fogged glasses as he added a second thick finger, stretching you open with a wet, obscene sound. He bullied that perfect, spongy spot inside you with surprising accuracy, curling and stroking until your walls fluttered desperately around his digits.

“I—I’m gonna cum if you ke—”

Your warning dissolved into a broken gasp as his thumb pressed down harder on your swollen clit, rubbing tight, firm circles. You shouldn’t have been surprised—he seemed to be good at everything once he set his mind to it. Your fingers threaded desperately into his soft brown hair, tugging hard as you searched for something to anchor yourself.

A shaky, needy moan tore from Theo’s lips at the sharp pull on his scalp. His cock was painfully hard, straining desperately against the front of his trousers, the ache so intense it bordered on torture. He’d jerked off plenty of times before, of course, but nothing compared to the raw, overwhelming need flooding his veins at the thought of making you fall apart on his fingers.

“I want you to,” he whispered hoarsely, voice thick with lust and awe. His fingers never stopped their relentless rhythm—thrusting deep, curling perfectly, thumb working your throbbing clit without mercy. “Cum for me… please.”

You couldn’t have stopped it if you tried.

Your orgasm built fast and low in your belly, a coiling heat that tightened with every thrust of his fingers. Theo’s pace quickened, confident now, his eyes locked hungrily between your thighs—watching with rapt fascination as your slick pussy clenched and fluttered around his two thick fingers, your swollen clit throbbing visibly against the pad of his thumb.

Your eyes rolled back, head falling against the pillows as a fresh gush of arousal slicked down his hand and wrist. Your moans climbed higher, turning shameless and pornographic, raw and needy.

“Fuck—fuck—fuck, Theo!” you cried out.

Theo moaned too at the sound of his name on your lips, the desperate way you gasped it. He’d imagined this exact moment so many nights alone in his dorm, fist wrapped tight around his aching cock, pumping frantically while he pictured you falling apart for him. The reality was so much sweeter.

Your orgasm crashed over you without mercy. White-hot pleasure exploded behind your eyes as your walls spasmed violently around his fingers. Your toes curled hard, thighs instinctively trying to snap shut around his hand. But Theo held you open with surprising strength, palm pressed firmly against your inner thigh, almost salivating as he watched your pussy pulse and gush, soaking his fingers and the sheets beneath you.

Your back bowed sharply off the bed, a broken cry tearing from your throat. Only then did he slow his movements—gentle, careful strokes now, easing you through the aftershocks exactly the way he’d read about in those hidden books he’d never admit to owning.

You came down slowly, chest heaving as you tried to catch your breath. Soft, trembling aftershocks still rippled through your body, your pussy fluttering weakly around his fingers as he gently eased them out of your soaked heat. A thin string of your arousal stretched between his digits and your glistening folds before breaking.

Theo’s gaze never left you. With wide, reverent eyes, he lifted his slick fingers to his mouth and licked them clean slowly, almost experimentally at first, then with growing hunger. A low, surprised groan rumbled in his chest as he tasted you. Warm, sweet, and heady. His tongue dragged between his fingers, chasing every drop of your release like it was the most addictive thing he’d ever experienced. The sight alone sent another lazy pulse of heat through your spent body.

Still breathing hard, you managed a soft, teasing smile. “Want me to, um… help you too? It’s only fair…”

Theo froze, cheeks flushing a deep, mortified crimson. His hand dropped quickly to his lap in a futile attempt to hide the evidence.

“No— I, um… I already…” His words trailed off into embarrassed silence. The dark, wet patch on the front of his trousers was impossible to miss—his cock had twitched and spilled untouched the moment you’d cried out his name and clenched around his fingers. The fabric clung obscenely to the outline of his softening length, sticky and warm against his skin.

You bit your lip, a fresh wave of arousal stirring despite how thoroughly he’d just wrecked you. “Fuck… that’s hot.”

Theo’s head snapped up, surprise and shy delight flickering across his flushed face.

“Next time, then,” you promised softly, reaching out to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead.

He’d be a liar if he said the words didn’t send a thrilled little spark straight through him. A next time. With you. The thought made his spent cock twitch weakly in his ruined trousers, already half-interested again.

A shy, boyish smile tugged at his lips as he nodded, still tasting you on his tongue. “Yeah… next time.”

💿💿💿📀💿💿💿💿💿📀💿💿💿💿📀

When you started your first year at Hogwarts which now seemed like moons ago, your older brother Theodore – two years your senior; had laid out what he rather bluntly had referred to as 'family ground rules' during the course of a rather bumpy train ride through the evergreen Scottish countryside. There were only two ground rules, or as Theodore liked to sometimes refer to them: expectations.

Expectation one: family first. Don't snitch, don't ditch, don't rely on anyone else for anything and for the love of Merlin – don't share secrets with anyone who's last name wasn't Nott. Expectation two, much simpler: No boys. Not as friends, not as acquaintances, not as potions lab partners, not as study buddies and most certainly not as anything that could be considered vaguely romantic or lovey. Ew!

During first year, to both expectations and rules you had no problem at all complying. There were a million and one rather interesting things around the castle which had either caught your eye or piqued your curiosity that the opposite sex could hardly hold a flame to. In fact, having Theodore's friends around you constantly to watch and keep an eye out to see if any boys caused you problems had made things rather easy. It was as if you'd become surrounded by a 24 hour watchdog team. By the time second year had come around, well... boys still weren't an issue for you either. Family forever – always; but boys? Ugh, no, they were still just disgusting.

Third, fourth and fifth year, you'd had no problems complying to the same rules and expectations as always just as easily as you had the previous years. By sixth year however – well that's when things had begun to change. You were no longer Nott's kid sister – no, far from it. You'd returned to the castle after summer so much more than anyone could have expected – not a wide-eyed child anymore, but a woman. A woman with curves which were carved into your silhouette like that of a siren's lure and that caused allure to drip with every sway of your hips. Your assets, so to speak; had boys drooling and of course Theodore along with his band of merry misfits were able to snap their heads and necks back in place with threats that left more than just metaphorical bruises.

That first rule and expectation – family first; that was still easy to follow. You were loyal. Loyal to the cause. Loyal to Theodore. Loyal to the family. Professors had the nerve a handful of times to ask you in the hopes of catching you off guard if Theodore had ever been involved in any rather unsavoury situations around the castle and as practiced and polished as possible, your answer was always a rather firm, clear and concise -no. Nothing more. This extended out to the girls who wanted to 'get to know your brother better' – girlfriends, ex's, flavours of the month. Whenever they wanted details on his likes, dislikes, desires, aspirations or activities; you'd just shrug and proclaim in a barely there whisper that 'they'd have to find out that information on their own by asking him.' Note – they never did.

Rule and expectation number two though – well.. this was a little tougher to comply with. Especially given the added hormonal impact growing up and maturing had on a young witch. Members of the opposite sex you'd once scrunched your nose up at suddenly became – appealing. The thrill of knowing you were a hot commodity amongst the male student body due to the 'rules' that Theodore had imposed on you – well, that was just as sweet as toffee icing on a cauldron cake.

Theodore, as a brother was; well for lack of better words, protective. Fuck – protective may have been an understatement. Theodore was proactive, preventative and precautionary when it came to anyone with an XY chromosome combination hat dared to look in your general direction. With the assistance of his Slytherin posse, there wasn't an inch of the castle that you could be without someone keeping an eye on you. Nor, was there any chance that any boy in their right mind would dare to even talk to or acknowledge you – knowing all too well just how unimpressed and unhinged Theodore could get under the guide of merely 'being a big brother who was looking out for you'.

That nerdy Ravenclaw who they boys had referred to resembling a rather cute toothpick with glasses that had asked you out to Hogsmeade for a drink – well, the day off, he'd woken up with a peculiarly nasty stomach bug. Oh, and that rather bold, confident Gryffindor who had proposed you be his date for this years Yule Ball? A broken leg the week before with allegedly – no foul play involved.

Fascinating.

Interestingly enough, as much of an airtight crew that Theodore was under the impression that he had, there was always opportunity for one little harmless thing to crawl through the cracks of the seemingly solid fortress he'd built and like a dirty bug, infiltrate – with the ultimately goal of injecting themselves into your live.

Surely, you wouldn't fall for that though. How cliché.

Well.. there was Draco; the fair-haired prince who was far too obsessed with his own self to even see you as anything other than a shadow in his mirror. Then there was Blaise; the smooth talking snake with a 'do not respond to' call list longer than a path through the Forbidden Forest. Following was Lorenzo, the blatant manipulator with his infamous little black book stuffed with notes and notches that you never wanted your name scribbled into which finally... left Mattheo.

Mattheo fucking Riddle.

Theodore's best friend. Theodore's righthand man. Theodore's confidant. The ying to Theodore's yang. Theodore's consciousness. Theodore's all seeing eye – and right now, the Brutus to the Nott family's Caesar.

Mattheo – who to Theodore was such a good friend and even more a decent guy by forever honouring the bro-code. So decent, so reliable, so loyal – that right now, he had you splayed out like a sacrifice on his bed with hands like vices on your thighs, tongue buried so deep into your dripping cunt that it was like he was starving for your soul.

Because for all his quietness, all his calculated softness, all his gentlemanly posture when the time was right and a last name that he wore like a personal horcrux, Mattheo is fucking anything but harmless. He isn't shy, he isn't sweet; hell – he's nothing but a precise, conniving, little fucking snake in every sense of the word who knows exactly when to coil himself up when to strike in ways that leave no trace. That precision, is why you're here now – back pressed firmly against the emerald silk sheets of his bed, Theodore's rules and expectations shredded like tissuepaper at the back of your mind. The curtains around you are drawn, oil lamps low, the dorm smelling like broom polish and designer cologne.

Then there's Mattheo – on his knees, between your legs, head tilted back just enough to look up at you as his lips curl and suck at your clit before his tongue returns to working slow, deliberate circles at it.

Bringing your bottom lip up between your teeth to chew at it uncomfortably, your back threatens to arch, head dropping back into the mountain of pillows as you begin to loose yourself beneath him. Mattheo's thumbs press into the soft spots just above your hipbones as a warning, but he's careful not to bruise. Or a least.. he is for now.

"Don't fucking move." The three words murmur against the soft skin of your inner thigh in a calm voice that is almost polite and yet somehow that makes it dirtier than if he'd snarled. "You wanted me? You wanted fun? Then stay fucking still and take it."

Your fingers begin to claw at the sheets; nails biting into the mattress at how unhurried he is. Fuck. Mattheo takes his time, tasting what you've got to offer with devastating small flicks of his tongue before amping it up to longer, slower licks that drag between your folds and dip inside past your entrance when you're least expecting it. To tease, his tongue retreats every now and again that makes you choke out a whimper that sounds a lot like a personal plea. You're about to roll your eyes at how good this feels; one hand shifting to knot into his curls and keep him exactly where you need him most but are snapped back into reality by the sound voices nearing.

A sudden thud in the corridor which sounds like someone kicking a wall causes Mattheo to still; his lips and chin glistening with your arousal as he lifts his head and glances over his shoulder at the door, eyes turning black with trace hints of lust now sharpening with a feral alert. As the voices echo closer – you both recognise one that you're not exactly thrilled to hear – Theodore's sharp tone slicing through the air like a blade that never has to be sharpened.

"Where the fuck is Riddle? And have you seen my sister? She's been vanishing lately. I swear, if she's with some fucking prick I'm going to gut him.."

Pulse skyrocketing, heat turns into a twisted cocktail of both ice and fire that courses through your veins. Mattheo curses beneath his breath as an unhinged smirk flickers across his lips even amid the panic you're both feeling, glancing around the room as if he's trying to think.

Trunks, scattered robes, unorganised shelves, that tiny space beneath the bed...

A narrow, shadowed space cluttered with forgotten books, chocolate frog wrappers and quidditch gear that's just wide enough for two bodies to be concealed in. Perfect. He grabs your wrist, uttering a firm, "under", with a hiss as he drags you off the bed and guides you in. Dropping to the floor with a hammering heart, you slide beneath the bedframe; cursing that you'd forgotten your phone on Mattheo's beside table and fucking pray to the founders that no one text or call. With the cool stone floor grazing at your overheated skin and your skirt hiked up around your waist like a whore's invitation; Mattheo follows in like a blur – his body sliding beneath the bed behind yours; pressing you flat to the floor – his chest to your back, his hard cock grinding insistently against your ass through trousers as he clamps a hand over your mouth to keep you quiet.

"Shhh princess", he manages to breath into your ear, nipping at the lobe hard enough to sting. "Quiet – or they'll hear how wet you are for me."

The dorm door bursts open; heavy footsteps pounding in – Theodore's first, followed by the others, fanning out throughout the dorm like a pack of wolves.

"Mattheo? You in here mate?" Theodore's voice calls out laced with suspicion as drawers creak and trunks slam shut as if he's riffling through them. You can see the shadows of feet pacing – shoes getting up close; too fucking close; so much so that your breathing shallows and rags against Mattheo's palm, his fingers wrapping around your cheek warm and firm. Shutting your eyes in an attempt to perhaps help keep you quiet, you try not to shuffle or move as Mattheo's freehand snakes down between your bodies; pulling down his zipper and freeing his cock before the thick head is tapped against your ass and slides down to nudge playfully at your entrance. Biting down on his palm to stifle a moan, he taps your cheek with his fingers like a warning before thrusting in slowly – deep and unyielding; stretching you wide in the cramped darkness like a feral beast as dust chokes into your lungs as he fills you to the hilt. Your eyes begin to water and your hands curl up beneath you to grab at your tits so that they don't start clawing around on the floor to make a sound. What a fucking prick—

Draco's scoff is the firs to cut through the haze of the room. "He's probably off shagging some slag, Theo. Your sister though – I'm telling you, she's gone AWOL again. Pansy said something about seeing her head to the library to study but that was hours ago. You think she's up to something? Finally cracked under your rules."

The words cause Theodore to growl; kicking the trunk at Mattheo's bed end mere inches away from your hiding spot – the vibration jolting through you as Mattheo continues to rock his hips relentlessly as he silently fucks you. Each shallow thrust hits that spot which makes stars explode behind your eyes and your walls begin to flutter around his cock, milking him shamelessly; even with company about.

"If I find out she's with someone – I swear, every single fucking unforgiveable is being used on them."

Theodore's threat hangs heavy; his shadow looming as he pauses once again to scan the dorm room; utterly oblivious to the depravity unfolding beneath his feet. Pulling one hand away from squeezing your tit, you rake your nails into Mattheo's arm as the tension which coils in your gut becoming tighter and tighter. Every second that his cocks in you at this angle, stretching your pussy into unhinged ecstasy. His palm continues to muffle your gasps; the slick sounds barely masked by the boys shoes shuffling causing you to teeter on the edge.

Mattheo manages to let a breathy groan escape straight against the warm skin of your cheek which he can tell, even in the dark; is flushed with a crimson that'd cause the devil to blush. "You gonna come for me baby girl? Sock my cock you filthy fucking slut. Show me how much you like betraying family."

Eyes rolling back and tongue pressing hard against Mattheo's palm; Blaise's chuckle skims across the room. "Ease up T; she's probably just smoking with friends in the Astronomy Tower. That's where I found her this time last week."

Lorenzo snorts at the banter suggesting they continue searching before he has to leave for a date he has tonight that seems to have Mattheo quickening his pace at the news. His teeth sink into your shoulder in an attempt to hold back his own groan causing the coil of thrill inside you to snap. It hits you like a curse – your body seizing; your vision blurring white as hot waves of pleasure begin to crash over your skin; your cunt spasming around his cock as a sticky slick gushes down the inside of your thighs. You tremble violently; biting harder at Mattheo's palm to muffle the keening whimper that threatens to burst from the back of your throat.

Every muscle of your body begins to clench as the boys voices drone on; inches away – unknowingly. Mattheo continues to snap his hips – his hands moving to take hold of your own and stretch your arms out in front of you, creating stability as your toes curl and his cock drills in deeper and deeper. You bite your tongue hard enough that the taste of blood begins to fill your mouth and there's finally a chance of reprieve as Lorenzo suggests they all check out the Astronomy Tower following Blaise's comment and with a frustrated huff, you hear your brother agree.

"Fine – let's check; but I swear, if I catch wind of anything..."

The dorm door slams shut behind them, echoes of their voices fading into silence. Mattheo doesn't stop however; now, he's thrusting harder; chasing his release with a savage growl into your ear as he bites harder into your shoulder this time.

"Fuck – that was insane..", he pants before smacking your ass and pulling out just to give you enough space to flip over onto your back; hands to your thighs to move them so that they wrap around his waist. Slamming back into you – deeper, rougher, harder; his teeth skim the sensitive skin of your neck causing you to laugh out loud breathlessly. The sound is manic; euphoric; and each syllable is met with a further punishing stroke.

"Fuck.. Matty – more."

Gasping from your high, your body all oversensitive and greedy is obliged as Mattheo continuous to thrust erratically – a half kiss occurring as your tongues meet, lips crashing into a messy, bruising kiss which he groans into and you swallow willingly. Nails clawing at his back; Mattheo sticks a finger into your mouth that you suck a little too eagerly before he drops it down between your bodies to toy with your clit and spell out the word 'expectations' that has you cumming harder and quicker than you ever believed that you could; his name screamed loud enough that you were sure the entire fucking castle would have been able to hear it.

Clinging to him desperately, you ride out the afterglow of being fucked beneath a bed; your limbs tangled into Mattheo's – your body spent. This was definitely different. Hell – being fucked under a bed was definitely new. The thrill – somewhat addicting. The betrayal – intoxicating. Catching your breath, you had just enough time to consider what had happened and think over your actions before Mattheo slides out from beneath the bed, grabbing your wrist to drag you out and whimpering like a pussy-drunk puppy that he was ready for round two.

Family first? Mhmm perhaps not. Sorry Theodore – this passion with Mattheo was going to be your addiction, your undoing, your everything. Fuck – you were willing to give everything for just another taste of him. It seemed no boundaries could hold you back – no rules. Those expectations; yeah... you'd play along, but only when you had to.

It was no secret that your relationship was an enigma to the rest of Hogwarts. The Dark Lord’s son was ruthless, sharp-tongued, and dripping with inherited danger. And also, utterly devoted to a girl who still wore frilly lace socks and tied delicate satin ribbons in her hair.

The contrast was almost obscene. Hands that had wielded unforgivable violence now cradled your cheek with a reverence that made your knees weak. Fingers stained by blood and curses traced the curve of your jaw as gently as if you were made of spun glass.

The whispers used to burrow under your skin like splinters, sharp and relentless. But Mattheo had spent months wrapping you in his quiet devotion, slowly stitching your confidence back together until it shone brighter than any house crest. He kept you safe, ferociously and protectively, so much so that the rumors no longer had the power to make you flinch.

No amount of gossip, no sideways glances in the corridors, could ever make you turn away from him. Not when he looked at you like you were the only soft thing left in his brutal world.

Mattheo’s mates still snickered behind his back when they thought he couldn’t hear them. Their low, mocking chuckles in the Slytherin common room about how their feared friend had gone soft for a girl who skipped through the corridors like the world was made of sugar. You hummed the sweetest little tunes under your breath as you made your way to class, ribbons fluttering in your hair and frilly socks peeking above your polished shoes.

It was almost impossible to hate you, though. You were sickeningly sweet, the kind of gentle that gave cavities and made even the coldest purebloods falter. You showed up at their dorm unannounced with baskets of warm, buttery cookies fresh from the kitchens, the scent of vanilla and chocolate curling through the stone room like a spell. You smuggled bright coloring books and fat crayons to the house-elves, kneeling on the cold dungeon floors just to watch their wide eyes light up as they clutched the gifts to their tiny chests.

And while Mattheo worshipped every soft, ribboned inch of your sweetness, he was addicted to the secret version of you that no one else would ever see.

He lived for the way your pretty thighs trembled violently around his head, slick and quivering as he buried his tongue deeper inside you. He craved the broken, honey-sweet moans that spilled against his ear while he worshipped your cunt like it was holy. Slow, devoted strokes of his tongue, the wet sounds obscene in the quiet of his dorm. Your fingers would twist desperately in his dark curls, hips jerking helplessly as he dragged you over the edge again and again, never once asking for anything in return.

Fuck, he would crawl across the stone floor on his hands and knees like a dog if that’s what you wanted. He’d let you use his mouth, his cock, his fingers. Any part of him, any time, anywhere without a single complaint.

But you never demanded degradation. All you ever asked for was his time and his love.

So he struck a quiet deal with you in the dark, whispered between kisses and shared breaths: he was yours. Completely. Freely. His body belonged to you the moment you wanted it. He loved watching your confidence slowly bloom in the bedroom—his once-shy girl finally brave enough to ask for what she desired.

But what he craved even more was for you to stop asking altogether.

Even though you had his explicit permission—his low, sleepy voice reminding you “Use me whenever you want, baby” still ringing in your ears—you couldn’t stop the delicate shiver of nerves racing up your spine as you sat just beside him in the early morning hour.

He looked so devastatingly pretty like this, lost in sleep. Dark lashes rested heavy against his cheeks, full lips slightly parted. One strong, veined arm was tucked behind his head, bicep flexed even in repose, while the other stretched across the sheets, fingers half-curled as if searching for your warmth even in his dreams.

Heat radiated from his bare torso in gentle waves, carrying the familiar scent of him, his woodsy cologne and whatever herb him and Theo had found to smoke before bed. Your gaze drags greedily down his body, drinking in every inch he’d so willingly surrendered to you. The black briefs clung low on his hips, the deep V of muscle pointing temptingly toward the thick outline of his cock resting heavy against his thigh. Messy dark curls spilled across one of your pink silk pillows, the delicate fabric a ridiculous contrast against his rough, dangerous beauty.

