mar’s recs

Hurrying down the stairs into the long hallway where the kitchen’s entrance was located, you glanced around to make sure no other students were out before tickling the pear and waiting for the painting to swing inwards. As soon as it did, you scurried through the doorway and further into the deserted kitchen. 

Well, almost deserted. 

Leaning against a counter was none other than Tom Riddle, sipping a cup of tea like he hadn’t a care in the world. 

You nearly groaned aloud at the sight. You and Riddle had been in a fierce rivalry for as long as you could remember, and had made a bet that you would score higher than the other and tomorrow’s Transfiguration exam. That was the main reason you’d been at the library so late. You’d studied until you couldn’t decipher the words on the page anymore. 

For a second, you hesitated, because the last thing you wanted was to have any sort of interaction with him tonight. You were too tired and already too on-edge to even pretend to be civil. Unfortunately, you really wanted your pumpkin trifle.

Letting out a short sigh, you cleared your throat. 

“Riddle.”

He glanced up in mild surprise, then frowned when he saw you. 

“Oh. It’s you,” he said, looking bored. 

“Don’t get too excited,” you grumbled, dropping your bag unceremoniously onto a table and stalking over to the cabinet where you knew extra desserts were stored by the house elves. 

“What are you doing here so late?” he asked, still sipping his tea with a maddening leisure only he could ever seem to achieve. 

“I could ask you the same question,” you countered, pulling out a small basket of handheld pumpkin trifles. They smelled of nutmeg and vanilla and were definitely worth enduring a conversation with Riddle.

He sighed. “Your discontent is hardly necessary,” he remarked dryly as you placed two trifles on a small plate. “I have done nothing to incur your wrath.”

You bit back a retort about the very long list of things he had done to do just that and instead selected a cauldron cake too. 

“My question still stands,” Riddle said after a moment of irritable silence. Well, irritable on your part. He seemed utterly unfazed by your sudden appearance which was making you all the more annoyed. 

“If you must know, I was hungry after studying and thought I’d get a snack before I went to bed.”

“Oh, that’s why you skipped dinner.”

You scoffed. “How do you know I skipped dinner?”

“Your usual spot was conspicuously unoccupied.”

“I can hardly study in the Great Hall during the dinner hour.”

“Obviously,” Riddle said, looking amused as you angrily munched on your trifle. “I take it that studying did not go well?”

“It went perfectly fine,” you said immediately, shoving the memories of how many questions you’d gotten wrong on your practice exam to the back of your mind. “I reckon I’ll get a perfect score tomorrow.”

“If you say so,” Riddle said, looking less than convinced. “Although you’re acting quite odd for your studying to have gone ‘perfectly well’.”

“Well, it did, and I’m acting like this because you’re here.”

“Oh, yes, I am the bane of your existence. I understand that quite well by now.” Riddle said in monotone as you picked up your cauldron cake. 

“Glad to know we’re on the same page, then.”

Riddle sighed, his mouth tightening. “I am trying to hold a civil conversation with you, if you haven’t noticed. A little decorum on your part would be much appreciated.”

“I’m not so sure that you and civility go too well together, so I’m not sure how that’s working out for you.”

“Clearly not well,” he muttered, and you snorted a laugh, taking another bite of your cauldron cake. 

“We’re never going to get along, Riddle,” you said with a sigh, wiping some chocolate from your lip and looking down at the dessert in your hands. “The sooner you stop trying, the better.”

The sudden clang of Riddle’s teacup being sat down on the counter startled you, and you looked up, surprised to see him charging over towards you with three long strides. 

“Very well,” he said shortly, his tone sharp and eyes hard. “If you are so determined not to be friends with me, then I shall treat you as I would any other errant student out of bed past curfew.”

“It’s not even midnight!” you began, but Riddle was already pulling out a quill and notepad out of his cloak pocket. 

“Out of bed late,” he said aloud as he wrote it on the paper, his handwriting neat and looping. “Two sessions of detention with her Head of House.”

“Detention?!” you exclaimed as he cleanly ripped off the detention slip and handed it to you without another word. “I’ve never gotten detention a day in life!”

“Consider this a first, then,” he said primly, replacing his quill and notepad and dusting off his robes. 

“I most certainly will not!” you said harshly, moving to stuff the detention slip back into his hand. You succeeded, partially, but then he grabbed your hand before you could pull it away.

“You know, I am a prefect,” he said suddenly, eyes narrowing into slits as he leaned in so close you could feel his breath on your cheeks. “There are other forms of punishment I could give you instead, if you are so inclined.”

You spluttered, ignoring the way your stomach leapt at the prospect. “Absolutely not!” you cried, wrenching your hand away. You heard a tear as the detention slip was yanked away with you as well. “I– that’s– you–”

Riddle scoffed at your stammering, his mouth curling up in a smile. 

“Oh dear, your face is all red,” he said casually. You pressed a hand to your flaming face, horrified at how easily your feelings were showing. 

“It is not!” you gasped, chagrined and lying through your teeth. 

“Oh, yes, it is,” Riddle countered, taking a step coser. “But whether it’s out of anger or out of lust at the idea of me fucking you remains to be seen.”

“It’s out of both!” you snapped before you could think better. Only after the words left your mouth did you realise your mistake. 

“Ah, I see,” Riddle nodded wisely, putting his hands in his pockets and looking far too calm for the nature of this conversation. “So, would you like to exchange your detention for my cock in your–”

“You are astoundingly egotistical tonight, even for you!” you exclaimed angrily, conveniently not answering the question. Riddle, naturally, noticed. 

“Evading an answer, are you?” he asked, feigning casual curiosity with a raise of his eyebrow. “I feel it is of utmost importance I inform you that you would be well and truly satisfied, if that is your concern.”

“That is not my concern,” you said weakly, images of just how satisfied he could make you flashing through your mind and making your hands shake. If the rumours were true, you would be more than satisfied, but that was not something you should be thinking of. Let alone considering. 

“Oh, yes, I’m sure you are quite aware of how pleased those who lie with me are. Have you imagined it?”

You nearly passed out from pure shock at the question. Never before had you expected Tom Riddle of all people to be asking you that. “Have I what?” 

“Me, of course. My fingers in your cunt? My cock, inside of you? Your legs wrapped around me; your throat hoarse from screaming my name–”

“You– you are insufferable,” you choked out, finding it difficult to breathe. You had imagined all of that, actually, but you’d sooner die than admit it to Riddle. 

“Is that a yes, then?” 

“We can’t–” you started, but were cut short by Riddle pulling the detention slip out of your hand, his fingers brushing up against yours. The slight contact made your breath hitch, and your brain traitorously wonder how you would react to another sort of touch elsewhere on your body. 

“I wouldn’t say we can’t,” he said conversationally, eyes focused on the skin of your cheeks as one of his hands tucked a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Just that we shouldn’t.”

No, you definitely shouldn’t. Not if you were supposed to hate each other. Not if everyone in the school knew how much you hated each other. Not if you had sworn to yourself never to fall into the trap you knew Riddle to be, ensnaring women in it and crushing their hearts without so much as a second thought. 

Not even if, at this moment, you wanted nothing more than Riddle to be buried deep inside of you, fucking you until you could barely remember your own name. 

Riddle leaned in closer until his lips were a mere breadth from yours, his body against yours. You could feel his cock pressing hard into your stomach and you tried to find the resolve to step back before it was too late. No such willpower came.

“Riddle,” you breathed, your heart pounding and every single nerve alight with desire. You could feel your panties already soaking through, and a deep ache inside of you begging to be filled to the brim by him.

“Is that a refusal, or a plea?”

You let your eyes flutter closed, before whispering; “A plea.”

“As you wish,” he murmured, and then his lips were on yours. 

His fingers found their way into your hair as his lips moved against yours, your hands holding him to you. He slid his tongue into your mouth, groaning into you until you could feel it vibrating down into your throat. You wrapped your arms around your neck, already trying to hitch a leg up around his waist. 

He broke the kiss suddenly, but before you had time to protest, he had lifted you up into his arms and deposited you on the counter, hands going to the hem of your skirt. You gasped for air, chest heaving as his fingers found their way to the rim of your panties, pushing under before you could get a chance to process what was happening. 

His fingers slid almost immediately towards your entrance as he used his other hand to pull down your panties. You gasped his name as one fingertip circled your entrance and his thumb pushed down on a spot that made you see stars. 

“God, Riddle,” you choked out. “Tom.” 

You’d never said his name before, but that was hardly what you were thinking as his finger inched its way inside, joined by a second one before starting up a slow pace that had you dying for more. 

All too fast and not soon enough, Riddle was reaching for his belt, pulling his fingers away so he could undo the buckle more easily. You nearly cursed him when his fingers left you bereft, but then forgot how to speak as he finished with his belt and shoved his pants down. 

He was hard and very obviously ready, but he still rubbed the length of him twice before lining himself up at your entrance. You braced yourself against the counter, trying very hard not to think about how you’d almost come alone from the sight of his head falling back when he’d readied his cock. 

“Riddle,” you rasped as the head of him brushed you, pushing in slightly before pulling back out. “Please.”

“Back to Riddle already, are we?” he muttered, tracing a lazy circle in that same spot as before. You forced yourself to remain upright. 

“Tom,” you gritted out, teeth clenching as he nodded in satisfaction. 

“Much better,” he said, and then pushed in. 

You slapped a hand over your mouth in case anyone wandering the halls could hear you. Still, you weren’t entirely able to muffle yourself as Riddle began a relentless pace, rutting his hips against yours as his fingers found their way to your wrist and pulled it away from your mouth, replacing your hand with his mouth. 

You kissed him feverishly until you had to break for air, caught up in the feeling of him moving against you. It was everything you had imagined it to be and so much more, though you would never admit it to yourself. All too soon, you felt yourself start to rise towards your peak. 

“Oh my God,” you gasped as his thrusts grew more erratic. Anyone could walk in and see you, despite how late at night it was. Your trifle sat to the side, forgotten, but you could hardly bring yourself to care as your breathing grew more shallow and white-hot pleasure burned through your veins. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve waited to see you like this,” Riddle grunted out, and that was what finally sent you over the edge. You felt yourself falling, spinning away as you came and only heard Riddle’s choked curse before he came too, collapsing against you until the only thing you could hear was his ragged breathing. 

You weren’t sure how long you stayed there. Two minutes, perhaps. Maybe more. You wouldn’t have been surprised if the sun had risen in the time you spent steadying your breath, Riddle’s head resting against your chest as your heartbeat slowly returned to normal. 

Eventually, he lifted his head from you and straightened up, sliding out and tucking himself away. You tried not to focus on the suddenly empty feeling and instead tugged your panties up, slipping down from the counter on shaky legs. 

As Riddle finished his cup of tea from before, you smoothed your skirt down and replaced the untouched cauldron cake in the cabinet. At least you’d already had one of the trifles. The other, you Vanished with a snap of your fingers. 

“Well,” you began with a glance at a clock on the wall. “It’s past midnight now. I should be off.”

“As should I,” Riddle said, placing his tea cup in the sink. He looked mostly put back together, except for an errant strand of hair falling across his forehead. You decided not to say anything about it and simply nodded. 

“Thank you. For… um…” You hesitated, but Riddle just shook his head, picking up his own bag from where it was on a chair. 

“That is not necessary. I trust you were satisfied?”

Your face went red. “Yes.” 

“Excellent,” he said, stepping forward and gesturing towards the door. “After you.”

With some trepidation, you left the kitchens with Riddle behind you, noticing how immediately he fell into step with you as you walked towards your common room. 

The journey there was silent, but once you reached the door and threw him an awkward smile over your shoulder, he spoke. 

“I wish you luck on the exam tomorrow,” he said, tone unreadable. “I am sure you will do well.”

“Thanks for the vote of confidence,” you said dryly, but he shook his head. 

“I’m being serious. If anyone can get a perfect score on this exam, it is you.”

“Apart from you, of course.”

“Of course.”

You gave him an odd look. “Are you alright, Riddle? You’re acting quite…”

“Quite what?” He raised an eyebrow, almost daring you to finish your sentence. 

You shook your head. “Never mind. I’ll see you tomorrow."

“Indeed,” Riddle agreed, moving to turn around before pausing at the sound of your voice. 

“And about what happened in the kitchens…”

He waited expectantly, though for the life of you you couldn’t tell what he was thinking. After a moment, you just shrugged. 

“Thanks for not giving me detention.”

“It was my pleasure,” Riddle replied courteously, and then he was gone. 

You watched as he disappeared around the corner, fighting off a wave of sleepiness. He’d walked you back to your dorm and wished you luck on your test? Not to mention everything that had happened between you just twenty minutes ago. You hardly knew what to think of it, but if one thing was true, it was that you had a sneaking suspicion you’d certainly be finding your way to the kitchens late at night again. 

As long as he was there. 

A/N (again): I FINISHED MY EXAMS. Which means I am now free until I start work in a few weeks… so I can write more! I already have a few fics + requests in the works as well as my 500 follower special event which will likely be sometime in June (two months after the fact lmfao).

Tom Riddle had done the impossible, if he did say so himself. Born loveless, raised in an orphanage, he had clawed his way up the social ranks at Hogwarts to where he was today. It had taken precise layers of charm and deceit, convincing those around him that he was worthy of more than the cards he had been dealt. It hadn’t hurt that the one blessing his parentage had offered him was his looks, which made convincing certain people of his worth much simpler, but ultimately, he would be nowhere without his perseverance. He had done it, built himself from nothing, and nobody could take that from him. Here he was now, almost at the very top of the social hierarchy at Hogwarts, elected Head Boy, coveted by every witch at the school. There was only one step left between him and the legitimacy he craved: a wealthy pureblood wife. If he were to access the jobs he was after, the power he desired, he needed proximity to a good family. Most of his peers were simply born with this privilege, and while he had been invited to many high society balls over the years, he knew he had no family who would vouch for him when it came to getting a good job. At the moment, he was an impressive oddity to be admired. How strange, this handsome, intelligent man with a name we do not recognise, hasn’t he done well for himself? But the novelty would fade once his pureblood peers were getting their undeserved positions in the ministry, and Riddle was left behind to take the apprentice route like everybody else. 

You were the ideal candidate to be his wife. In fact, Riddle has had his sights set on you for quite a while now. Your family was perhaps the wealthiest and best-regarded of all the pureblood families. Your father wasn’t the Minister of Magic, but the power he held in his position meant he may as well have been. If the wizarding world had royalty, it would be your family. That was exactly the kind of connection he needed to get where he was going. You and Riddle were to be wed; the only problem being that you were difficult. Very difficult. It was a large part of why he’d set his sights on you in particular. Despite your wealth, status and beauty, your dismissive and abrasive attitude to male suitors meant that not many men had dared to seek your hand. Less competition, Riddle had thought perhaps a little naively. He didn’t mind a challenge: he could charm almost anyone. Almost.

His attempts to woo you had begun last year, starting simple with approaching you in the hall and telling you that you looked lovely. Without fail, you would brush him off, your face set in a seemingly permanent scowl. Riddle persisted. He left gifts at your desk, fancy chocolates, ribbons for your hair, luxurious hand creams in scents that reminded him of your perfume. Each gift was accepted, but you never looked that enthusiastic, offering the chocolates around to your friends, using the ribbons to tie your textbooks rather than your hair. However, the fact that you hadn’t thrown them back in his face was a win in Riddle’s book, as he had witnessed you do a few years ago when being pursued by an older student. He continued his efforts, approaching you in the library in the hopes of speaking with you at least once a week. His charm was always fully switched on, a handsome smile on his face, his voice soft and full of compliments. Still, you were unfazed. If he was lucky, the two of you would exchange a few sentences before you told him you wished to be alone; most days, he would get nothing from you at all. Your lack of other suitors kept him going, because at least he knew your aloof attitude wasn’t related to being promised to somebody else.

After over a year of this behaviour, you had begrudgingly grown used to it. On days he was sick or busy with Head Boy duties, it would be odd not to receive a little gift or be showered with compliments before class. You didn’t miss it as such; it was merely the change in your routine that bothered you. You were always a little more friendly with him the next day, without strictly meaning to be. Riddle basked in his success each time, the fact that you would actually speak with him a little. You were intelligent, funny, perfect. Each little bit that you let him in only strengthened his resolve to marry you. The two of you would be the perfect couple; everybody would admire you both, be sick with envy. You would give him that last step up he needed toward the future he deserved. The thought was what kept him going on days you were particularly challenging. 

Although Riddle was not much of a partier himself, he knew appearances were of the essence in building up his image and maintaining the position he had worked so hard for. So despite having no interest in such mindless frivolities, he had dragged himself to the party in the Slytherin common room this evening and made his rounds, making sure people took note of his presence. He had hoped he would catch a chance to speak with you at this party, but as he approached your group of friends, he immediately noticed a distinct lack of you. As casually as he could, he inquired about your whereabouts, secretly a little sick at the thought that you might have found a quiet corner with some boy. 

“She’s in her dorm, said this party was a trivial affair and that she wanted to enjoy her time alone,” your friend Agnes quotes you, rolling her eyes. Riddle couldn’t help but smile. It sounded like you. It sounded like him. He wasn’t sure why you couldn’t seem to see that the two of you were a good match. After a little more polite conversation, he deems it acceptable for him to excuse himself. Making his way up the stairs toward the toilets for a moment alone, he hesitates at the landing, his eyes drawn down the corridor toward the seventh-year girls' dorms. Toward where you were. He could see some light peeking out from under one of the doors, presumably yours. After checking he was alone on the staircase, his legs carried him down the corridor toward you. He knew it was improper, but he couldn’t seem to stop himself. He reaches the door, seeing your nameplate, which confirmed you were inside. He could hear soft, melodic humming from inside, your voice. He had never heard you so carefree and takes a moment just to listen. The tune is vaguely familiar, but he can’t quite place it. With a deep breath, he places his hand on the doorknob and lets himself inside.

You were sitting at your vanity, curling your hair and humming to yourself, enjoying being alone. With your dormmates away, you had been taking some time to indulge in yourself, experimenting with a new hairstyle without anybody telling you to hurry up so they could use the vanity and allowing your mind to wander to things you couldn’t think about with others around, fantasising. You caught sight of Riddle in the doorway through your vanity mirror, your eyes meeting for a moment before you turned in your seat to face him. 

“Oh, you,” you look him up and down, unimpressed. Riddle gives his best charming smile, which almost makes you roll your eyes. 

“Just came to check on you, shouldn’t you be socialising with your housemates?” He steps inside, shutting your door behind him, shutting you in together.

“I tried to avoid it, but you give me no choice, as usual,” you huff, turning back toward the mirror and examining your freshly curled hair. Riddle takes a few slow, measured steps until he stands behind your chair, watching you admire yourself in the mirror. He spots a facial moisturiser that he had gifted you a few weeks ago, open on your vanity, clearly used. It makes him smile. “Well, since you’re here,” you begin, meeting his eye in the mirror once more, arranging your hair. “What do you think of the curls?”

“Beautiful,” he answers simply, reaching out to gently trace a finger along a strand of your hair, twisting it around his finger and letting it go. He’s surprised that you don’t object, but you seem preoccupied with scrutinising your hair.

“Well, do you think a tighter or looser curl would be better?" you urge. He chuckles because he hardly knows a thing about this, lucky that his hair waves attractively on its own.

“I am sure any type of curl would suit you,” he murmurs, leaning his forearms on the back of your chair, his head now close to yours. You roll your eyes.

“You’re useless, you would say I looked beautiful no matter what I did,”

“It’s not my fault that you’re so gorgeous,” he hums, catching your glare through the mirror, laced with a blatant affection he isn’t used to seeing from you. You seem much more relaxed than usual. Considering he’d barged in here without warning, it’s a little odd. “You don’t seem that bothered about me being in your room,” he comments, his eyes straying toward what you’re wearing. A simple white nightdress and a silky robe wrapped around you. The fact that you aren’t trying to cover up is also strange, but he isn’t complaining. 

“I figured you were here to offer to eat me out or something,” you shrug. Riddle freezes, pulling back a bit so he can look at your face rather than simply your reflection. He’s sure he hasn’t heard you correctly, or if he has, that he does not understand the implication correctly.

“Eat… you?” he asks slowly, studying your expression. 

“You know, go down on me,” you clarify. If Riddle wasn’t so baffled by your words, he would have been embarrassed by the flush of pink that dusts his ears and cheeks. He has never heard you talk this way.

“I… what?” he blinks, trying to come up with what else you might possibly be referring to. You can’t possibly be casually suggesting he came here to… His eyes dart up as you stand from your chair, turning toward him. He hesitates, looking up at you for a moment before straightening up.