Your thighs press together instinctively, heart fluttering as you watch the steady rise and fall of his chest. He's all yours to take.

You draw in a slow, steadying breath, the air cool against your heated cheeks, before you finally reach for him.

Your fingertips skate lightly up his toned thighs, watching them flex instantly beneath your touch—hard muscle jumping and tightening under warm, smooth skin. A quiet thrill shoots through you at the sight of him already reacting, completely at your mercy even in sleep.

You relished it.

The power. The privilege. The way his cock was already thickening, heavy and obscene beneath the thin black fabric of his briefs, the thick head pressing insistently against the waistband from nothing more than your gentle fingers. Your tiny lace panties are soaked, the delicate material clinging wetly to your folds as fresh arousal pulses between your thighs.

Unable to resist any longer, you lean down and press a soft, open-mouthed kiss just below his navel. Your lips linger there, tasting the warm salt of his skin, feeling the faint trail of dark hair tickling your chin. Your thighs squeeze together tightly, trying to ease the aching throb building inside you, but it only makes the slick heat worse.

Mattheo tenses under your mouth, a low, unconscious rumble vibrating through his chest. His hips shift slightly, cock twitching visibly as it continues to swell. One of his hands flex against the sheets, fingers curling as if reaching for you again.

You should feel ashamed.

You should feel guilty for how much you love this—for how wet and desperate it makes you to use him while he was still soft and unaware, completely surrendered to whatever you want to take.

But the only thing you feel is a dizzying, delicious rush of want.

You finally hook your fingers into the waistband of his boxers and peel them down his hips. His cock springs free instantly, slapping heavily against his lower stomach with a lewd sound. It’s already glistening with thick beads of precum welling at the flushed tip and dripping down the veined shaft in slow, shiny trails.

You lick your lips, breath shallow as you take your time admiring him like this: completely exposed, utterly yours. The angry, swollen red of his tip contrasts so prettily with the soft pink flush high on his sleeping cheeks. His full lips are still parted, lashes dark against his skin, while the lower half of his body is surrendered to your greedy little hands and the slow torture you’re inflicting.

Your small hand wraps around his thick shaft, fingers barely able to close around the hot, pulsing girth. Your thumb swipes slowly over the leaking head, gathering the slick precum and smearing it in lazy circles around the sensitive tip. The wet, obscene sound of skin on skin fills the quiet room.

Nerves flutter up your spine again. What if he wakes up and regrets giving you this permission? What if—

Your hand slows, hesitation creeping in as you catch your bottom lip between your teeth, that familiar nervous tick Mattheo has always adored.

You’re about to pull away entirely when a much larger, warmer hand suddenly covers yours, fingers closing firmly around your own and squeezing until your grip tightens perfectly around his cock.

“Doin' so good, baby…”

His voice is rough as gravel, still thick with sleep and raw from the late hour. He doesn’t open his eyes. Doesn’t move otherwise. He simply keeps his hand wrapped around yours, guiding you with slow, deliberate strokes as he offers himself up to you even in his half-awake haze—exactly the way he promised he would.

His hand stayed wrapped around yours for only a moment longer before it slid away, palm dragging lazily up your arm in silent permission. He laid back like an offering, hands lazily on you as he closed his eyes again.

"C'mon princess, take what you need."

You didn’t hesitate this time.

Rising onto your knees, you tug your soaked panties to the side and straddle his hips. Your pussy already dripping, slick arousal coating your inner thighs and sliding down in warm, shiny trails. The thick head of his cock nudges against your drenched folds, parting them with a wet, obscene sound before you sink down in one slow, greedy drop all the way to the hilt.

A broken little whimper escapes your lips as he stretches you open, the blunt head of his cock pressing right against that sensitive spot that makes your toes curl. Your walls flutter and clench around every thick inch, gripping him tightly like you never want to let go. The stretch burns so perfectly, the wet squelch of your soaked cunt swallowing him whole echoing in the quiet dorm.

Mattheo’s eyes flu open with a sharp, startled inhale, his whole body jerking beneath you. For half a second his hands dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, but he doesn't thrust up. He doesn't take control.

Instead, he exhales a shaky, reverent “Fuck… baby,” his voice still gravel-rough and sleepy as his lashes flutter. His head drops back onto your pink pillow, dark curls splayed wildly, and let's you take what you need.

You start to move slowly, experimental rolls of your hips that quickly turn desperate. Every time you sink down, his cock kisses so impossibly deep that you swear you feel him in your stomach. The lewd, slippery sounds of your slick walls sliding up and down his thick length filling the room–wet, messy. Fresh arousal leaks out around his shaft with every bounce, coating his balls and dripping down onto the sheets.

Mattheo’s hands slide up to rest loosely on your waist, thumbs stroking gentle circles over your skin, but he never guides you. Never speeds you up. He simply watches you through half-lidded eyes, lips parted on soft, broken praises that made your heart flutter even as your cunt clenches harder around him.

Your voice comes out shy and breathy, barely above a whisper. “I-is this okay, Matty? Does it feel good when I use you like this?”

His cock twitched hard inside you at the sweet sound of your voice, eyes fluttering as a quiet moan leaves his parted lips. “So fucking good, sweetheart,” he rasps, voice hoarse with sleep and pleasure. “You’re perfect… keep going. Such a good girl, so pretty on top." He reaches up to palm your breasts, thumb swiping over your pebbled nipple.

You whimper softly, gaining a little more courage with his words. “So deep. Can feel you everywhere.” Your walls squeeze around him tighter as you say it, another gush of wetness dripping down his shaft. “All mine… don't even have to ask, right?”

“Never, baby,” he groans, eyes rolling back slightly. “I’m your toy. Use me—fuuck, just like that.”

His cock throbs violently inside your pulsing heat, hips twitching once then twice before he's coming with a deep, guttural groan, hot spurts of cum flooding your already soaked walls. You feel every pulse, every thick rope painting your insides as your greedy cunt milks him through it, the wet sounds turning even filthier with the mix of your slick and his release.

But you don't stop. You can't.

You keep riding him through his orgasm, hips rolling greedily, chasing more of your own pleasure even as his cum leaks out around his cock with every bounce. The overstimulation makes his thighs tremble and his breath hitch into soft, broken whimpers, yet he only tips his head back further, eyes half-lidded and adoring.

it was enzo. the guy you knew since you were in diapers. the guy with whom you shared countless of baths when you two were kids. the guy who was there through every embarrassing stage of your puberty.

staying in your underwear around one another was nothing.

“it’s the highest setting, right?” you mumbled after locking your phone and dropping it to the side, displeased by the little breeze of the electric fan.

“yeah…” he muttered back, slight disappointment latched onto the brief confirmation. he didn’t even bother to raise from his horizontal position, already recalling the desperation he had while smashing the plus button on the fan.

“ugh, i wanna peel my skin off my face.”

it was evening already, yet the heat was as persistent as ever. maybe you should get some ice from the freezer and just… dump it on you? yeah, maybe even sneak some pieces in your bra to cool off bett–

bing.

…

“oh, fuck off.”

checking your phone after the notification pierced the peaceful ambiance of the room, you immediately lock it back, infuriated by what you saw.

“again?”

enzo had a hunch about the source of your sudden rage, and by his short question and your audible huffs of annoyance, he knew he was right.

“is that michael guy still pestering you? didn’t you block him?”

“it looks like he made another account. ugh, why doesn’t he take the hint?”

you raised your upper half off the couch, leaning on the pads of your palms just for a few seconds, before diving head first between the scattered pillows next to you.

you groaned into them, and enzo could hear your agony even through the plush material.

“you told him you have a boyfr–?”

“multiple times. i even sent a picture of you to convince him.”

you did not have a boyfriend. you have been single for months now, but michael doesn’t need to know that. your sweet best friend enzo offered to play boyfriend to scare off the creep, but it seems like even that wasn’t enough.

“aaaand?”

“he knew we’re not together.”

you should’ve expected the number one stalker to recognize lorenzo from the pictures you have on your account.

“damn. i am sorry, babe.”

“ahh, it’s fine. i will just block him aga–”

bing.

“is that him again?”

enzo reacted more energic this time, jumping from his seat, abandoning his own phone, all to crawl towards your part of the couch. to see for himself what that weirdo does in your dms.

“wait, let me chec– oh my god, ewwwwwwwwwwww.”

if last time you dropped your phone on the couch, now you straight up threw it away from you. you shriek into a ball, clutching one of the pillows close to your chest and hiding in it. the heat no longer mattered as you were now dominated by disgust, captured by the need to be hidden.

“what? what?”

lorenzo panicked, eyes almost flaring out of his sockets at your unusual reaction. you were so affected by whatever you saw on your phone, you were almost shaking.

“that bastard sent me a dick pic. it looked like a bald rat, i feel like puking.”

enzo stilled for a second.

then he blinked.

“a bald rat?”

“yes.” you wailed, face still buried in the pillow. “a naked mole rat. pink and sickly and shiny. i’m traumatized.”

he snorted at your description. then choked on it trying to suppress his laugh, realizing it is not an appropriate reaction. “i’m sorry, i’m not laughing at you, babe, it’s just– god, that’s disgusting.” he reached for your shoulder carefully, hand warm and grounding as he gave you a gentle stroke.

“you okay?”

“no.” you mumbled pathetically, burying your face deeper into the softness. “i was just trying to exist. and now i’ve seen that. i need to bleach my brain. i need to send something back to scar him for life.”

enzo hummed, rubbing lazy circles into your shoulder. “like a revenge dick pic?”

“yeah. but…” you peeked at him from your pillow, lips pouting. “i don’t have a dick.”

he blinked again. and then his lips curled. slowly.

“so use mine.”

you raised your head so fast you nearly knocked foreheads with lorenzo. in that moment you realized just how close he was to you.

how close and naked he was.

“enzo–”

“what?” he grinned, boyish and infuriatingly calm, as if he hadn’t just offered to donate his cock for the cause. “he values dicks so much, i’ll give him one. free of charge. beautifully lit. no filters. let him compare.”

you gaped at him, blood boiling beneath your skin with every word of his, flushing your face with embarrassment.

he was just messing with you, right?

“you’re not serious.”

enzo moved his body closer, until your bare knees touched, and his palms spread over your naked thighs, keeping you still on the couch. with such proposals on his lips, enzo had a feeling you’d run away from him.

so he didn’t give you the opportunity at all.

“i’m dead serious. let me help you. he sends you a shitty unsolicited dick? you send back mine. i guarantee he’ll never message you again.”

you choked on a nervous laugh, trying to calm down your nerves and not read too much into it. lorenzo had no ulterior motives with such a suggestion, so why was your mind fostering unholy thoughts all of a sudden?

the nakedness of your two bodies didn’t help, especially now with his skin touching yours. his hands were firmly planted on your thighs, resting mainly on the top — only his fingers, fidgety and restless, tapped against your inner section.

making your head spin and forcing your legs to close up.

“you’re insane.” you whispered back at him, averting your gaze from his piercing ones and opting to stare at your abandoned phone.

he squeezed your thighs, fingers digging in the fat of your legs — bringing your eyes back on his.

“and you’re suffering. babe, come on. you know i’d do anything for you.”

your mouth went dry, spit refusing to further pool in. yet something else pooled... in your underwear.

his voice dropped just a little lower, his face dragging just a tad closer to your ear.

“i don’t want anyone making you feel unsafe. or disgusted. especially not some pathetic little creep who thinks his dick deserves attention.”

you swallowed, keeping focus on his gorgeous face; that mischievous glint in his eyes, the devious curl on his wet lips. he was still smiling, but there was something else in his expression now — sharp. protective. hungry.

and when you didn’t answer, enzo gently tugged you closer by your thighs, tilting his head.

“unless you’re too shy to see it?”

your lips parted, words rushing to get out in a short protest. “i’m not.”

“you sure?” he whispered, thumbs rubbing up your inner thigh now, almost brushing the edge of your panties. “because you can. if you want. i’ll even let you take the picture. show him what a real one looks like.”

your thighs squeezed together, trapping his digits briefly in between. your skin was warm, warmer than before, and where his hands stood — the patches burnt with unspoken desire. the heat licked up your spine too, spreading arousal all over your body like a raging fire.

you stared at him.

you’d known lorenzo your whole life.

and yet… right now, you couldn’t stop picturing what he would look like bare.

hard.

just for you.

your voice came out small, just a flimsy string of sanity keeping you away from his plan. “he won’t believe it’s real.”

enzo shrugged, eyes dark, whispering yet another possibility. “then we’ll take another. with your hand on it this time.”

“enzo!” you gasped, outraged by his proposition, going as far as pushing the pillow into his face.

but he only grinned wider, accepting your attacks with open arms and letting the pillow crash into his face. he immediately removed it, throwing it out of the way, and took back his position next to your blushing face.

“say the word, babe. i’ll even get it hard for you.”

you swallowed again.

you could feel your heartbeat in your throat, in your stomach, in the places where his thumbs were still drawing lazy little circles against your inner thighs.

the summer heat had nothing on the burn spreading beneath your skin now. and the look on his face — steady, teasing, inviting — wasn't helping.

“okay.” you murmured, almost like you were afraid to break the moment, finally giving in. “okay… let's do it.”

“yeah?” enzo’s brows lifted just a bit — surprised… or thrilled.

you nodded, lips parted, your tongue already poking out and wetting your lips.

“but… only if you get hard first. i’m not sending him a softie.”

enzo barked out a laugh, loud and wicked. “god, you’re fucking perfect.”

his hands slid from your thighs to his lap, lazily adjusting himself in his boxers. he was already half-hard, just from the idea of you seeing him. he didn’t even try to hide the way his cock twitched when you looked down, just once, then looked away quickly like you hadn’t meant to.

“c’mere.” he said, voice a little rougher now. “closer. talk to me.”

“talk to you?”

he hummed, stroking himself through the thin cotton, tentatively gripping his cock with his long fingers. he didn’t take it out yet — afraid to scare you — but you could still see the shape of him swelling beneath the fabric, thick and eager.

“yeah. want you to talk me through it.”

“enzo…” his name bloomed on your tongue with a whiny tinge, barely escaping from between your lips.

but he heard it clearly. he let out a low, throaty groan as a result, his head slightly lolling back on the couch.

“fuck. say it again.”

“what?”

“my name. with that voice…” he breathed, slowly dragging his palm up and down the length of his cock, the fabric now visibly wet at the tip, clinging to his mushroomy tip.

“goddamn, babe. didn’t know you could sound like that when you say it.”

you swallowed hard, thighs pressing together, your own panties now marked by dripping need. he looked beautiful like this — messy hair damp from sweat, chest rising and falling with each breath, mouth parted as he stared at you like he could eat you alive.

“enzo.” you whispered, unsure if you were trying to calm him down or make it worse. “you’re… getting really hard.”

“because of you.” he groaned again, accentuating it with a harsher tug on his cock. “your voice. your fucking voice, babe — talk to me.”

your cheeks flamed, but something in you cracked open; some hungry, curious part of you that liked the way his hips bucked into his hand at the mere sounds of your voice. liked the way his lashes fluttered, how his eyes rolled back.

liked how needy he looked.

“you’re doing so good.” you whispered seductively, barely able to believe the words were coming from your own mouth. “look at you…”

enzo whined, pressing harder against his boxers. fuck, this was really happening!

“look at how hard you are.” you said, braver now, watching his cock twitch under his touch. “shit… all for me?”

“yes, yes, fuck, yes–” he was panting now, jerking himself faster, his head tipped back completely, throat taut. “keep going, please– your voice, i– fuck, i’ve never gotten this hard this fast–”

“you’re gonna make a mess in your boxers…” you tutted, more to yourself, pressing your thighs together — now shamelessly.

“you want me to help? want me to pull them down and stroke you for real?”

enzo whimpered, and this time he shuddered — hips lifting, breath stuttering, a thick wet patch forming all over his cock.

“babe–” he gasped, looking at you like you’d just offered him the most amazing offer in the world. “please. please touch me.”

your palm was hot against his abs before he even finished the sentence.

and when your fingers slid under the waistband of his boxers — slow, sweet, teasing — lorenzo’s breath caught in his throat like you’d just sucked the life out of him.

his cock sprang free, flushed and twitching, curved thick and dripping precum towards his belly.

and fuck, he really was big. more than you imagined. heavy and sticky in your hand when you finally curled your fingers around him.

“fuck, enzo.” you whispered.

he groaned, head tilting to the side to see your hand work around him.

“say that again.” he rasped, eyes glued to your fingers wrapping around his shaft, getting all wet and nasty with his arousal. “say my name. say anything. just… don’t stop.”

you leaned in closer, breath feathering over his cock as you began to stroke him close to your face — slow, gentle pulls from base to tip, gathering the leaking precum with your thumb and swirling it over the flushed tip. he jerked at the touch, hips bucking, one hand gripping the couch for dear life.

“you’re so sensitive…” you murmured, tilting your head, studying him. “does it feel good, enzo?”

“yes– fuck, yes. your hands– god, your hands are so soft!”

you smiled, slow and sly. your other hand joined in, cupping his balls, stroking in rhythm with the other, until he was panting again, hips faltering, lashes fluttering with every twist of your wrist.

“you’re so pretty like this.” you breathed, voice all syrup and sugar, so close to his cock, yet so far away. “flushed and messy. moaning just from my hands.”

enzo bit his lip, the sound that escaped him something halfway between a sob and a growl.

“fuck, keep going– don’t stop– say more–”

you leaned in, lips brushing the muscles of his abdomen, voice like velvet.

“you gonna cum for me, babe? just from my voice and my hands? poor thing, you’re so pent up…”

“holy shit–”

his stomach jumped, his thighs trembled, and his hand suddenly darted for your phone, unlocking it with shaking fingers.

“what are you doing?” you asked, still stroking him, but slower now, more curious than anything.

“picture.” he panted. “fuck– we need to send that creep a real dick pic. one he’ll never forget.”

oh, that’s right. you were supposed to get him hard for a picture…

“you’re gonna send him this?” you laughed, light and breathless, watching as he snapped a photo of your delicate hand wrapped around his flushed cock. “you’re actually so cruel.”

that michael guy will fucking die.

“you’re the one stroking me like this.” he said with a grin, snapping another picture from a lower angle, your other hand on his balls now visible. “and your voice– fuck, your voice is even hotter than your hand.”

you squeezed him, just to make him shut up and focus on you.

he gasped at your ministration, nearly dropping the phone on you.

“enzo.” you whispered against his ear, your thumb brushing under the head. “focus on me, babe. cum for me.”

he did.

with a strangled moan and a whimper of your name, he spilled all over your hand and his stomach, cock twitching in your grip. he finally released the phone somewhere beside him, both hands flying to your hand as he rode it out, chanting your name like a prayer.

“fuck. fuck, babe–” he panted, pulling you in closer, resting his head on your shoulder, still shaking a little. “you’re unreal.”

before either of you could say a word, the notification pinged.

michael had already replied.

lol that’s a stock image :)

enzo stared at the message. blinked. stared again.

and then, very softly, almost in disbelief. “stock image?”

you snorted, and then started to laugh — loud and breathless, your forehead falling against his shoulder as your dirty fingers absently toyed with his still-softening cock, now wet and twitching in your palm.

“enzo.” you gasped between laughs. “he thinks… he thinks that is a stock image?”

“my dick is not a stock image.” he mumbled, borderline offended, his voice cracking with the way you were still feather-dancing across him. “what stock photo site has your hand in it?”

you grinned, turning your head just enough to catch the pink flush blooming on his cheeks.

“you want to prove it to him?” you asked, wickedly sweet, now concocting a plan of your own.

“…how?” enzo glanced at you, heart in his throat, his whole body buzzing with expectation.

you leaned in, lips brushing his jaw. “fuck me. right now. raw. and take a video.”

he froze.

and then–

“w–what?”

“you heard me.” you whispered. “he doesn’t think you’re real? let’s give him something real.”

enzo’s cock twitched again in your hand — just barely — but enough to signal he was hardening again.

“please.” you breathed, nosing at his neck, voice breaking into something soft and whiny. exactly how he likes it. “fuck me, enzo. i need it. want you so bad–”

your voice cracked with desperation, half faux, half real.

“need you inside me. need you to fill me up. make me yours.”

enzo whimpered, eyes rolling back once more, the mere image of you impaled on his cock making his pulse spike. he was still sensitive, still dazed, but you begging like that?

he grabbed your waist, almost clumsily, and guided you into his lap — your soaked panties rubbing against his cock, already stiff beneath you.

“you don’t know what you’re asking for.” he whispered, trembling. “i won’t be able to stop.”

you cupped his face, squishing his cheeks together and making his lips into a pout.  barely touching them, you whispered one final request.

“good. i don’t want you to.”

he didn’t waste another second.

his hands gripped your hips like he owned them — like he always had — and with one swift motion, he pulled your soaked panties aside, guiding his thick cock to your dripping slit. the blunt head bumped your folds, sticky and aching, and your body clenched before he even pushed in.

“hold the phone.” you whispered, breathless, reaching for it where he’d dropped it on the cushion. you tilted it up just as you sank onto him, but he couldn’t comply.

lorenzo groaned, deep and broken. his head slammed back against the couch and his hands tightened, digging into your waist as you slid down his cock — inch by thick inch — stretching, aching.

taking him raw.

“fuck. babe.” his voice cracked. “you feel insane. so fucking wet. you’re dripping down my balls– fuck–”

you whimpered, clutching his shoulders for balance, camera still rolling in your other hand. the way he filled you up was nothing short of divine — so thick and deep. he curved just right, making your pussy clench around him like it was made for him.

you bounced once.

enzo yelled.

hand flew to your ass, spreading you wider, keeping you flush against him as you began to ride — sloppy, wet, desperate. his cock dragged along your walls perfectly, the obscene sound of your arousal filling the space between you, your breaths quick and needy.

the slight flash of the phone still capturing everything.

“y–you’re gonna–” he whined, eyes fluttering as he stared between your bodies. “god, i’m gonna lose my fucking mind.”

you laughed softly against his neck, still bouncing, nails digging into his shoulders as you went deeper and deeper with every move. “yeah? you’ve been imagining this?”

“every night.” he admitted, voice breaking. “every fucking night, since we were teenagers.”

you moaned his name, pleased with his answer, rocking your hips faster. and enzo shuddered, grabbing the base of his cock as you rode him, watching it disappear again and again into your soaked cunt.

“you want proof?” you panted, angling the camera down even more, catching the perfect image of your pussy fluttering around enzo’s cock. for the creep in your dms. “tell him, babe. tell him this is real.”

lorenzo looked at the phone — flushed, panting, eyes nearly wild, watching himself disappear in your greedy tight hole on film.

it was so hot, shit–

“this is my girl. my fucking pussy. you wish you had her voice in your ear while you came. but guess what?”

he wrapped an arm around your back, pulling you down until your forehead flushed against his, hips snapping up hard–

“she’s riding me.”

you moaned when he thrust up again — rough, relentless, so deep you could barely catch your breath. the head of his cock dragged right over that spot that made your thighs shake, your body clenching around him in helpless pulses.

enzo grunted, hips stuttering, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the apartment.

“you hear that?” he breathed, voice hoarse with awe, sweat beading along his temple as he watched you bounce. “fuck, it’s so loud — that’s your pussy, babe. sucking me in.”

“enzo…” you whimpered, nails clawing at his shoulder. “you’re so deep– too good–”

he angled his hips just right, the tip of his cock nudging your cervix, and your body jerked. your walls clamping down so tight that his eyes fluttered shut and his head dropped back again.

“you’re close, huh?” he rasped. “feels like you’re about to fucking milk me.”

you nodded, frantic, desperate.

“tell me what you want.” he panted, breath shallow, also close to climax. “tell me how you want it.”

your voice broke. you were already trembling.

“inside.” you gasped, not even ashamed now. “please, enzo– want you to cum in me. fill me up. make it messy.”

he growled like an animal, finally catching his prey.

“fuck– fuck, babe” he slammed up into you so hard you saw stars, one hand clutching at your ass, the other gripping your hip so tight it would bruise. “say that again. say it.”

you pulled the phone back up, aiming the camera down at where you were connected once more — where his cock was glistening, coated in you, buried all the way to the hilt.

“i want your cum.” you whispered close to your phone, with eyes locked on his own blown-out orbs. “deep inside me. i want you to ruin me, enzo.”

his hips jerked. a broken moan punched out of him.

“you’re so– fuck, you’re gonna make me–”

“do it.” you moaned, hand scratching down his chest and leaving marks all over his skin. “fill me up, babe. i want it all.”

he came with a cry — full-body shudder, cock twitching inside you as he emptied himself in thick, hot spurts. you felt the heat of it coat your insides, your cunt fluttering around him in aftershock. he clung to you like he’d fall apart if he didn’t, hips still rutting weakly, desperate to stay inside you, to push it all in deeper.

you collapsed against his chest, both of you panting, his cock still sheathed inside you — warm and twitching and still dripping cum.

the camera caught it all.

his fingers found the curve of your thighs, spreading you slightly, just enough to let the phone capture your folds stretched wide around him, cum already beginning to leak.

“damn right.” he muttered, flushed and breathless, voice hoarse with pride. “real enough for you now, michael?”

michael wasn’t gonna sleep tonight.

©dearmisshoney 2025. do not copy, translate, or claim any of my writings or works as your own.

Curled up on one of the leather sofas with an ancient runes textbook balanced on your knees, you had your legs half tucked in beneath you; wearing nothing more than one of Draco’s too big for you quidditch jersey’s that you always joked were made of boyfriend material and a thin pair of black lace panties. It was late: past curfew, and you were a prefect which gave you the perfect excuse to get in some quiet reading while the rest of the dungeons were asleep. With the fireplace crackling low, your fingers skimming beneath words you were honestly only half reading, you were sure that no one else apart from maybe Filch or that pesky cat of his would be awake this late.

Salazar, how you were wrong.

You heard the door behind you click open with a heavy swing as you half turned; Mattheo and Theodore - the mischief and mayhem of Slytherin house themselves walking in like the common room belonged to them. Their ties were tugged loose and hanging low around their necks, the top buttons of their shirts undone. Theo’s belt was hooked but not through the metal buckle; Mattheo carried his robes half flung over one shoulder.

The faint smell of smoke and sweet floral perfume rolled off them like it was their birth right; getting stronger and stronger the closer they approached. Theodore’s eyes locked onto you first – pale, cool and unreadable. Mattheo’s mouth you quickly noticed, began to curve into a slow dangerous smirk about a half heartbeat later.

“My, my, Princess..”, Mattheo drawled; dropping onto the sofa beside you with a lazy grace and air of entitlement – something that came with wearing the badge of dishonour which was his last name. “All alone are we? Where’s your keeper? Thought the ferret would be back by now.”

You roll your eyes and try to focus them back onto the textbook in your lap.

“Paris still”, you mumble softly, like the news should already be known amongst the friends group. Your voice however, comes out a little quieter than you mean for it to. “He’ll be back tomorrow. Floo’s in a 9am sharp.”

Theo moves behind the couch, leaning over it so that his forearms rest on the backrest. He’s close enough that you can feel the heat of him against your neck – his breath ghosting across the shell of your ear before his light and nimble fingers reach up to tuck away neatly a loose strand of your hair. “A week without him huh? That’s practically abandonment amore. You must be aching.”

You laugh. The sound is short and shaky. “I’m fine.”

“Yeah?”, Theo continues in a whisper, “That’s what the Hufflepuff girls we ran into tonight said also. Cazzo.. have you ever heard a badger scream?”

Attempting your best to ignore him and his questions, you feel Mattheo’s gaze begin to drag down to the hem of where Draco’s shirt has begun to ride up; exposing the tops of your thighs as you turn a page of your book and continue pretending to be focused on it. “You don’t look fine, sweetheart. Hell – you look like a girl who’s been starved for weeks.”

An unexpected heat crawls up your chest that causes your skin to tingle. Shifting, you kick your legs out from beneath you and settled back against the sofa, still trying not to let their words or presence get to you. Under that guided pretence, you subtly pressed your thighs together. They were your boyfriends best mates – even the sheer thought of them as anything other than disgusting and delusional was wrong.

“You are both – utterly – ridiculous.”

Without warning, Theo’s fingers brushed along the curve of your jaw, down the slope of your neck and across the arch of your shoulders slow and deliberate. “No, we’re observant. Malfoy’s good at a lot of things – being rich, acting like a snob, flying, pretending that he owns the world; but god – we hear it when he brings you back to our dorm amore; he doesn’t fuck you the way this perfect little body of yours begs to be fucked.”

Your heart kicks hard against the ribs to the point the feeling almost aches. Shutting your book, you sigh and smack Theodore’s hand off your shoulder. “You don’t know anything about----.”

Sliding closer to you, Mattheo cuts off your words by presence alone. One of his hands lands high on your thigh; his touch warm and possessive like it’s always belonged there. His thumb begins to stroke lazy circles over your skin as the ring he wears nips against the soft flesh of your inner thighs with a sting.

“Spare us”, he hisses, “We know more than you think. Like the way you bite your lip to the point it almost bleeds when you’re trying to fake a moan, or how your cunt gets soaked the second any one of Draco’s mates skims past you in the corridors. We know you clench like you’re dying for it when his fingers aren’t enough.. tell me; just for my own curiosities sake, but has Draco ever made you squirt babygirl?”

Lifting the book to smack Mattheo across the chest with it, you stop yourself; a self reminder to try and breathe properly which is short lived as Theo’s hand slides into your hair; wrapping around the length with a knot before he tilts your head back with enough force that you swear your neck might snap but he has you exactly where he wants you – looking up at him. His voice, unlike Mattheo’s is silk soft. “I got an idea – how about, you let us show you what this body of yours actually needs. No strings. Tonight only, yeah? Let us give you what your boyfriend is too selfish.. or lazy; to give.”

Your brain is screaming no. You should just say no. Shove them both away, grab your book and run off to disappear into your dorm, but instead; your lips betray you and part as words you hadn’t intended to say slip barely audible.

“….just once.”

The vibe and air of the common room shifts the moment that you say it. Before you know it, Mattheo’s mouth is straight onto yours; lips crashing messily, hot and filthy as his tongue forces its way past your lips like he’s already claimed the right for a kiss like this. Feeling hands at your waist, Theodore yanks Draco’s shirt off over your head, causing the kiss with Mattheo to pause for a moment before yet tosses the god forsaken material somewhere into the common rooms abyss.

Suddenly, you’re bare except for the damp lace panties between your legs. Their hands are everywhere – Theo’s palms cupping your breasts with a groan as his thumbs roll across your nipples, toying with them until they pebble at his touch, tight and aching. Mattheo’s got a hand that’s as ruthless as you could imagine between your thighs, shoving your panties to the side with his thumb so that his other fingers can stroke through your slick folds.

“Fuck”, Mattheo groans into your mouth as you swallow the sound, “….already fucking soaked. Draco’s been leaving this pretty little cunt of yours neglected, hasn’t he?”

You try to shake your head, unsure of how to answer but Theo pinches one of your nipples hard enough that it pulls a gasp from you you’d not have been able to hide. “Tell us, bella; has Malfoy ever made you come so hard that you cried?”

Now you can shake your head. It’s dizzy. The room’s dizzy. Your response – one hundred percent honest.

“That’s what I thought”, he murmurs, kissing the side of your throat with a bite, “..tonight – you will.”

The move you like you weigh nothing; Mattheo stripping fast – his shirt gone, trousers shoved down around his knees, cock springing free thick and heavy from having gone commando; already glistening at the tip oh so pretty. Theodore follows; his cock is longer, curved slightly; his shirt still on as his length presses hot and insistent against your ass as he kisses down the back of your neck and spine.

They position you on all fours across the couch – Mattheo half kneeling in front of your face; Theodore as it always seems, behind you.

“Open.” Mattheo’s voice is rough as he mutters the order.

Your lips part automatically and he slides into your mouth with ease – slow at first, letting your jaw and lips adjust to the stretch and then deeper, deeper, deeper until your throat flutters around his shaft and spit begins to drip down onto your chin. You hear Theodore spit into his hand and stroke himself twice before he lines up and presses his mushroom tip between your folds; gliding the head through your slick before slamming straight in with one brutal, perfect thrust.

You let out a scream around Mattheo’s cock; the sound muffled and wet.

“Cazzo, bella…so fucking tight”, Theo growls, one hand slapping down hard against your ass before his fingers dig into your love handles hard enough to leave marks at your hips. “It’s like you haven’t been properly filled or fucked in months. Geez, could have told me you were a virgin and I’d believed it. Hell – Draco doesn’t stretch this pussy the way it deserves it, does he?”

Unable to answer, you listen to Mattheo laugh low and dark as he begins to fuck your mouth in shallow, controlled thrusts. “Told you princess, we know you better than he ever will.”

They fall into a rhythm like they’ve done this a hundred times together and hell, probably have. Theo pounding you from behind – his hips snapping so deep you feel the way his cock bruises your cervix, every thrust shoving you further onto Mattheo’s cock. Tears form in your eyes and stream down your cheeks ruining your mascara, but fuck, you’ve never been wetter and never needed anything more than what you have right now.

Wrapping an arm around you, Theodore reaches around and finds you clit, rubbing the swollen bundle of nerves in tight, merciless circles. “You gonna come on my cock, bella? Show the both of us how badly you needed this.

An orgasm rips through you before you even notice that you’d been so close to the edge; white, hot and blinding. Your walls clamp down so hard around Theo’s cock that he swears under his breath but doesn’t slow. Your thighs gush wet as your pussy squirts. Mattheo pulls out of your mouth just long enough for you to scream his name before slamming back in; fucking your throat deep to the point your windpipe almost learns the shape of his cock as each thrust takes you through the shaking aftershocks.

These assholes though – they’re nowhere near finished with you.

Theo pulls out and suddenly, you’re clenching around nothing – whining like a brat. Mattheo grabs your shoulders, flipping you onto your back like you’re a weightless mess as they readjust. Theo grabs one of your ankles, lifting your leg to hook it over his shoulder as he sinks his cock back into your cunt with a guttural groan. Meanwhile, Mattheo straddles your chest; sliding his heavy cock between your breasts before groping them to push them together tight around his length.

“So fucking pretty, bella..”, Theo compliments; his voice half wrecked as he pounds into you harder, “Gonna ruin you so completely that Draco will taste us on you for weeks.”

Opening your eyes softly, you feel Mattheo’s thumb push past your lips into your mouth. “Suck.”

You do. Fuck – you can’t help it. You’re mindless, desperate, lost in it. Theo’s cock drags against that perfect spot inside of you over and over again as he spits down onto your clit and Mattheo’s cock smears the perfect amount of precum across your skin – every inch of you blushing red.

Your orgasm is climbing again, already – fuck, impossibly fast. Theo reaches out, shoving a finger into Mattheo’s mouth that you watch him suck wet before sliding it between your ass cheeks, pressing at the hole curiously. Your hips buck – your back would arch up too if Mattheo wasn’t sitting on you.

“Ooohh – Riddle, I think I’ve found something new our girl here might like to try with you”, Theo chuckles, slipping a finger in up to the knuckle as he continues to fuck you. Mattheo smirks, letting go of one of your tits reach back and play with your clit.

“Gladly.”

They don’t have to do much else as you shatter harder than you had before; squirting around Theo’s cock, a gush comes out so heavy that it soaks his thighs and the couch beneath you. He curses, his hips stuttering as he buries himself to the hilt inside you as he comes; hot and thick, painting your walls white as he marks you from the inside out.

At Theo’s moan and your whimpered cry; Mattheo doesn’t last much longer either. He pulls back, sitting up sightly to stroke himself twice with a rough groan and spills a load across your chest and throat – warm, white ropes painting your tits and dripping down the sides of your neck.

You lay there; gasping – trembling – covered in both of them. Mattheo leans down and grabs his shirt off the floor, wiping you clean as your body hums with electricity; wrecked and sated in a way that you’ve never been.

Moving out from between your legs; Theo comes to your side, carding his hands through your hair to move it out of your face before licking up a little of Mattheo’s mess that hasn’t been cleaned and leans down to kiss you slow and filthy; forcing you to taste Mattheo on your tongue.

“Told you”, he whispers with a chuckle against your swollen lips. “We know your body better than Malfoy ever will. Now c’mon bella.. let’s have Mattheo fuck that tight little ass of yours. We’ve got all night, and I want the whole castle to hear you scream.”

No matter how hard Regulus tried, you refused to leave his orbit. You had no business affiliating with him and his friends, and had no idea what that affiliation truly meant. It meant darkness. It meant bloodshed. It met imminent and very real danger. A war was brewing right under your nose.

Regulus had been born and bred for this, as had most of his friends, but you…you were an innocent. Intelligent, witty, trusting. As much as he tried not to care, he couldn’t stand to watch your light be snuffed out for simply existing around them: metaphorically or literally.

But no matter how many times Regulus tried to run you off, spare you from what came next, you would not heed. In fact, you seemed to take his animosity as a challenge, leaving him in the predicament of being your unwitting adversary.

You were in the Slytherin common room now, curled up by the fireplace with Pandora, Evan, Barty and a few others, doing more gossiping than studying despite the piles of books and parchment on the floor around you. The greenish light of the lake contrasted with the glow of the fire against your face, creating an otherworldly halo around you.

You hair was pulled back, revealing the slender curve of your neck, the dip in your v-neck sweater where a silver pendant rested against your clavicle.

You laughed at whatever terrible joke Barty made and Regulus rolled his eyes, turning back to the spell book in his lap. He was studying alone, having told Evan a number of times to fuck off and let him work on his assignments in peace.

“Regulus!” Emma called suddenly, and he cringed, pretending he didn't hear his Quidditch captain. “Reg!” She called again.

He closed his eyes, willing them all to disappear.

“Regulus fucking Black!” She hollered, loud enough for the whole common room to fall silent.

He clapped his book shut and stalked over to where you all were sitting, one hand in his trouser pocket, the other clamped on his book.

“Yes?” He droned, leaning against the arm chair Emma was sitting in.

“Can you help me with this?” Emma asked, holding up her Defense Against the Dark Arts homework.

Annoyance prickled along his skin. “What good is a genius pet if she doesn't help with your work?” He asked, leveling you with his coldest stare.

You tilted your head, eyes flicking from his black, curly hair to his leather shoes, and didn't respond.

“She said she wouldn't help me,” Emma pouted.

“I said I wouldn't do it for you,” you corrected.

“Barty, then?”

“No can do, Reg,” Barty responded, coughing up a lungful of pungent smoke, waggling a joint in Regulus’ direction.

Emma waved the smoke from her face. “Will you help, Reg? I have to get a good grade in the class or I could lose my spot on the team. And you know these lot are useless at spells.”

He sighed and took the assignment from her hands, flipping through the pages. It was rudimentary work, things she really should know in order to defend herself.

“Can't help you,” Regulus said, handing it back to her. “If you can't do this, maybe you should be demoted.”

The group ooooh’d at his dig.

“Reg!” Emma whined.

“Ignore him, Em. Not everyone takes to dark magic as easily as the ancient and most bitchy house of Black,” you quipped, narrowing your eyes at him.

Regulus resisted the urge to clench his jaw, feigning the nonchalance you wore like a second skin. The group swiveled to look at him.

“All magic, really. But thank you, darling,” he purred, winking at you.

“You should have seen Sirius in advanced Transfiguration last semester, he's a natural. Truly a gifted wizard,” you continued.

“Hot as fuck, too,” Evan added, just to dig the knife in a little deeper.

Regulus’ blood began to simmer, his temperature rising beneath his dark robes. He tsked under his breath, shaking his head. “I thought you'd be smart enough to not fall for his clown act.” He shrugged a shoulder. “Evidently not.”

“I wouldn't touch a Black with a twenty foot pole,” you replied, leaning back on your hands, stretching your long legs out in front of you, your skirt sitting high on your thighs.

“Who said anything about a pole?” Regulus replied, mimicking your condescending head tilt.

The group snickered, watching your verbal sparring like it was a duel.

“You sound a bit jealous, Reggie. Need a little attention?”

Reggie. His mask nearly slipped, he was so caught off guard by the nickname on your sharp tongue. “May as well, since you give it out so freely.” He glanced down at your shapely legs, punctuating his point.

Your head fell back as you laughed, your chest pressing up and tits bouncing, and he felt an irritating kick in his trouser as the heat of his anger took a new, sinful shape.

“It's the 70’s, love. Are you still so prudish?” You lifted your head, pining him with eyes fierce enough to cleave him in half.

He smirked. “Far from it. Just selective.”

“Don't see much of a selection to chose from,” you chuckled, earning another spike of laughter from the group. “What I see is a spoiled youngest son with nothing better to do than needle the people around him to fill the hole in his chest.” You got to your feet, shouldering your bag.

Regulus felt like he'd been punched clean through the sternum, your words never failing to cut to the quik.

“Spoken by a girl with nothing better to do than fish for a rich husband that might save her from her home in the gutter. Trust me, nothing can fill the hole of inadequacy, y/l/n.”

You stepped over Evan and Barty's tangled limbs and left without another word, leaving Regulus’ cruelty to echo off the glass and stone, the group silent.

Regulus turned on his heel and disappeared into the boys dormitory, guilt dogging every step.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

The Quidditch match was in full swing, Gryffindor versus Slytherin, and the score was neck and neck. It was up to Regulus and the Gryffindor Seeker now, since neither team could get a leg up through the rings.

You sat in the stands sipping hot chocolate with Marlene, Pandora, and Dorcas, Barty pouting to your left because he couldn't sit with Evan in the Slytherin stands.

Regulus hovered a few meters away, his eyes trained upwards, catching every falling leaf and ripple of air around him. You hated how handsome he looked in his Quidditch robes, his lean body relaxed on the broom despite the stakes.

That was Regulus, un-fucking-shakeable. And it drove you insane that you could never get a rise out of him, but he managed to needle one out of you time and time again.

He was as relentless as a northern wind, and you couldn't help but be swept away.

His dark curls framed his angular face, those perpetually sleepy eyes the most arresting green. Sure, everyone thought Sirius was hot, but Regulus was beautiful, ethereal almost, and he wrapped around your mind like a constrictor.

You watched as the other Seeker suddenly took off above the Hufflepuff stands, in pursuit of something, and the Gryffindor stands cheered. But Regulus remained motionless, watching his opponent like a cat trailing a mouse. Even as Slytherin urged him to take up the chase, he remained unmoved, bidding his time.

His bottomless patience would be awe-inspiring if it wasn't so damn frustrating.

You wouldn't have an issue with Regulus, maybe even could have been friends with him, if he hadn't taken issue with you first. You had no idea what his fucking problem was, whether it was because your family was poor, you had better grades than him, or what. He loathed you from the moment you showed up in the Slytherin common room, and you've yet to receive an explanation.

You'd been saddled with a one-sided rivalry, but you'd be damned if you let him defeat you now after a full semester of back and forth.