“I know what you want from me, and you’re running out of time, I mean, we graduate in two months… I figured perhaps you were here to resort to drastic measures to earn my affections,” you explain, watching in amusement as the composed, brilliant Tom Riddle practically stutters before you. He swallows, trying his best to get back in control of himself.

“Would it work?” he asks quietly, watching as you twirl your hair. He’d never expected you to be so direct, but he cannot deny the hardening of his cock, he likes it. You shrug with a smirk, unsure why you’re being so brazen. It was his fault for walking in on your fantasising time. You were already a little aroused when he walked in; you could hardly even admit to yourself that he’d been on your mind even before he entered. He takes a moment to consider the risks of what he’s about to do. If you’re simply messing with him, this could completely squander his chances with you. Yet the glint in your eye as you look him up and down is new. And strong. Whatever has gotten into you is something he hopes never leaves. “Then yes, you caught me,” he swallows, slowly moving to kneel before you. “I came here in the hopes of kissing your cunt,” 

“Riddle!” you giggle at his lewd language, shocked and excited, a jolt of arousal going through your body. He smiles up at you, almost sheepishly, moving your vanity chair out of the way so that you can lean back against the vanity and he can move in between your legs. His whole body trembles as he leans in and presses his lips to your skin just below the hem of your nightdress, leaning his forehead to your thigh and closing his eyes. This was not where he had been expecting this evening to go: he took several deep breaths to calm himself down. His hands slowly slide up the outside of your thighs, lifting the hem of your nightdress. His lips followed suit, tracing their way up the plush skin of your thighs with little kisses. Your eyes met as he looked up at you, making sure that you weren’t about to kick him off of you. You merely watch him like you are curious, like you could not believe he was doing this, he could hardly believe it himself. The fact that you were allowing him to do this was a great shock to him, but if this was what would finally win you over, he would do it for hours, until his jaw locked. He bunched your nightdress around your waist, taking a moment to admire your underwear, pink and satiny. Seeing the wet spot already there, he could not resist, leaning forward and pressing his nose to you, taking a deep, blissful breath. Vaguely, he registers you giggling in surprise once more, but all he can focus on is the smell of you, the drool pooling under his tongue at the idea of tasting you. He cannot compare your scent to anything he has smelled before, and yet somehow his body already knows you are delicious. First, he presses a light kiss to you through the fabric, then another, then another. His tongue presses against your core through the thin fabric, and you moan in shock, his tongue running back and forth over the fabric until it is wet and he can properly feel you through it. The wet fabric slides against you as he attempts to get as close as possible to you, forcing your legs to spread further to accommodate him. The hints of your taste he gets through the fabric drive him wild; he wants more. Pulling back just a little, he opens his eyes to look up at you, grabbing at your underwear.

“May I take these off?” he breathes. He feels like a dog at its master's feet, begging, but he finds that when you look down at him like that, cheeks flushed and pupils blown, he really doesn’t mind. With a nod, he is working the fabric down your legs with abandon, slowing down to manoeuvre the fabric over your feet, placing gentle kisses just above your white cotton socks as he frees you of the garment and tosses it away into the room. As he wedges his way back between your legs to return to his work, he sees you, bare and dripping with the nectar of the gods. He shivers, taking a moment to kiss your thighs and just above the patch of hair protecting you so he could properly fill his lungs. He feels your eyes on him, and he relishes in it. After one last deep breath, he dives in. His hands grip your hips as his tongue slides through your wet folds, taking in every drop of you that you can spare. You’re both moaning, his vibrations feeling excruciatingly good as his tongue finds its way to circling your clit. One of your legs drapes over his shoulder to give him better access to you, pushing himself as close as he possibly can get in order to lap at you properly. His tongue flicks over your clit more often as he swirls his tongue, testing your reactions, listening for your noises and paying attention to the twitches of your body. Your mind is swimming with pleasure, hand threading into Riddle’s hair, which he only takes as a sign to pick up his pace, his whole mouth working to bring you over the edge. He mumbles something against your clit, something about your taste that you cannot make out, but his sheer enthusiasm tells you it must be something good. You feel the cool glass of the vanity mirror against your back. Riddle’s hands gripping your rear are the only thing protecting you from the edge of the table. Your body thrashes as his lips close around your clit, suckling and flicking his tongue just right. 

“Riddle– ah! Tom–” You whine and whimper, your grip on his hair growing tighter, nails digging into his scalp, not that he seems to mind. Your cry of his name spurs him on; he’s determined to prove himself, continuing to alternate between sucks and licks. He feels your whole body tensing up, knowing you’re nearly there, he makes sure to keep doing exactly what he’s doing, burying his face against you. Your body goes stiff as you explode, a prolonged whine leaving your lips, hips thrashing against Riddle’s face. You struggle for breath, your vision going white behind your eyelids, and warmth spreads through your entire body. Still, Riddle keeps going, working you through the waves of pleasure as they crash over you and basking in the taste of your release melting on his tongue. You twitch weakly as Riddle soothes his tongue over your pulsing core until you have finally ridden out your full climax. He sits back and looks up at you, licking his lips and letting go of your nightdress. It falls back down past your hips, though now it is all wrinkled. You stare at each other, both panting with exertion.

The reality of what has just transpired begins to set in. Neither of you is sure what to say or do now. Riddle remains knelt at your feet, ignoring his raging arousal, waiting for you to say something. The silence stretches on so long that he almost hopes you tell him to leave and never come back, so at least he might have some clarity. He swallows, still waiting. Never in his life has he felt so unsure, so out of control. How had he ended up here? And if this was possible, why had he not been devouring you every night for the past year? He stares up at you, cogs turning in his mind. 

“You can stand,” you finally say, voice a little hoarse. 

“Oh, right,” he clears his throat and stands. It’s almost a little strange to look down at you again. He quite enjoyed looking up at you. From his standing position, his lingering arousal is much more obvious. You chuckle, smiling at him. “It’s a pretty natural reaction to doing something like that,” he defends himself quietly. You nod. Another silence stretches between you. “So… have I won your affections yet?” he asks as casually as he can muster. You think on his words and realise, yes, he has. In fact, he had quite a while ago, you had just enjoyed his chasing you.

“Yes,” you smile. He raises a brow, thinking for a moment that you’re messing with him until you step forward and embrace him. Although it’s a little unnatural and stilted, especially as he has to angle his hips away from you, he embraces you in return. He isn’t used to affection, or the idea that his pursuit of you might have finally paid off. 

“I sort of thought I would have to chase you forever,” he chuckled against your hair, which had lost a lot of its curliness from the exertion. You chuckle in return.

“Oh, yes, you do, don’t get complacent on me now, Riddle,” you tease. “I still expect presents and compliments and… your oral talents that you so generously demonstrated this evening,”

“I would not dream of getting complacent, you minx,” he purrs. “I will happily show you my talents each and every day. And anyway, I thought you were calling me Tom now,” he pulls back to look down at you. You roll your eyes, blushing a little. Yes, that had slipped out, hadn’t it?

“I will hold you to that… Tom,”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

xoxoxo

Taglist:

@souslarose @isaadarling @princesspeach0-0 @fluorjscent @cb97s-babyygirl @raysmayhem-72 @chicarandom11 @aureliariddlehargreeves @applelvr23 @diejager @thepurplelovewitch @jaggedlegacywerewolf @undertheastronomytower @idiothaz05 @plush-be-nice @lunxrstellx @remuslupinsbiwifey @vigil-mort @deadgirlsrunning @boozehound000 @courier-jackalope @lara1girl @ssnoodles @immortalblazethief @elvislover1967

The betting pool consisted of predictions of whether certain couples would break up, remain together, or get together if they hadn’t already. The hardest bet to predict was the “new couple” category, but Professor Slughorn had correctly predicted it six years in a row by now, a title which he was loath to relinquish. 

So, when a late night in the teacher’s lounge one day and one too many firewhiskies resulted in him placing a minorly ill-timed bet on two certain students, he was determined to make this year lucky number seven. 

Even if this specific pair of students he’d bet on just happened to be sworn enemies.

The other professors hadn’t believed him, but Slughorn remained confident. He’d taught both students for five years already, after all, and they were his brightest students by far! He knew it was possible.

Within an hour of the bet being placed, he’d already devised a plan. He would accidentally lock the students in a closet together. Perhaps he would put them together for the next potions project he assigned. Or, he could invite them to his Valentine’s Day gala for the SlugClub as each other’s dates. 

It was a brilliant plan!

Of course, the only issue was if it would work. 

And with you and Tom Riddle, one could never be too sure. 

༺ ✧ ༻

“Hey!” 

You spun around on your heel, nearly dropping your ink bottle and potions book from surprise. 

“Edith!” you exclaimed, seeing your best friend come up next to you, winter hat on her head and cheeks flushed from the cold. “You startled me! What’s up?

She laughed and shrugged, pulling her gloves off. “Has the cold got to you already?”

“Probably,” you agreed, rolling your eyes and gesturing to her hat. “Coming back from Herbology?”

She shuddered dramatically, falling into step beside you. “Unfortuantely. It’s freezing in the greenhouses. Where are you headed?”

You sighed. “Potions. They seem incapable of heating the dungeons properly these days. I’m prepared to be an icicle by the time class is over.”

“Best of luck to you,” she said gravely. “I’m going into Hogsmeade to buy a new dress for Slughorn’s Valentine’s party, so let’s hope I don’t get caught in the snow on the way back.”

“Oh Merlin, please don’t,” you said seriously as you walked towards the staircase leading down to the dungeons. “You can’t leave me alone there next week!”

“With the dreaded Knights of Walpurgis? Oh, I wouldn’t dream of it.”

You rolled your eyes, waving goodbye to her as you started down the stairs. Professor Slughorn was throwing another one of his SlugClub parties for Valentine’s Day– a giant ball, meaning his guest list was rather long and you’d regrettably be among only a few friends and many foes. 

Topping that list was Tom Riddle, the only person you absolutely couldn’t stand. He and his little group of “friends” had picked up the infuriating habit of calling themselves the “Knights of Walpurgis,” whatever that meant.

You and Riddle had disliked each other ever since third year, when Headmaster Dippet had chosen one singular student from each house to shadow a prefect. Riddle had been selected over you, but then he’d gotten sick and you’d gone in his place.

You’d smugly smiled at him the next time you’d seen him, and he’d glared right back. He never got sick again.

Ever since then, a sort of rivalry had formed between you, practically doubled by the fact you were both prefects and top of your class. In every single course, you tried to out-compete each other. But especially in Potions. 

Which, naturally, you were headed to right now. 

You descended the steps to the dungeons, being careful not to step on any icy patches from the drip in the ceiling. It had been snowing for days, and the dungeons always got absolutely frigid in these wintery conditions.

You entered the Potions classroom, swearing you could feel the temperature drop several degrees as you made your way to the front of the room. You sat a couple seats from the first row– where Riddle sat, the prick– but as you went to take your seat, you realised someone was already in it. 

“Lestrange,” you said, frowning. “You’re in my seat.”

“Then it’s not your seat anymore, is it?” he asked, not even looking up from his textbook. You glared at him for a second more before relenting and looking for an open seat. Your usual seat was by the window anyway, and there was a terrible draft. 

Figuring you’d just sit where Lestrange normally sat in the middle of the classroom next to a nice girl from Ravenclaw, you made your way over there, only to see that seat occupied by Malfoy.

“Did everyone decide to switch up the seating chart today?” you grumbled, turning on your heel and looking around once more. 

Unfortunately, the only seat left was next to Riddle, but there was no way you were going to sit next to–

“Take your seats everyone, take your seats!” Professor Slughorn trilled, entering the room and bustling towards the front. Hastily, you made your way over to Riddle and reluctantly plopped down next to him. He gave you a dirty look but said nothing, instead choosing to focus his attention on Slughorn, who had begun writing on the board. 

“Elixir of Vitality! Who can tell me what it does?” he asked expectantly, smiling at the class. Immediately, Riddle’s hand was in the air. 

“It bestows upon the drinker health and well-being, with the longevity of the effects equivalent to how much they drank,” he answered smoothly, and you barely restrained your eye roll. How you were going to endure sitting next to him for a whole hour and a half, you weren’t sure. 

However, it seemed Slughorn had noticed your strange seating arrangement too. 

“Decided to change seats today, hmm?” he asked, for some reason looking quite pleased. 

“Yes, sir,” Riddle responded calmly, not looking at you. 

“It appears so,” you agreed through gritted teeth. 

“Excellent! Now, as I was saying…”

Slughorn continued his short lecture about the elixir and then set you free to work on making an abbreviated version of it. You were only grateful it was an individual assignment, and not a dreaded partnered one. 

You’d rather jump into the Black Lake during a blizzard than work with Riddle. 

༺ ✧ ༻

Once the elixirs were complete and Slughorn was satisfied with everyone’s work, he dismissed the class a few minutes early after the clean-up. You set to work on your station, perhaps putting ingredients back into their vials with a little more force than necessary. 

Naturally, Riddle had executed his elixir with just a little more perfection than you, and it was clear he was enjoying the victory with how serene he looked while packing up. 

“No need to look so pleased, Riddle,” you muttered as you put your quill and ink pot back into your bag. You’d just placed the remainder of the ingredients back in their cabinets and now simply wanted to get back to your common room and pretend Riddle didn’t exist.

“I have no idea what you mean,” he said cordially, gathering the rest of his vials into his arms and sweeping past you towards the storeroom. 

You grit your teeth and swung your back over your shoulder, readying to leave–

“Ah-ah, wait just a moment!” The voice of Slughorn startled you, and you looked up to see him standing at the front of the empty classroom, hands on his hips. “It seems like Lestrange has neglected to return his pyre cobra scales to the storeroom! You wouldn’t mind doing so for him, would you?”

You glanced towards the abandoned vial sitting on what should’ve been your desk and sighed. 

“Certainly, sir,” you replied easily, picking up the vial and walking towards the storeroom. 

“Thank you! You may see yourself out after,” Slughorn told you, walking cheerfully towards the exit. You rolled your eyes and stepped into the storeroom–

–and promptly right into Riddle. 

“Merlin, Riddle, back up a bit!” you exclaimed, nearly dropping your vial in surprise. You’d walked straight into his chest, mussing up his robes just enough to earn a dirty look from him as he righted himself, brown eyes distasteful as he looke down at you.

“I was exiting the storeroom. Why would I back up?” he asked, sounding thoroughly bored. Irritated, you shrugged and placed the vial back on its proper shelf, turning around to leave before he could get the chance to step past you. 

“Whatever. I’m leaving too,” you told him, reaching for the door handle and pulling it open.

Or trying to, at least. The door was jammed.

You gave it another pull, but it didn’t budge. It was locked.

“Having some trouble?” Riddle drawled from over your shoulder. You resisted the urge to whirl around and make some snappy comeback, instead reaching for your wand in your bag. 

“Nothing I can’t solve,” you told him, tapping the doorknob with the tip of your wand. “Alohomora.”

It didn’t work. 

“Oh, now really,” Riddle sighed, pushing past you and drawing his own wand out. You stumbled back against the shelves, glaring frostily at the back of his head until he turned back around a minute later, looking positively livid. 

“Did you close the door when you came in?” he accused, stepping foward irately. You put your hands on your hips and glaring up at him.

“Why would I do that?” you scoffed. “You think I want to be trapped in here with you?”

“I certainly didn’t close the door behind me. I know better than that.” 

“Well, neither did I.”

Riddle eyed you suspiciously, and you eyed him right back. Of course you’d get locked in the tiny potions storeroom with him. After class, when no one was left in the room except–

“Profesor Slughorn!” you exclaimed loudly, pushing past Riddle to bang your fist against the door. Caught off-guard, Riddle let you past him, only to berate you the next second. 

“Must you yell?” he snapped, but you ignored him, continuing to beat your hand on the door until it became clear Slughorn was nowhere to be found. 

“Oh, you have got to be kidding me!” you grumbled, turning around and crashing right into Riddle again. This time, he caught your arms, catching you before you stumbled back. 

“You need to stop doing that,” he told you disapprovingly, holding onto your upper arms with surprisingly warm hands. 

“And you need to figure out a way to get us out of here, not just stand there looking pretty,” you countered, crossing your arms. He gave you a distasteful look and then released you from his grasp. You fixed your robes, giving him a haughty glare. 

“You think I’m pretty? I’m flattered,” Riddle said flatly, and you rolled your eyes, sinking onto the floor. 

“I am not staying in here with you all night,” you groaned, tilting your head back against the shelving and imagining the bloodbath that the storeroom would be when Slughorn opened the door tomorrow. Literally. You doubted you could last an hour without tearing Riddle to shreds, let alone the entire night. 

Riddle sighed, long and exasperated. “You’ve made that perfectly clear. Trust me, I’d rather be anywhere else but here.”

“Good to know,” you muttered, eyes shooting daggers at him. He held your gaze disdainfully and you tilted your chin up, challenging him. 

He looked away. 

“You seem to be under the impression I am choosing to be stuck here with you,” he remarked, crossing his arms and leaning back against the shelving too. 

“I am not,” you said indignantly, or at least as indignant as one could sound while slouched on the floor. “You’re the one who was taking forever in the storeroom to begin with. If you would’ve hurried up, I’d at least be stuck in here alone.” 

“I was not ‘taking forever.’ I was taking care to properly arrange the ingredients.”

“Oh, please. You just have to do everything perfectly, don’t you?”

“Naturally. What else would you expect from me?”

You scoffed. “Merlin, modesty just fears you, doesn’t it?”

“I have no idea what you mean.”

“I’m sure you don’t.”

Riddle didn’t respond to that, and so you resigned yourself to pulling out your History of Magic textbook so you could work on your essay. If you were going to be stuck in here with him, you’d at least get some work done. 

Besides, Riddle never really talked to you, so you could guarantee peace and quiet–

“What is that you’re working on?”

Or not. 

“History of Magic essay,” you muttered, trying not to get distracted by him. 

“You haven’t finished that yet?”

You glanced up, shooting him a frosty glare. “No, I have not.”

“Hm. Pity.”

You put your book down, hard. “What’s that supposed to mean?” you asked, exasperated. Riddle met your glare, looking bored. 

“Nothing. Only that I turned that assignment in today. It’ll be a miracle if Professor Clearmont will be impressed with yours over mine.”

You stared up at him in shock. Normally you and him at least pretended to be civil. Now, he was just outright provoking you. 

“Rushing through an assignment? That doesn’t sound like you,” you said finally, intending to ruffle his feathers a little bit. Luckily, it worked. He straightened up, looking down at you with a frown. 

“I did no such thing,” he said shortly, “I don’t rush.” 

“Didn’t you misspell Artemisia Lufkin as Artsimy Loafkin?” 

“That was one time. And we were in third year.”

“Aren’t you the one always droning on about perfection and precision?”

“Hm. Aren’t you the one who knocked over the grindylow tank in Care of Magical Creatures last year?”

Your mouth dropped open. “You distracted me!” you protested, indignant. “Talking my ear off with some nonsense about–”

Riddle interrupted you with a shake of his head and an infuriating tsk-tsk. “I’m surprised they allowed you to stay on as a prefect after that little incident. I certainly wouldn’t have let it stand.”

“Because Merlin knows your record is just flawless.” 

“Precisely.”

You glared at him and his maddeningly calm visage. “I could do this all night, Riddle,” you warned him. He didn’t even spare you a glance.

“I’m sure.”

You clamped your mouth shut after that, instead choosing to return to your book and hope in vain that someone would come to let you out. Unfortunately, classes were over for the day and no one would be coming into the classroom until tomorrow morning.

After what felt like an eternity, but was really only twenty minutes, you shoved your book back in your back, annoyed. 

“What is the problem now?” Riddle asked, bored, from his stance against the shelf. 

“It’s freezing in here,” you grumbled, clambering to your feet and beginning to pace in hopes that would encourage some blood flow into your cold limbs. 

However, that idea lasted all of forty seconds before Riddle snapped at you, “Would you stop that? You’re distracting me.”

“From what? The hypothermia taking over?” you shot back, and he gave you an absolutely glacial glare. 

“If you’re that cold, put your cloak on.”

“Do you see it here with me?”

“I wasn’t paying much attention.”

“Clearly,” you muttered, resuming your pacing. Riddle grabbed your arm to stop you not even ten seconds later. 

“Take mine,” he said, shrugging out of his cloak and thrusting it at you. “If only to stop your infernal pacing.”

“I don’t want that!” you exclaimed, shoving it back in disgust. Riddle glared at you, pushing it back towards you. 

“Take it. I do not wish to hear you complain anymore.” 

“Fine,” you said finally, grabbing it from him and pulling it over your shoulders. You didn’t want anything of his, but you had to admit you were warmer with it on. 