The other Seeker pulled up short, whipping his head around like he'd lost something, and you saw Regulus crack a smirk, his canines white and sharp.

Regulus turned his head suddenly, quick like a bird, and then he was off in a blur of motion. His opponent was all the way across the pitch, entirely too far to get there in time.

A moment later— “Regulus Black has caught the snitch for 150 points! Slytherin wins!”

The Slytherin stands erupted with cheers while every other house booed, including your own. But you knew a Slytherin victory meant a rager in the dungeons, so you kept your lips sealed.

Instead, you watched Regulus land at the center of the pitch, the golden snitch held lazily between his pointer finger and thumb above his head. Any other Seeker would have been parading around the field, or flying in wide circles over the stands, screaming their head off, but Regulus was silent. His victory spoke for him.

Although, you knew he'd still be smug as fuck later.

As soon as the stands began to drain, you, Pandora, and Barty caught up with the rest of your Slytherin friends, all of them buzzing about the victory, even melancholic Severus. By the time you all reached the dungeons, a party was already in full swing.

Music thrummed along the walls, so loud it caused ripples in the Black Lake, making the emerald-tinged moonlight shift and dance along the floor. You happily accepted a shot of gin, then another before letting Evan cajole you out onto the dance floor.

Sweat pooled along your spine as the music wore on, your hair wild and loose down your back as you danced, electric energy flowing through you.

A cheer came up from the entrance and everyone turned towards the commotion. The Slytherin Quidditch team strode into the room, black robes billowing behind them. Regulus stood at the front, of course. Even from several meters away, you could see the confident glimmer in his eyes, the arrogant tilt of his chiseled jaw.

Fucking Black’s.

Like a magnet, his eyes found yours across the room, and you nearly tripped over Evan’s feet at the venom they held. But he looked away as quickly as he found you, getting swept up by the crowd and disappearing from your line of sight.

You tracked down another shot and rejoined Evan and Barty on the dance floor, squished between them in a tangle of limbs. Impossible to tell who’s hands were where, just a mess of sensation and touch. The temperature in the common room was rising expontentially, so you shed your sweater, leaving you in your skirt and a white camisole, sweat making the fabric cling to your skin.

A few songs passed like that, and a blonde guy you barely know, Rowle, you thought, took your friends place when they tapped out to smoke. You rolled your body against his, enjoying the way his thick muscles felt beneath his robes, the hungry way he was staring down at you. But you were about ready to take a break yourself, the musky smell of weed calling your name from across the room, when the hair on the back of your neck suddenly rose.

You looked around, searching for the source of your bodies response, when you locked eyes, once again, with Regulus.

He was sitting in a circle of couches against the glass wall with your shared friends, a halo of smoke around his head, a girl perched on his lap, sucking at his neck while he took a drag off of a cigarette. But his eyes were glued to you, tracking every movement you made with the same intensity he tracked the golden snitch.

Confidence wafted through you, and you wrapped your arms around your dance partners neck, letting him dip you so low your hair pooled on the floor, your tits nearly falling out of your shirt. You rolled back up slowly, articulating every vertebrae in your spine until you were chest to chest with your partner, sharing the same breaths.

From the corner of your eye, you saw Regulus choke on the smoke, dislodging the girl from his skin, and you smirked.

You let your partner turn you, showing every angle of your body, and you dropped low, circling your hips in time with the resinous goth song as you rose back up.

Regulus' cigarette hung limp between his fingers, his perfect jaw a little slack.

Emboldened, you broke away from your partner, letting yourself get lost in the sensuous, thrumming beat. Your arms rose above your head, your shoulders and hips swaying in time. It felt like you were hypnotizing him, his eyes glued to every undulation of your hips, and you couldn't recall a time where you felt more alive.

Too soon, though, the music changed to a more electro-pop vibe, and you slipped reluctantly off the dance floor, the taste of smoke beckoning you across the room.

You sauntered over to the circle, pointedly ignoring Regulus as you approached.

“There she is,” Even cooed, extending an arm to you. “You looked amazing out there.”

You smiled, sliding into his lap and taking a drag from the joint between his fingers. “Thank you, lovely.” You smiled sweetly up at him, and you could have sworn he started drooling.

“Feels even better,” Barty teased, sprawled out on the couch beside Evan, clearly a little too inebriated already.

You winked at him, and he flushed a deep scarlet. Pandora, who was resting on the floor between Dorcas’ legs, chuckled at his expense.

Regulus was quiet, per usual, watching as the group chattered around him, turning the golden snitch he caught over and over in his long fingers.

The smoke made your mind a little hazy, your tired muscles from dancing going loose, and you sagged into Evan’s side, leaning your head on his shoulder.

Regulus’ fingers tightened on the snitch, his jaw feathering, and your stomach swooped with nervous excitement. You’d never been able to rattle him before. Had you finally knocked the monolithic Regulus Black off of his axis?

“Reg, why so quiet?” Evan asked, nudging his leg with his boot.

Regulus raised a brow. “What would you like to talk about, Rosier? Fucking Junior? Or eye-fucking y/l/n?”

“We can talk about eye-fucking y/n.” Evan winked down at you, and you rolled your eyes. Avery barked a laugh from his spot on the other side of Regulus.

“Yes, let's,” Barty added, raking his willowly fingers through your hair draped over Evan’s arm. You hummed under the attention, knowing it was all in good, hedonistic Slytherin fun.

Well, almost all in good fun.

As always, Regulus couldn't let your ego inflate too much. “It's hard not indulge in a little novelty, no matter how ineffectual.”

Ouch. His words landed like barbs on your skin, but you ignored him, leaning into Barty’s attention with light moan.

Regulus shifted a little in his seat, his hands falling over his lap, and you nearly smiled. Regulus may act all high and mighty, but he wasn't impervious.

“Look at you,” Even purred, blowing smoke over your heated skin, your decolletage exposed as you stretched towards Barty. “Prettiest girl at Hogwarts, stretched across my lap.” You flushed, squirming a little in his lap, and Evan groaned. “You're torturing me, baby.”

Barty tugged on your hair, sending a skitter of pleasure down your spine and craning your head back even further. “Oh, keep doing that. He loves being tortured.”

“What a good girl,” Regulus hummed, and your pussy throbbed, soaking through your underwear. It was a rush, being admired by the heirs of some of the most powerful families in the magical world. But hearing those sweet words from Regulus, twisted into degradation, did sick things to your mind. “She's on track to graduate with her perfect, filthy-rich husband, and spend the rest of her days as mindless, fertile eye candy.”

You flinched, not that the boys noticed, and sat up a little, suddenly self-conscious in your barely-there shirt.

“We volunteer,” Avery and Wilkes said at the same time.

Evan’s arm tightened around you. “You'll have to pry her from my cold, dead hands,” he replied.

Claustrophobia clawed at your throat, but you couldn't let Regulus know how thoroughly he'd flipped your night upside down.

Wilkes drew their wand, pointing it at Evan’s head. “That can be arranged.”

“A no-name isn't worth it, children,” Regulus sneered. “Save your Azkaban trips for nobler pursuits than cunt.”

That's it. You swung your legs to the ground and rose, stalking towards Regulus. The group whistled and hooted, excited by the oncoming storm of drama.

You climbed into Regulus’ lap, straddling him and stealing the golden snitch from his hands. He was warm and solid beneath you, his expensive, amber cologne swirling with the smoke to create an addicting combination.

His hands immediately fell to your bare thighs, the cold of his rings biting into your heated flesh. His green eyes darkened, lids growing heavy as he looked up at you, his ebony lashes casting delicate shadows over his cheeks.

“Regulus Black,” you murmured in his ear while loosening his tie. His hands tensing on your thighs for a split second before he relaxed them. “You will never find someone that can withstand your thorns the way I do.”

He loosed a breath, chin lifting a little closer to your face like a wilted rose tilting towards the sun.

“You will never scare me off.” You brushed your nose along his temple, feeling his heart rate increase, his breath turn shallow. “I will ruin you, and you will thank me for it.”

Before he could respond, you slipped away, taking his prize snitch with you all the way to Ravenclaw Tower. Unreachable, even for the boy that had everything.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Regulus turned your words over and over in his mind, an endless, torturous loop. The others seemed obvious to his torment, prattling on and on while he burned through cigarette after cigarette, his tongue raw and throat scratchy.

Nothing would numb the ache on his chest, the pulsing strain of his cock beneath his robes. He'd already been painfully hard watching you move, watching you stretch across Evan and Barty like a contented kitten, preening under their devoted attention.

But when you climbed into his lap…fuck.

He was a heartbeat away from coming in his pants. One roll of your hips and he would have been done for, and you had no idea.

Or, maybe you did.

I will ruin you.

It was a miracle that you'd climbed off of him and stormed away, because the only thought he could formulate was please.

Eventually, he couldn't fucking take it anymore. He didn't even say goodnight to his friends, just disappeared into the dormitory and locked the door behind him.

He shirked his robe and grabbed a spare Slytherin scarf from his drawer. He flopped onto his bed and freed his aching cock, the head and angry red and shiny. He wrapped the scarf around it, squeezing hard for a semblance of relief.

“Fucking hell,” he groaned, pumping his cock slowly as your voice filled his mind again, the feeling of your weight on top of him, your sweet breath on his neck, your perfume rewiring the synopsis in his brain.

His hand started to move quicker, breath coming out in desperate pants. He imagined licking across your dewy chest, tasting the salt on your skin, gin on your tongue. Blowing his cigarette smoke over your naked body, into your open mouth. So eager and flayed open for him to ravage—his innocent lamb to ruin.

“Fuck, y/n!” Your name wrenched itself from his throat as he came hard into his scarf, imaging it was deep inside your greedy cunt. His whole body shuddered with the force of it, his jaw hanging open as he pumped himself through the orgasm until he'd milked every drop from himself, wondering if your pussy, your mouth, would do the same.

He slumped back onto the pillows, completely exhausted, and shoved the scarf under his bed.

You were right, you would fucking ruin him, ruin his plans. And he wasn't sure if he hated or loved you for it.

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Regulus avoided you for two weeks after that party, going so far as to skip your shared Potions class entirely. It was for the better really, you still felt a little raw after that night, the dull ache of his words combined with the unresolved arousal has left you out of sorts, to put it mildly.

If you ran into him, you weren’t sure if you’d throttle or fuck him to death.

Your friends were beginning to grow suspicious of his absence, and your squirrely behavior, and, unbeknownst to you, they set a trap to bring this stand-off to a finish once and for all.

Pandora chatted animatedly beside you as you walked together down the stairs to the dungeon, ranting about something Aurora did to piss her off. When you arrived to the dungeon, she suddenly paused to tie her shoelace, waving for you to go on ahead of her into the common room.

You did, and the large green door swung shut behind you.

“No! Fuck, Dora!” Regulus was right there, banging his fist on the door.

You looked around, bewildered, only to find the common room completely deserted. Except for Regulus, of course.

“Move,” you hissed, withdrawing your wand.

“I tried everything,” Regulus huffed, a hand raking through his dark hair.

“I said move,” you repeated, pointing your wand at him.

He rolled his eyes and stepped aside, walking back into the common room. He dropped onto the couch by the fireplace, retrieving his book.

You threw every spell you could think of at the door, but it simply wouldn’t budge. “What the fuck!” You shouted, nearly throwing your wand across the room out of frustration.

“They left us a note,” Regulus said, not looking up from his reading.

You stalked over to him, finding an open piece of parchment on the coffee table. Immediately, you recognized Pandora’s loping hand.

“Just bone already.” You read aloud, and scoffed. “What the fuck does that mean?” You glared at Regulus, as if he was somehow responsible, but he still didn’t look up.

“I suspect they’re tired of our bickering,” he replied, turning the page.

“And what does locking us in the dungeon together accomplish?” You couldn’t believe this was happening. Couldn’t believe they’d lock you in a dungeon with your fucking nemesis. Your school yard bully. The bane of your goddamn existence.

Regulus shrugged. “Maybe they think you’ll kill me.”

You let out an exasperated sound and stormed away from him, trying the door to the girls dormitory.

“Locked,” he called a millisecond after you tried the handle.

“Maybe I am going to fucking kill him,” you muttered to yourself. Resigned, you sat on a chair by the glass wall, as far away from him as you could possibly get, and sulked.

You had no clue how much time passed, the only light filtering in through the murky lake. The cold leeched through the glass, chilling you to the bone, but you refused to move closer to him. You’d freeze to death in here if you had to.

“Y/l/n,” Regulus said after the fifth full body chill wracked through you. “Come sit by the fire.”

“Go fuck yourself,” you bit back, and he snorted.

“Fine, freeze.” He returned to his book, not sparing you another glance.

Your hands started to ache from the cold, your jaw sore from your teeth chattering together. With a sigh, you got up and crossed the room. Regulus still didn’t look up, though you could feel his attention shift to you as you sat directly in front of the fire, holding your hands out to it.

“You really think they’ll leave us in here all night?” You asked, staring at the dancing flames.

“Absolutely,” Regulus answered, lowering his book to his lap.

You sighed, resigned. The only way out is through. “I’ll start.”

He tilted his head, dark brows drawing together in suspicion.

You cursed under your breath, and dove headfirst. “I don’t understand why you’re so shitty to me,” you blurted, refusing to look at him. “I’ve never done anything to you.”

He was quiet for so long, you finally caved and glanced over at him, only to find him staring back at you, expression unreadable.

“Regulus,” you huffed, frustrated.

“Y/n,” he mocked, and your stomach flipped despite his attitude. He’d never used your first name before.

“Just fucking talk to me.” You straightened your spine, folding your legs on the ground underneath you, the fire at your side.

He stared at you for a few more moments, his eyes dancing back and forth, before he leaned back against the couch and picked up his book.

“You’re a lot of things, Black, but I didn’t take you for a coward.”

His eyes flickered with anger, but he didn’t bite.

“Reg,” you murmured, softening your voice, and he rolled his eyes, the most unbelievably bored expression on his face. You shifted your weight, placing your hands on the ground, and lifted to your knees. Slowly, you began to crawl to him, being careful to not sway your hips too much, and he broke after only a few seconds.

“On your knees already, darling?” He teased, but the casual tone didn’t match his eyes. The fire in them, the way his hands tightened around the cover of his book, betrayed his true feelings.

Once you were directly in front on him, you sat back on your heels. “Be honest with me, Reggie, did it turn you on seeing me with Evan and Barty?”

He blinked, clearly taken aback by your question. In his lap, you saw his cock twitch, a small pulse along his right thigh.

Men are so fucking easy.

“What about when I was dancing with them? Sandwiched between their bodies?” You rolled your head on your shoulders, mimicking the way you danced and revealing the fragile plains of your throat, your hair falling around your face. “When Barty pulled my hair? When Evan blew smoke over my tits?”

Regulus swallowed hard, his eyes like melted jade.

“What about when I crawled into your lap?” You took the book from him and set it onto the table. Then, you placed your hands on his lean, muscular thighs and pushed yourself to your feet, straddling him the same way you did that night. His entire body was rigid beneath you, muscles coiled tight with tension. “Did you like when I whispered in your ear, Regulus? When I told you that I’d ruin you?”

“Y/n,” he rasped, breathing hard.

“Tell me the truth.” You were so close, your lips brushed the shell of his ear as you spoke. You committed to the contact, brushing your lips along his racing pulse, down his jugular vein. You fought to keep your thighs from clenching together, your own body responding to the feeling him slowly unraveling beneath you. “Do you hate me because you want me?”

“I don't,” he hissed through his teeth.

“If you say so,” you hummed, moving to slide off his lap.

He grabbed your waist, his grip bruising. “Don't you fucking dare."

“I thought you didn't want me?” You taunted, sitting back on his lap to look at him, a hand braced on his sternum.

When you shifted your weight, your pussy accidentally pressed against the hard outline of his cock. You had to force your hips to stay still, your pussy practically begging you to move when you felt him throb against your warm heat.

“That’s not what I meant,” he said. All the malice had drained from his voice, his eyes locked on yours.

Then what the fuck did he mean?

You rolled your hips, biting back the moan that crept up your throat as pleasure snaked through you. Regulus was less successful, a broken groan falling from his pretty mouth.

“It would be so much easier to just tell me the truth,” you purred, slowly rocking your hips over his twitching length, allowing a hint of breathlessness to bleed into your voice. “It would feel so good, Reg, to let it all go. To lose control.”

“Shit,” he crushed under his breath. “What the fuck are you doing to me?” He grated, sliding his hands down to feel your thighs flex with each movement, his fingertips dimpling your flesh.

“What did you mean by ‘I don’t’?” You asked, tilting his chin up with a finger.

His jaw went a little slack as he stared up at you, his eyes heavy-lidded and shining. “I don’t hate you,” he answered, his voice barely above a whisper.

“Then why do you say such awful things?” You stopped your movements, and he made a small noise in his throat, nearly a whimper, but didn’t answer. “Regulus,” you prodded, lifting yourself from him entirely.

“N-no, please, fuck y/n,” he stammered, lifting his hips to grind against you. Another moan threatened to spill from you, his body felt so fucking good against yours, but you managed to restrain yourself. “I did it to try and push you away, I—”

You lowered back onto him, your hips grinding in tandem, and his head fell back against the couch, releasing a throaty groan. You couldn’t hold back a small squeak of pleasure when the hard head of his cock grazed your clit just right, and a wave of pleasure crashed through you.

“Why did you want to push me away?” You started undoing the buttons of his dress shirt, revealing the pale expanse of his chest, lean muscles flexing as he thrusted up against you.

He shook his head, picking it up to look down at where your bodies met, a pool of your slick dampening his trousers. “Getting me all wet, lamb. You like toying with me?” he rasped, moving one of his hands to press a thumb against your clothed clit, his long fingers splayed across your pelvis. “Is that why I couldn’t scare you off?”

You nodded before you could stop yourself, a full moan finally breaking free with the added pressure. You were embarrassingly close to coming, to banter combined with the friction between your bodies was a lethal cocktail, a drug you weren’t sure you’d be able to quit.

You wrapped your hands around his throat, applying enough pressure that he gasped, the sound vibrating your hand. “Why are you trying to push me away?” You leaned closer to his face, his strained pants fanning across your lips. He was so beautiful like this, ravaged by lust and desperate.

“You know why,” he growled, grabbing your wrists. He rolled suddenly, flipping you beneath him and pinning your hands above your head. “What’s my name, y/n?” His free hand slid under your skirt, palming your soaked panties.

“Regulus,” you gasped, arching into his chest.

“Regulus what?” He started rubbing the heel of his palm over your clit, electric pleasure burning through you.

“Regulus Black.” You were on the brink of coming, teetering on that torturous edge.

“Tell me then, my clever little Ravenclaw. What does that say about me and mine?” He leaned down and dragged his teeth along your pulse point, pausing to suck a mark under your ear.

“Fuck, Reg, I’m going to come,” you whined, fighting against his hold as the feeling started to overwhelm you.

His hand stopped suddenly, ruining the orgasm you had just begun to crest. You cried out in frustration, tears springing to your eyes as the pleasure bled out of you, leaving you desperate and humming with tension.

“Answer me,” he demanded, grabbing your jaw with his slick covered hand.

“I’m not an idiot,” you snapped, eyes blazing into his. “I know what the fuck it means. And I don’t care.”

He fell still, eyes searching your face. “Then maybe you are an idiot,” he murmured, eyes softening now that the truth was finally out. “But so am I.”

He closed the final inch between you, connecting your lips in a searing, devastating kiss that you felt all the way to your toes. He released your hands and you tangled your fingers into his curls, finally feeling their softness for yourself as you pulled him closer. Your mouth parted for him, his tongue delving in to taste you.

“Reg, please,” you whined against his mouth, pressing your hips to his again.

“Tell me what you want, lamb.” He kissed down your neck, one of his hands sliding down to grip your thigh and draw it over his hip.

“Fuck me, I need you inside of me.” You clawed at his belt, flipping the clasp and tugging down his zipper.

“Merlin, yes.” He finished undoing his pants and freed his cock, pulling aside your panties to glide the head through your slick folds, lubricating himself. He notched the head at your entrance, hissing at the warmth already kissing him, and eased himself in.

Regulus wasn’t overly large, but the stretch was still divine, filling you until you went cross-eyed, an unholy cry ripping from your chest. He drew his hips back and slammed back into you, over and over again until your were in shambles, a moaning, shaking mess, on the precipice of coming for the second time.

“Come for me, love. I want to feel you break.” He cupped your face, kissing you as he finally pushed you over the edge, an orgasm ripping you apart at the seams. You screamed into his mouth, your cunt clenching around him as your body convulsed. “God, I love this fucking cunt. So perfect for me,” he growled, his hips losing their rhythm as your walls bared down on him, sucking him back in every time he pulled out.

“Reg,” you whimpered, sagging against the couch as the strength bled out of of you.

He pulled out suddenly, pumping his cock in his fist, your honey coating him. “Stay just like that, pretty girl. All fucked out and used. All mine—” a guttural groan broke the final word as he came in his hand, spraying ropes of cum over your rumpled skirt and Ravenclaw sweater, his head thrown back. He looked gorgeous milking himself for you, his muscles flexing with the effort, sweat beading along his skin.

He slowly relaxed, chest heaving, and looked down at you, ruined and covered in his cum. You stared back, completely starstruck by what just happened.

“I’m sorry,” he said, draping himself over you and pressing ksises to your forehead, your cheeks, your neck. “I’m sorry for everything I said. I didn’t mean any of it, I—”

“Me too,” you interrupted him, wrapping your arms around his neck. “I know how hard things are for you, at home, I mean, and I shouldn’t have—”

“No, no. I deserved it. I shouldn’t have brought up your family—”

“But I kept—”

“I never meant too—”

You both exhaled, laughing softly at your rushed confessions, the sudden, giddy nervousness that bloomed between you where there once was glacial wit and razor-sharp banter. He sat you both up, removing your stained sweater and straightening your skirt, then righted himself.

“What now?” You asked when he finished fussing, studying his flushed cheeks, his tousled hair.

He sighed, suddenly looking grim, and your heart gave a nervous thump. “We find a way to keep you safe, lamb,” he said, meeting your eyes. “Okay?"

"Okay."

─── ⋅ ∙ ∘ ☽ ༓ ☾ ∘ ⋅ ⋅ ───

Thanks for reading!

barty was many things, cocky, unhinged and absolutely batshit crazy about you. even before you started dating he did little to hide his feelings. looking at you all lovesick, and sparkly eyed as if you had personally hung them moon and the stars in the sky.

now barty was obsessed with you, clinically so. and well, that would mean regulus had the same condition. it wasn’t his fault really, he was fighting a losing battle—you were always so generous with your affection, letting it seep into everything you did, everyone you talked to.

so sweet, so dreamy, so compelling. and don’t get him started on your voice, oh your voice, honeyed and hypnotic, yet innocent making his brain involuntarily short-circuit.

regulus could talk at great length about you, but alas, you were with barty and he was, alone. surrendered against his will to a cruel fate—seeing you every single day, with his friend and roommate, knowing he can’t have you.

and barty, he was well aware of the way regulus felt about you, completely understandable—you truly were bewitching.

but, as established, barty was unhinged.

not just in the normal way, whatever that was.

barty pushed every limit, button and boundary within his grasp—meaning regulus was always in the line of fire.

he wasn’t one to put a damper on his intimacy just for the sake of his friend, no, he was going to enjoy his treasure fully.

usually it was you who’d reign in barty’s sadistic tendencies, but he was sneaky and wasn’t going to let your soft-nature ruin his fun.

he knew exactly when regulus would return to the dorm room after his prefect duties, same time everyday, like clockwork.

so today, he decided he’d really enjoy himself.

his hands were everywhere, your waist, your hips, your breast—planting wet, open-mouthed kisses on your inner thigh.

a sharp gasp of, “junior”, left your lips and he nipped, sucking a bruise, millimetres from the wet spot that had formed on your panties.

he only hummed as he pulled the waistband up and high off your skin, letting it snap back harshly, smirking at the way your body jolted. indulging himself with a few more peppered bruises, before peeling them off of you.

and just as he reach you ankle, discarding them within the four closed curtain pillars of his bed, whispering a muffling charm and crawling back up to you.

typically, when all the curtains on barty’s bed were closed, and the room rung eerily silent, regulus could guess what was happening in there—if the slight rocking wasn’t telling enough.

but today, as part of barty’s twisted game, he’d not done a silencing charm.

so when regulus came back, seven o’clock sharp, he could faintly hear your soft candied whines—his throat becoming so unbelievably dry at the realisation.

he knew he should have left immediately, he was intruding, invading your privacy, trespassing—perverting a moment that wasn’t his.

and yet, he couldn’t bring himself to move.

though muffled, he could make out so much, too much, of what was happening just a few meters away. his imagination getting away from him, feeling himself twitch shamelessly in his trousers.

you were splayed out prettily on the bed, one hand intertwined with barty’s, as you squirmed endlessly. knees flung over his shoulders humming lightly against your clit.

“o-oh my god- feels soo good-” your fingers releasing his hand to go card through his hair. two fingers already pushed passed the ring of resistance and curling up, deliciously into your walls.

your lip hastily pulled in by your teeth, hips rocking in pace with his fingers, now tugging—pulling at his soft locks in desperation. he lifted his eyes towards you, prying his mouth away from the swollen, sensitive bundle of nerves.

“c’mon treasure—wanna hear you,”

he’s looping an arm around one leg, hitching you up, so he’s snug against your core, fingertips digging into the flesh of your hips, intensity making try squirm away. but barty had you locked in, at his mercy, angling the to hit that one spot that had your back arching impossibly off the bed.

his tongue toying with your clit, eyes never leaving you, following your every twitch, every jolt, feeling you squeeze around his fingers so tight, crying out loudly, “f-fuck—junior, s’too-oh!”

clawing at him, his hair, his neck, his shoulders, grinding your deeper into his mouth, body writhing from the pleasure, and only then did he pulling away. kissing a trail up your body to your lips—meeting your lips in a far too tender embrace.

regulus was still frozen in place, the smallest beads of sweat prickling at his hair line—so unbearably hard. his ears rung and blood ran cold when he heard it—voice too casual, too fippant.

“reg?”, the smirk on his face was so smug. regulus didn’t move, don’t answer, breath caught in his throat—bracing himself for impact.

“reggie, you busy?”, barty peaked his head out from the curtain, cheeks still lightly rosy and lips glistening from his previous actions.

he barely meet barty’s gaze, his voice coming out pinched and higher than normal, “-uh, no, not uhm right now,”

its like barty knew he’d been standing there, just out of ear-shot, opening the curtain wider and motioning him over with a small nod of his head.

what the fuck was happening?

what the actually fuck was happening right now?

his shuffled over, eyes darting frantically around the room, avoiding everywhere but where his eyes wanted to land so desperately. but he was weak, eyes settling on him, and then you.

chest rising and falling at an increased speed, cheeks flushed, half-lidded and pupils blown out. barty’s body covering your center, but he could still see the way your stomach had been bared, tank-top bunched just under your chest—taking in every ounce of your appearance.

before he had opened the curtains, you’d heard him whisper between kisses something about regulus, but mind still mushy and agreeable, thoughtlessly humming—nodding at what he’d said.

when your head rolled, and your sights fell on him, a lazy smile spreading across your face—he sucked in a sharp breath.

barty had a wolfish grin on his face, watching him watching you—”strip then,” eyes snapped over to barty’s—he just waited expectantly.

his body moved before he had time to compute the command, hands shakily unbuckling is trousers, leaving him clad in just his boxers, bulge so painfully obvious. regulus looked back at him from approval, heartbeat loud and fast in his ears, “sit there,”—nodding over to the front of the headboard.

and as barty closed the curtains behind regulus, saying the silencing charm he was originally meant to, you mumbled a soft, breathy, “hi,” to him, as he settled back against the headboard, iron grip on the bedding beside him.

barty wasted no time ridding himself of his boxer, tossing them carelessly behind him—roughly dragging your hips forward, pulling you towards his middle, a light squeal leaving you.

regulus was completely breathless, overwhelmed by the initimate scene unfolding before him. with two soft pats to your thigh and a low, “on your stomach, treasure,”—as if on autopilot, your body twisted and turned to form the most delightful little arch regulus had seen in his life. crawling into the space between his legs, dangerously close to his middle, his thighs on either side of your head.

pressing his lips into a thin line, you were looking up at him so innocent, so inviting.

fortunately—or rather unfortunately, for regulus, that didn’t last long. barty pressing himself into you slowly, breath hitching in his throat as his hands found familiar purchase on the round of your hips. your head fell forward into the matress, barely a few inches away from regulus’ crotch—the whine the left your lips had him twitching helplessly in his boxers.

he almost couldn’t believe his eyes, barty was fucking into you, forcing you gradually further up the matress, closer and closer to him, and it had his head spinning.

“shit—soo tight, angel,” barty’s voice came out rough and gritting when he finally bottomed out—regulus could see the goosebumps spread down your spine, gasping in air, each breath shallower than the last, brows furrowing impossibly high on your forehead.

pushing lazy and drawn out grinds into you, fingers matching the tight grip regulus had on the sheets— ”hmmm, gotta breathe for me,” eyes rolling back, lips parted, neck craned up and so precariously close to regulus.

this is going to kill him, he thinks.

broken, needly cries spilled endlessly out of you, “-mmpf—junior, t-too deep—” slightly, barely muffled by the way your cheek pressed against the bed. it wasn’t until barty runted harsh and unfairly into you, that you finally made contact with regulus.

hand reaching up desperately, clutching onto the fabric at the hem of his boxers—face now resting on his inner thigh. “-hah, almost forgot about our guest,” words rushed and breathless. thrusts so bruising and unforgiving, pushing you closer to the edge—lips now raw and swollen from biting.

regulus could barely breath, the air around him heavy and thick with sex, drinking in each pretty expression that was on your face, knuckles white with the grip he’d yet to release on sheets. his body tensed under your touch, only managing to exhale a barely audible whisper,

“fuck,”

barty used his knee to spread your legs wider, rocking in, searching for a deeper angle—letting a huffed chuckle pass through his lips, relishing in the disheveled state regulus was in, smile splitting onto his face—

“why don’t you indulge him, love. mmhm don’t get all quiet on me now,”

he truly was insane, and so were you apparently, because your hand reliquished its grip on his boxer and taking his, interlocking your fingers together. regulus could now feel each rock of barty’s hips into your, each jolt that rushed over your body—unthinkably close. looking up him, that dazed, needy expression on your face.

and he’s sure he’d died and gone to heaven, gaze locked with yours—the soft pants and laboured breaths that had been falling out of you now littered with wanting cries of his name, “reggie-hah—reg! so-ngh, fuck, reg—”

he couldn’t even stop the way his jaw fell, a hitching breath twisted with a load groan, like the air had been forcibly punched from him.

you were so pretty, so ruined, vision blurring as the pressure deep in the pit of your stomach, barty could feel it, the telltale signs that you were close, sucking him in so tight he almost struggled to drag his hips back.

regulus knew barty was twisted, so the dark snicker that he let out made his stomach churn. each thrust more rushed and cruel than the last, loud ringing in your ears, hips fucking back wildly. “mmm, if you’re close, treasure—shit, y-you know what to do,”

nothing could have prepared for what you did, lifting your head up, staring directly into his eyes—gods this was torture—eyes pleading, swimming with desire, an intense need.

and you couldn’t bring yourself to feel an ounce of shame at the whiny pleas that immediately left you, so delirous with pleasure, your voice sounded foreign to your own ears. “r-reg, oh god-please, can i—mhm, reg, reggie—please” they tumbled out rushed, as you tried to run away from the thrusts, bumping roughly against the spot that made your vision spot.

he swallowed thickly, adams apple bobbing, tongue darting out to wet his painfully dry lips, “f-fuck, yeah—cum f’me, pretty,”

he could barely finish his sentence before your head fell into his lap, trembles wracking through your body, cries and whimpers loud, and scattered with stutters of “reg—junior, re-”

you were being manhandled, barty’s grip on your hips bruisingly tight—holding you flush against him, no escape, grinding in to you, fucking you through your high and then some. struggling to hold yourself up, hips jerking as bolting shocks striking your body.

but barty didn’t slow down.

if anything his fucked into you meaner, watching satisfied as your melted, almost drooling onto regulus’ thigh. “know ya got another one for us, c’mon, thaaat’s it,” your thighs tried to shut, shy away from the overstimation, but barty just slid one hand beneath you—rubbing messy and frantic circles into your clit, the other reaching and grabbing a light fist full of your hair.

compelling your unfocused gaze to meet regulus’.

messy and unintelligable moans and hiccups, eyes so far away, fruitlessly blinking back, fighting against the urge to let them just reside in the back of your head.

and regulus just couldn’t help himself, bringing his hands to your jaw, memorising, savouring the moment. shivering at his touch, tips of his fingers ghosting over the tops if your flushes cheekbones—tears prickling in the corners of your eyes. “s’alright, love, take it—goood girl,” his words coming out in a low gravelly purr.

jaw slacking in bliss, body seizing as you leaning into his palm, all the air pushed out of your lungs. barty still rutting into you, pulling the most lewd squelches from where you were joined, loud gasping groans spilling from his lips, stilling behind you—filling you up. before barking out a breathless laugh—eyes stuck on the wet patch that grew at the front of regulus boxers.

your body almost vibrating, slumping against the bed, huffing in large gulps of air—mind gooey and satisfied.

regulus swore he could see a faint layer of condensation locked between the four corners of the bed post, relaxing, and dipping his head back against the headboard.

Your grades had never been bad, not even close to it. They were nearly perfect.

Nearly.

And that had been the problem. That one word—nearly.

Competition for internships at the ministry was fierce, and without perfect scores, there was no need to even attempt applying for the single position they offered each year. 

Not when the person who desired the position as much as you was named Tom Riddle.

It was a one-time mishap that had caused you all this trouble. You had forgotten to turn in a paper, which cost you valuable points—enough to drop your grade below minimum requirements for your prioritised internship.

You’d tried, practically begged Slughorn to round up your points—without success.

He’d apologised, his expression clearly sympathetic with your situation. But even then, he said he couldn’t change your results.

Sensing the disappointment radiating off you, he did offer you another chance—an extra assignment.

You’d have to complete it within the following two weeks, and that alone had been enough of a challenge due to the ongoing exam season and your extremely limited time besides classes and revising.

The task itself though made your head hurt more than hours of consecutive studying in the thick, dry air of Hogwarts’ library ever could.

Slughorn had given you an ancient potions book. One with handwritten pages, with knowledge spanning back hundreds of years. The coarse leather spine was cracked, and it smelled faintly of smoke and a hint of vanilla. You estimated it to be more valuable than anything you owned, anything you’d touched—and yet, he trusted you with it.

You were one of his favourite students. Responsible, honest, and trustworthy.

And apparently, in his eyes, skilled enough to brew a potion which could not be found anywhere near the curriculum for a rather apparent reason.

He had handed you the recipe for a powerful love potion, which heightened both attraction and lust after contact—worse if one batch was consumed by two different people at the same time.

No touch, not even eye contact was necessary for this to work—merely a glance in their direction could make someone lose their mind.

Hence the restrictions on the potion.

In the moment you were told to gather the supplies for it, you didn’t dare question your professor or his intention with the forbidden substance. Too much had been at stake for you—your grades, your internship, your future—your pride.

You accepted without thinking twice.

During the process of gathering the supplies, doubts rose—making your chest tighten with unease. Most ingredients were restricted, therefore difficult to acquire, and not handed out without one or the other question as to what you’d use them for.

You lied each time.

When you’d finally gathered everything and presented them to Slughorn, he seemed content, allowing you to use his key to access the potions classroom after operating hours.

The brewing process would take more than a week, and if you wanted the assignment to count for this semester, you’d have to start that very day—which you, though exhausted and tired, did.

Except, as with most things in your life, it did not go as planned. Because as soon as you tried to turn the key in the lock, the door creaked open by itself without much resistance. Though confused, you entered—quickly sensing you weren’t as alone as you’d hoped to be.

Sitting casually on one of the chairs was Tom, arms crossed over his chest, studying you intently with an unreadable expression.

“I have permission to use this classroom. Alone.” you said dismissively, dropping your bag onto one of the chairs and glancing around the room to find a suitable cauldron.

“And I have permission—or rather the obligation—to help you,” Tom countered, entirely unbothered by the shocked stare you gave him.

That had not been part of the agreement between you and your professor. Not at all.

It was a recipe for disaster, if anything.

“Get out, Riddle.” you hissed, sorting your ingredients on the table after you found the fitting cauldron. “Now.”

He huffed a laugh, making no move to rise from his chair—instead unfolding a paper he retrieved from the pocket of his trousers, showing it to you.

You read it in disbelief.

Slughorn’s explanation that he’d assigned you a partner—someone he trusted to assist you during the “complex” brewing process. With his signature at the bottom.

Fuck this.

“You don’t even know what we are brewing—or barely! I have studied this topic thoroughly over the past days, and I can assure you I do not require your help, nor your presence.” Frustration had crept its way into your voice, having Tom’s lips twitch in amusement.

How wrong you were.

“First, add three-quarters of a litre of purified water. Then, two grams of Himalayan salt. Stir three times counterclockwise. Add eight Angel Trumpet petals within the next minute. Stir another three times, clockwise. Next, add four six-centimetre quills of cinnamon, and let it boil on a low flame for at least ten minutes. When those have passed, you’ll already have your Snakeweed and Ashwinder eggs prepared, adding them simultaneously. Five more stirs clockwise, and day one is done. Let it rest for two days; then, on day four, you’ll start with the two most essential ingredients: rose oil, one single Moonstone, and five grams of pure Pearl Dust. You will want to—“

“Fine. Fuck, Riddle. Fine, it’s fine—just shut up. I don’t need you to play smart with me today, and I certainly don’t have time for this either.” You interrupted his perfect recitation of the complicated instructions in the book Slughorn had given you, determined to get started—no matter whether he was there or not.

You would simply have to endure it. 

You opened the book on page 293, starting the brewing process just as Tom had told you moments before—and surprisingly, he made no effort to bother you.

He simply watched—observed you with those dark honey-brown eyes, which had so often made you nervous and uneasy when they lingered on you.

You pushed the thought to the back of your mind and added ingredient after ingredient until it was time to let the mixture rest for at least forty-eight hours.

No word was exchanged between the both of you as you cleaned up and left shortly after, and you exhaled a relieved sigh when you arrived at your dorm, tucking yourself beneath your sheets after a much-needed hot shower.

・・・

Day four had concluded similarly to day one, and soon enough Tom stood beside you as you added the final touches to your potion almost a week later.

You were tired that day—more than usual. You’d finished the exam and instantly left for your potion, eager to get it done and present it to Slughorn. Everything had gone perfectly fine so far. The ingredients you’d gotten were of perfect quality, and even the brewing process progressed smoother than you had expected, given that it was an advanced and outdated recipe.

Tom did not contribute much. At first, when Slughorn’s words had just sunk in, you thought he’d be his usual self—an insufferable know-it-all. However, he wasn’t—he merely did what was asked of him.

Supervise you.

As much as it bothered you that your professor had sent him of all students, in the end, it didn’t matter. You just needed this grade.

So. Badly.

Lost in thought, you went over the recipe one last time before you retrieved the cauldron from the shelf you left it to rest on, lit the fire, and assembled the two missing ingredients.

Tom strolled in shortly after, settling beside you.

You added twelve drops of Salamander blood, gave your potion four stirs, and then dissolved a strand of an Abraxan’s mane in the soft pink, pearly mixture.

Your eyes drifted to the page once more, and before Tom could react properly, your hand reached for the heat regulator, turning it twice.

“No! Don’t! You will speed up the process and—“ he exclaimed, quickly lowering the heat before it could properly reach the cauldron.

You had just read the instructions for the potion below the one you needed.

Your tiredness vanished in that very moment, lips parted slightly, eyes focused on your project in front of you.

It still glimmered faintly in the dim light of the classroom, stirring slowly, a few small bubbles forming at the surface.

It seemed as though nothing changed, and the potion stayed unaffected by your careless mistake.

Exhaling a long, relieved breath, you turned towards Tom, taking in his tense features.

“I— I don’t know why I—“

You were interrupted by his hand wrapping around your wrist, forcefully tugging you aside—but before you could complain, a loud sizzling noise erupted from behind, and just a split moment later, the cauldron exploded, soaking both you and Tom in its content.

The finished love potion.

You both gasped, exchanging a horrified look.

The potion was hot—nearly boiling—but the immediate effects of it drowned out the pain quite efficiently.

Dizzy and momentarily confused, you grabbed hold of the edge of the table, trying to steady your trembling legs. And it worked—it worked just fine until Tom decided to touch the bare skin of your arm with his hand, asking whether you were hurt.

Based on his immediate retreat, he too must have regretted it the instant he did—the electricity that a simple, short touch exchanged between the both of you was shocking, and the pictures that came to mind as his hand lay on yours were even worse.

You and Tom. Under the effect of an ancient love potion, which amplified attraction and lust between the two consumers drastically and irrevocably.

No known counter-potion. You had read the sentence over and over again when you studied the recipe.

Unknown duration.

Perhaps permanent.

You were fucking doomed, and if you weren’t so dizzy with heat and lust, you’d have laughed at the irony of it all.

Instead, all you wanted was—and even though you found yourself under the effect of the potion, the thought still disgusted you—Tom. 

You closed your eyes, pressing a hand down on your stomach.

Breathe in, breathe out.

Again.

Again.

Focused breathing provided you with momentary relief, but when you heard his voice whisper your name, hand on your shoulder, everything crumbled to pieces once more.

The only solution was to get away. As fast as your shaking legs could possibly carry you.

He called after you, but you couldn’t bear looking at him. You had to leave him behind with the mess you’d caused.

By the time you were back in your dorm, droplets of sweat had gathered over your eyebrows, and you stumbled into the bathroom before your roommates could see the state of you.

A horrified gasp escaped your lips when you took a look in the mirror.

Your pupils were blown wide, skin glowing with both sweat and heat, lips swollen, your fingers trembling as they reached for the buttons of your uniform.

You tried hot showers, cold showers—still, none of them were enough to dull the effects of the potion.

The heat in your lower abdomen never left, pressing for relief—relief only one person in this entire world could give you.

Regrettably, also the last person you’d ever consider for something like this.

You’d rather suffer the consequences of your own actions for the rest of your life.

Additionally, you weren’t sure if it would work. Perhaps it would worsen the effects. Make you more drawn to him than you already were. Perhaps it’d tie you to him—consummate whatever this potion had started.

Fuck, you were beyond doomed.

When Slughorn asked about your progress the next day, clearly worried about you, you merely said it was going fine. That you’d turn it in soon.

You didn’t dare tell anyone about this.

And whenever Tom merely looked your way, let alone approached you—you turned the corner, fleeing the scene.

His gaze felt scorching hot on your skin, even from afar.