And, you begrudgingly had to concede, it smelled… nice. Like mahogany and coffee, and something distinctly Riddle. 

You decided not to bother yourself with figuring out what it was as you slid back down to your seat on the floor. Why would you care, anyways?

Another fifteen minutes passed in the storeroom until you decided you’d had enough. You were beginning to get hungry, and the prospect of being stuck in here all night was becoming more daunting by the minute. So, getting back up to your feet, you cleared your throat. 

“What?” Riddle asked through gritted teeth. 

“We have to get out.”

“Why? The door is clearly charmed to be locked by Professor Slughorn, who would not make his spellwork easy to undo.”

“Yes, but I’m sure you can break the wards.”

“Oh, can I? Where is this newfound confidence coming from?”

You sniffed. “The overwhelming desire not to be stuck in here with you for a moment longer.”

Riddle nodded, pushing himself off the wall and drawing out his wand from his pocket. “Do not worry; you won’t be.”

You snorted. He’d certainly changed his tune. “And how exactly do you plan to get us out, if you’re so sure you can’t break Slughorn’s enchanments?”

“We could break the door down, if necessary.”

“Are you mad? Besides, wouldn’t that ruin your hair?”

Riddle gave you an exasperated look. “The alternative is staying in here all night, you know.”

“We’re going to get in trouble if you break the door, you know,” you pointed out, but Riddle simply rolled his sleeves up and pointed his wand at the door. 

“Reducto!” 

The door burst into pieces, scattering fragments of wood into the classroom.

Riddle turned back around, satisfied, and took in your dumbfounded expression. 

“Problem?” he asked sweetly. 

“I… why didn’t you do that earlier?!”

He shrugged, stepping out of the storeroom. “You would’ve bitten my head off if I had. I simply had to wait until you were desperate enough.” 

“That’s ridiculous.” 

“It worked, did it not?”

You had no response to that, and Riddle knew it. He simply smiled and repared the door with a wave of his wand. You stalked towards the classroom exit, ready to get as far away from him as possible. 

“I’ll see you in class next week,” you grumbled, throwing him a backwards look over your shoulder before exiting into the hallway. 

It wasn’t until you were halfway down the long corridor you realised you’d forgotten your cloak in the room… and neglected to return Riddle’s cloak to him. 

Well, you certainly weren’t going to seek him out to give him his cloak back, but you were going to retrieve your cloak. 

Making your way back to the Potions room, you hurried inside and snatched up the offending article of clothing, only to get startled by Professor Slughorn walking out of his office before you could leave again. 

“Professor!” you exclaimed, surprised. “How long have you been in there?”

Slughorn frowned. “Since class ended! What are you still doing here? And why do you have two cloaks?”

“Oh, one of them is Riddle’s,” you explained with a roll of your eyes. “But… if you were here the whole time, didn’t you hear me calling for help?”

Slughorn’s eyebrows shot up into his hairline. “I– I did not!” he exclaimed, shaking his head. 

“Well, Riddle and I got stuck in the storeroom. Thankfully we were able to get out, but–”

“You were?” Slughorn said, astounded. “But that was so fast! How?”

You frowned at his odd comment, but became far more preoccupied with not revealing to him just how you’d escaped– namely, the destruction of the door. “Uh, it’s best you don’t know, sir. Everything is fine, though.” 

“Certainly, certainly,” Slughorn echoed, still looking confused but straightening up with a smile. “You best be on your way then, hm? Don’t want to get stuck again!” 

You grimaced. “Not at all,” you agreed, turning to leave. 

“And return Mr. Riddle’s cloak to him, would you? I’m sure he’d be delighted to recover it.”

“Of course,” you said as you exited the room, rolling your eyes. Riddle would probably rather never see his cloak again than to see you twice in one day. 

What you didn’t see, however, was Slughorn’s pleased smile as you left. His plan was going very well, indeed. 

༺ ✧ ༻

Miraculously, you didn’t have to talk to Riddle until Friday. You were able to avoid him in all the other classes you shared, but when it came time for Potions again, you were forced to sit next to him once more. 

Not because Lestrange so rudely took your seat again, but because Slughorn announced today’s lesson was going to be a partner assignment. And, with just your luck, you were assigned Riddle. 

Riddle looked just as displeased as you when you took your seat next to him again. 

“I don’t suppose you brought my cloak,” he said as soon as you were seated. 

“Well, no, I don’t make it a habit to cart around two cloaks everywhere,” you responded, arranging your parchment and inkwell to take notes. 

“I do need it back.”

You shot him a look. “Then maybe you shouldn’t have lent it to me in the first place.”

Riddle opened his mouth to reply, a steely glint in his eye, but lost the opportunity when Slughorn began speaking. 

“Today, class, I thought it apropos to examine a particular potion given the month we are in!” he began, taking his place at the front of the room and smiling knowingly around. “This potion has been highly requested and is none other than the infamous love potion, Amortentia!” 

Excited murmurs broke out across the classroom and you and Riddle exchanged a glance. 

“Yes, yes, I know…” Slughorn chuckled, nodding wisely at everyone’s enthusiasm. However, since Amortentia is a most difficult potion to brew, and to avoid any incidents, I deemed it appropriate to prepare it in advance. All you need to do is add in the Ashwinder eggs, and then write a five-inch analysis on what you smelled!”

“Sounds easy,” you muttered, leaning back in your seat. Maybe you had lucked up after all, and wouldn’t have to work too long with Riddle. 

“Ashwinder eggs are very delicate, though,” he pointed out. “They break very easily.”

“Just like someone’s ego, huh?” you shot back under your breath. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw him give you an exasperated look, but the corner of his mouth was quirked up.

You steadfastly ignored the odd feeling it gave you, sort of like you’d missed a step on the stairs. But not unpleasant.

Slughorn set you free to stir in the Ashwinder eggs, and after the potion had simmered for a satisfactory amount of time, he encouraged everyone to begin writing their analysis.

“But take caution!” He warned the class beforehand. “For you may be surprised by what you smell…” Slughorn gave you a significant look.

“Do you want to smell it first, or should I?” you asked, turning to Riddle. 

“You may, if you’d like.”

“Alright,” you shrugged, leaning forward and letting the swirling tendrils of smoke waft across your face. 

You frowned. 

“What’s the matter?” Riddle sighed, looking mildly irritated. 

“Can you scooch away or something?”

“And why’s that?”

“Your cologne is overpowering, Riddle,” you explained, gesturing to the cauldron in front of you. “I can’t even smell the–”

You froze. 

Oh God. No. 

No no no no no. 

Mahogany. Coffee. Hints of vanilla and parchment. 

“Oh, absolutely the fuck not!” you muttered under your breath, dropping back against your seat in shock. 

Riddle shot you a look and leaned forward himself, taking a whiff–

–and immediately jerked back like he’d been scalded. 

He met your eyes, and for a second you thought you saw a flash of panic in them, like he hadn’t expected to smell what he had. It was gone before you could decipher it though, and he turned back to his analysis essay, refusing to even look in your direction again.

You were still stunned. There was no way, absolutely, positively, no way that you’d smelled none other than–

“Riddle!” Slughorn’s voice called out, and you looked up to see him bustling over to the two of you. You quickly schooled your expression into neutrality, hoping he wouldn’t see how affected you’d been by the potion. 

“Yes, sir?” Riddle asked, setting his quill down. 

“I’m curious, my boy! What did you smell in the Amortentia?” Slughorn asked, waggling his eyebrows. 

For a split second, Riddle’s eyes cut to yours. Your heart rose into your throat, but he looked away right after. 

“Caramel, honey, and roses,” he told Slughorn quietly, and your eyes widened. That was your perfume, wasn’t it? Or at least, remarkably similar. 

“Excellent… and you?” Slughorn asked, turning to you. 

“Uh– coffee and a woody scent,” you stammered. Slughorn’s brows shot up and he looked like he was holding back a grin. 

“Wonderful!” he exclaimed, clapping his hands together. “Well, I’d dare say you two have a lot to write your analyses on! And perhaps use the assignment as a chance for– ah– reflection?” 

“Certainly,” you replied shakily, while Riddle murmured a quiet “of course,” before you both resumed your assignment.

You didn’t need to reflect. You knew exactly what– or who– you’d smelled. 

༺ ✧ ༻

Valentine’s Day arrived, and with it, a plethora of rose petals being thrown in your face by cherubs as you walked through the halls. You walked in on at least five couples snogging in deserted corridors. 

Since you didn’t have a date, your only plans tonight were to attend Slughorn’s Valentine’s Day party– though it was more a ball than anything with all the decor and dancing. You didn’t mind, because you normally found the events fun, but you were half-dreading tonight’s party for one particular reason. 

And that reason was named Tom Riddle. 

Ever since you’d realised you were smelling his cologne in the Amortentia last week, you’d been avoiding him, and he you. You had no idea why he was avoiding you as well, but you weren’t complaining. 

You just knew you wouldn’t be able to avoid him tonight. 

So, it was with much reluctance that you dressed up and made your way to Slughorn’s office. You dragged your feet as you went along, trying to buy time, but once you stood outside his office door you knew there was no delaying the inevitable anymore, and knocked to be let in. Maybe you could stay on the opposite side of the room from Riddle all night? Or leave early? 

Immediately, the door swung open and revealed a buzzing party. You sighed, stepping inside and beginning to descend the stairs of Slughorn’s office-turned-ballroom. There was no stopping it now, was there?

“Good evening, good evening!” Slughorn cried as soon as you came up to greet him. He was standing in a group of Hufflepuff students you didn’t recognize, though they all turned to talk amongst themselves when he turned to you. “Glad to see you could make it!”

“Hello, Professor,” you said politely, smiling and accepting his enthusiastic handshake. He’d definitely already had one or two firewhiskies too many. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“But of course! I couldn’t have one of my best students miss out on all the fun!” Slughorn chuckled, then looked expectantly. “Speaking of my other best student, where’s Tom?”

You frowned. “On his way, I should imagine. Is he not here already?” Normally Riddle liked to show up early, or at least earlier than you.

Slughorn gave you a bemused look. “Didn’t you two come together?”

“Uh, no?” You bit back a remark about how you wouldn’t ever do that… and steadfastly ignored how the Amortentia incident might indicate otherwise.

“Well, I say!” Slughorn said, looking shocked. “Why ever not?”

You laughed a little nervously, shifting on your feet. “Why would we, sir?”

“The Amortentia, of course!”

Your jaw dropped open. How did he know about that?! You hadn’t written a single thing about Riddle in your analysis. 

“The what?” you gasped, and Slughorn’s eyes widened.

“Did– did he not tell you?”

“Tell me what?” you asked, appalled. Slughorn grimaced, rubbing the back of his head uncomfortably. 

“Oh, it’s no matter… but I’d ask Riddle if I were you,” he said sheepishly, then turned back to the group of Hufflepuffs. You stared at the back of his head, dumbfounded, then turned away too and stalked towards the snack table. You needed a drink.

How in the name of Merlin did Slughorn know you’d smelled Riddle’s cologne? He’d seemed fairly confident you and Riddle would have come to the party together, for reasons unbeknownst to you, but–

Your movements faltered as you were reaching for a goblet of firewhiskey. There was only one plausible explanation for how Slughorn would have known. Maybe it wasn’t that he knew from you… but from Riddle.

Oh Merlin. Did Riddle feel the same? Did he write your name in his analysis? Did he–

“Hello.”

Your thoughts were cut short by the voice of none other than Riddle himself. You turned around, apprehensively, to see him standing there with his hands clasped behind his back. 

“Hi,” you said, a little weakly. 

“You look nice,” he commented, his eyes roving your figure.

“You too,” you agreed, trying your best for your eyes not to linger on his perfectly done hair or beautiful brown eyes–

Riddle frowned. “Are you alright?” he asked, sounding almost concerned. “You’ve been acting strange.”

“No stranger than you,” you retorted. Riddle sniffed. 

“You have been behaving pecularily since…” he trailed off then, looking rather hesitant.

“Ever since…?” you prompted, and he opened his mouth to respond, but was interrupted by the voice of Slughorn.

“Attention, everyone, attention!” Slughorn called, hurrying to the center of the room. “Given that it’s Valentine’s Day and the month of love, I have deemed it my duty to invite all the couples out onto the floor in a slow dance!”

“Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me,” you muttered, already looking for an escape. 

“And if you’re not here with a date, feel free to look for the nearest witch or wizard to dance with!” 

Riddle’s eyes cut to yours, but you were already backing up, wondering how best to slink away into the shadows, unnoticed–

“Tom! Y/N! Perhaps you’d like to pair up?” Slughorn said suddenly, appearing next to you. 

“Oh! I, uh, don’t think that’s necessary,” you stammered. “I was just–”

“Nonsense!” Slughorn cried. “You wouldn’t want to be left out on the dance floor now, would you?”

“Certainly not, sir,” Riddle said immediately, and stepped up to you with an outstretched hand. You stared up at him, dumbfounded. What was he doing? 

But maybe the better question was, why were you reaching out and taking his hand?

“Excellent! I’ll be off now,” Slughorn said, and promptly left. 

“That was weird,” you muttered as Riddle led you out to the dance floor, taking your place among the other couples. 

“Very,” he agreed dryly, but his mouth was turned up in a slight smile. Despite everything, you couldn’t stop yourself from smiling too. This entire situation was ridiculous, actually. Practically getting shoved at Riddle for a slow dance, accidentally locking yourself in the potions storeroom, smelling his cologne in your Amortentia–

You instantly sobered at that thought, and Riddle noticed. 

“What?” he asked curiously. 

You glanced up at him and his warm brown eyes– strangely, they didn’t look as cold as you remembered– and debated whether or not to tell him. Doing so would force you to reveal your feelings for him, but Slughorn had indicated you should ask him, so…

You took a deep breath, focusing your gaze on your gloved hand resting on Riddle’s shoulder.

“Did you write that you’d smelled my perfume in your Amortetia analysis?” 

He stilled. “How do you know I smelled your perfume?”

“Slughorn let it slip.”

“How is that possible? I never wrote anything about it in my analysis.”

“But you did smell my perfume?” you asked, finding yourself rather nervous to hear the answer. Maybe Slughorn was incorrect. Maybe what Riddle had told you he smelled wasn’t your perfume, just scents he liked. Maybe it was just a coincidence, and–

“Yes.”

Your breath caught in your throat and you looked up, eyes meeting his. 

“Oh,” you breathed, at a loss for what else to say. He raised an eyebrow.

“Is that all?”

If you didn’t know any better, you’d say he seemed nervous too. 

“No,” you began cautiously. “I just didn’t know that you… reciprocated.”

“Reciprocated?”

“Do you want me to spell it out for you?” you sighed, narrowing your eyes. Riddle shook his head, tilting it to the side and gaze sliding down to your mouth. 

“I can think of something else I’d much rather be doing,” he murmured, and without any more pretense, pressed his lips to yours. You wrapped your arms up around his neck, pulling him closer into you until he lifted you off the floor, lips moving against yours in an entirely inappropriate display of public affection, but you didn’t care.

Maybe you didn’t need to know how Slughorn knew about the Amortentia incident after all. This was a better outcome than you could have ever dreamed of.

But quite honestly, you didn’t want to think about any of it anymore. You just wanted to focus on the feeling of Riddle kissing you, your lips tingling with the feeling of his mouth and heart leaping into your chest. None of it mattered anyways. Right now, you couldn’t be happier.

༺ ✧ ༻

Professor Horace Slughorn had never been happier. 

For the seventh year in a row, he’d won the bet! And quite spectaculalrly, might he add! Somehow, he’d managed to get you and Tom to fall for each other despite your raging rivalry. And profess your love in a rather astounding way, to boot.

It was by pure luck Slughorn had managed to get the two of you to dance tonight, after realising you hadn’t put the pieces together of what Tom had smelled his Amortentia. Thankfully, he was quite astute when it came to things like that… or the ability to brew a quick batch of Felix Felicis. But no one needed to know about that.

The other professors were less than impressed with Slughron’s seventh consecutive win. Professor Babbling claimed his little plan to push you two together was outside interference, and should be declared cheating. Dumbledore agreed, but he never liked Tom anyways, so Slughorn didn’t pay him too much attention.

However, since the betting was unofficial, no formal rules had been established and Slughorn proudly took the title as Matchmaker. How accurate it was!

So, by the time his Valentine’s Day party ended and you and Riddle had since disappeared down a shadowy corner wrapped up in each other’s arms, Slughorn sat down by the fire, a glass of firewhiskey in his hand as he mused.

Maybe next year, he could place a bet on Riddle proposing to you… 

That would surely guarantee he’d be known as Hogwarts’ greatest matchmaker of all time.

A/N (again): Guys I’ll be so fr, I sort of rushed through the ending but this fic is already three days late and my brain is fried from studying sooo. 

It was customary, for obvious reasons, for a huge celebration to be thrown the day after N.E.W.T. examinations concluded. The location of this celebration would differ from year to year, depending on who was designated as the party planner. Generally, though, a common room would be taken over for the night, and everybody in the year group was expected to attend, at least for a little bit. It had become an unofficial tradition, to the point where even the strictest professors would turn a blind eye to these parties over time, allowing them to proceed as long as nothing too illegal occurred. 

Now it was your turn. Your N.E.W.T. examinations had been a gruelling ordeal, but with them behind you and nothing to be done but wait for your results, you could finally relax somewhat for the first time in months. After the party, that was. This year, it was the Slytherin common room that had been swallowed up by the mass of banners, decorations and drinks that would never otherwise be allowed on Hogwarts grounds. The atmosphere was overwhelming and yet invigorating all at once, full of anxious yet hopeful young adults looking to celebrate with their friends at Hogwarts one last time. You very slowly sip at the concoction in your hands, which you were sure was bordering on toxic at this point, standing in one corner of the common room. You get the odd feeling of being watched.

“How can they even allow this stuff?” your friend, Jeanine, questions indignantly, spitting back out the sip she’d taken of her own drink. “This is foul! And coming from me, that’s quite an indictment,” You just shrug and chuckle.

“I guess the professors can remember what it’s like to be young somewhere in the back of their heads,” you set down your drink on a nearby table, having been put off by Jeanine’s display. “Besides, by about midday tomorrow, we are no longer their responsibility, and never will be again.” 

“I suppose,” Jeanine concedes. “But still, if someone is too hungover to get on the train, is that not still sort of their problem? Don’t the professors live here all year?” She tilts her head, eyes scanning the room, you’re not sure what for. 

“Not all of them,” what Jeanine had been searching for becomes quickly apparent as her boyfriend and a few of his friends crowd over, buzzing loudly. Really, you should have guessed. Jeanine and Declan exchange a quick kiss before one of his friends interrupts, his voice far too loud.

“We’re gathering as many people as possible for a game, you girls in?” the friend grins overzealously. You don’t even remember his name after all these years. Before you can even consider it, Jeanine volunteers the two of you.

“Don’t make me play alone,” she pouts as she notices the obvious distaste in your expression. 

“You have Declan,” you counter, but you’re already following her toward the centre of the common room. You know there is no point in saying no, at the end-of-year party, everybody is expected to take part, regardless of how they usually went about life. You’d heard many a story of people discovering the wild sides of their quiet classmates, or conversely, the sensitive sides of the class clowns at these parties. It was such a shame to finally know someone and then never see them again. 

“Sure, but I will see him plenty after tomorrow, I don’t know when I’ll next see you,” she smiles, nudging you. The circle of students in the centre of the room is still growing as you, Jeanine, Declan, and his friends join it. The air is humming with excited chatter and thick with the scent of alcohol. You’d never seen your whole year group gathered like this in one place before, all houses, all friendship groups. There were actually quite a lot of you, all things considered. Catching the eye of another friend of yours across the circle, you send a wave, which she sends back. You’re tempted to walk over to join her, especially as the wet smacks of Jeanine and Declan kissing can be heard from beside you, but you’re stopped as you take your first step. Walter Morris, the host of tonight’s party, steps into the middle of the circle and whistles for everyone’s attention. There’s a pair of eyes on you this time for definite, you can feel it, but in the crowd you cannot seem to manage to pick out the source of that prickly feeling on the back of your neck. You figure it is someone zoned out, trying to ignore your unease.