You weren’t brave enough to find out what it’d feel like if he touched you. If his hands drifted lower, if he—

If you allowed yourself to chase what you’d been craving ever since that day.

・・・

PRESENT

When your friend handed you her keys to the Prefect’s Bathroom, you could have kissed her. Literally. This day especially has been more than draining, having to endure two classes with Tom and couples kissing and hugging in every corner of this godforsaken castle.

You wish for nothing more than to hide beneath the safety of your duvet, read a book, take a cold shower.

Cold showers work better than warm showers to dim unwanted thoughts and the fuzzy feeling in your tummy, you’ve figured out.

And that’s exactly what you’ll do—after visiting the prefect’s bathroom.

A bath is what you crave. The spacious tub filled with warm water and bubbles would work perfectly to calm your running mind—it always did.

Neatly folding your clothes and resting them on the counter, you step into the warm water, eyes fluttering closed as you take a deep breath.

The scent of roses and bergamot fills your senses, working well to relax your tense muscles when you lower yourself into the water, letting the warmth surround you.

Your eyes remain closed, focusing on your breathing instead of the slick between your thighs—instead of the image of Tom leaning over you, pearls of sweat on his forehead as he slowly—

No.

Breathe. Just breathe.

You haven’t dared touch yourself, allow yourself the release you so clearly needed. Too afraid it would make everything worse than it was.

Your thoughts shift to the upcoming months, to spring, remembering how much you love the season of new beginnings. To what will await you this summer after you told your professor you wouldn’t be able to complete the assignment in time.

Surely Diagon Alley must have some open retail spots to offer, right?

・・・

Tom didn’t mean to leave his dorm so late. He in fact had no business being out this late, however, there was something that called to him—not far from his prefect’s dorm on the fifth floor. Not a voice or anything alike, but rather a feeling, a pressure in his abdomen which he’d grown awfully familiar with.

That day in the potions classroom, you had taken the worst of it—most of the substance spilled on you, only bits of it splashed onto his bare skin.

Good for him, bad for you.

All this time, ever since it happened, he’s been well aware of the predicament you two are in. Unrelenting lust and attraction, especially when close to the other person.

He’s taken notice of just how often you shifted on your seat during class when he is near, how you flinch each time his eyes slowly drag over your body, from the bare skin of your neck all the way to your ankles.

Tom has never liked the sentence “unknown duration, no counter-potion.” in textbooks.

Simply because it is not true.

Every potion is reversible, or at least repressible. The same is true for duration—if a recipe doesn’t specify the duration, the witch or wizard inventing it was merely too lazy to research it.

Tom had taken over that work before he agreed to supervise you. While the duration can vary from person to person and is greatly dependent on the amount and quality you consume, it is rarely more than a month. A month and a half in very severe cases.

Given that it’s been over a month and the effects still seem to rage on, you must’ve absorbed the majority of the potion supposed to improve your grade. The potion which would’ve earned you the top spot of the class, given the excellent quality.

Too bad.

Tom’s symptoms, on the other hand, had dimmed enough for him to tolerate your presence again.

And while it is true that there is in fact no counter-potion, a solution to halt the effects of the potion does exist. At the very least, the lust part can be stopped.

Because love cannot be created with this potion—it misses key ingredients for that effect. Love can only be enhanced—given that it already exists.

Tom’s lips curl into a smile at the thought that has plagued him for days.

Love cannot be created. Only enhanced.

You’d been tasked to brew a potion in order to improve your grade—and accidentally revealed something both of you have failed to realise all these years.

That the fuzzy feeling when he beat you in an exam has never been caused by him outscoring you, but rather because he enjoyed seeing your adorable pouty and irritated face after.

Now, if you only let him talk to you, he could tell you all of this, and if you so wished, leave you alone with that information—but you strictly avoided being near him at all costs, which left him no other choice than to leave you to suffer by yourself.

・・・

You don’t hear the door handle as it is pushed down, don’t notice the footsteps nearing you from behind. The only thing you do finally notice is the very familiar voice, immediately sending a shiver down your spine and tearing you from your daydream.

“As far as I can recall, the Prefects’ Bathroom is for prefects only,” Tom says calmly, eyes slowly drifting over your exposed skin as you attempt to cover your chest as best as you can with your arms.

“Tom, what the— leave! We can’t— I can’t—“ you stumble over your words, lowering yourself further into the bubbles until the water reaches your chin.

“No,” Tom interrupts, taking a few more steps forward, watching the horror on your face grow. “You can’t. You can’t be here.”

“I will leave. Just let me— get dressed. In peace.” You say, wincing at the last words when he’s just two steps away, and his eyes watch you intently—skin feeling as though his lingering gaze might light you on fire any second.

“You’re in pain.” He states as though it’s a well-known fact, as though he isn’t just as affected as you are.

Is he?

“It’s the potion. You aren’t helping it by being here. Just let me leave, and let’s forget about this.” You try, not daring to look up at him, afraid of what it may do to you.

Tom just scoffs, sitting on the edge of the tub and reaching to cup your face, turning your face to his.

You draw back at the contact, but he doesn’t let go—no longer affected, you figure.

“Let me help you.”

You swallow tightly, thighs inevitably clenching at the tone of his voice. “What? How?” 

His fingertips trail down the side of your neck, and you flinch away—but he follows.

“We can leave it at that. A one-time thing. Nobody has to know. If you want that. If you don’t—I’ll give you the privacy to get dressed. It’s up to you.”

It’s up to you.

You’ve sworn to yourself you won’t go this far—but his touch has once again worsened your symptoms, and all you want is for this to stop. You know Tom well enough to believe he won’t suggest things as such for no apparent reason—especially not with you.

And you could always obliviate him if he did lie.

Tom has already moved to stand, taken a few steps towards the door when you call after him.

“Wait. Riddle, wait.”

He stops himself from smiling before he turns back to you, watching you for a moment before he returns to your side.

“Please— please help me,” you whisper, finally looking up at him.

・・・

Tom strips himself of his clothes before you get the chance to change your mind. The water is above his preferred temperature when he joins you, but in that moment, he can’t bring himself to care—too focused on you, your tense features and the heat that radiates off you. Not the water, he is sure—but you.

After all, the potion hasn’t really worn off for either of you—he merely didn’t suffer any longer.

But he does feel it—the connection between you.

Love cannot be created. Only enhanced.

So close to you, your bare skin centimetres from touching his as he lowers himself beside you, he wonders how the both of you could’ve possibly missed it for this long.

“Do you trust me?” Tom asks lowly, brushing his fingers along the inside of your arm.

You huff silently, clenching your jaw before you answer. “What other option do I have? This is torture. If this helps, I will do it—just this once. It won’t change anything between us.”

The corner of Tom’s lips lifts into an understanding grin. “You’re quite the romantic. Not how I imagined my Valentine’s Day to go, I must say.”

You roll your eyes at his attempt to ease the tension between you two.

It’s electric—the air between you charged like the sky on a stormy summer evening, right before lightning strikes.

“We both know damn well you didn’t have a date besides your books today, Riddle.” you say humourlessly, though the dig doesn’t ease the smile from his face.

“Close your eyes.”

You inhale a deep breath before you follow his words, eyes fluttering closed, focusing on the humid, scented air around you, on the warmth the water provides to your tense body.

His hands part your thighs as soon as he feels you relax against the wall, the contact drawing a sharp gasp from your lips. With his fingertips trailing down the inside of your thighs and his breath hot against the side of your neck, he swiftly makes you forget any leftover doubts about this.

When his fingers descend further, inching closer to where you’re most sensitive for him, he kisses you just below your jaw, stealing your breath from your lungs—and he uses that moment to dip between your folds, groaning when he feels your arousal coat his skin.

“So wet. And it’s all for me,” he purrs, circling your entrance before he sinks a single finger inside, soon followed by a second.

You can’t see the smug smirk playing on his lips, but you can very well hear it.

“Fuck you, Riddle. Stop teasing and do something for Merlin’s sake,” you hiss, bucking your hips to meet the shallow thrusts of his wrist.

“Hmm,” he hums, brushing his lips down the length of your throat, stopping to nip at your skin here and there, interrupting his infuriatingly slow and tender touch to circle around your clit instead, never directly touching it. “Like this?”

This insufferable bastard.

“Please, Tom. Please just— fuck me,” you pant, every rational thought consumed by the pressure that has built in your lower abdomen, burning for release, anything—

Luckily for you, these words seem to do the trick.

You feel his hand move away, positioning himself between your legs instead—the head of his cock trailing along your slit, gathering your arousal before he pushes inside. You gasp at the same time he does—and it feels so natural, him here with you, that you almost forget it isn’t—that this is your doing, your mistake which made Tom as addicted to you as you were to him.

He sinks into you so slowly, with so much restraint, you wish this wasn’t Tom Riddle but anyone else. Anyone else, who’d just fucking take what they wanted instead of acting responsible.

“Mmph—“ you whimper at the faint sting as he pushes deeper, your nails digging into the skin of his toned back, leaving crescent marks beneath them.

Once Tom’s hips are flush with yours, you exhale a shaky breath, resting your head on the edge of the tub. Your eyes remain closed, but oh how you wish to see his expression in this moment. His eyes, most of all. 

They have always told the most about him.

Tom, on the other hand, wishes he could tell you to look him in the eyes as he sets a slow pace, withdrawing inch after inch before slamming back inside you. He would make you look at him when he pushes you to your limits, frees you of your suffering. Make you thank him for it afterwards.

Though, there is a good enough reason for him to miss out on perhaps his only ever chance to see you like this.

The potion and eye contact.

“Tom, please move—“ you whisper, opening your thighs wider for him, eyebrows drawn together as though his gentleness pained you.

“Poor thing,” he croons in response, flattening his tongue over your hardened nipple. “You’ve been suffering on your own for so long.”

“Fuck, Riddle, I—“ you exclaim, and your eyes flutter open before you can stop yourself.

The second they meet his, you realise why he told you to keep them closed.

The potion. Fuck, the potion.

A spark flashes behind his dark brown eyes and he groans, fingers digging into your thighs where he’s holding you open, breathing heavily.

Neither of you looks away. Neither of you can look away. It’s as though you’re in a trance—consumed by each other and the sensation of being pressed to each other so tightly.

Your breath comes in short gasps, and as though hypnotised, your trembling hand reaches for his neck. His jaw clenches, but he doesn’t stop you when you pull him closer to place a kiss on his lips.

When you part, his expression has softened, and his hands move underneath the water to wrap around your back and draw you closer. He’s positioned you so your legs are wrapped around his back, chest to chest, steadying you as he kneels with you in his arms.

You don’t complain about the intimacy of it.

“That’s why you should’ve kept your eyes closed, sweetheart. Because of this, you understand?” Tom growls, giving you a single, deep thrust that has a moan spill past your lips.

“Because I won’t be able to— fucking hold back.”

You shake your head softly, a smile playing on your lips before you lean in, kissing along his neck and marking him with bites and hickeys.

“Then don’t,” you say simply, so casually he just looks at you for a moment in disbelief.

“Remember, this is what you wanted, understand?” Tom rasps lowly, fire lighting up in the mahogany brown of his eyes.

“Yes— fuck me, Tom— just—“

You don’t get to finish your plea before he plunges back inside you, knocking the air from your lungs, dipping your head to rest on his shoulder. His hands are splayed on your back, and so are yours on his own, nails clawing at his skin so roughly, you draw blood.

Tom, though—he couldn’t care less. He’s lost in the warmth of you, of how snugly and perfectly your pussy feels wrapped around him—if anything, the sting amplifies his pleasure.

Your combined pants and moans echo off the walls in the bathroom, so loud that if this wasn’t late at night, you’d be afraid someone would hear you. 

Not that you care, either way. 

The feeling of his cock filling you so wholly makes you forget about anything but this. His thrusts, once gentle and soft, are now the opposite—rough and demanding. Stretching you open for him, and just him.

The heat in your tummy grows with each perfectly angled snap of his hips, and when you think you can’t take it, when it becomes too much to bear, you lift your head to meet his eyes.

“Tom I— I can’t,” you plead, but he merely shakes his head.

“Just a little longer. You are right there, darling. Look at me,” he rasps, his fingers tangling in your hair to keep your eyes on his.

You frantically shake your head, but then, he kisses you. His lips move against yours gently, betraying his harshness where you’re connected.

You suck in oxygen when you part, and Tom instead bites down on your neck—pushing you so close to the edge of your own orgasm, you cling to him more tightly.

Your walls spasm around his cock, nestled deep, as you mumble incoherent words.

“There you are. Come for me, doll,” Tom encourages, reaching between you to circle your swollen clit with expertise that leaves you no choice but to do as he said.

With a broken moan, the first waves of your orgasm wash over you, your entire body feeling as though on fire. But it feels good, relieving—so amazing, you cling onto the feeling as long as you can before you go limp in his arms, resting your head on his chest.

You didn’t even notice he finished until he withdraws, the warmth of him staying behind.

None of you exchange a word, Tom having moved to a sitting position with you cuddled into his side.

He didn’t lie. His touch doesn’t affect you any longer, and the other effects of the potion have dimmed to a point you don’t notice them if you aren’t concentrating.

Beneath you, you feel his heartbeat slowing. Still, he doesn’t make a move to leave—instead, his fingers draw patterns on your hips, and he presses a kiss to the top of your head.

“Love cannot be created. Only enhanced.” Tom murmurs after a while, pulling you closer when he feels you shiver.

“What?” You ask quietly, too tired to make sense of his words.

A grin tugs on his lips, his thumb brushing along your cheekbone when your arm snakes around him and you chase after the warmth radiating off his body.

“Later, sweetheart. Rest now.”

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

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Spencer’s always been the most attractive guy you’ve known. You thought so when you first met him, thought so during your entire relationship, and still think so, months later. The relationship’s been over for long enough that you probably shouldn’t still be feeling such a magnetic pull toward him, but you’ve never been able to shake it. 

You haven’t seen him since you broke up, and you had hoped to keep it that way. You knew as soon as you ran into him, you would cave. You had broken up with him after concluding that he was more dedicated to his job than you, and you still maintain that you wouldn’t be happy in a long-term, serious relationship with him. Still, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t yearn for him on the regular. You’ve been on dates since your break-up, but you haven’t felt the same kind of connection that you felt with him, emotional or otherwise—because, let’s be real, the sex was amazing. You’ve been feeling a bit deprived the past few months.

Even after all this time, you recognize his voice immediately. How could you not? You loved him, still feel… something for him (lust, probably). You hesitate for a mere second before clearing your throat and replying.

“No,” you state simply, pulling your purse onto your shoulder. He had been referring to the empty seat beside you, of course, but you gesture to your now-vacant stool and add, “Neither’s this one. I was just leaving.”

You still haven’t looked at him. You think you might actually manage to be strong and just leave, but something—stupid hormones, probably—makes you hesitate long enough for him to reply. 

“Nice to see you, too,” he huffs. You can visualize his reaction so easily; he’s most definitely sitting there, hazel eyes twinkling with amusement, very kissable lips pulling into a little smirk. You’re sure of it; he’s a pretty smug shit sometimes, after all. He probably revels in the fact that he’s annoyed you. Your breakup had been fairly amicable, to be honest. While you had been hurt that he hadn’t fought for you more, you had both agreed that separating was mutually beneficial. You run in the same circles, though, so you’re sure he’s heard about your failed dates through the grapevine. His teasing remark sounds less like “nice to see you” and more like “I’m laughing at how clearly sexually frustrated you are”. To your ears, anyway. 

Suddenly, you’re struck with the urge to correct him. He hasn’t technically said anything cocky, but it’s dripping from his tone, as well as the mental image you’ve conjured of him. Begrudgingly, you turn to face him, almost scoffing when you realize how accurate your imagination had been. 

With him sitting at the bar and you standing beside him, you’re a bit taller than him. He’s looking up at you with seemingly innocent eyes, but that damn smirk is tugging at the corners of his mouth. As you had expected, your stomach—the little traitor—does a tiny flip at the sight of him. 

You resist the urge to roll your eyes, wanting to portray nonchalance instead. You don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing that your life has been astonishingly boring since breaking up with him; he always had a big ego, you needn’t inflate it any more. Rather, you plaster on a sickeningly sweet smile. Kill him with kindness, or whatever. You’re not sure exactly what you want to get out of talking to him. Perhaps you just want to wipe that confident expression off his face, perhaps you want him to realize he made a big mistake not groveling in pursuit of your affection. Who’s really to say?

“Hi, Spencer,” you say. You’d be foolish to think that he’s believing your saccharine grin; he’s a brilliant profiler, to the point that it almost scares you how easily he’s always been able to read you. Still, the least you can do is subvert his expectations. If he expects you to tuck tail and dash, or if he expects you to admit that you miss him, he has another thing coming. If all goes according to plan, that is.

“Hi,” he answers warmly, nodding toward the empty glass you’ve abandoned on the countertop. “Vodka cranberry?”

“Obviously,” you confirm. What the hell is he playing at? Are you supposed to be impressed that he remembers your go-to order? Of course he does, he has the memory of a fucking computer. You’re not about to get sentimental about that, and you’re definitely not going to wonder what other facts about you he keeps tucked away in that genius brain of his…

Nope.

“Let me buy you another one,” he offers, patting the seat you’ve just vacated. 

It’s difficult to read his intention with that one. Is this some kind of reverse psychology, where he doesn’t actually want to buy you a drink and assumes you’ll decline? Or would the reverse psychology be offering in an attempt to get you to agree? No, that’s just regular psychology, right? Reverse reverse psychology, maybe? You’re very confused as to what you should do here.  Does accepting his offer make you look like a desperate loner, or a very calm and collected person who can be casual? Wow, that single drink really went to your head, or maybe it’s just the sight of your yummy ex-boyfriend. 

“Okay,” you agree. Then, because you’re worried that you sound too eager, you add, “Would be a waste of free alcohol to say no.”

“How considerate of you,” Spencer muses, watching your hips as you settle back into your seat. He flags down the bartender and orders a drink for you. You glance curiously at him.

“Not drinking? Why the hell are you here, then?” you ask, gesturing vaguely around the bar. It’s not like Spencer is the most outgoing guy; a bar is most definitely not his scene. He couldn’t possibly be here for fun of his own accord. You start to run through a list of people who knew your plans for tonight, wondering which one of them snitched to him. God, if someone set you up, you don’t know whether to thank them or pummel them. 

“I was planning on getting blackout drunk, actually,” Spencer deadpans, “but then I saw you. I’d like to remember this conversation.”

“Because it’s so riveting?” you ask sarcastically. 

“Because it’s with you,” Spencer clarifies without missing a beat. Damn it, there goes your stomach again, doing somersaults. He always did know what to say to make your knees weak. For a moment, you allow yourself to forget why you’ve been so intent on avoiding him. His interest in you feels good, and the ease with which he offers compliments makes you feel even better. Then, you remember the harsh reality that he’ll never be able to give you the kind of connection you crave, and you shake your head in a feeble attempt to loosen any lust-fueled thoughts. 

Your drink is placed in front of you, and you mutter a “thank you” to the bartender before taking a generous gulp. Spencer huffs with amusement.

“I’m not gonna have to carry you home, am I?” he teases. 

“You’d love that, wouldn’t you?” you retort, raising the glass to your lips once more. The bitter edge to your words slips out before you can stop it. You were trying to be distantly polite, but he has a way of getting under your skin that you can’t seem to prevent. You’ve resorted to grumbling much faster than you had anticipated. 

“Actually, yes,” Spencer concedes. Your cup falters halfway to your mouth, your hand twitching in its grip. You look at him with mock suspicion.

“That’s your plan? Get me all drunk and pliable?” you accuse. 

“Yes. Taking advantage of you in a vulnerable state sounds exactly like something I’d do, doesn’t it?” Spencer says sarcastically, throwing a pointed look in your direction. Suddenly, he leans toward you, his eyes flitting across your face. You struggle to maintain your composure as his gaze briefly falls to your lips. You’re hoping he doesn’t notice the slight waver in your inhale, but then he says decidedly, “Your pupils may be dilated and your breathing uneven, but I’d hardly attribute that to your alcohol consumption. You’ve never been much of a lightweight.”

An arrogant assumption, but he’s not wrong. 

“I think you’re overestimating your appeal,” you lie. It doesn’t even sound remotely convincing to your own ears. Spencer quirks an eyebrow in a knowing gesture, and you wonder what humiliating retort he’s about to utilize to turn your cheeks pink. 

Instead, he catches you off guard.

“Dance with me,” he suggests. 

“Huh?” you reply, internally cringing at how dense you sound. 

“Dance with me,” Spencer repeats. “If I’m that unappealing, it should be no trouble, right?”

You search his face for any sign of mischief, any hint that he’s plotting to embarrass you. Perhaps he’s angrier about the break-up than he’s been letting on, and is about to draw inspiration from Stephen King and dump pigs’ blood on your head in front of all these people. Yet, the more you inspect his countenance, the more you realize that he’s simply looking back at you with mild humor, not nearly enough malice to imply that he’s plotted a humiliation ritual. He’s looking at you rather adoringly, but perhaps that’s a healthy dose of delusion on your part. 

“If this is some convoluted plan to get me to go home with you—” you start. 

“Oh, it absolutely is, but if you’re as disinterested as you claim to be, it’s not like it will lead anywhere.” 

It’s probably a good thing that he cut you off before another lie could fly out of your mouth. You’re not exactly positive how you were planning on ending that sentence, anyway. Maybe attempting to deflate his ego was a mistake. He’s clearly got you in check; if you’re not careful, you’re absolutely going to admit to wanting to get in his pants. 