“Is everybody actually here?” Morris asks with a large grin, quickly spinning around and pretending to count everyone up impossibly fast. “1- 12- 28- eh, give or take a few, we’re all here, I’d say,” he straightens up and clears his throat. “How many of you here are in a relationship?” he asks, and a pit settles in your stomach. You already don’t like where this is going, you’d heard all the rumours about previous year groups' post-N.E.W.T.s parties. A fair few hands shoot up, some embarrassingly hesitant, embarrassed even more so when the person beside them does not raise theirs. It’s sickening to watch it all play out, zeroing in on various people and pairs. Maybe it’s just whatever was in that drink earlier. You’re glad you had no more than three little sips. Your hand stays at your side, but you lift your chin, not wanting to let anybody have the impression you are in some way upset about it. You aren’t, you’re perfectly happy as you are, but there is a certain expectation that you should be terribly sad to be alone. Walter’s eyes sweep the circle. “It’s a tragedy, so many pretty ladies all alone,” he shakes his head, glancing at you and winking. You roll your eyes. Walter was such a showman, everybody knew that he was quite happily taken, yet he insisted on his womaniser act. You feel the strange prickle at the back of your neck again. “Let’s try and change that, shall we?” he claps his hand, a puff of blue smoke appearing in front of him, from which materialised an ornate bottle. It was an impressive piece of magic for such a stupid cause. 

What you had originally assumed would be a game of spin the bottle turned out to be a game of Walter’s own invention, though in a similar vein. You spun the bottle to choose your partner, and were then sent away with them to an empty dorm, which the younger years had left a few weeks ago to allow for N.E.W.T. examination proceedings. Locked then in the dorm, neither of you could leave until you had either ‘had a good French’ (Walter’s words) or each shared one true embarrassing secret. Those already in relationships were ushered elsewhere to play some sort of truth-telling game, without the French kissing. How you wished you had just lied and raised your hand. There were all sorts of complex detection spells cast to facilitate this asinine party game, with the help of Walter’s Ravenclaw girlfriend, Silvia. You felt it was a waste of her intelligence, and yet, silently admired the commitment and skill. Still, it all seemed rather pointless. As the game had been explained, several people, yourself included, had tried to back out, but were rather bumped up to be some of the first to go in classic Walter Morris cruelty. You racked your brain as the few people went before you for a secret you might be able to share, Merlin knew you would not be having a ‘good French’ with anyone. Your mind is unfortunately elsewhere as you’re called up to spin the bottle, and you almost forget to look at who it lands on as you’re still trying to come up with a secret worth sharing. You certainly miss the faint green glow which surrounds the bottle for a split second before it comes to its unnatural halt.

You follow the neck of the bottle, your gaze coming up to meet Tom Riddle’s dark eyes, trained back on you. Riddle. It surprises you that he’s even here, as head boy, and a more aloof head boy than most at that. He seems disinterested in everything and everyone in every moment, and you cannot imagine what he might have been doing at the start of his party. Your brain couldn’t even conjure the image of him dancing if you tried. As you’re led along to one of the empty dorms, you try to recall a time you’ve ever seen him smile anything more than a polite smile during head boy speeches or when answering a professor. Once more, your mind fails to conjure any image. 

The door glows a deep blue behind you once you’re both in the dorm, and your brain finally catches up to the reality of the situation. For however long it takes to coax a secret out of Riddle, you are stuck with him in this dorm room. You weren’t sure the last time the two of you had spoken. He had never been rude to you, but he had also never been all that warm, often merely inquiring about your academics rather than anything personal. His eyes, even more dark and intense than usual, are trained on you as you stand wordlessly by the door. You stare behind him out of the dorm window, watching some fish swim by in the murky green water of the Black Lake, lit by this point with only the light of the moon. What an unsettling thought to have to sleep with these hideous fish passing by. You feel thankful for not being in Slytherin. Finally, your eyes return to Riddle’s. He is still staring with that unsettling intensity, leaning against one of the bedposts. Taking a deep breath, you offer him a polite smile, and he offers one back. It is uncomfortably silent for another moment. 

“Did you try the… ‘cocktails’?” he asks with dry humour, and you’re a little surprised to hear him speak so casually. 

“Yes, frightful things they were,” you puff out, watching the corner of his mouth curl up ever so slightly.

“Quite,” he slowly crosses his arms over his chest, eyes finally straying from yours, only to linger around the features of your face. “I assume you were smart enough to limit your intake,”

“Only a few sips,” you nod and he chuckles, low and smooth, but quiet. The sound almost gives you goosebumps.

“You always do prove yourself to be a very smart girl, especially in Charms if I remember correctly,” he smirks, but speaks once more before you can open your mouth to question his tone. “Are you going to stay so far away?” This question makes you blink in confusion.

“You walked over there, you could have stayed by the door with me if you so wanted.”

“What would the point in that have been? By the door, we would have felt uncomfortable and on edge, looking for escape,” his eyes meet yours again. “Come here, I only want you to feel relaxed, I’m nothing to be afraid of,” 

“You sound like a creep,” you huff, though you do pad your way over, sitting down on the edge of the perfectly made bed. His eyes follow you intently, turning his body to face you as you sit down, though still leaning against the post. He gives a small, quiet, but seemingly earnest laugh at your comment.

“I suppose a girl like you deals with many a lecherous man?” he almost teases you. You don’t really know how to read this interaction at all. He very nearly seems friendly, it's different from the Riddle you’ve known all these years. Barely known, you remind yourself. Leaning back against your hands, you stubbornly meet his eye as he refuses to look away.

“I suspect every woman does,” you counter, flicking your eyes about his face. Other than a few errant strands of hair at his forehead, he is still as perfectly put together as when he delivers his head boy speeches. It’s a contrast to most everyone else at this party. You hear raucous laughter from the common room outside and conclude that he is certainly out of place at this event. Oddly, he seems much more at home here, in a dark, murky room, alone with you. 

“So I hear,” he hums, eyes still on you. Shuffling back until your back hits the pillows, you try to relax a little, his gaze putting you on edge. It’s challenging you, but to do what you’re not sure. It seems like he steps forward to follow you ever so subtly, but paces himself. 

“Why are you at this party?” you ask him, for lack of anything else to discuss. Your apprehension to ask him questions is only mitigated by reminding yourself that you are required to learn some secret about him in order to leave this oppressive and ever-shrinking room. He’s surprised he hasn’t asked for yours yet, you were surprised by how unhurried he seemed about getting out of here.

“Why are you?” he seems almost amused by your question, much less uninterested than usual. You seem to interest him, perhaps it is the drink provided that has him so… unlike himself. You can’t be sure.

“Everyone is expected to be here,” you mumble. He nods.

“There is your answer then.” This time, when he steps closer, he makes sure you notice it. His arms remain crossed across his chest, fingers tapping against his own arm. “As head boy, my absence would be noted much more significantly than yours, so I’m sure you know why I am here, you just want something to fill the quiet,” he teases. You frown and open your mouth to protest, but he reaches out and taps his finger under your chin, half-teasing,  half-tender. “I am only joking, a pretty girl like you at a party like this, where the main aim is as much debauchery as possible, your absence would be noted far before mine, whether you realise it or not,” he smiles, but it is smug and disconcerting. You look up at him in annoyance, tilting your chin away from his touch. He senses your displeasure with his statement. “Oh, come on, darling,” he hums. “Don’t be annoyed with me, I am only the messenger, surely you know the aim of these sorts of party games.”

“I am not stupid by any means,” you scoff.

“I know that well, which is why I said you must know what this is all about.” He tilts his head, his gaze finally leaving your face, only to briefly sweep your body and return. You nod and look away toward the window again. The fish are gone. “I suppose there is no point beating around the bush any further, do you wish to kiss me or not?” he asks, his expression far too neutral for the topic in question, but the intensity in his eyes betrays him. You blink in surprise, not at all having expected him to actually want to kiss you. He scans your face, waiting.

“I would have assumed that you would have found this whole party game to be beneath you, head boy,” you comment, avoiding his question. He chuckles quietly.

“The sole thing I hope to find beneath me tonight, darling, is you,” he husks, sitting down on the edge of the bed beside you. The words send a jolt of electricity through you, and you cannot help but blush, despite wanting to appear unaffected. The air in the room shifts notably.

“You don’t mean that,” you mumble, sounding insecure rather than mocking and assertive of his aloofness like you had hoped. He smiles and shakes his head.

“Morris is not the only wizard around here skilled at wandless magic. If you think for a moment that your bottle spin could have landed on anybody but me, you are sorely mistaken,” he cups your chin, stroking your jaw with his thumb. “I have had my eye on you for quite a while… should have acted upon you sooner but I guess I have been… shy,” he smirks. You lean into his touch without strictly meaning to. 

“You? Shy?” you scoff. His eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Perhaps not shy… prideful, I suppose, is the better word. I was hoping you would eventually approach me, but it turned out you were the shy one,” he teases. His hand trails up the side of your face, gently pushing your hair back. “Why? I don’t know. You are very beautiful, nothing at all to be timid about,” he leans in, his lips pressing to your jaw in an experiment. He glances up for your reaction, and when you merely swallow, your breathing picking up, he leans in to press another kiss. And then another. His lips trace a warm path to yours, hovering a millimetre away. When he doesn’t lean in, you flutter open your eyes in confusion, barely having registered you’d closed them. There’s an intensity in his gaze that makes you uneasy, your stomach twisting.

“Aren’t you going to kiss me?” you breathe into the darkness, searching his eyes. In the back of your mind, you begin to wonder if he had been playing a cruel joke on you. Still, he doesn’t move, merely thinking something over in his mind. The tension in the air nearly makes you squirm, from the smile that curls his lip at the sight, you wonder if that was the intention.

“I did so have higher hopes for the circumstances of our first kiss than some foolish party game,” he hums, eyes flicking about your face for what felt like the millionth time that night. It’s odd to you to hear that he’s had hopes for this, yet the declaration does not feel romantic.

“Like what? A candlelit dinner? I didn’t take you for the type,” you lean back apprehensively, but his deceptively gentle touch, now at the nape of your neck, keeps you in place. Riddle chuckles and shakes his head as if the very notion is ridiculous. You feel goosebumps rising once more.

“Tsk, something far better than vapid gestures,” his eyes gleam with something dangerous, and you struggle to conjure up the faintest idea of what he’s referring to. You open your mouth to ask, but his voice echoes in the small room instead. “No use dwelling, I’m sure we will get there… some day,” he smirks, his voice full of dark promise. There is still no indication of what he means, but you are quickly distracted by his touch on your neck urges you closer, his lips hovering over yours once more. Lashes flutter as you look down to each other's lips. “Just know that I have big plans for you, my darling,” 

Before you can ask, before you can even form the question, his lips are on yours, warm, insistent, passionate. Your mind blanks, as if by magic, your arms finding their way obediently around his shoulders. Riddle pushes you back into the pillows, his lips never leaving yours, never allowing you to catch your breath, your train of thought. You feel like you keep sinking down into the pillows forever. He husks against your lips, hands finding your shoulders to keep you pressed down.

“You’ll see,”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

When it came to sex, you were feral. Tom – unrelenting. Many a nights you would commit the act of the walk of shame from his chambers back to your dorm room. Sometimes your shirt would be inside out, other times you’d sport only one shoe. On one particularly night which had followed a practice transfiguration exam, Tom had marked you with bites from ear to hip so much that it took three bottles of concealer and a whole compact of powder to hide the evidence of your intimacy; well, sort of – the faintest of purple bruising still peeked through.

This morning, you hadn’t had much planned, hoping to take a break from all the study you’d been enduring the last few weeks, but Professor Slughorn in all his wisdom had offered to hold one last potions study session for all seventh year students and not wanting to be the only person who didn’t attend you found yourself half awake, crowded with a group of your peers staring at a bubbling cauldron. Tom, who you joked was usually attached to Slughorn’s hip, standing directly behind you.

And by directly: so close that you could feel the rise and fall of each breath he took with his chest against your back – and those breaths; trickling down the slope of your neck.

“An example of a question you may come across in your NEWTs”, Slughorn droned on in his usual jovial tone, “Given a set of four vials – one amortentia, one draught of living death, one polyjuice potion and the last befuddlement draught; describe how to correctly identify each without both tasting or inhaling the fumes directly.”

Before you had a chance to even consider an answer inside your hear, you heard Tom’s voice deep and low whispering into your ear, “Appearance, charm test and an ingredient reaction test.”

Ugh, his voice was like velvet and sounded godly. Shutting your eyes, you rolled the back and shook your head. “Shut up Riddle, I’m trying to listen.”

Tom let a single chuckle drip from his lips as they graced across your earlobe. “Why? You already know all this. I could test you later tonight, if you’d like me to?”

Feeling your cheeks begin to burn and the rest of your body flush at his suggestion; you tried your best to shake off the proposal. You had rearranged your morning to be here and revise; not to get your guts rearranged. Shimmying your shoulders to rid tension that had crept up into them, you kicked both legs out softly, hoping to brush off the feeling of dampness you’d suddenly spawned between your thighs at the imagery Tom had just planted in your head and folded your arms across your chest with a slight huff.

Taking this as an opportunity that it most certainly wasn’t, Tom shifted to place his hands on your hips, slender fingers helping him to tug you back against him. He almost – almost – rested his chin upon your shoulder; a calculated move with the two of you standing at the back of the huddled group in the classroom.

“Don’t like my suggestions, love?” “Tom, honestly – I’m trying to focus.”

The exchange of words between you both was quieter than a whisper; seemingly innocent to anyone who may accidently have heard, yet Tom’s actions were the opposite. Sliding one hand down the neat pleats of your skirt, his fingers skimmed beneath the hem and with a sharp swipe of his finger, sliced through the nylon of your pantyhose.

You tried to step your legs in close together to give his hand no space to roam but Tom was quicker than you’d expected; derisively beginning to stroke the wet fabric of your underwear over your folds. You bit your tongue and forced an overfilled swallow.

“Tom--.” “Do try to focus, dear.”

Prick.

Without making it obvious as to what was happening; you tried to reach down and grab at his wrist in order to pull Tom’s hand away, but as usual; he was two steps ahead of you – or in this case, two fingers. Both digits finding their way past your panties that he shifted rather gracefully to one side, Tom ran the tips of his fingers across your slit and dipped them to the first knuckle into your entrance.

You froze, hissing a sharp breath in.

Your eyes doubled in size as they widened; spine straightening uncomfortably as you stupidly shook your hips from side to side to rid of his touch but accidently, helped Tom’s fingers slip further in. Wrapping an arm around your waist over your robes, Tom snickered into your ear with a gnarl and held you still as his thumb found its way to your throbbing bundle of nerves. With long strokes, Tom spelt his name out across your clit; in particular smacking firm for the dot above the i in Riddle and pressed a faint, subtle kiss to your hair.

“Breathe.”

Fuck, you tried.

Hands wrapping around his wrist at your stomach you tilted your head back far enough that it both rested against his chest and allowed you to gaze up at the sharp lines of his face as you with a single look, silently begged for mercy. Mouth falling open, you stuck your tongue out in an attempt to relax your throat enough to breathe and gave into the sensation of how your pussy sucked up Tom’s fingers the way hungry second years scoffed up dessert.

“Tommy…”

His name was barely spoken as he began to work his fingers in and out deep with a steady, rhythmic pump. A slick arousal from your cunt began to paint his fingers and drip down Tom’s forearm, spurring him to have a little more fun.

“Could fuck you here..”

Oh, that had you almost seeing stars.

“Zip down, skirt up – do you think you could be quiet, little one?”

You knew the answer. All too well. It was no. Hell, if Tom’s cock was going to be stuffed inside you – quiet, was not the word you’d hope to be. His fingers began to slow down to a halt – you whimpered at the loss of movement.

“Very well; guess we’ll save that for later.”

You whimpered softly in agreement. Sex – that could come later. Right now, in an attempt to fuel your own need and wants, you bounced on your toes, rising and falling onto Tom’s fingers as you kept eye contacted held with him and chocked out the castles quietest moan.

Yeah – he’d appease.

Shoving his fingers in and out of your cunt fast enough that your legs began to quiver and your body writhe against his own, you clamp a hand over your mouth to seal in the moan that tries to burst through your fingers and cry out a groan which catches the attention of a few other students, although none are dumb enough to even think about glancing in Tom’s direction. Feeling a hot gush paint down your thighs and drip onto the stone floor, Tom pulls his fingers out of your pussy and shoves them straight into your mouth with the simple instruction of, “suck.”

You do; tasting yourself and cleaning his fingers with languid laps of your tongue as Tom praises you for your efforts.

“Well done, little one. You held yourself together well.”

…that’s when you hear his zipper drop.

“Now for round two.”

the fog was thick enough to taste. it curled around the iron fences like smoke, softening the gleam of the moonlight until everything looked drowned in silver. you moved quietly through it all, a shadow among shadows, ragged boots barely making a sound on the dew-slick grass.

everyone in town whispered about this place. the old qin estate. cursed, they said. haunted, they promised. the perfect hiding place for jewelries no one dared to claim.

you smirked at that.

bad omens were for people with the luxury of fear.

the iron fence bit into your calloused palms as you climbed, the metal slick with frost. soon, your boots hit the cracked ground on the other side with a muted thud.

no dogs. no guards. only the silence of a place the world had already decided to forget.

you crossed the overgrown garden, weeds curling around cracked marble statues. the air smelled faintly of rot and rosewater — the scent of a home that once pretended at elegance.

“disgusting aristocrats.” you cursed to yourself, increasing the pace of your steps to traverse the gardens faster.

when you reached an adjacent servant’s door, hidden carefully behind thick bushes and age-stained columns, the rusted lock yielded beneath your pick in less than a minute. a soft click, and the old hinges groaned as you successfully slipped inside the cursed manor.

the darkness breathed around you.

every sound echoed too clearly — the crunch of your boots against piled dust, the steady thud of your heart against your ribs.

you’ve entered through the old pantry, now emptied by hungry rats and other lost animals looking for food. plates and mugs, tables and stools, all were powdered in dust, victims of time and ignorance, preserved in a moment all too distant from the present.

“hasn’t been touched in a long time, huh?”

curious as always, you dipped one bare finger into a bowl, scooping the thick layer of dust and shaking it off to inspect the porcelain. the pattern was expensive and intricate, layered with shiny metals that would definitely catch the eye of a merchant back in town.

if there are no jewels, a few plates will do.

the air was colder in the main corridor — not the chill of neglect, but something older, heavier.

candles, long melted into puddles, dotted the halls. faded portraits watched from their frames: pale faces, red mouths, shimmering eyes painted with such uncanny precision they seemed to follow your every step.

you ignored them. you always did.

aristocrats would never look at the poor. so at least now, in death, you could reciprocate their behavior — hold your head high, ignore their insistent gazes, pretend they don’t exist.

one abandoned candle stood proudly taller than the other, calling your name and asking to assist in your search. so, pulling out a lighter you’ve pocketed from a clueless traveler, you gave the old wick life to illuminate your way around the estate.

with your new addition in your dominant hand, you went up the staircase, boots brushing against carpets that had once been red. now, brown with dust and time. your heartbeat was steady — practiced — lulled by the certainty that you were alone and in control.

but if you’d paused long enough to listen, you might have noticed another pair of footsteps twitching across the old floorboards. slow. inhuman.

he had awoken the moment you touched the fence.

sylus’s eyes opened in the dark, bloody red pupils swallowing what little light seeped through the cracks of his coffin. the air had shifted — fragrant now with mortal blood.

fresh. defiant.

he hadn’t tasted such a scent in years.

he rose without a sound, the centuries of stillness melting from his body in seconds. shadows curled around him as he moved, parting to let him pass through the ruined mansion to get to you.

and oh, he found you so easily.

through the veil of dust and moonlight, he watched as you prowled through the manor, clever little hands rifling through cluttered drawers, your breath ghosting white in the cold air.

he could hear every heartbeat, every scrape of your sleeve, every curse, every swallow when the silence grew too heavy.

how long had it been since a mortal dared come this far?

sylus lingered at the edge of your vision — a shape that never quite solidified, a whisper that vanished when you turned. his hunger hummed low and steady, palpable in the air, but he did not move closer.

not yet.

he preferred to watch. to let you think yourself brave.

you were quite amusing, really.

going up another level, peering in closer and closer to his own chambers, your dirty hand brushed against a cracked hallway mirror. the dust cleared just enough for your reflection to flicker back — tired, nervous, haloed by the faint glow of the dying candlelight.

you didn’t see him behind you in the shadows. not really. just the hint of movement. a suggestion. a breath too close to your ear that could have been the wind.

a flicker of ruby-like shimmers that burnt too strong into your skin.

“ghosts are not real, ghosts are not real, ghosts are not–” you chanted like a mantra between deep breaths, trying to regulate your beating heart and your too-active of an imagination.

you couldn’t go back now, not like this — defeated, empty-handed, ridiculed by invented specters.

so you went on, passing the fractured mirror. ignoring the looming presence of the predator.

sylus did not strike — the thrill of watching was too exquisite.

he lingered in the shadows, unseen, tracking your careful steps as you crept through the corridor. his eyes, red as spilled blood, followed the small flame of your candle as it painted trembling light across the peeling walls.

the manor had not known a heartbeat in centuries, and now it pulsed with yours.

it excited him.

you started acting more cautious, suspicion creeping into your heart. you checked corners, pressed your ear to doors, measured each creak of the floorboards like an experienced thief. just in case someone was here with you, also planning to steal a handful of jewels and silver and exchange them for a life of comfort.

at least that was the only credible reason your feeble mind could muster up to justify the presence of another.

ghosts are not real, ghosts are not–

sylus admired that. the way you held your breath before turning a handle; the way your fingers hovered over a silver candelabrum before deciding it was too heavy to take. you moved like someone who understood risk, but not danger.

not the kind that waited, patient and ancient, in the dark.

not him.

when your weak candle flickered harshly, the silence pressed closer.

a chill kissed the back of your neck — faint, but sharp enough to make you shiver in your boots and glance behind. but there was nothing. only shadows stretching long and thin across the hallway.

sylus smirked at your adorable reaction, sharp fangs peering from behind his lips and shining faintly in the darkness. he was close enough now to hear the delicious flutter of your pulse.

your steps quickened, but he matched them — silent, gliding. you turned down another corridor, and for a moment he let you think you’d shaken whatever phantom haunted the halls.

then a whisper of movement brushed past your ear — colder than air, softer than breath.

the flame of your candle trembled again, threatening to die in a few pulses.

and… it bent towards him. recognizing him before you even saw his face.

a breath grazed your neck — chilly, yet not spectral — and your whole body went taut. you turned too fast, candlelight shaking, but saw only the dust stirring in your wake.

no one stood behind you. no one should.

and yet… you felt him.

fingers, invisible but deliberate, traced the air an inch from your throat, brushing close enough that your skin prickled in its wake. a slow, deliberate caress against the curve of your waist, the faintest tug at the worn-out hem of your blouse.

it wasn’t enough to prove he was real — just enough to make you tremble with the possibility.

“still you wander.” came a voice like silk drawn over glass. low, amused, hungry.

you spun, but the voice seemed to melt back into the walls, echoing from nowhere and everywhere.

“just the wind… just the wind…” you stumbled forward, clutching the candle, whispering under your breath.

sylus watched you through the half-light, every frantic breath a symphony, every heartbeat a lure. he wanted to see how far you would go when the darkness began to consume you whole.

so he followed you, guiding, shaping your path — the gentle touch at your elbow that turned you left instead of right, the cool brush of his hand that nudged open a particular door.

his mother’s room.

when you crossed the threshold, the air changed. softer. sadder. the moonlight poured through the torn drapes, laying pale ribbons across velvet and dust. the candle guttered out, but you did not notice; the silver glow was enough for your mortal eyes.

you started searching because it was easier than admitting you were afraid. your hands — small, dirty, desperate — opened drawers, lifted silks, scattered combs and trinkets. and when your fingers closed around a heavy and intricate string of silver, your fear cracked into laughter.

“ha, ha, ha–”

jewelries. real ones. cool and bright and beautiful against your ruined hands.

“ha, ha, finally!”

you laughed again, wild and giddy, and inattentively slipped the necklace over your neck. then a bracelet, a ring. they looked absurd against your ragged sleeves — a parody of wealth — but for once you felt radiant.

alive.

sylus leaned in the doorway, unseen, his eyes glowing faintly red in the moonlight. his lips curved — not in cruelty, but fascination.

a mortal, daring to adorn herself in the relics of the dead.

how divine.

he drifted closer, his presence no longer shy. the air around you cooled as he came near; his breath ghosted over your shoulder, his hand almost — almost — settling at your waist. he let you believe it was your choice to stand so still, to tilt your head slightly as if you’d admire the silver around your neck.

“a thief playing at nobility… how charming.” he murmured, soft and teasing, the baritone of his voice fully hitting your ears for the first time.

you froze, jewels clinking faintly against your throat, suddenly drooping heavier against your dirty skin.

he was behind you now, completely, yet his reflection absented in the vanity mirror. you only saw him from the corner of your eyes — tall, refined, red eyes catching moonlight like blood in a chalice.

a man was here with you. caught you in the act.

you gulped.

one gloved finger brushed your neck, tracing the necklace you’d stolen. the gesture was languid, reverent, dangerous.

you gulped again.

“i–”

“you wear them well.” sylus breathed, voice dipping low, amused, a mixture of teasing and sincerity. “my mother would have adored you.”

the words coiled through the air like smoke… intoxicating, dizzying. his thumb found the flutter of your pulse, lingering there, and you realized — too late — that you were trembling not from fear, but from how close he was.

mother?

the predator smiled once more at the fear of his prey.

shit, shit, was this a trap for thieves from the beginning?

you stumbled backwards, crashing into his toned chest, the necklace clutched in your fist like an old and dried loaf of bread you found on the streets.

“i'm sorry– i'll put them back– i was just–”

your voice cracked with fear and faux ignorance, half wishing to elbow the strange man and ran away with the goods, half wishing to solve it all peacefully. your hands moved to unclasp the chain, fingers fumbling against the cold locket to drag on the interaction.

“oh, no, no, no, sweetheart.”

his hand snapped out, not with force, but with a sudden, unyielding firmness. you gasped as he pinned your wrists behind your neck, ripping them away from the chain. his grip, like iron beneath the velvet glove, kept you still.

“do not.” he growled heavier, the amused tone evaporating into a venomous chill. “my mother wanted her heir's wife to wear them. she wanted to see them adorn someone worthy.”

his red gaze scorched you, one orb more luminous than the other, traveling from the jewels to your blown-out eyes.

 “and you... you look so beautiful in them. like they were crafted for your thieving neck.”

your heart hammered, not just in fear, but in a peculiar, deep-seated dread. fuck, this strange man knew what you were and what your business was.

unable to face him due to his harsh grasp, your eyes flicked to the dusty vanity mirror leaning against the wall. you saw yourself — wilting, terrified, dressed in spoils and ornated with expensive jewelry.

but you did not see him. no reflection. no shadow.

just your own wide, horrified eyes staring back.

“w-what are you?” you whispered, the question torn from you. “why are you here? in this... abandoned place?”

he couldn’t possibly be a thief, putting on an act to take your loot. not with the way he was carrying himself.

not with the lack of reflection.

sylus tilted his head, a slow, predatory arch. he released your wrists, only to trail his gloved hand up your arm, over your shoulder, until his palm rested against the side of your neck. his thumb tipped your chin up towards him, forcing your head to turn behind and your gaze to meet his.

and now you fully saw him: pale skin, lifeless and devoid of any colour, matching a silvery mane. piercing red eyes, gleaming like freshly polished rubies in the shiny glaze of the moonlight. soft yet bruising lips, framing a mouth with a tad too angular set of teeth.

this man was a noble. a hauntingly beautiful one.

“i am the last son of qin. and this is not an abandoned manor.” he hissed, the words a poisoned lullaby. “it is my estate. my tomb. my preserve.”

and he leaned in, fast and unexpected, his nose brushing the column of your throat. you felt him inhale, long and deep, a gesture which made goosebumps bloom across your skin.

“wha­…”

“your smell…” he murmured, ignoring your little whimper, voice thick with a hunger so antique it seemed to rot the air itself. “it awoke me. it stirred something in the darkness that has not been stirred for centuries.”

his lips, cold and soft, grazed the skin just below your ear. and then you felt the pressure of his fangs — not piercing yet, just resting there, twin points of imminent damnation.

vampire.

“i have been keeping to myself.” he breathed, the words a wave of ice down your spine. “but now... now you are here. your pulse is a drumbeat in my empty halls. your skin is warmth against my chill.”

fuck, i have to run. i have to–

one sturdy hand dipped lower and spread over your stomach, pulling you back against the chilly, unyielding line of his body, while the other propped itself on the edge of the vanity — successfully trapping you.

“my body craves yours, little thief. it would take so little to get what i want.” his teeth scraped lightly down against your jugular, not penetrating.

not yet.

“so tell me... will you let me do it?”

fuck, fuck, fuck–

your mind raced, but no answer came out. you were pinned between the vanity and his body, the jewels on your neck now feeling like a noose tightening with every brush of his mouth against your skin.

“sweetheart…” he pulled away from your neck just enough to look you in the eyes again, his gaze a bottomless, scarlet well.

“will you take responsibility?” he purred, his mouth curling into a predator smile.

your head spun, the room tilting on its axis from the quick turn. you were desperate to escape, the glint of his mischievous eyes sending a shiver down your spine.

“i... i can't.” you stammered, your voice a shabby whisper. “the jewels... they're not mine. i'll leave them, just let me go–”

“silence.”

the word wasn't spoken; it was hissed, a sound like silk tearing in the dark. his grip on your hips tightened, not enough to bruise, but enough to remind you of the steel in his veins.

“you wear my family's heirloom. you have adorned yourself in the trappings of my ancestry. tradition is unyielding in such matters.”

tradition?

“you were the one who chose to put them on. by the old laws, you are now my wife.” his red gaze burned into you, incandescent and hungry.

“that's insane!” your protest came out as a panicked laugh, completely baffled by what you were hearing. “i'm no lady. i'm a thief! a scraper of gutters!”

“and yet…” he purred, his mouth finding the soft hollow behind your ear. “you wear the jewels as if they were woven from your own soul.” his hands moved, sliding up to your midsection, tightening its possessive claim on your waist. “and as my wife, you have a duty.”

“i owe you nothing!” you squirmed, trying to wrestle free, but his body curved into yours, a living, implacable prison of flesh and strength.

“you owe me everything.” he corrected, his tone dropping into a venomous whisper. “your very presence here is a trespass. i own the roof, the stones, the air you breathe. and now, little thief, i own you.”

his mouth returned to your neck, his lips tracing the threading pulse with sacred devotion.

“your duty is to feed me. to sustain me. to be the vessel for my eternal hunger.” his hand slid from your waist, groping the curve of your ass through thin, tattered fabric, his touch bold and unyielding. “and you will accept this. you will embrace it.”

“no–” your word cut off into a strident, stuttering gasp as his fangs pierced your skin.

the pain was sharp and precise, a quick, burning sting. but it was over in a heartbeat, replaced by a strange, warm sensation that spread outward like liquid sunshine. you felt your very muscles relax, a heavy, pliant weight settling in your limbs. a low, humming pleasure took root in your core, blooming into a heady, familiar arousal.

“what... what is this?” you murmured, your voice slurred.

sylus pulled back, his mouth stained scarlet. he smiled, his fangs glinting with the achievement of piercing you. “a gift.” he whispered, his voice thick with satisfaction.

“and a reward. my bite... it can induce pleasure as easily as pain. it makes the submission sweeter.”

he swung you around and pressed you down, your back now flat to the vanity. your legs felt weak, your mind fuzzy and slow. the jewels on your neck felt heavier, their weight a promise of ownership.

“you are mine.” he repeated, his hands sliding up your thighs, pushing around the thin fabric of your worn-out trousers. “your body, your blood, your pleasure. it all belongs to me now.”

your resistance crumbled, not under force, but under the strange, heady wave of aphrodisiac poison spreading through your veins. a moan escaped your lips as his fingers traced the soft, clothed skin of your inner thigh.

“that's it.” he coaxed, his voice a sinister lullaby. “accept your fate. it is more grandeur than whatever you could have stolen.”

he pulled you close, his body a shivering, immortal cold against your suddenly feverish heat. his mouth returned to the wound on your neck, and this time, when he sank his fangs deep, there was no pain. only a sweet, pulling sensation as he drank.

and a throbbing, urgent need between your legs that made you arch into his embrace, your hands finally raising to claw at his shoulders.

not to push him away, but to pull him closer.

“oh.”

he pulled back from your neck with a soft, wet sound, his tongue sweeping over the twin punctures he’d left behind. a low, hoarse moan ripped from your throat, the sensation of his wet tongue so exquisite it was nearly too much.

you could feel the warm trickle of your own blood slipping down your neck, past your collarbone, staining the dirty fabric of your blouse. it dripped onto the necklace adorning your throat too, coating the surface in a shimmering, dark crimson.

“that’s it, my wife.” sylus murmured, his voice a rumble against your skin. “let the sounds of your abandon fill my halls. they are more melodious than any symphony.”

his hips pushed forward, and you felt it — the hard, unyielding hardness of his arousal beneath the fine black material of his slacks. it strained against the fabric, a heavy, impressive bulge that pressed directly against the soft, quivering flesh of your inner thighs.

your own ragged pants, thin and worn, felt like no barrier at all.

every roll of his hips, every press of that thick, stone-hard cock against your clothed cunt sent a jolt of pleasure so sharp it made your vision blur.

“ahh…”

your head tilted back against the vanity, a sob escaping your lips as he rutted against you, the bunched material of your pants rubbing your swelling, sensitized folds through the soaked fabric of your undergarments. the aphrodisiac poison in your veins turned every touch into a liquid fire, and you could feel the wetness building, soaking through the rags, your body weeping with need.

he could smell it.

“so wet for me.” sylus groaned, his hands clenching on your hips through your thin pants. “so ready. all that feigned outrage, all those pitiful protests… melted away by a simple bite.” he laughed, a low, cocky chuckle that rumbled in his chest.

“you were always meant to be on your back for me, sweetheart. you just needed a little… encouragement.”

he rocked his hips, the steady, insistent pressure of his cock ruthlessly stroking the soaked, swollen bundle of nerves at your center. each pass elicited a new, higher moan, your hands flying up to clasp his back.

your fingers dug into the fine, black fabric of his unbuttoned shirt, your nails scraping against the underlying, chilled solidity of his body.

“please.” you whimpered, the word barely audible. it wasn’t a plea to stop; it was a plea for more.

“please what?” he purred, his mouth finding your ear. he nipped the lobe, sending a shiver of pleasure down your spine. “does my wife need something?”

“i… i need…” you couldn’t form the words. your hips bucked up instinctively, seeking harder pressure, more friction.

“you need your husband to take you.” he declared, his voice filled with arrogant certainty. “you need me to fill that empty, aching little cunt until you forget your own name.”

his hand slid between your body and the vanity, his fingertips skimming the waistband of your ragged pants. “you need to feel me split you open, don’t you? to finally have something real inside that puny, starving body.”

you cried out, a sharp, wailing sound as he unceremoniously tore the weak stitching of your pants open, the ripping fabric a vulgar confession of your surrender. the cold air of the manor hit your bare skin, but it was quickly sheltered by his bare hand cupping you.

he palmed your entire cunt, his thumb pressing roughly against your swollen clit, making you jerk and scream.

“there it is.” he hissed, his eyes blazing with triumphant possession. “there’s the gutter wench, reduced to a needy, sobbing little thing. all it took was a taste of real pleasure.”

he pushed one long, cold finger inside you, and your whole body convulsed, your nails drawing down his back. “you’re so tight. so empty. you were waiting for me.”

his first finger slid in with the effortlessness of a knife through warm butter. a sharp, guttural moan tore from your throat, your head thrashing back against the dusty vanity mirror. your hips bucked, your entire being focused on that one, invading digit.

“that’s it, sweetheart.” sylus murmured, his lips brushing your jaw as he watched you. “let me hear how much you need this.”

he curled that first finger, searching, and then hit that spongy spot inside you that made your vision burst into white sparks. you cried, a raw, unhinged sound, hitting your head again against the mirror. your hands, once clawing at his back, now flew to the edge of the vanity, gripping the wood as if it could save you.

“so responsive.” he hummed, his eyes dark and hungry. “but one isn’t enough, is it? your greedy little cunt wants more.”

before you could beg, his second finger joined the first. the stretch was sharp, incendiary. your mouth fell open, a silent, desperate scream escaping you as your eyes rolled back. he stretched you out, working you open with the precise, merciless efficiency of a sculptor.

“you take them so well, wife!” he praised, his thumb swiping through the soaked, twitching folds, landing on your clit. “so wet. so warm. it’s as if your body was built just to welcome me.”

the circles on your clit intensified.

you sobbed, a sound of overwhelmed, pleasure-bordering-on-pain ecstasy. your inner muscles fluttered, clenching around his daring digits, trying to accommodate the stretch. he pushed deeper, his bottom knuckles brushing against your swollen entrance.

“talk to me, sweetheart.” he ordered, his voice a low, commanding rumble. “tell me how my touch feels.”

“i-it’s… so good. “you gasped, your words slurred and heavy. “so… full.”

“full?” he laughed, a dark, chuckling sound. “this is nothing, my dear. you have no idea how full i will make you.”

then, he began to slowly withdraw his fingers. you whimpered, a protest at the loss, your orgasm now neglected. but he only smiled, his intense gaze locked on yours.

“patience, wife. i have something else for you.”

he raised his sticky hand, and your eyes flicked down past the wetness. on his ring finger, the one you had not yet felt, was a heavy, ornate silver ring with a large, intricately carved dragon.

your own eyes widened, recognizing it.

it was the match to the ring you had stuck on your own finger in your desperate greed.

“yes.” he whispered, seeing your realization. “the pair is complete. you put on the seal of your own bondage, my dear. it was always meant to be on your finger, just as mine is on my own.”

he pressed the tip of that ring finger against your soaked, trembling entrance. the metal was chilly, a contrast to your scalding heat. you moaned, low and long, as he pushed it inside, joined by his other two fingers.

“oh, lord–”

the sensation was unlike anything you had ever felt. the cold, hard metal of the ring continuously pressed against your swollen, spasming opening, pumping in and out, stretching you, filling you.

“three fingers.” he groaned, his own breath hitching as he watched his hand disappear into your body. “you take them all, my greedy little thief. you take what is yours.”

his thumb never ceased its round, rough circles on your clit, making you squirm and shudder. your hands left the wood, reaching for him again, tangling in the hair at the base of his neck, pulling at the collar of his shirt.

“tell me more.” he demanded, his thrusts becoming faster, harder. “tell me how needy you are for me. how you love being filled like this.”

“i’m so… so needy.” you sobbed, tears streaming down your face, words slurred between moans. “i love it. i love your fingers in me. i love how you stretch me. it feels so good, i… i can’t stand it.”

“you can stand it.” he growled, his nose pressing against your neck, licking at the coagulated blood. “you were made for it. now, thank me. thank your husband.”

your body began to tense, the pleasure coiling tight in your belly, spreading outward like a shattering wave. your vision tunneled, the only thing real was him, his hand, his touch.

“say it!” he roared, his thumb pressing down hard on your clit.

the orgasm ripped through you, violent and unstoppable. your back arched off the vanity, a soundless, raged scream frozen in your throat. your inner walls gripped his digits, spasms of pleasure so intense they bordered on pain.

and in that peak, with his fingers deep inside you and his thumb on your swollen, pulsing clit, you sobbed the words.

“t-than-nk you, hus–”

the word echoed in the silent room, a sacrament, a surrender.

“–bnd.”

sylus stilled, his hand slowing its ruthless motion, yet not quite stopping. he leaned in, his lips parting in a triumphant, predatory smile, dipping his tongue down your cheek and collecting your salty tears.

“clearer, sweetheart.” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft.

your body was a trembling mess, shockwaves of pleasure still rippling through you, while the constant rubbing and thrusting of his fingers made it all overwhelming. you whimpered, eyes barely blinking through the tears, as you did your best to say the words.

“than-k yooou, husband-d.”

a slow, satisfied smile crept across sylus' face at your thanks.

“good girl.”

he purred, his voice a vibrating rumble against your skin. he slowly, thoughtfully, withdrew his soaked fingers from your spent cunt, the sudden emptiness a profane relief. you watched, your breath hitching, as he raised his hand to his crimson mouth.

his tongue, long and dexterous, swept out to meet his fingertips. he licked your arousal from his skin with the same reverent care a connoisseur would clean precious wine from a crystal goblet.

his ruby gaze held yours, unwavering, as he swallowed.

“the taste of your submission…” he mused, his voice a lull of dark pleasure. “it is even sweeter than your fear.”

he straightened, musing with that aristocratic arrogance. “but fingers are merely a prelude. a marriage must be consummated.”

his gaze swept the room, landing on a tall, carved wooden armchair near the window. with one effortless hand, he dragged it across the dusty floor, its legs scraping on the wood, and positioned it right before the large, golden-framed vanity mirror.

he turned back to you, his eyes glowing with possessive anticipation. “come, wife.”

your legs were still weak, your mind fogged with satiation and anticipation. so he swept you into his arms as if you weighed nothing, your ragged clothes a cruel juxtaposition against his immaculate silk and wool. he sat in the armchair ceremoniously, settling you across his lap, your back to his chest, your gaze forced toward your own reflection.