“You could have any girl in here. Go flirt with someone else,” you order. Perhaps you can still retain some semblance of dignity if you convince him to walk away first? You’re not really sure what you’re doing anymore. You were supposed to have left after one drink, for Christ’s sake. Now you were downing a second and entertaining your ex, straying far from tonight’s agenda. 

“I don’t want someone else,” Spencer murmurs, and the admission is shockingly vulnerable. It reminds you of the Spencer that only you got to see. He’s capable of being so soft, and sensitive, and sweet in a way that makes your heart ache. He almost sounds offended by your suggestion, even a bit sad. Just as quickly as the confession leaves his mouth, he’s schooling his expression back into one of amused indifference. 

“Well, I don’t want meaningless sex,” you blurt. You’re not sure why you made a point to announce that; it was clear by his tone that he wasn’t only referring to sex. He’s said that he wants you. You know that you want him. Things should be easy, then, and yet. A relationship with Spencer didn’t work out the first time; you’re (almost) sure it would be foolish to entertain the concept for a second. 

“Assign it some meaning, then,” Spencer shrugs. “A fateful reunion, maybe, or just burning some steam.”

“I don’t need to burn steam,” you say defensively. Another lie. You’ve been in such a drought recently, you’ve started to wonder if Spencer hired a witch to curse your sex life. 

“Huh. That’s not what I’ve been hearing,” he responds smugly, leaning against the bar counter and propping his head in his hand. “How’d your last date go?”

Once more, you have to stop yourself from rolling your eyes; that damn arrogance is officially grating on your nerves, but you’re fighting tooth and nail to not give him the satisfaction of knowing that he’s getting under your skin. Better to play off your annoyance as banter.

“You sure you wanna dance with me? I might just end up socking you in the face,” you half-joke with a broad smile. 

“That’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Spencer nods solemnly. It’s infuriating how unflappable he seems to be. How can he be so relaxed while you feel like you’re about to burst into flames? You’re beginning to feel a bit like a cornered animal, and you suspect that there’s only one way out of this situation. 

“Get up. We’re dancing,” you declare, hopping up from your seat. Spencer smirks, assuming that you’re admitting defeat, but you have one final opportunity to resist him. “One dance, and then I’m walking away.”

“Fine,” Spencer agrees, offering his hand to you as he stands. You slap your palm into his, and his hand envelops yours as he tugs you closer. You stumble to avoid falling into his chest, and his breath tickles your ear as he whispers, “Sure you are.”

You pull back, glaring up at him.

“God, you are so—” you start.

“Charming?” he suggests.

“Annoying,” you conclude as he weaves through the crowd, pulling you along behind him. 

“You just hate being wrong,” he points out calmly as he settles into the throng of swaying bodies. Satisfied with your position on the dance floor, he turns to you and plants his feet, waiting for a response. 

“I—” you splutter. For once, you agree with him, but you refuse to acknowledge that. “Shut up and put your hands on my waist.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Spencer huffs with amusement, immediately obliging. His hands settle comfortably on your waist, the familiarity of his touch doing little to quell the confusing swell of emotions building in your chest. You can’t deny your physical attraction to him, but hooking up with him would be a disaster, and getting back together? Even worse, knowing that he’ll never care about you as much as you’ve loved him. You have to stay strong and keep your word, or you’ll only end up getting hurt. 

Your hands are on his shoulders, your thumbs barely brushing the slope of his neck. It feels so damn good to be pressed up against him like this, shifting to the rhythm. You’re rapidly losing control of the situation—if you ever had any to begin with. 

“This is stupid,” you declare, more so trying to convince yourself than insult him. 

“‘This’ being your undeniable attraction to me?” he prompts, no offense having been taken. 

“The dance, you idiot,” you retort. “I don’t know why I agreed to this.”

Spencer tuts, pretending to look contemplative. 

“Well, I believe it was to prove some sort of point about being able to resist me, but I don’t think you’re being very convincing,” he muses, eyes sparkling with humor as he looks down at you. 

“Will you drop the fucking bravado for two seconds? I’m this close to stepping on your foot and walking away,” you snap. 

“I feel so threatened,” he deadpans, fingers dancing across the fabric of your dress like he intends to move his grip lower. The feeling makes your mind wander, reminding you of all the places his hands have touched before. A pang of arousal strikes deep in your stomach, and you have to consciously remind yourself to respond. 

“You should. These heels are sharp,” you warn weakly. Spencer sighs dramatically, as if bored by this whole ordeal. 

“You really want me to be all sappy? That’s what you look for in a guy? A big softie?” he asks, raising his eyebrows as if the very notion disgusts him. As if he didn’t just admit to wanting you. As if he hasn’t said a thousand sappy things to you in all the time you’ve known him. 

“I liked you better when you didn’t take it upon yourself to annoy the shit out of me, yes,” you reply flatly, and he snorts. He actually laughs, one of the first—and only—signs indicating that his resolve may be weakening. 

“I’ll trade you,” he offers, and you’re almost positive you know what he’ll say before the next sentence leaves his mouth. Sure enough, he proposes, “I’ll stop pushing your buttons if you stop pretending like you don’t want me.”

It would be so easy to simply agree; he’s much more bearable when he’s not putting on the irritating tough guy act, but is that what you want? The moment he stops acting unbothered, it will become infinitely easier to have a real conversation with him. As easily as his cocky façade gets under your skin, his true demeanor disarms your defenses. You’ll certainly end up admitting that you miss him if this dance doesn’t end before you reach an agreement. 

“What I want is to punch you square in your perfect nose,” you huff. 

“Aw, you think it’s perfect?” Spencer smiles. Wow, he is good at being aggravating when he wants to be. 

“Jesus Christ, you are so—” you complain. 

“I offered you a deal,” he interrupts. 

“I heard it,” you retort, frustrated and confused as hell. Why had you thought you could turn this around in your favor? You should’ve just left when you had the chance. This is going to get messy fast. 

“And?” Spencer prompts, looking at you expectantly. 

“I want you to prove it,” you decide. He tilts his head, offering you a puzzled expression. 

“How am I supposed to prove that I promise to stop annoying you?” he asks.

“Tell me something honest,” you implore. “No snark.”

Spencer blinks, pausing to consider his next words. Over the bar speakers, the song changes, but you barely register the sound. You’re getting lost in Spencer’s freaking beautiful eyes, like some lovesick teenager. 

“Okay…” Spencer hesitates, like he might struggle to formulate a response, but then words start tumbling out of his mouth before you can get frustrated with his lack of an answer. “I lied to you when I said I agreed with us breaking up. I never wanted to, but I thought it would make things easier if I went along with it, if that’s what you wanted.”

You blink slowly, processing his confession. It knocks the wind out of you a bit to hear that he actually cared about you enough to want to stay together. You had always been under the impression that his reluctance to fight for the relationship had been a product of him not being all that interested in you to begin with. To hear that he was only doing what he thought would make you happy? You’re floored. 

“Oh, so all the taunting about me wanting you is because you’re desperate to get in my pants again?” you ask, raising your eyebrows. You’re deflecting, of course, not wanting to admit how badly it hurt to have to try and move on from him. However, your teasing tone is weak, and Spencer quickly responds with a minute shake of his head. 

“I don’t just want sex. I told you that,” he says emphatically. “I want you.”

“You admitted to wanting to take me home,” you point out. 

“And if all I got to do was tuck you in, I’d consider it a success.” Spencer’s tone is so flat that anyone else might suspect he’s being sarcastic, but you know him well enough to know that he’s not. Whether asking him to be genuine with you was a mistake or not remains to be seen, but you can’t help but be touched by the sentiment. 

“You…” you start to argue, but you’re not even sure that you have a cohesive statement prepared. Instead, you end up blurting out, “I didn’t want to break up either, okay? But I don’t want to feel like a convenience in your life, like my only purpose is to keep you from being lonely after a long day.”

You’ve never been a fan of confrontation, a fact made obvious by how quickly you had attempted to hightail it out of the bar when Spencer sat beside you. It feels incredibly stupid and far too vulnerable to have admitted the real reason that you called things off between the two of you. Sure, crazy work hours don’t bode well for nurturing a relationship, but you could’ve dealt with Spencer’s persistent absences if he had made you feel truly loved when he was around. The harrowing fact was that you craved more affection than he seemed to be willing to give. 

“You think I think that little of you?” Spencer asks, hands tensing against your waist. His eyes search your face for reassurance that you’re not pissed at him. Truth be told, you’re not angry; you’re just more hurt than you’ve allowed yourself to admit in the months since you broke up with him. 

“I don’t know if you do or not, I’m not a mind reader,” you retort defensively. You hear the bitterness in your tone and attempt to amend things by adding more calmly, “I just know how you made me feel.”

Spencer looks like he’s been slapped across the face, despite your attempt to soften the blow. He’s been noncommittal about swaying to the music for some time now, but now he plants his feet, full-stop. 

“Shit,” he breathes. As the gears in his mind spin rapidly in an attempt to process your argument, he rambles, “You never told me that. I could’ve… done something. It could’ve been something we worked through, you know, instead of just being… the end.” He sounds angry, but more so at himself than you. It shouldn’t surprise you that he would take accountability for making you feel insignificant, yet you feel a bit choked up at the earnest expression in his eyes as he continues. “I’m sorry,” he whispers, barely loud enough for you to hear over the chaos of the bar. “For ever making you feel like you had to go, and then for letting you.”

It’s embarrassing how he’s the one apologizing, yet you feel like you’re the one who truly made a mistake. He’s right, after all. You never told him how you felt, you merely assumed that he was incapable of change and decided that things could never work out. Perhaps—no, definitely—it was unfair of you to not give him a chance to prove himself. All this time, you’ve been hurt that he didn’t attempt to claw his way back into your arms, when you were really the one who should’ve fought more to avoid pushing him away.

Damn.

“My last date sucked, for the record,” you admit, your way of telling Spencer that you accept his apology. “To answer your question from earlier.” He regards you with an almost sheepish expression, looking like he feels a bit sorry for you. 

“I might’ve heard that, too,” he responds quietly. 

“I don’t even want to know who’s airing out my shit,” you decide with a sigh. 

“I can keep a secret,” Spencer promises, leaning just slightly closer and raising an expectant eyebrow. “Just like I won’t tell anyone if you admit that you missed me.”

“Over my dead body,” you reply instinctively.

“Ah-ah. Remember our deal,” he tuts. His hands are still on your waist, and his thumbs begin to rub comforting circles into your sides. He’s looking at you like there’s absolutely no one else he’d rather be with right now, and between that expression and the nearly desperate way he had wished that you would’ve told him how you felt sooner, you’re about two seconds from relenting. 

“Fine,” you concede. “I missed you, and my life has been wholly uneventful since we broke up, and I knew that agreeing to dance would bite me in the ass because you have some weirdly, freakishly irresistible charm.” Spencer’s lips start to turn up at the corners, so you tack on, “Don’t smirk, or I will take it all back.”

Obediently, he schools his face into a neutral expression.

“Can I smile?” he asks. 

“Permission granted,” you confirm, and he immediately breaks into an adorably goofy grin, one that you’ve been longing to see for some time now. 

“You missed me,” he beams, the teasing completely draining from his voice and being replaced with awe. 

“Yeah,” you nod, your simple response hardly more than a murmur. 

“Uneventful, huh?” Spencer inquires, tilting his head. 

“Dreadful,” you groan. You know that he’ll take plenty of satisfaction in knowing that you’ve been less than pleased with the dates you’ve been on recently, but you’ve all but given up on your feigned annoyance, at this point. You’ve both confessed to wanting each other, so it seems pointless to pretend that your short-lived relationships since the break-up have been anything revolutionary. 

“Can I do anything to remedy that?” Spencer offers suggestively.

“A few things,” you grumble without thinking. 

“Name one,” he suggests. 

Fuck it.

“Take me home.”

=♡=

Somehow, the two of you manage to make it the short walk to Spencer’s apartment without doing anything illegal in public. An incredible feat, considering the way he’s been eye-fucking you the entire time, and you’ve been thinking incredibly unholy thoughts. 

As soon as his front door is locked and your shoes have been kicked off, he’s gently pressing you against the back of the door. You think he might just jump your bones right there, but he hesitates. He lifts his hands to your face, cupping your jaw and angling it so that your gaze is locked with his. Now that you’re here, so close to what you’ve been freaking fantasizing about for months, you’re a bit impatient. Your hands fist his collar, pulling him closer. He huffs with amusement, reveling in your desperation.

“I thought you didn’t want meaningless sex,” he reminds you when your faces are only inches apart, breaths mingling in the small space between you. 

“I’m taking your advice,” you declare. When it appears that your words are lost on him, you clarify, “Assigning it meaning.”

“What kind?” he asks, raising his eyebrows in a curious—and mildly perplexed—expression. 

Well, here goes nothing. You could be setting yourself up to be hurt again, but if what Spencer’s said is true (and you really think it is), you think your decision is far from a mistake. Surely, there’s significance to how much you’ve missed him over the past few months, significance that extends beyond the haze of lust. You still love him, and you can’t deny it anymore. 

“The ‘second chance’ kind, if that’s alright with you?” you ask, a tentative, unsure lilt to your voice. Spencer blinks hard, as if he’s convinced he’s dreaming. Once he determines that this is reality, he responds with total certainty. 

“Definitely fine by me.”

With that, Spencer leans even closer. Your noses brush, and his lips are so close to yours that you can practically taste the sweetness of his kiss. Yet, with mere centimeters separating your mouths, he halts, eyes flitting between yours as his thumbs dance across your cheeks. 

“What are you waiting for?” you whisper.

“You’re all flushed,” Spencer notes, an obvious tinge of concern lacing his words. “Are you sure you’re not drunk? Tipsy, even?”

Your heart aches with affection as he seeks your consent, and a laugh threatens to bubble up your throat at the realization that you’re so goddamn turned on right now that you’re blushing like a teenager. And he noticed.

“I’m sure,” you nod, forehead landing lightly against his. You quirk a brow, continuing, “Shall I walk in a straight line to your bed?”

“Smooth,” Spencer says, narrowing his eyes playfully at you. Once more, all joking leaves his body as he murmurs, “I’m just making sure you’re of sound mind and all. Not gonna regret this, right?”

“Right, not at all,” you agree earnestly. “I’d hardly attribute it to my alcohol consumption,” you add, repeating his earlier teasing reference to your attraction to him. Now, you both are well aware that there’s no punchline there, just genuine desire. 

“Oh, so you were listening,” Spencer remarks proudly. “I thought you started tuning me out as soon as you began staring at my lips.”

“Of course I was listening,” you reply with mock indignation. “I can multitask.”

You didn’t mean—at least, not consciously—for that to sound like an innuendo, but Spencer takes it as an invitation. 

Not that you’re complaining. 

“So can I,” he whispers, his breath dancing against your lips. You think he might make another snarky or suggestive comment before he kisses you, but evidently, he’s been waiting for this moment just as eagerly as you have. Without another word, he closes the gap between the two of you, wasting no time in parting his lips against yours. The kiss is hungry, driven by unfettered passion. 

Spencer’s hands slide to the back of your neck, pulling you impossibly closer. Within seconds, your tongue is teasingly sliding against his. You’d be content to stay like this for hours, making out against the door, but he clearly has other plans, and isn’t afraid to make his intentions clear.

As you kiss, his hands slide down your sides, settling momentarily at your waist. As you move to place your hands at the nape of his neck, his fingers snake around to the small of your back, moving tantalizingly close to your ass. God, you’re so fucking worked up over this man that just the thought of him groping you is exciting.

Finally, his hands slip lower, palming you over the fabric of your dress. You grab at his neck, deepening the kiss. When his hands slide to the backs of your thighs, encouraging you to lift up, you gladly oblige. He pulls you toward him, and you wind your legs around his center. Once you’re securely against him, he backs toward his bedroom, never once breaking the kiss. 

It’s not until he has carefully placed you beneath him on his mattress that his lips separate from yours. His mouth moves enthusiastically across your jawline and down your throat, settling at the junction of your shoulder. He lavishes kisses against your skin, nipping just enough to make your breath hitch before soothing the spot with his tongue. It’s not long before you miss the feeling of his lips against yours, and tug at the collar of his shirt once more, prompting him to lift his head. 

As his lips lock against yours, your hands trail from his neck to his chest. A few seconds later, you’re reaching for the hem of his t-shirt, and he’s pulling away just far enough for you to drag it up and over his head, absentmindedly tossing it onto the floor. Your fingers dance across his exposed skin, and he responds to your touch by pulling down the strap of your dress. He then ducks his head and places a tender kiss to your bare shoulder as his hand travels along your side, swiftly undoing your zipper. You shift beneath him as he begins to pull it off of you, making it easier for him to tug the fabric down your legs. 

Spencer settles back over top of you after taking a moment to admire you, sprawled on his bed in nothing more than your bra and panties. He smiles softly as he kisses you again, murmuring against your lips, “You’re so beautiful.”

Eager to level the playing field, you expertly unbuckle his belt and remove it, letting it clank to the floor as you unbutton his pants. Just as you had been so thrilled to have him undress you, he assists you in removing his jeans. Soon, the two of you are left in nothing but your undergarments, and anticipation is building in your chest. 

Spencer’s lips lower to your neck once more, sucking the soft skin until a pleasurable sting registers in your brain. You sigh softly, and he hums approvingly against your throat. He peppers a trail of kisses across your collarbone before shifting so that he can press kisses lower and lower. Eventually, he’s settled right between your breasts, and leaves a lingering kiss above your heart. Then, he’s eagerly sliding his mouth to the edge of your bra, kissing the lace that surrounds the cup. 

You feel a pang of arousal as you watch him. He lifts a hand to the cup, pulling it down just enough to reveal your nipple. You’re so turned on, it threatens to harden at the mere thought of him fondling you. Luckily, he doesn’t leave you much time with your daydreaming before his mouth is on you, nipping and sucking your nipple into a hard peak. As he continues his ministrations, spurred on by your gasps and light moans, he deftly unclasps your bra, removing it without letting up on your body. His hand begins to grab at your other tit, rubbing and pinching softly in the way he knows will drive you crazy. 

“Hm,” he hums against your breast, and you can practically feel him smiling against your sensitive skin. 

“What are you smirking about?” you groan, slightly breathless but still perfectly capable of conveying annoyance. He releases your nipple from his mouth, pressing another kiss to the center of your chest before replying. 

“You’re so responsive,” he answers, though his reply sounds more astonished than smug as he looks up at you. His hand is still fondling you, which is inhibiting your ability to come up with a smartass reply. 

“Stop making me self-conscious,” you pout. “I like you better when you’re nice to me.”

Spencer climbs up your body, quickly pecking you on the lips.

“Oh, angel. I’m about to be very nice to you,” he assures you. You reach up and pull him into a deeper kiss, which he reciprocates with fervor. You’re struck with the desire to have your hands all over him, so you reach between your bodies, hand moving closer and closer to the hem of his boxers. Your hand has barely wrapped around his length when he pulls away.

“Uh-uh. Not yet,” he mutters, breath ghosting against your face. 

“But—” you argue feebly, though your hand is already obediently moving back up his side. 

“I’m not in a rush,” he promises. “Do you have someplace better to be?”

“Well, no, but…” you complain, whispering, “I want you.”

“And you’ll have me,” Spencer assures you, softly kissing your cheek. “But first, let me take care of you. Let me prove to you that you’re not a convenience. You’re everything, okay?”

“You’re overcompensating a bit, don’t you think?” you retort. However, his serious countenance informs you that he’s being entirely truthful. His words go straight to your heart, and admittedly do nothing to curb the tension building in your stomach. 

“Not at all. I’ve always worshipped you, I just apparently didn’t show it enough. Let me show you, please,” he pleads. An unspoken agreement passes between you as he ducks his head again, dropping kisses down your stomach. 

Eventually, he settles between your legs, kissing your clothed core before looking up at you, searching your face for any minuscule sign of hesitation. Seeing none, he hooks his fingers in your panties, peeling them down your legs. Under other circumstances, you might be embarrassed by how fucking soaked you are, but you’re pretty sure he’s not the least bit surprised by the glistening sight before him. Your panties are absolutely ruined, but that’s truly the last thing on your mind with his head between your thighs.

Your chest heaves as you look down at him. His breath tickles your skin as he angles his head to kiss your inner thigh. Then, he wraps his hands around your legs, guiding them apart. You’re hyperaware of every move he makes, including the tiny, pleasured sigh he lets out against your core before his tongue darts out. 

Your stomach soars as Spencer’s tongue slides between your slick folds, and your head falls back against the pillow. 

“Oh, Jesus,” you mutter, hand instinctively reaching out to tangle in his curls. He huffs a little chuckle against you as his tongue begins to circle your clit. He takes the sensitive bud in his mouth, sucking with the perfect amount of pressure. Your hips twitch, bucking toward his face, and his grip on your legs tightens, holding you in place. 

Moments later, he loosens his grip on one thigh, bringing his hand between your legs. You feel like you could cum just from his mouth on your pussy, but then he’s teasing your entrance with his index finger, and you’re getting even wetter. He easily slides one finger inside of you, beginning to curl it in and out of you in satisfying synchronization with his tongue. 

He allows you to adjust to the sensation for some time before he adds a second finger, slowly stretching you. As he crooks his fingers, you moan shakily. The stimulation is beginning to overwhelm your senses, and all you can think about is how damn good it feels. Your grip tightens on his hair, though you’re careful—even in the haze of pleasure—not to tug too harshly.

“Spence—” you moan. He licks at your clit before pulling away just far enough to murmur a reply. 

“You’re okay,” he says soothingly before diving right back in. The hand that had been holding your legs apart reaches up to cup your breast, and your thighs threaten to clamp down on his head, but you do your best to stay still. He pinches your nipple, and a fire ignites in your abdomen. You moan loudly, his fingers continuing to work inside of you. White-hot pleasure is building in your stomach, and your moans are becoming more desperate and shrill as you approach your climax. 

Spencer refuses to let up, devouring you with such intent that you feel like you could scream. 

Finally, the tension snaps, and you come more intensely than you have in months—possibly ever. Your moan is almost a shriek as your body is overcome with pleasure. Spencer works you through your orgasm, only slowing his motions when you quiet down and his movements begin to border on overstimulation. He slides his fingers out of your sopping pussy, kisses your thigh once more, and then casually climbs over top of you like he didn’t just make you see actual fucking stars. 

“Fuck. Oh my God,” you exclaim breathlessly. 

“I know, sweet girl,” he coos, pecking your cheek. “I know.”

You’re panting like a dog, struggling to catch your breath after coming down from such an astonishing high, but having his lips inches from yours isn’t enough. Despite how winded you are, you tilt your head, angling your mouth toward his. Spencer takes a second to gaze down at you adoringly, taking in your flushed and fatigued state before molding his lips against yours. 

You should be thoroughly exhausted after what you just experienced, yet tasting the tang of your own arousal on his lips sends another jolt of excitement coursing through your veins. He nips at your bottom lip, and you gasp into his mouth. He swallows the sound with another deep kiss, and your hands begin to wander all over his body. This time, when your finger traces the hem of his boxers, he doesn’t stop you.

Before long, you’re wrapping a hand around his hard cock, stroking him gently over his boxers. Your bodies are pressed so tightly together that you feel the wet spot blooming on his underwear rather than actually seeing it. He’s thick and aching in your palm, and his hips stutter against your hand as you swirl your thumb around his clothed tip. Craving more, you reach beneath the fabric, swiping a finger through his precum before pumping your hand up and down his shaft. He groans at the sensation of your hand on him, his own hand cupping your breast. 

He starts to grind into your hand, clearly relishing the friction your palm is providing. He grasps your tit, playing with your taut nipple. As incredible as that feels, you need more. Spencer had denied you before when you had attempted to strip him of his last article of clothing, but as your fingers toy with the waistband of his boxers now, his kisses become even more enthusiastic, if possible. 

“Now?” you whimper, mind reeling with the anticipation of having him inside of you. 

“Anything you want, baby,” he sighs against your mouth. With his permission, you tug his boxers down his legs, and he shifts so that you can remove them completely. They join the growing pile of clothes on the floor, and this time, when Spencer leans down to kiss you, his bare cock presses insistently against your core. You’re halfway to throwing caution to the wind and telling him to fuck you raw, but he makes the wise, mature decision to pull away and open his nightstand drawer, quickly retrieving a condom. 

He leans back so that he can tear open the wrapper with his teeth, an erotic sight that has your arousal soaking his sheets (if it hasn’t already). He effortlessly rolls on the condom before pressing against you again. As he hovers over you, arms caging you beneath him, he lifts his chin and gingerly kisses your forehead. He’s always been so gentle when it comes to sex, knowing that the initial penetration can be a bit painful for you. 

He lines up at your entrance, his tip just barely nudging your opening. You were spread open on his fingers just a short moment ago, which makes the sting more bearable as he stretches you. He knows to take things slow, and you trust him not to take more than your body is willing to give. He pauses just past your entrance, waiting for a signal from you to proceed. After the initial discomfort passes, you nod, and he sinks in another inch. This process repeats for a minute or so until he’s fully buried inside you and you’re pleading for him to move. 

Spencer pulls out until only his tip is notched inside of you, and then sets a languid pace of sinking in and out of you. You’re so sensitive after your previous orgasm, so the mild discomfort of penetration morphs into an overwhelmingly, intensely pleasurable sensation. You feel deliciously full, and the only sounds in the room are the mingling moans and shaky gasps coming from both of you. That, and the obscene squelching of his dick sliding in and out of your pussy. 

You know that his unhurried pace is a display of consideration for your comfort, and you’re endlessly grateful for his patience. No man has ever been so sweet to you, and you’re not about to forget that. Still, you eventually reach the point of desperation where climaxing feels just out of reach, and you need more.

“More,” you mewl. “P-please.”

“Faster?” Spencer seeks confirmation, breath huffing against your cheek. 

“Mhm,” you hum. Evidently, he had been waiting for your approval to be rougher. His restraint snaps, and he thrusts more intensely. He’s moving faster, burying himself deeper inside of you, hitting a spot that makes the corners of your vision blur. A loud, careening moan tumbles out of you. 

“Okay?” Spencer murmurs, a light sheen of sweat beginning to form on his forehead. 

“Yeah—oh, God,” you affirm, your response interrupted by another sharp thrust of his hips. Your breath hitches in your throat, and you have to consciously remind yourself to take a complete inhale. 

Spencer’s showering the corners of your mouth in sloppy kisses, your shaky breaths coming out in huffs against each other’s faces. Your hair is starting to stick to your forehead, and even in this state of intense arousal, he notices. He brushes a damp strand away from your eyes with a quivering hand. You’re both getting close, if the sporadic movement of his hips and the building warmth in your abdomen are any indication. 

As if he’s read your mind, Spencer drops a hand between the two of you, the pad of his thumb finding your clit and rubbing tight circles against it. You’re moaning absolute nonsense at this point, sighing his name repeatedly—along with some other choice words. 

You’re feeling dizzy with pleasure, and a stuttered declaration escapes your lips as you try to inform him how you’re feeling. Then, you’re clenching around him, your muscles fluttering as an intense wave of pleasure overtakes you. Your fingers—which have been pressing into his back—tighten their grip, undoubtedly leaving crescent-shaped marks on his pale skin. 

The heady mix of pleasure and pain is enough to have Spencer burying himself to the hilt inside of you, moaning as he empties into the condom. He weakly collapses beside you, slipping out of you as he softens. He gently brushes more sweat-slick hair from your face, kissing the tip of your nose and smiling warmly at you. You return the expression, though your grin is likely more dopey, a result of your thoroughly fucked-out bliss. 

“I’ve gotta clean you up,” Spencer declares softly, rolling off the mattress and heading to his ensuite bathroom to grab a washcloth. You can hear him bustling around in the other room as you lay on your back, staring contently at the ceiling. 

“I was trying to be good tonight, you know,” you call. You can hear the trash can lid clanking shut after he’s discarded the condom, and then he’s running water for a moment. “One drink, go home. You messed up my plans.”

“Don’t complain,” Spencer chides playfully, returning with a warm cloth to wipe your own slick from your thighs. He settles beside you, running the cloth across the inside of your legs. Despite the warmth, you shiver as the fabric brushes your sensitive skin. Spencer looks down at you fondly as he adds with the tiniest smirk, “In my opinion, you were really good.”

“I’m not complaining,” you clarify, positively reveling in the boneless feeling of laying in his bed with him. 

“Even better,” Spencer praises before discarding the cloth and rejoining you in bed, pulling you flush against his bare side. He kisses your damp hair and whispers something that you almost don’t catch in your foggy, sleepy haze. Yet, you’re sure you’ve heard him correctly.

“I love you.”

It wasn’t as though you had something worth sharing anyway—your private life was, well, private, and besides a few dating rumours over the years which you couldn’t confirm nor feed into, nothing worth mentioning came to mind.

Quite literally. Nothing.

All these years, you’d been overly preoccupied with school and internships, mostly giving yourself barely enough free time to breathe—and even then, you sheltered yourself from parties and peers, drowned yourself in books instead. No Potions or Transfiguration texts then, but rather novels you borrowed from the tiny, cramped bookstore in Hogsmeade.

For you, they were an escape from reality—from day-to-day expectations, from the noise drowning in during late-night common room parties.

A fictional reality where you got to experience what you weren’t sure you’d ever get to feel in person.

Love.

A huge part of it, you believed, was your own fault. There had definitely been a good number of people interested in you—more than just interested, your friends suggested—though, you never reciprocated any of it.

Not the letters, not the gestures, smiles, gifts…

As a prefect and now Head Girl, you had certain responsibilities. A reputation to uphold.

You had built respect around your name—and you wouldn’t let something as simple as a failed relationship invalidate your hard-earned achievements.

Especially when your fiercest competitor went by the name Tom Riddle, and neither involved himself in any things of that sort. As long as that stood true, you had no interest in straying from the path you’d set yourself.

The only gatherings you never seemed to be able to excuse yourself from were the annual House parties. Each House had their own, on separate dates. 

And this time, you’d broken the one rule you’d kept safe all this time.

Your friends had left the day prior for their exchange trip to France—not around to save you from the inevitable.

Two or three too many drinks, and you let yourself be dragged in the midst of a circle where students had gathered to play a game similar to truth or dare—with an additional third category added.

Confession.

The worst part: you didn’t even get to choose, but the other players picked it for you. 

So, either truth, dare, confess, or drink.

The fourth option saved you in the first few rounds, but by the fifth, with heightened confidence, you suddenly no longer felt intimidated by their questions.

A confession seemed easy. Too easy. You could come up with almost anything—a lie even—or something as simple as you cheated on an exam in second grade. Would they be satisfied with that answer? Most likely not, but your debt would have been paid either way.

It’d have been fine, you could’ve stopped playing and left the party after.

Still, with the general direction of the truths and dares given beforehand, your mind, spinning and fuzzy, skipped right past that simple option, and the words left your lips too quickly for what was left of your sanity to intervene.

“I have never had an orgasm before.”

Deafening silence.

Your heartbeat drummed in your ears, and you attempted to swallow the lump that had formed in your throat—without success.

Wide eyes stared right at you, and the sheer embarrassment of what you’d just admitted sobered you up faster than the Potions your friends had given you in the past ever could.

The air around you nearly suffocated you when you scrambled to your feet, snatching your purse from where you’d left it, the overwhelmingly loud noise in your ears drowning out the calls for you to stay and continue playing.

Either way, you couldn’t have.

Hell, not even your closest friends knew this about you—and now, more than twenty strangers from different years and Houses had heard you speak it out. You—the good, responsible student who never did anything other than studying or reading—just ruined your treasured reputation with one single sentence.

It would spread like wildfire, and by Monday, it’d have reached every last corner of this damn castle.

Your cheeks burned hot with embarrassment and perhaps also one or the other tear as you stumbled your way through the packed common room, eyes fixed on the floor, not daring to lift your gaze until you made it to the corridor.

As you did, fists clenched tight at either side of your hips, heels furiously clicking on the stone floor, you felt it—the unmistakable sensation of someone watching you leave.

You whipped your head around, infuriated someone tried to follow you—though you instantly regretted that choice.

Leaning against the entrance he stood, observing you. The playful smirk he wore did not smooth into his usually unbothered expression, not even as he slowly lifted a glass of what you assumed to be Firewhiskey to his lips and took a sip.

Tom Riddle had heard your unfortunate confession.

The gears in his awfully brilliant mind were most likely already turning to find a way to use this information against you.

Fuck.

—

The silk of your nightgown you’d slipped into moments ago still lay cool against your skin as you settled beneath the covers on your bed, reaching for the book you’d left abandoned on your nightstand the morning prior when a knock on your door startled you, your attention shifting to the source of the sound.

A quick glance at the clock made your brows furrow.

It was 22:00 on a Thursday.

Curfew had begun an hour earlier, and before a single muscle in your body dared respond to the natural urge to open the door for your unannounced visitor, your mind sped through all the possibilities as to who may be requiring you this late.

One of your friends, you thought at first, and almost settled with that explanation—until you remembered that no, most of them were still on their trip to Beauxbatons and not around to entertain you.

It had to be a professor, you were sure of it—and before your brain could come up with terrible scenarios as to why they’d want to speak to you at this late hour, you hastily tugged the duvet aside, practically jumping out of bed when another knock came rattling against your door.

Barely a few centimetres open, your reflexes almost worked faster than your mind, attempting to slam it shut again—but a foot had wedged itself in between the gap in the meantime, preventing it from closing.

The strict, deep brown eyes that had met you when you first opened the door could only belong to one person.

The last person you wished to speak to of all people in this entire castle.

Tom managed to push the door back far enough for him to slip inside, not sparing you more than a short look. He strode into your dorm as though he owned the place, posture straight and collected as always, his expression unreadable.

With a slight hint of amusement, perhaps.

If he was here just to remind you of what happened a few days ago, you would hex him. Hell, perhaps your aversion to the dark arts wasn’t as serious as you thought it to—

“You know what they’re saying about you?” Tom broke the silence first, not bothering to turn and look at you. His hands rested in his pockets, observing a group of magpies and ravens as they glided past the window of your single dorm.

Your hands crossed over your chest, taking a step forwards. “Riddle, leave.”

“The Head Girl can’t even make herself come,” he continued, not listening to your plea, which you’d attempted to wrap in the venom of a threat.

The insult you’d prepared died on your tongue the second the weight of his words hit you, and for a few awfully long seconds, you just stood there, not able to muster up a witty comeback.

There was none.

He was right.

And he was well aware of it, too.

When no reply came, Tom huffed, shaking his head before he finally turned to look at you.

His gaze wandered over your body, but there was nothing left of the usual disdain in the way he looked at you—it was different. The flame alight beneath the dark brown of his eyes was not fuelled by hatred, and the realisation made your skin crawl.

Tom drank you in like a lion its prey.

Only then did you realise how little you were wearing, how much skin showed that was usually hidden beneath your school robes.

His wandering eyes slowed as they reached your cleavage, the thin silk fabric of your nightgown doing nothing to conceal the stiff peaks of your breasts.

Tom made a low sound of approval when your thighs clenched together as his eyes descended further, and he took a step towards you—which you reciprocated with a big step backwards.

“Some sounded almost concerned, you know,” Tom said thoughtfully, inching closer, slowly.

“And, as a Head Boy and prefect, it is my duty to listen to their worries—I presume you are aware of that, though.”

“Riddle,” you said warningly, and the next step backwards had your breath catch in your throat—he’d backed you against the long edge of your bed.

“Is it true?” He asked, standing still for a moment.

You scoffed, turning your head to the side.

Avoiding the question.

“Never?” He insisted, eyebrows drawn together. Again, he did not receive an answer.

“Fuck.”

Tom closed the distance without sparing it another thought, shoving the voice telling him that this may be a bad idea to the back of his head.

Ever since he heard your little secret, he’d been determined.

Determined to change it.

He was standing right before you when his index finger trailed along the dainty, golden chain decorating your neck, adjusting your pendant so it pointed to where his eyes were glued moments ago.

“Let me help you,” he murmured, letting his hand slip to your shoulder, playing with the strap of your nightwear. “Please.”

Please?

“I don’t know if that’s a—“ you started, sighing a breath when he eased the slightly elastic fabric down your arm. “—good idea.”

“Mmh,” Tom crooned, his head dipping to brush his lips along your collarbone. “Let’s worry about that later.”

His other hand eased the second strap off your shoulder, and a moment later, the silk slipped down the length of your body, revealing you to him.

The hand you lifted to shield yourself from his scorching hot gaze was quickly tucked to your back, and he used the chance to press a kiss right below your jaw, making you exhale a shaky breath.

What the fuck was he doing to you? And why on earth were you allowing it?

Questions you would, as he said, ask yourself later.

For now, the heat that had built in the deepest pits of your abdomen seemed to consume you whole, and your free hand impatiently tugged on his robes, which he stripped off with ease just a moment later.

Your eyes locked, and before you knew it, his lips crashed on your own, stealing the breath from your lungs.

Morals. Values. Hatred.

You’d had it all not longer than five minutes ago.

And now?

You couldn’t care less.

You tried to convince yourself this wasn’t Tom, this was someone else entirely—but, in the end, it washim. It was Tom who’d walked into this room as though it was his own, who looked at you like a predator at its prey.

“Lie back,” he said with a smug grin, tugging his tie loose as he watched you get comfortable, your back resting against the headboard of your single bed.

Tom joined you not ten seconds later, not bothering to undress himself—earning him a confused glare.

“This is about you, sweetheart. Not about me—not today.”

Fuck.

You didn’t even know what made this worse—the petname or the hinted promise that there would be a next time. That this was not a one-time occurrence, not just him using your secret, your ignorance to his advantage.

“Spread your legs for me,” he encouraged, brushing a warm hand down the inside of your thigh, making you tremble. Still, you did as he said, revealing your red lace thong to his waiting eyes.

He growled at the sight in front of him, trailing a finger along the waistband and pressing a kiss to your knee.

“Off,” he says, helping you ease the fabric down your legs when you lifted your hips for him.

Then, you were bare.

And he was fully dressed—save for the robes he’d left draped over your chair and the tie that hung loose around his neck.

He looked awfully human like this. Not like he usually did—strictly polished, stern expression, not a single crease in his clothes.

Tom looked hungry.

Hungry for what was waiting for him a mere breath away.

With both of his hands splayed on the inside of each thigh, he gently spread them, softened brown eyes sweeping over the length of your glistening pussy before his index finger repeated the same move.

“Oh—“ you gasped, clenching your thighs around his arm as the foreign sensation spread warm and fast throughout your entire body.

“Open, or I will stop,” Tom warned, and you obeyed, parting them again.

His thumb pressed down on your clit, circling slowly while he dipped a single finger between your folds, coating himself in your arousal before he pressed inside.

Your eyes never dared to stray from his, not even when he curled the single digit which had found its way into your pussy, finding that one spot he knew would free your mind from your worries—at least for now.

He kept a steady pace, only quickening when he felt you clench around him. Small gasps and moans slipped past your parted lips, and if he wasn’t already so utterly enchanted by your voice, this would have done it.

Tom sensed you were close—thighs trembling, walls clamping down tight around him—smiling to himself at how fast he got you to the breaking point.

Poor girl.

“Tom—“ you squealed when the sensations he was giving you became nearly overwhelming, but he held you steady, not letting you move away from his touch. “I— I can’t—“

He merely shook his head. “Oh, but you can, darling. Focus on everything I am giving you—it feels good, doesn’t it?”

“Yes,” you nodded and tried to keep your hips planted on the mattress, fighting the instinct to meet the gentle, slow thrust of his hand. He was watching you, and you had intended to keep it low, not give him the satisfaction he, if you were being honest, deserved to watch you fall apart for him—but when it was time, when the knot in your lower abdomen had wound so tight it was about to snap—you could no longer stick to it.

“Fuck, I—“

Tom drew tight figure eights on your clit, watching as your eyes rolled to the back of your head.

“I know. Stop holding back. Be a good girl and come for me, hm?”

Even if you wanted to, you couldn’t hold back any longer.

With a broken half-moan, half-sob, you were pushed over the edge. He massaged over the spot he previously discovered, watching your every reaction.

How your thighs clenched around him, how your walls spasmed and pulsed, how your fingers dug into the bedsheets…

Tom worked you through it, only stopping when you whimpered his name, fingers closing around his wrist.

He resisted the urge to taste your sweet arousal on his tongue, instead watching your tired eyes stare back at his.

Without any hint of regret.

“Good?” He asked after a few moments, pressing a kiss to your knee, observing you with his usual self-assured, distanced eyes.

Smug bastard.

“Amazing. So fucking amazing.”

You meant to reach for your nightgown, but a firm hand stopped you.

“Not yet,” Tom purred, and before you could ask, his hand had descended between your legs once again. “One more for me, sweetheart.”

“Riddle,” you glared at him, but it only spurred him on. He dipped his thumb between your folds and trailed along the length of your pussy, circling your entrance before he eased inside.

“Yes?” He asked, raising a brow as though he didn’t know what you could possibly mean, watching your lips part for a moan.

“Why do you have to be an overachiever all the fucking time?” You asked through gritted teeth, staring at him.

“Mostly, I am doing what is asked of me, that’s all,” he says. “I am merely doing a good job—better than others. Better than you, for example.”

“Oh, fuck you, Riddle.” You snarled, wrenching your hips backwards, away from his touch. 

Your heart skipped a beat when you saw the grin forming on his lips, and he yanked your legs apart, kissing his way down the inside of your thigh until he was so close to your soaked cunt, you thought he may—

“Fuck you? Like this?” Tom asked innocently, slipping not one but two of his fingers inside you, head inching forward until the tip of his tongue brushed over your clit before his lips wrapped around the swollen, still sensitive bud.

“Oh— oh God,” you cried out, nails scratching over the satin sheets, desperately trying to find something to hold onto—without success.

You settled for the curls of his dark hair instead, and he groaned against your pussy as you tugged on the roots with every swipe of his tongue over your clit.

“I prefer Tom,” he murmured simply, with such confidence you might actually have to hex him after this. He didn’t let you finalise those thoughts though, burying his fingers knuckle-deep, suckling and licking like a man starved.

“I— I hate you.”

He smirked, biting down gently. “I am aware. Now come for me, angel.”

You climaxed not even a minute later, moans echoing off the walls in your dorm as your hips bucked against his face. And for once, just this time—you were more than relieved that your dorm was so far away from any other students. Judging by Tom’s satisfied expression, you must not have held back.

Tom licked his lips—swollen and wet with your slick—and gazed up at you. So innocently, if he wasn’t still centimetres from your pussy, you may have mistaken him for an angel.

He straightened himself, fixed his tie, stood up, and grabbed his robes.

You assumed he’d leave without saying another word—but you were mistaken.

“Stay away from the bar next time. Or don’t—I can’t wait to see their faces when you confess to this.”

You grabbed the nearest pillow and threw it at him.

“Fuck you.”

He didn’t bother picking it up from the floor as he headed for the door, still wearing that same smug smirk from before.

“Next time, sweetheart.”

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