“look!” he commanded, his lips finding the shell of your ear. “look at the picture we make.”

your own image stared back at you: a wild-eyed, disheveled thing, hair a tangled mane, face flushed and shining with sweat. the silver around your neck gleamed, out of place against the dirt on your skin.

his mouth trailed down your throat, his teeth scraping gently against your bite mark. then, his hands followed, gripping the thin fabric of your blouse. with a sharp tear, he wrenched it down, the ragged cloth giving way to expose your beautiful, neglected chest.

the necklace settled over them, the cool metal a shivering contrast to your warm, peaked nipples.

“exquisite.” he hummed, his palms cupping your breasts, his thumbs rolling over your nipples until you moaned out loud, your head lolling back against his shoulder. “the jewels of my house, now put to proper use.”

his hands traveled down, over your quivering stomach, until he reached the waistband of your shredded pants. with a single, ruthless tug, he tore them away, leaving you completely bare on his lap. you felt him shift, and the sound of his slacks unfastening sent a new thrill of anticipation through you.

then you felt it — the heavy, intimidating weight of his arousal springing now free. he guided his cock, thick and long, upward, so the head notched just at your soaked, swollen entrance. the tip was a slightly darker hue, glistening in the moonlight, and it seemed impossibly large.

“here.”

he guided your hand to his lap, and your fingers met the solid, veiny length of his erect cock. it felt immense, hard as marble and slightly chilled.

“feel what you have won, wife.” he growled, his hand over yours, guiding you to stroke him. “something much greater than mere silver.”

he positioned you, lifting your hips slightly. you felt the thick, slightly tapered head of his cock press against your soaked, trembling entrance. your eyes, haunted and hungry, met your own in the mirror.

“watch.” he ordered, his voice a dark and smooth like velvet. “watch your lewd, little body. watch how it stretches to take its husband.”

he pushed in, and you saw it.

you saw your own reflection: your eyes wide, your mouth open in a silent scream, your slight frame bare and vulnerable. and you saw your cunt, so aroused, so wet, gaping open as it began to take him in.

but you saw no him.

no hands on your thighs, keeping you open.

no body behind you.

in the mirror, it looked as though your own body was simply floating, spread legs and arched back, as your cunt stretched and widened around… nothing. a blank space.

“yes.” he hissed, his voice a ghost in your ear as he slowly, inexorably filled you. “see how you grip nothing? see how your greedy, slutty little hole strains against the air? it is the ultimate surrender, my dear. to give yourself to a vampire.”

the stretch was incredible. he felt even larger than anything you’ve taken before. harder, more unyielding. you sobbed, your head falling back against his body, your nails digging into his shoulders.

“you like that, don't you?” he groaned, his hips beginning a slow, punishing rhythm. “you like playing the whore for a specter. a dead man, forgotten by all.”

he pushed deep, hitting your cervix, and you screamed, your eyes shutting against his neck.

“no, sweetheart! look!” he commanded, his tone brooking no argument. “look at yourself. look at the whorish wife i have acquired.”

your eyes flew open, meeting your own gaze. you saw the chain bouncing against your heaving chest. you saw the flush on your skin, the sweat on your brow. you saw the way your stomach bulged with each of his thrusts.

and you saw the sight of your own body, fucking itself on nothing, stretched and wet and totally, utterly ruined.

that aroused you even more.

“it's so… perverted.” you whimpered, your voice breaking.

yet you didn’t avert your gaze.

you saw it all. you saw the way your tight, young flesh strained, expanding around the invading cock. you saw how it swallowed him, how your body distorted to accommodate his size.

and you saw no reason for it.

in the reflecting surface, it was just you — your gaping, lewd cunt — opening around nothing more than empty air.

“tell me…” he growled, his voice strained as he slowly, mercilessly buried himself deeper inside you. “tell me how it feels to be fucked by no one. tell me how much you love being my little wife.”

your mouth opened, but only a ragged moan came out. he bottomed out suddenly, his hips fully cushioned against yours, and you felt him, so deep, so completely filling you, it seemed impossible.

and the mirror showed only you, your body deformed around a void.

“i... i love it.” you gasped, the words finally breaking through. “i love how it feels. i love how full i look, how profane i look... stretched out for you.”

he moved once, a slow, possessive roll of his hips, and you screamed, your mouth breaking into a large circle.

“then tell me to fuck you, wife. tell your husband to use his property.”

“please…” you sobbed, your hands reaching back to claw at his hair. “please, husband, fuck me. use me. i'm yours.”

his response was immediate and violent. the slow, possessive rolls of his hips exploded into a ruthless, punishing pace. he slammed into you, his thighs crashing against your spread ass with each thrust, the sound of skin against skin a wet, slapping echo in the dusty room.

your body rocked with the force of his strokes, your head snapping back, your hands scrambling for hold on the armrests of the chair.

“yes!” you screamed, the sound raw and unrecognizable. “yes, husband!”

your breasts, adorned with the stolen necklace, jiggled and bounced with outrageous rhythm. in the mirror, they looked like obscene, living trinkets, the pale silver a stark contrast against your flushed, dirt-streaked skin. your nipples were hard, aching, and the chain rolled against them with each jolt, overstimulating them with the coldness.

“so sinful.” sylus growled, his voice strained with the effort of his thrusts. “to be decorated in my ancestors' treasure while your body is used like a whore. you were born for this, to be fucked by cursed souls in a ruined manor.”

his hand snaked down between your bodies, his thumb pressing directly onto your swollen, throbbing clit. you let out a shriek, your body twitching. the sensation was too much — a sharp, overwhelming pleasure that tore at the edge of pain.

“that's it.” he hissed, his thumb making tight, round circles. “let that little nub guide you. feel how it enhances your pleasure.”

he accelerated, his thrusts becoming shallower, faster, more focused on that spot inside you that made your vision white. your moans were continuous now, a stream of sounds that were part sob, part scream.

your gaze was locked on the mirror as much as possible, on the sight of your own gaping, slopping cunt, stretched open around nothing.

“ahhh-h.”

then, you felt it — the scrape of his fangs against the tender skin of your throat. a shiver, not of fear, but of ravenous anticipation, ran down your spine.

the memory of the aphrodisiac poison, the euphoric surrender, was still so fresh.

“please.” you begged, your voice breaking. “bite me, husband. please, i need it.”

he groaned, a sound of pure, unadulterated lust. “you want to feel me in your veins while i'm in your cunt? you want to bleed for me while you cry on my cock?”

“yes!” you sobbed, your hands reaching back to tangle in his hair, pulling his mouth closer to your neck. “please!”

he snarled, a sound of triumphant possession, and then his fangs pierced your skin.

“ohh...”

it wasn't the careful, teasing puncture of before. this was a voracious, possessive bite.

you felt the sharp, searing pain, and then the immediate, warm gush of your blood. he drank deeply, his throat working against your neck, and the sensation was so intimate, so violent, it sent a new, scorching wave of arousal surging through you.

he didn't stop fucking you.

in fact, his thrusts became more furious, more possessive, as he drank. you felt your own lifeforce being drawn out, and with it, any last shred of resistance.

your body was his.

your blood was his.

your pleasure was his.

he pulled away from your neck with a gasp, his lips stained bright red. “i tasted your soul.” he hissed, his voice gravelly. “and it is mine.”

and with that, his thrusts became erratic, unraveling. he ground deep inside you, his hand still working over your clit, and let out a low, guttural roar.

with that, you felt him pulse one last time, hard and hot, deep within you. thick, sticky ropes of his seed spurted into your womb, some spilling out, hot and plentiful.

he held you down, his body shuddering with the last of his release, making sure your greedy pussy took all of his cum.

then, slowly, he pulled out.

“s-shit.”

in the mirror, you saw it.

you saw your gaping, well-used cunt, now slopping with his seed. it trickled out of you, a pearly, opaque white against your swollen, abused hole.

it mixed with your own arousal, creating a lewd, shimmering cream at your entrance.

the sight was undeniably pornographic: the ragged thief, jeweled in silver, her body spent and filled, her vision haunted by her own submission.

“beautiful.” sylus whispered, his hand trailing through the mess he'd made of you, dexterous fingers scooping up the cum and smearing it all over your cunt. “my thieving, promiscuous wife.”

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

Mattheo decided he hated quidditch.

Sort of.

Maybe.

No.

That wasn’t really true, he loved quidditch. The encouraged aggression-especially as a beater- the physical exertion that got him out of his head and into his body, pushing himself till he physically couldn’t anymore, then pushing harder; and being in control of protecting his friends from harm’s way was as close to healing as he’d come to, not that he would really admit that to himself, let alone those wankers, god knows Enzo would get all mushy about it.

What he really hated, no what he really despised, was quidditch with Ravenclaw.

Or more specifically quidditch with you.

They were a fine team, the Ravenclaws, their chasers, while a bit predictable had stella movement and knew how to fly as an organized flock, blocking a good amount of Theo’s and Enzo’s attempts to get the quaffel back into their possession.

Their keeper needed some work, for a Ravenclaw, he was easily fooled into a fake out, diving prematurely when Blaise aimed one way in a near theatrical fashion, leaving the desired goalpost completely defenceless for him to score, fucking idiot.

The beaters while decent were no match for Mattheo and Marcus, even with Mattheo doing most of the work. Marcus seemed to prioritise sneering and appearing menacingly with a bat then actually pulling his fucking weight. Mattheo’s being telling Draco to cann that trollish prick for months now.

The real issue with the Ravenclaw team was the fucking seeker. 

Even in the rainy slate coloured sky you stood out to him, like a beautiful sore thumb. Always catching in the corner of his eye, even when he tried to look away. It felt as if you had nestled yourself in the corner of his brain, sitting there all smug and pretty, probably mouthing off in that stubborn know it all way you do, caressing his thoughts that both set him alight and gave him an unfamiliar and unnerving peace.

Even in the quiet of his dorm, lights low, a half-drunk cup of tea (that Draco would call a sugary milky mess), the soft snores of his dorm mates, and sketch book to keep him company you haunted him still.

It was like everything he drew somehow came back to you. Sketches of the lake soon had you nestled against a surrounding tree, head bent reading a book.

When he would give up on a nightmare free sleep in the quiet hours of the morning and crawl to the great hall before everyone woke in hopes of strong coffee, hashbrowns, and piece of damn mind as he lazily copies the architecture in his messy sketch book.

The hours would tick by, his fellow students would dribble in, finding a nice mediative quality in the early morning hum of sleepy mumbles, no one awake enough to dare break the precious morning silence. When you walked through the double doors in that stupid-and definitely not cute- oversized jumper, he would pretend not to notice, as if he wasn’t wondering why you were three minutes later then usual.

Instead he would sip he’s coffee like you never crossed his mind…he didn’t count on an Oscar anytime soon.  

This continued throughout breakfast, intent on keeping some dignity and not look your way every second, when he glanced down at his page to brush off the stray crumb and there you were, both hands wrapped around your coffee mug, bundled in that favourite cozy jumper, with that adorable dreamy half-awake look on your face, he didn’t even register drawing you in.

Never being without your presence somehow felt too much and not enough at the same time, it was maddening.

 At first, he thought you had hexed him, some obscure curse you dug up in the restricted section on one of your sneaky nerdy late hour library visits, some spell to drive him even more mental than he already was.

A bit much he thought-to counter Mattheo’s incessant presence in your life and snide bantering remarks you exchanged around the Castel-but he respected the initiative.

It all came to a head about two months ago, after a rather intense and well, rather…explicit dream, Mattheo voiced his concerns to Theo, and what better time than 6:27am.

“That witch has it fucking out for me! She’s worming her way in my mind!” Mattheo staged whispered, the words coming out rushed as he stumbled a jump across to Theo’s bed, clad in his green plaid boxers and one sock on.

Theo, who was now being tossed around like a hacky sack in the Hogwarts courtyards from Mattheo’s incessant shaking, was less then pleased.

“Get off me you mental merda you’re going to push me off the bed!” He mumbled smacking at Mattheo, his voice thick with sleep as he sat up on his forearms, the left side of his hair sticking flat up from sleeping on it.

“what the fuck are you on about? Did McGonagall finally figure out how to give you detention in your sleep?”  

“Don’t even joke about that or she’ll figure it out, but no I’m talking about that Little Raven!” Mattheo hissed.

Being familiar with Mattheo’s nickname for you seemed to wake Theo up a little, or at least both of his eyes were now open.

“She’s in the god damn walls man!” he ranted on “she’s trying to drive me insane! Putting dreams in my head! I always thought she was a legilimens but this fucking proves it! I need to test out my blocking, try me go!”

Mattheo’s scrunched his eyebrows and narrowed his gaze in concentration, awaiting Theo’s mental intrusion, Theo thought he looked like he was about to go cross-eyed.

The exasperated Italian began firmly rubbing his face with his hands, trying his very best not to throttle his emotionally inept friend for his stupidity, and deciding on the gentle approach for now.

 “So you think about her all the time?”  Theo asked, voice slightly muffled from the hands on his face.

 “Yes”

“And you have just woken ME up-from a very pleasant dream mind you-because you dreamed about her?” 

“Yes”

“And am I correct to assume this dream was erotic in nature?” Theo said, now peeking one eye through his long fingers to glance at Mattheo’s half hard cock in his sleep boxers.

Thankfully shared sexual encounters weren’t anything new to the group, so this was of no issue, even if Mattheo’s cheeks turned a little pink from the observation.

“That’s how birds drive you insane Theo” Mattheo said, his tone gravely seriousness “they get in through the cock”

Theo was certain that the truth could bite Mattheo on the ass and hold on and he still wouldn’t notice.

Mumbling some profanities in Italian and what Mattheo believed to be a small “why me” into his hands that were firmly rubbing his face, Theo took a calming breath, and needing his beauty sleep he decided to cut to the chase.

“You fucking like her you idiota! And by the sound and…shape of it” glancing down at Mattheo’s half masked boxers again “you like her a lot, so you should probably do something about it before someone steals her from you…and to save me from your morning wood”.

With the end of the revelation, Theo face planted his head back into the peace and quiet of the pillows and pulled the blanket over, signalling the end of the conversation, hoping Mattheo would take his love life elsewhere for a few hours, or at least till he had some coffee in him to deal with his idiot.

Mattheo however was left gaping like a fish, mouth opening and closing with a defence that never came.

Because maybe he couldn’t lie to himself anymore, he liked you...shit he might even be obsessed with you.

There were those times when he would catch you sneaking out for a midnight fly, broom and practice snitch in hand, he would never step forward out of his shadows, the thick silence of the night seeming too solid to break. Instead, he would lean quietly at his smoking spot, brown doe eyes sharp as they watched you creep out of the castle.

The first time was an accident, a stroke of luck catching you, but from then on he made a habit to take a smoke break in that same spot and time.

Once you determined you were in the clear you would roll your neck, breath the crisp night air deeply into your chest, and let your posture ease in a way he’s never seen from you before, as if you were loosening something tightly bound deep inside you, Mattheo was desperately curious as to what that was.

You always had the air of control on yourself, he admired that about you. You weren’t a control freak like his brother, no, this was different kind of control.

You still laughed, smiled, and argued (especially with him), the bickering always bordered on friendly/irritation/flirty, a witty back and forth that he enjoyed far more then he cared to admit.

You still pulled a face at your breakfast when the Ravenclaw table ran out of blueberries for your porridge, sighed a dreamy smile on that first sip of your morning coffee, and beamed when you got your test scores back in charms, you didn’t hide every emotion to gain control, you were stronger than that, too human for that.  

It was your anger and hurt that you held tightly.  

Mattheo had seen you angry before, he’d seen you cut down that twat McClaggan in the halls when he said something misogynistic and thick headed, your words cruelly precis as you picked him to pieces in front of his dickhead friends, eyes cold and mocking fury. 

Draco, Enzo, and Mattheo were standing off to the side, on the way to potions when they stopped to watch the show.

When you loudly said “Maybe if you used Engorgio on your dick you’d be able to wank with more than just your pointer and thumb” proceeding to pinch your finger and thumb together to demonstrate, they keeled over laughing, Enzo shot pumpkin juice out of his nose.

When you were mad he could see you use it, refine it, polish it, wield it like a blade of silver tongue to cut right to the heart, so well that it made him think you were put in the wrong house.

When you were hurt you covered it with indifference and calm, smothering your pain before it people could see it. When your shit head ex had been caught cheating, he was walking in stride with you down the hall, teasing about the upcoming quidditch game between your houses.

“You know there’s no shame in bowing out sweetheart” he said in a teasing voice leaning in a little too close, fuck he loved how you look with that playful fire in your eyes. “I’m sure even your little boyfriend would understand you wanting to wear my jersey and cheer me on”. Good God he hated your boyfriend, like REALLY hated your boyfriend.  

You looked up at him then, eyes bright, smirk in place, ready to unload a good amount of snark that he definitely wasn’t going to be turned on by, but as you rounded the corner you came to a dead holt, eyes now straight ahead where speak of the devil, your little boyfriend had some Hufflepuff in the year below pressed to a wall as he tried to eat her face, in what Mattheo can say is the most revolting kiss he’d ever seen.

He saw that pain flash in your eyes for a second, the look of hurt and betrayal on your face made his chest ache, but that was all you let slip before you buried it deep within you, bounding it with an iron grip and pushing your head high once more and clentching your fists. Before Mattheo could get a word out you made your play.

“God If that’s how you look when you kiss me you really have done me a favour”

The couple sprang apart; your-well I guess now ex-boyfriend Luke-looking panicked at being caught.

“Baby! Hey, no no it’s not what yo-“ but before he could even finish his half assed insulting lie you wordlessly flicked your wand (that Mattheo didn’t even register you get out) in his direction, muting his insulting voice and sent a stinging hex on him, he ran away yelping silently at the stinging nettle like pain.

Fuck Mattheo thought it was so hot when you’re ruthless like that.

You turned your attention to the girl who was still pressed against the wall in shock, the distain on your face softened slightly, she however looked terrified, Mattheo couldn’t blame her especially after watching you handle your ex-boyfriend so swiftly.

But to his surprise your wand lowered, fixing her with a stern look instead.

“You can do better”

The Hufflepuff seemed shocked that she wasn’t sent half way up the hallway with a stinging jinx herself for a moment, but then lowered her head in shame, nodding at your words and slinked away.

“(Y/n)” he started, voice tender in a way you hadn’t heard it before, if you weren’t too busy trying not to cry out of absolute embarrassment you would of paid more attention to how nice your name sounds on his tongue.

“Don’t think this will get me off my game for the match Mattheo” you replied, a light chuckle in your voice and to your credit only sounding a little watery.

Before he had the chance to reach for you, tuck your head under his chin, hold you tight to his chest like you always belonged there, and tell you how much of a fucking moron your ex is, how stunningly cleaver, beautiful, and devastatingly brilliant you’ve always been-you turned on your heal quick as lighting and walked away-but not before Mattheo saw the tears running down your pretty face.

You were still softer in the days following, your light seemed to be a bit dimmed but you kept up the appetences well, not giving the wanker the satisfaction of thinking he had any impact on you.

But when Mattheo managed to catch your ex alone in a corridor late one night and had a little chat that sent him to the hospital wing for a few days, you brightened up again. Even though Mattheo was cunning enough to not avoid detection and punishment, you obviously knew who was responsible.

You wordlessly slid a few of your homemade brownies across the desk in transfiguration the next day, it was the best fucking thing he’s ever tasted, he could only fucking pray, hope, and dream about you melting on his tongue just the same.

But yesterday was different, this wasn’t your usual anger and hurt, this one bit back as you pushed in down. 

Mattheo had noticed it over the last year or so, how your letters from home often left you stilled and quiet while reading them, the white of your knuckles as you gripped your coffee mug, a sadness flicking across your face for a moment before you covered it, you cover it well, but he was watching you, and he never missed it.  

He wanted to tear those god-awful letters up, put his cigarettes out on them and burn them to ash for taking away your morning peace, wiping that pretty smile off your face.

Yesterday morning the post came in, interrupting the chatter of the Slytherin and Ravenclaw game tomorrow,  Mattheo kept his eyes trained on you as usual, trying to analysis your tells, and while the extra bowl of blueberries placed conveniently at your spot on the Ravenclaw table (don’t believe a word Winky says he had nothing to do with it) had left you smiling into your porridge, with a small happy dance as you added them in, it all came to a still when a letter landed in front of you.

This letter wasn’t invoking your anger, it wasn’t even hurt…this was fear. Something Mattheo has never seen that in you before, it tore him in half.

Your chest started to rise and fall in shallow breaths, your hands holding the letter were trembling, your skin noticeably palled, tears welled in your eyes as you starred at the letter like it was burning your hand but couldn’t release it, you hadn’t even opened it yet.

Who the fuck was this? Who the fuck thinks they have the right to make you feel like this? His fucking girl. He’ll kill them, he’ll rip them apart with his bare fucking hands and teeth, make them bleed, apologise, and beg at your feet for forgiveness while he waits for your permission to finish them off.

All these thoughts were rushing through his head as he stood, intending to rip the letter out of your hands and hold you, shielding you from it, take you somewhere it can never find you.

As if sensing his movement your eyes shoot up to him, the fear dulling into shock at his worried expression, you open your mouth like you were going to say something to him, he could make out the start of his name on your lips before you sealed them shut, grabbing the letter and rushing out of the hall before he could catch you.

Mattheo searched for you the whole day, even asked Lovegood to check Ravenclaw tower for him, but to no avail, his little raven knew how to hide.

Which brings us back to the present, Mattheo beating away rouge bludgers while pretending he isn’t distracted by you, which was difficult considering you were catching the light just right and he was still worried sick after not seeing you since you slipped out of the great hall yesterday morning.

But even with whatever rattled you (and him) yesterday, no one could tell by your playing. You were fucking good, cutting across the sky with precise grace, as if the wind knew you as an old friend and was welcoming you home.

Blue and green darted across the pitch, the rain making it even more impossible to see through the mess of flyers, Mattheo was flanking Draco as he scanned the murky sky for the shimmering snitch.

Slytherin was ahead, by 100 points no less, but they all knew that if the snitch was out there, Ravenclaw still had a chance. They needed to end this, quickly with the weather getting worse, and you were on the move too.

Draco and you sored higher and higher, trying to get a good vantage point to spot the snitch in this mess, hoping the lighting would reflect some of its light, like a beacon calling home. That’s when Mattheo spotted the bludger hurdling straight up, sent to knock Dray off his broom, but to his dreaded panic, was getting closer and closer to you.

Mattheo was quicker than the lighting at that moment, speeding in-between you two and slamming it back down with even more force before it could hit its target.

“Cheers Matt” yelled Draco over the wind, not realizing he wasn’t in any real danger, still scanning for the snitch. Mattheo was about to yell something in return, but then his gazed found yours.

You were truly beautiful like this, the hair wisping out of your braid whipping in the cold wind, cheeks flushed, eyes slightly narrowed in concentration, and bottom lip pulled between your teeth as you mapped out the next move. You always seemed to have a wilder energy up here in the sky, as if the bird really had been let out of her cage.

Now seemed like as good as a time as ever to get under your skin, an excuse to hear your regular snark to reassure you were alright.

“Lovely view from up here huh little raven?” He called to you.

“You know if you wanted to be closer to me in action, you could of just wore my jersey in the stands” he said winking at you, grin in place.

“Then what would Potter wear?” you shot back.

The halo of hair around your face making you look like some kind of storm spirt, relishing in the bellowing thunder going off around you, that’s his girl, his crazy, ruthless, brilliant, lovely fucking girl.

Mattheo grinned and barked a laugh at your remark; you always gave it as good as you got it. Fuck he loved it, he couldn’t go a day without hearing your voice lately, you were away sick for a few days and Enzo said it was like watching someone go through withdrawals.

“Just admit it love, you’re falling for me” he replied, arms opening in a dramatic gesture to himself, trying to ignore the erratic beating of his heart, he tells himself he’s just glad you’re feeling your regular self to bater with him.

You rolled your eyes at him, a scoff and another snarky remark loaded, but something snagged your attention close to the ground, not enough to move your head in its direction, but enough for a pause of calculation before you looked at him again, smirk in place.

“I’m falling for you am I?” you replied, your tone and look full of something Mattheo couldn’t quite place. It made him nervous for some reason.

“Obviously” he teasingly jested, although uneasy with the softness of your smile and the knowing look in your eyes, something didn’t feel right.

He subconsciously inched his broom closer to you, he was about a foot away when you spoke calmly, gaze locked, knowing something he doesn’t, voice soft as you spoke.  

 “Catch me then”

You then fell sideways off your broom.

Half a second of shock.

Mattheo thinks he might of screamed.

 Then dove right after you Instead.

You were falling fast, in an elegant dive as you plummeted towards the ground, and astonishingly, somehow no one had noticed yet, too busy watching the swarm of players bellow to comprehend the terror above.

Mattheo was hot on your tail reaching out to snag your leg, but you seemed hell bent on not letting him save you. Your freefall was that bit faster than him on his broom, he was pushing his weight further and further forward, with you tragically just out of his grasp.

Being preoccupied with preventing a ‘you shaped hole’ in the ground, he didn’t even notice your broom sweeping around the wave of quidditch players to beat you to the bottom.

It was about 40 meters above the other players when people spotted your plummet, the gasp of excitement from the crowd soon turned to one of horror when they realized the Ravenclaw seeker was flying broomless.

The alarmed roar of the crowd made the swarm of players look up, and just in time to see you diving down in the small gap between the mess of them. So small that a broom wouldn’t even fit properly, at least not without clipping someone.

But all Mattheo could see was his girl, his beautiful, sharp, kind, brilliant, smart girl. The girl who would always give his attitude right back, the girl who wasn’t scared of his family’s reputation, the girl who squatted down next to a lost teary eyes 1st year Slytherin and offered to walk him to his next class, the girl who went on midnight rides to be truly free of something Mattheo hadn’t even come close to understanding.

The girl, that during a particularly pointed exchange a few years ago rolled her and said “Good god you are just..”

“Let me guess” Mattheo cut you off sharply, anticipating your response but couldn’t bear to hear it from your lips “Just like my father? Yeah that gets old (yln)”

The irritation washed off your face in an instant, replaced with a still grave seriousness it made Mattheo’s breath hitch.

You took a step closer, so close he could lean down and bump his scared nose to yours if he dared.

“We are nothing like our fathers Mattheo Riddle”  you said, finger pointed at his chest to emphasise your point, “And fuck anyone who tries to tells us we are”

Your voice so full of feeling it made his chest hurt

That was the first time Mattheo has been told that.

And Mattheo was going to lose her right before his very eyes, because he still couldn’t catch her.  

“MOVE!” He roared, the players creating a bigger hole for him to follow you through.

In his peripherals, he caught Lorenzo, Theo and Blaise hot on his trail behind him, following him in his need to save you. You were 30 meters away from the ground, still falling so fast.

He couldn’t catch you, this was it, he couldn’t save you, he couldn’t save anyone, he never even got to tell you how he loved you. Mattheo could feel his heart ripping itself to shreds already, refusing to stay without you, plummeting to the ground right with you.

Four meters from the ground, that’s when it happened.

Your broom-that you ingeniously enchanted to follow you in these practiced freefalls of yours-caught around the back of your knees for you to lock firmly on to, which only hurt a little (a lot), dipping a meter with you before steadying with you safely attached.

The entire stadium held its breath, you however, were now dangling upside down, hair loose from the fall flowing past your face, and with the snitch clutched tightly in your right hand.

A beat of dead silence, even the rain and wind seemed to hold pause, and then, total uproar.

The crowd went mental, every house blown away by your daring feet, Ravenclaws losing their mind in the insane win and relief of the survival of their seeker, Fliterwick looked like he was about to faint. Even the Slytherin stands were clapping heartfully, relived to not see a gruesome death on the pitch and impressed at your tricky little fake out.

You didn’t even bother to pull yourself up on your broom, instead shifting into a better position to drop the tiny bit down onto your feet. You wore the biggest smile, chest heaving air after the breathless plunge, holding the snitch proudly in your hand.

Your teammates swarmed you first, shaking you with excitement and shock, pulling you into relived hugs and hair ruffles, celebrating the daring win.

Mattheo however was furious with you.

Landing and throwing his broom aside he stormed his way through players in your direction, he vaguely heard Blaise call out to him, but it was hard to tell with the ringing in his ears, even you’re your team knew to step aside a little. When your eyes met his they were filled with a surprise at his demeanour, and then, all be it, guilt. “Look before you get mad I didn’t think you would actually try to catc-“ but you didn’t get to finish your sentence, as Mattheo yanked you firmly by waist and kissed you.

Mattheo kisses hard, you could taste every bit of emotion on his tongue. The fury, the worry, the relief, and the love he was desperately trying to tell you. It felt more exhilarating than any freefall. He clutched you tightly, like he was afraid that you would fly out of his arms if he let you go again. One arm wrapped around your waist, pressing your body ever so close, and the other on your face, right above your jaw, his thumb rubbing over your soft skin, reassuring himself that you were truly there and in one piece.

With your bodies so close, you could fee his heart beating erratically through his chest, the stress of your freefall still apparent in the way he clutched you like a lifeline. With one hand clutching his delicious curls, you moved the other hand from his face to rub soothingly over his chest. You’re here, your safe, you’re okay, you think at him, soothing his erratic pulse.

When you finally separated, he kept his forehead pressed to yours, eyes boring into your soul, both hands now fully cupping your head possessively.  

“Don’t you ever fucking do that to me again little raven” he said, tone grave and serious, but you could see the underlining playfulness in his eyes.

“Well if it gets you to kiss me like that I just might have to” you replied, with your usual revel of playful snark unable to resist pushing his buttons, albeit a little breathless from the kiss.

“Keep it up and I’ll have to do a lot more then just kiss you”. A shiver ran down your spine at his words, the predatory gleam in his eye begging you to keep the attitude up. But you were still in the middle of the quidditch pitch, and you could tell by the look on his face, he was still a bit worried for you.

“Meet me later” you said, rubbing small circles on his chest reassuringly,  as your team started to usher everyone from the pitch, your kiss somehow going unnoticed amongst all the craziness of the win.

Mattheo nodded but couldn’t find it in himself to release you from his grip, he doesn’t know if he ever can.

“And thank you” your voice soft, eyes tender and earnest “Thank you for trying to catch me”.

Author's Note

AHHHH If you made it this far I really hoped you enjoyed, thank you for bearing with the spelling gramma/mistakes! Much love my dears!

I also wanted to tag one of my favourite writers, the amazing @viperify, if you haven't checked out their work do yourself a favour and take a gander!! Absolutely heart and pussy thobbing stuff 10/10

Also this is intellectual property of @thatonecomfyjumper please do not copy, translate, or claim works as your own.

Darkness enveloped your sight, jumbled smells of sweat, cologne, and a resinous scent of pine that overfilled your senses. A silky cloth band wrapped around your head, tight enough from slipping off, but it held no comparison to the abuse from your behind.

Rhythmic slaps against your ass, vibrating you forward, cheeks pressed on the pillow as lengthy veins caressed your insides, tip hitting your cervix for every contact that slapped against the other’s pelvis.

For the past week, you have gone on several dates with guys who handsomely approached you through an online dating app, or sometimes the occasional bar hookup. Each and every date ended up in a one-night stand, but you had to admit, all of them knew how to fuck. You came out the next day with shaking thighs and hickeys all overs.

You didn’t care who it was, you just needed someone to shove a dick far up your ass to make you forget about your ex. Just last month he had been going on and on about the things you should wear and the guys you shouldn’t see, you felt choked within your own body; the man you called your boyfriend marked you as his and did not dare to let anyone bare their eyes to witness what belonged to him.

The moment you set yourself free from his clutches, you immediately went to wash your body of any remains of him, drinking at every second of the night, showing up to parties in a sparkly piece of cloth, and banging with any man that had enough balls to slither their hands around your waist.

The man behind you, ruining your ass with pierced marks, was someone you met online, a kind looking guy who knew how to tidy himself up, nicely combed blonde hair and a gaze that you found relatively hard to look away from.

Throughout the entirety of the morning he was the definition of a gentleman, and always paid good attention to your wants during your walk in the park. When it came down to the final moment and invited him into your home, clothes hurriedly scrambled off your bodies as one another tangled into a devouring make-out.

You didn’t expect for him to take absolute control of your body, knowing all the right buttons to click, getting you to arch against his chest, screaming his name over and over again, tears seeping through the silky blindfold. Thin slender fingertips fondling your tits, pinching the sensitive nipple as his teeth nipped at the crook of your neck.

It was a sensory overload, and your skin tingled, insides twitching for every unexpected touch to your heated skin.

“Fuuuck. God, you feel so good, sweetheart. Missed this pussy…” His voice stuttered and groaned as your cunt pulsed around his shaft, squeezing him whole. But your moans choked at your throat, the pet-name resonating in your mind, this wasn’t the first time you heard that endearment before. And this was your first meet-up, how could he…

The man’s abuse to your insides did not waver, chasing for his release, his hands dipped to your swollen clit, rubbing it in fast circles, thrusting into your hole to jolt every nerve of your body.

This guy’s voice was different, his body and looks were nothing like his… But the way he muffled his moans in your neck, the words that tumbled from his throat, it reminded you of…

“Mattheo!” Calling his name with a whimper, nails bunching the sheets, his pace didn’t stop, only quickening after he heard the name of another.

Suddenly, deep guttural chuckle sounded from behind you, a hand crawled up your spine, gripping your hair, forcing your skull towards him, back bending painfully as he whispers into your ear drums.

“Miss me, babe?” His voice morphed into something else for every letter he pronounced, his hand in your hair, the digits at your clit, and pussy sleeving his cock all began to change in size.

Muscles stretching as his girth grew, you cried out at the painful pleasure, the new sensations were all too familiar; the calloused and unforgiving fingers that were rough against your little bud, pulsing at the changes inside you, it could only belong to Mattheo.

“F-Fuck, you psycho—ahh!!” Yelp at the smack to your ass, skin rippling after the impact.

“Watch your mouth, fucking whore.”

“Thought you could get away from me, huh?” Continuing his thrusts inside your twitching pussy, ignoring your cries for him to stop, nails clawing into the pillow while drool spilled from your agape lips.

“Please! Stop!” Mewling with pathetic tears in your eyes, feeling the knot inside you threaten to break, the filthy squelching from your own muscle being impaled by the man you swore to never go back to triggered a realization.

You never left him, every man that you invited to your bed, the way they held your form, their attentiveness to everything you liked despite meeting for the first time, stretching you out deliciously as they groaned out curses.

It was all like Mattheo, so much in fact you don’t know how you didn’t realize until now.

Your climax crashed without permission, screaming his name till your voice bled from your lips, a wash of white creamy spent colouring your insides when he released your hair.

Giving your ass a final smack before removing his cock from your spasming cunt, legs shaking from the previous attacks of his hips.

You could finally see when the cursed cloth was removed from your eyes, light flowing into your sight, adapting to the view to see a predatory smirk on the man before you.

“Never think you can run from me, love. You’re all mine.” Light pats to the side of your exhausted tear stricken face, breath panting as it burns through your expanding lungs.

You could never run from him, even if you were in hell he would be there, wherever you traversed along this world, he knew you like the back of his hand, and that might have been the only reason why you could never run away.

yuna's voice mail ─ I had to repost the fic again, because it did not appear in it's respected tags. This was originally going to be longer, but it ended up shorter then I planned. Maybe I'll do a part 2 or a more detailed version of this fic. If you guys have any thoughts on this AU feel free to yap in my inbox <3

Clop-clop, clop-clop…

A single horse carried a wooden cart filled with cloth covered barrels. You were sat at the coachman's seat right beside your master, Dr. Tom Riddle. Well, master wasn’t the right word; you weren’t his assistant nor were you a slave of any kind. You were simply his patient, one that required to be by his side at all times in order to receive your medication.

Without him, you wouldn’t know what to do, you had no where else to get treatment—and it was strictly forbidden to tell anyone in the village about your condition, otherwise they could possibly banish you from the town; you weren’t quite sure why they would go to such lengths, however, Dr. Riddle assured you that the townspeople would not take your illness kindly.

So, for the sake of your health and family, you had always ran to the doctor for healing; he never failed to do so each time, the everlasting pains would disappear right after his almost daily treatments. Which is why it was from your unwavering loyalty did you decide to refer to him as your master; no other human being within the country could ever heal you back to a hale and hearty physique quite like the doctor could.

Dr. Riddle was a man of few words, he only spoke when it was necessary, and when he uttered the occasional interjection, it was only the truth, whether it hurt the other party’s pride or not. And his appearance certainly wasn’t the most gentle. From the knee-high boots that clad his ankles to his broad shoulders, everything was covered by the long midnight hued coat he adorned whenever he was in the presence of other beings. And his face was always concealed with that awfully long crow-like mask, never have you even set sight on the skin of his chin.

However, let it be known that his odor was rather pleasant, a fragrance that whiffed across your nose whenever you were beside him, one that held contrast to the current surrounding smell of urinated puddles from horses of standby wagons. It was thanks to the bundles of lavender, mint and many other herbs that were confined within his beak—he once told you that these plants would protect him from disease and harm. And so this smell could only remind you of Dr. Riddle; out of the many men that you knew from your village, the doctor was the only one who possessed the most agreeable scent.

After sometime you even began to associate Dr. Riddle to that as noble as a saint. He gave his time to the ill without payment of any sort, but the townspeople never left him empty handed, they were always so eager to compensate him for his generous aids to the town.

He was a very patient man and you admired him for it; even as you stare at the cold metal of his beak, your gaze held the same adoration to that of a hero.

One would claim you to be obsessed, too loyal to a man that many knew nothing of; your parents warned you to keep your distance from the beaked doctor; after all, he appeared suddenly when a short epidemic broke out within a nearby hamlet.

Days later, word spread faster than any plague, everyone and their mother knew of the doctor with a beak, the healer that was akin to a priest; despite not being a true doctor many townsfolk had begun to see him as one, calling upon him when they acquired even a breathe of illness.

You adored him, you would follow Dr. Riddle everywhere even if you were void of any sort of disease; it was then when you awoke from your trance of thought when said admired doctor cleared his throat. “Where has your mind gone, young miss?”

A sharp inhale struck your lungs like a winter’s day—if there was one thing you could never get adjusted to, it was the low hum of his voice that chilled down your spine, a weird feeling that came to you whenever he woke you from your befuddled thoughts.

Despite his intimidating appearance, you were never afraid of him, but that is what confused you; if you weren’t scared of the doctor, why did your knees buckle when he approached closer, only an inch dividing the two of you. Why did your heart escalate when he only asked about your well-being, the vibrations of his voice echoing in the drums of your ears.

It was during these moments that your illness surfaced, tingles in the organ between your thighs; and now, every jump of the wagon hitting potholes in the unpaved dirt road added to the pressure you felt, legs pressed together as you answered the doctor with a strained smile, “forgive me, Master Riddle. I had simply thought about how kind the farmer was to supply us with these many herbal medicines,” gesturing towards the several cloth covered barrels filled with a collection of both fresh and dried greenery.

The aching inside you began to increase, the sound of a thoughtful hum filled your hearing, was he saying something else? You could barely tell from the dull throbbing distracting your mind; you couldn’t mention what was happening to you at this very moment, there was obviously no treatment room within sight, and it would be selfish to burden the doctor’s thoughts of the constant change in your condition.

How foolish of you to think he doesn’t already know of your current predicament, the shift in your position, the unsteadiness of your legs as they fidgeted under your beige gown, it was all noticeable signs that Tom could decipher within a matter of seconds.

He knew of your consideration to others, always putting yourself behind in order to avoid delaying his tasks; yet he had told you repeatedly to inform him when the “tingles and aches” began, so he could cure you for the day.

But for the moment, it was enjoyable to watch you squirm under his gaze, ass swaying uncomfortably on the hard wooden seat, hands pressed in a grip as your knuckles turned white; he’d leave you in your pitiful state, just for awhile longer, until you cried for his help. Begged for it in that sweet euphonious voice, whining for his healing touch to cease the pain within you.

What felt like hours on the rickety road in endless suffering was only twenty-five minutes, you hoped to wait until your next destination, however you could feel your condition worsen as each second passed, and you worried how bad it may get by the time you finally arrived.

You tugged at the elbow of your dear master’s coat till he finally faced you, staring at your soft features, cheeks flushed with embarrassment and air lingering in your chest, you were unable to look him directly in the eyes of his mask. “Master Riddle…” Squeaking his name in such an alluring voice, while your left hand gripped onto the cloth of your wrinkled skirt.

“What is it, my dear?” His concerned words had you feeling guilty for voicing your worries, how could you add more work on his shoulders, especially when he was expected to tirelessly heal the elderly and young at the next village.

Before you could spiral into more guilt ridden thoughts, the wagon began to slow down, the doctor had pulled the horse to a halt, his attention now centered on you.

“What is wrong, are you hurt?” His voice laced with absolute worry, but behind that dark honeyed voice was a man with sadistic desires, scanning your features under his mask, sight lingering at the way those gorgeous breasts grew in every inhale.

You shook your head, “I am sorry, Master… The pain has begun once again and it is unbearable!” Dear god, how he loved it when you called him that… He simply clasped your little finger tips that pinched his coat in large leather covered hand, “you’re experiencing the same pains once again, hm?” One hand slipped under the skirt of your dress, sliding over the pantalette as he tantalized your pudgy wet folds through the open crotch. “Hurts right here, does it?”

Oh, how innocent you were, gasping for air the moment, rough materials of his digits stroked the sensitive skin, eyes rolling to the back, your usual gentle touch was replaced with a trembling grip on his wrist, you could barely manage a nod to his question.

“Oh, my dear… You must have been suffering for quite some time,” his sugarcoated words pitied your situation, but what was he if not a kind doctor, “we mustn’t dawdle, you should undergo treatment right away.”

“But, Dr. Riddle-!” your sweet soul couldn’t begin to finish your protests when a single large leathery finger entered your succulent heat, mouth agape, moans choked at your throat as you hid your face in his cloak; little whimpers of his title dripping from your lips.

“There is cover in the forests, we may treat you there,” low whispers that granted you the mercy of his healing, shouldn’t you be grateful and accept his generous offer? It would be rude to deny his kindness, so you simply nodded weakly from your place beside him. You felt empty the moment he retracted his finger from the muscle, the underlying pains still persisting, but he wouldn’t leave you suffering for long.

In a single swift lift of his arms, he picked you up from your seat and stepped down from the cart. Carrying you with ease to a tree that was right beside the road—wait, was he planning to treat you right there?! It was practically in the open, the tree was just large enough to cover the span of his silhouette, if someone were curious enough, they could view the entire spectacle of Dr. Riddle’s medical procedure!

You hadn’t the time to ask the doctor to reconsider, when he set you next to the trunk. Without a second to waste, the waves of your skirt were strategically pushed to the top of your waist, your plain wool pantalette was now revealed to the chill wind of the forests. Quickly getting hold of the cloth and held them well to prevent it from getting in the way of the doctor’s process.

Anxiously waiting for the moment to come as he undid the decorated metal belt around his trousers, slipping his length out of the confinement of his undergarments; oh how it wasn’t incredibly long, but what it lacked in length, came through in width, the thickness of his cock was dressed with many veins along his girth; the stretch was painful in the beginning of every session, but you recently began to get accustomed to him.

You must have gotten lost thought as you gawked at his size, because your thoughts were stirred when he relieved a breathy chuckle to your dazed expression. “My dear, what thoughts might be plaguing you at this very moment?” the aches within you worsened at every vibration of his voice, the metal of his beak chilling your neck as your breasts heaved with each breathe.

The bare mushroom head of his length met the skin under your belly as his entire body towered over you like a dark shadow. Suddenly, gloved hands lifted your right knee to allow him access to your sore waiting entrance.

This position was rather new to you, during any treatment with Dr. Tom, he would lay you on the comforts of a bed and begin the process, however you didn’t know what to do in this situation; as you overfilled your little head with questions, Tom had lifted your entire body above the ground; and in an alarmed instinct you wrapped your legs around his waist to regain hold in this sudden change in posture, meanwhile your delicate palms rested at his shoulders.

“Oh my-!” you exclaimed quite loudly for the woods to hear.

“You must be quiet. Do you understand, little mouse? It is not right for a man within my profession to perform a medical procedure in the open.” He had to make it clear that this wasn’t appropriate, medical treatment inside the woods? It was uncalled for. So you would be an understanding patient and keep your sex-filled moans to a minimum while he abuses the walls of your delicious cunt.

Before you could reassure the doctor that you would keep your voice down, he entered the warmness inside you with precision, you were already dressed with so much arousal, immediately sucking him in at first contact. The stretching pains of his thick girth was there as always, your head flew back on the wooden support behind you, fighting every urge to release the threatening noises within your chest, lips bitten shut as he intruded your heat.

Plush thighs now adorned with pierced red marks as his veins caressed the sponge of your delectable pussy. In and out at a practiced motion, the sounds of squelches and skin slapping fouled the beauty of the forest, a vulgar act being conducted under the veil of nature.

Every thrust sent vibrations through your body, hair bun and blushing bosom bounced with each impact. Soft walls clenched around him as shining tears pricked at your lashes, staining your red apple cheeks. Darling you, unaware of his corruption to your innocence, your body entirely his as he turned you into his pet. At every plap, a guttural moan fell to your ears, cock drilling into his favourite toy as it tried to milk him dry.

Yet you don’t even know, oh dear god, how you felt guilty for putting your master in discomfort, the sounds of his pain echoing through your body, however, you felt almost pleased to hear him sound so human, so natural, like he too could feel emotions and pain. It was only during your treatment did you hear a voice that wasn’t monotone or quiet judgment, he was loud and full of emotion, he shook every part of you, releasing noises from deep within his chest.

His moans clouded your mind when Dr. Riddle surprised you with a sudden slam of his hips. Tip of his cock kissing your core, pounding into you at dizzying speeds; pulling out completely only to shut your hole full to the hilt. The sudden pace had waves of pleasure surge all over you, nails piercing his shoulders, sensual noises spilling into his ears as you could no longer bite back the wanton moans that screamed from you, lips now leaking blood from the abuse of your teeth. “Aaaah! ‘s too much!” “Doctor! Doctor, pleaaase!” Everything moved all at once, your vision, strange sensations coursing through your body, saliva dripping down your chin, and the large extension of his body protruding into you every half a second, it was all too much. “It was you who—plap—begged to be fixed—plap—you will take it without complaint.”

It enraged his cock with excitement, fucking you senseless under the eyes of nature, thoughts of someone catching the both of you in this disgraceful act infested his mind. He’d love nothing more than for word to spread all over many towns of how you were the doctors favourite slut, his personal scarlet woman. You would have no other choice to find refuge within his abode, all to him, nowhere else to escape.

Blinded by pleasure and the believed innocence of this act, unassuming of his intentions or perverted mind, you cried into his shoulders, your folds met his pubic hair with every smack, not for a moment did his rhythm halt or even slow; your vision blurred, thoughts scrambled as a weird pooling feeling overfilled the pit of your stomach, you became familiar with this strange sensation only after you met the doctor, according to him it meant you were very close to being cured for the day, and in just some time you would feel much better than before.

Your breathes grew irregular as you hid yourself in the crook of his neck, body jolting with each thrust, Tom pressed you against the tree to establish a better hold, his bulbous head aiming at your cervix each and every time, you could feel a knot inside you tightening by the second, and it did no better than to increase the volume of your screams, crying into the neck of his coat, drool dripping from your tongue, wetting the cloth at every noise.

“You love it, do you not? Won’t you—nghh!—thank your master for relieving you of your illness?” he filthed your mouth with words you hadn’t even uttered, but to his bidding you cried and whined the exact phrases he craved to hear.

“Aaaaah-hh, love it! I-I love it ‘sho much, ma-master!- Aaaaah!” Thrusts breaking your sentences into lust-full moans, “thank you! thank you—ah!—thank you!” chanting your gratitude for him over and over again, till you could no longer feel the voice within your pipe.

A few more impales filled your abused pussy and broke the knot inside you, a wave of ecstasy vibrated as your orgasm crashed over you in an instant, screams rising from your tortured vocals.

Your wondrous cream surrounded his cock in warmth, he pulled in and out of you to gaze at the stretch of your release, it was divine, it was delectable, he wanted to devour you whole, keep you away from all prying eyes, no man… No. No human should see you, an angel, unfold under them—it was for the eyes of your master only.

After coming down from your immense relief of pleasure, your body leaned limp, head laying at his shoulders, eyes unable to peep open. Despite the desire to sleep on your master’s comforting physique, he had to interrupt your peace.

“It isn’t the time for bed just yet, darling…” “You have yet to take your medicine.” Reminding you that it wasn’t over until you took your daily dosage. Of course, how could you forget—your master hasn’t released your precious cure yet.

He set your bare feet to the earth—slippers discarded somewhere on the dirtied ground—your body could barely carry itself, holding yourself steady by his coat. Small whines coming from below him as the droplets of your previous reaction glistened down your thighs.

"On your knees, my dear..." Breath shuddering at the loss of contact from your glossy pussy, only a minute from you, yet his cock still aching, twitching at the chill of natures breeze. "You mustn't let your medicine go to waste."

A few breathes in, you regained some energy, your head tilted towards his mask and weakly nodded a thank you for his kindness.

Finally, after the impatient waiting of his aroused soaked cock, your knees met the ground, skirt dirtying of mud and twigs.

The heat of your exhale touched his sensitive tip, shuddering at every sensation. His palm found place at the crown of your head, leading your luscious lips to him, wet eyes batting at him when you kissed the tip. You weren’t aware of how lewd your actions were, meeting his bare skin with your lips, knees to the floor, like it was a normal ritual, simply staring at him as a question to move forward with the process, allowing you to engulf him whole in your hot slimy mouth.

Unknowing of the truth behind your actions, petite hands wrapped around his base, just as you were instructed in the past, nice slow strokes of your palm while taking the rest of what you could past your red plump lips.

Languid licks from the roughness of your wet tongue brushed across his fat tip, the flavor of salty bitter precum staining your taste buds. In the beginning, you cringed at the taste of your medication, but dose after dose, you relished in the tang of his white stringy liquid, even chasing it the moment he leaked inside your mouth.

Cheek hallowing at every suck to his slit, your wet hot muscle circling around the throbbing veins. Bobbing your head to take in more of him down your throat—you only followed your master’s orders, completing each step to prepare his organ, so it releases the remedy for your illness. This was all part of the process, you knew that like the pretty little lamb you were; never questioning your master’s instructions, choking on his fat cock because it was good for you. Large amounts of saliva collecting under your tongue, stretching down his length, glistening around the redness.

“Haah… Good-good girl- you’re my good girl, aren’t you?” Rutting into your wet hole, digging his head deeper into your throat. With the inability to speak with a full mouth, your words were rendered to wet muffled noises as you gagged, his cock pushing well past the back of your tongue. Your mouth felt so good, so hot, fuck he was obsessed. Addicted to you. He needs more. And more. And-

The alarming sounds of another wagon could be heard from not too far from where Tom stood. In a haste, he shoved your body to the wall of the tree, mouth still stuffed with him. He pushed himself deeper inside, you began to choke, nails piercing his thighs, attempting to breathe from your nose, filling your lungs with the scent of spit and moss.

“Shhh… Stay quiet.” Sharply warning you from making any noise, otherwise outsiders could catch you in the act.

Strings of your bun snatched onto the crevices of the tree trunk behind, chubby tears spreading down your face as the aching in your jaw increased from holding him inside for so long, the meat of his dick hitting the back of your mouth.

Constantly patting his thighs, begging him to release you from this position, but he saw this as an opportunity, just as the wagon was in his line of sight, he demanded that you continue, “hurry along, my dear, we’ve wasted enough time as is.”

You were choking on his length, there wasn’t more you could do. You were practically useless at that point, unable to even swallow the globs of spit that spilled onto his skin, dripping to the floor.

Several horse shoes clapping against the dirt road became louder as it drew near, but the hand in your hair told you to hurry.

Muscles contracting whilst your tongue swirled around his impatient cock. Deep moans from above you vibrated all the way to the ground, he began pistoning into your sore mouth, a grip of hair keeping you in place as he fucked into his favourite cum-dump. The men passing by were no matter, they could barely hear the deeds happening in the woods due to the obnoxiously loud conversations they were having, however Tom enjoyed putting you in this situation, gives him all the more reason to keep your little lips shut and compliant.

Each thrust smacking the back of your aching esophagus, trying to breathe from your nostrils as fat tears streamed down your face, gagging on his size. “God… You will swallow all of it, do you understand me? Fuck—fuck! Better drink all of what I bloody give you.”

Few jerks later, spurts and ropes of his seed painted the walls of your muscular tube, massive volumes of salty bitter cum released inside you, flowing down as your frantically attempted to swallow it.

Finally released from his hold, your chest heaved raggedly, desperate pants, lungs burning from long emptiness. Harsh coughs scratched your throat, trying to regain air as you wheezed to the ground.

The sounds of clinks and buttoning from above prompted you to cease your exaggerated act, “If you are finished, we must be moving along now.” Long swift strides sauntered past you, as though the other had not been genuinely choking on the remnants of saliva and her remedy. Alas, it was your fault to begin with, making the poor sir stop to fix you to be as right as rain, his reaction was only natural.

You quite hurriedly stood from your place to run bare-footed after Dr. Riddle, shortness of breath still evident, however you could not leave him waiting, already wasting far too much of his precious time. “Forgive me–hah!—Dr. Riddle! I am here!”

He so generously lent you a hand, steadying your frame while you climbed to the seat. The man you held so dear found place right beside you, taking hold of the reins in the same hands that bared your entire weight, still lightly dampened from previous activities.

In spite of the choking matter—one that you thought nothing of—a rush of giddiness took over you, how your master would aid you even during the most unconventional moments. Perhaps he cared for you like no other patient, after all, you had never seen him go out of his way to treat one outside the roof of their own home.

Oh, my dear… you were blinded by innocence and ignorance; unsuspecting of the man to your right. How you could not realize the way he had manipulated your mind, instilling a belief that you were destined to be at his side; that your cure was within him, and to exploit said illness in your core, one had to invade the insides of your body, to stretch it whole with the hardened length at his disposal—but of course only with your master’s body could you be healed, it could only be him, always him.

ari's voice mail ୨ৎ I spent a loooot of time working on thiss one. This AU will be an official one in my character au list! This was an idea i had for so long and with kinktober being here, it felt like the best time to introduce him. I hope you enjoyed it! Skull-Web Divider by @viperify The divider used here is recoloured. Original colours are cherry red (webs/spider), bone white (skulls), and black (bats).

Riddle had formed an attachment to you by pure accident. He hadn’t even looked your way once when, in the fifth year, the two of you were paired up for prefect patrols. He peripherally registered that you were beautiful, but he didn’t spend much time with thoughts like these generally, just kept them in mind. Beautiful girls could have a lot of influence without realising it, he’d found, so he maintained polite relationships with a few, just in case he should need them for something. It started that way with you, too; he had been polite so that your patrols together could be tolerable, and if he sorely needed a favour from you some day, you may be suggestible to it. Yet, you had surprised him. Initially having dismissed you as nothing but a pretty face, he’d been incredibly surprised to learn you were an excellent healer, talented far beyond your years. The two of you had come across a few second years at the edge of the forbidden forest, one of whom had been badly injured by some vicious magical plant he hadn’t seen in the dark of the night. You had been able to cast some healing charms and use some nearby magical plants to keep the boy stable until Riddle could fetch the matron from the hospital wing to take over. The matron had complimented you profusely, implying that your ability with the spells had saved the boy's life. Riddle’s opinion of you shifted immediately; you were a valuable person to know if he ever found himself in trouble. As the two of you continued your patrol, he subtly questioned you about the display he had just seen. You explained that you were fascinated with all types of healing magic, teaching yourself in your free time and researching ferociously. 

From that day onward, Riddle formed an odd fascination with you. Despite him seeing healing magic as a soft subject, he couldn’t deny that no one in Hogwarts, other than himself, was able to teach themself such high-level magic. You were clearly dedicated, and unfortunately, healing was incredibly necessary in his future plans. As the years passed and his ambitions formed, he increasingly pictured you there by his side, healing him as he explored the darkest magic, perhaps providing your services to his Knights, but primarily for him. After that day, the two of you had begun discussing magic and potions during your patrols, building a camaraderie that Riddle had with no one else. You would even listen to his discoveries regarding dark magic, though he posed it as wondering how you might heal someone from such spells. He didn’t know if you were oblivious or just willing to turn a blind eye, but you were always willing to indulge these discussions, often returning to him with research on the topic you’d done in your own time, fascinated by the challenge of healing people from such obscure dark magic. 

Although he resented the word, the two of you were undoubtedly friends. He had started to realise his attachment to you had grown out of hand, frequently finding himself distracted by the flush of your cheeks or the curve of your lips as the two of you spoke. He was not easily distracted. Graduation was rapidly approaching, meaning his access to you would likely end. He was sure you would write to him, sentimental as you were, but he needed more than that. You were the only person he trusted to heal him if anything were to go wrong with his plans. Yet, he knew he could not simply come out and ask you to come live with him after graduation. The two of you were not that close; he had seen to that himself, hoping the hold you had over him would disappear with a little distance. It had not, in fact, the longer he was apart from you, the more irritable he felt. 

So, slowly, he began spending more time with you. Finding you in the library and sitting down beside you without a word, drawing you away from your friends on Hogsmeade trips with the promise of interesting books to show you, then plying you with coffee and cake to stay with him rather than return to your friends. As exams approach, he invites you to study with him in his dorm for some peace and quiet, as the library is getting busier each passing day. His single dorm, courtesy of his role as Head Boy, gives him a great opportunity to get you accustomed to his presence in close quarters. You spread out to study on his bed, surrounded by his scent as he sits at the desk, smug, because lately you’ve been asking him if you can come here, rather than him inviting you. He would subtly suggest that he’d heard your friends making cruel remarks about you on occasion, thrilled when it worked as planned, and you withdrew from them, coming to spend even more time with him.

The creation of his first Horcrux had been an accident. He had planned to start the process after graduation, intending to seek out his Muggle father and grandparents. But fate had different plans. Every few weeks, he went to check on the Basilisk that resided in the Chamber of Secrets under the school, keeping her fed and loyal until he intended to utilise her sometime after graduation. One evening, upon returning from the Chamber, he noticed that he had himself a witness, Myrtle Warren, who immediately began shrieking. He hadn’t even meant to do it, panicking and speaking parseltongue, unleashing the basilisk onto the girl, who quickly went quiet. He only realised what had happened when he saw a part of his soul split from his body, looking for an object in which to settle. He scrambled; he hadn’t intended for this to happen so early, but he had to make sure he didn’t damage his soul by leaving it without a vessel for too long. He had very little with him, but in his bag, he found a necklace he had been planning to gift to you as a birthday present. He’d been carrying it around since he bought it so that you wouldn’t find it prematurely. Running out of time, he directed the shard of his soul into the necklace. 

Only that night, safely hidden now in his room, did he consider what gifting you this necklace might mean. He found he liked the idea of you carrying around a piece of him a little too much, like he was staking a claim. His soul’s constant presence was likely to make you feel even more connected to him, and him to you. The gift of a necklace from Riddle surprised you, but you were drawn to it, admiring it and quickly putting it on, him moving your hair aside and clasping it around your neck for you. He’d told you it looked beautiful on you and you had blushed deeply.

The necklace had unexpected effects on you, the dark magic radiating from it affecting you, making you irritable with others and causing you to want to withdraw socially, amplifying some of your worst impulses. Riddle didn’t mind so much; it was achieving many of his plans for him. The fear caused by the death at Hogwarts, along with the influence of the Horcrux at your neck, had you gravitating toward Riddle more and more to feel safe and calm, convinced nothing bad could happen to you with him there to protect you. Riddle accepts your presence with open arms, glad to get to keep a close eye on both you and the necklace. He has impressed upon you many times to never take off the necklace and to keep it safe, and you had kept your word so far, but he preferred to keep an eye just in case. He subtly reinforced your feelings, telling you that you would always be safe with him, and that you couldn’t trust anybody else, as no one knew how Myrtle had died. 

Finally, with the perfect storm of his manipulation, the effect of the Horcrux and the fear he had inadvertently awakened throughout the school, he was able to convince you to stay the night with him in his room. He may have had one of his Knight’s frighten you on your walk back from his room last night, but no matter what he’d done to get here, he finally had you where he wanted you, wanting to spend all your time, even your most vulnerable, with him. 

You’d brought a small overnight bag on patrol with you, clinging to Riddle’s arm as the two of you did your rounds, afraid. Riddle almost felt bad for you, but mostly, he just felt a dark satisfaction creeping through him at your reliance on him for a sense of safety. He knew you were in no real danger; he was the threat, and he would never harm you… not physically anyway. He only wanted what was best for you, and by the time his plans came to fruition, the safest place for you would undoubtedly be under his protection. Not to mention how much your presence could benefit his cause and how much he needed to have you close by so he could watch over you and his soul that you took such good care of. He felt a sense of warmth each time you fiddled with the necklace at your neck, as if you were touching his soul. If it had been anyone else, the feeling would have undoubtedly been invasive, repulsive even, but as it was you, he merely felt a little aroused.

As soon as the two of you could feasibly be considered done with your patrol, you dashed off to his Head Boy dorm, making sure not to be caught. Once inside, Riddle wanted to pounce on you, your constant fiddling with the necklace having filled him with need, but he knew he had to wait, taking a calming breath. He couldn’t afford to scare you off, not yet, while you still had places to run and people to seek comfort in. He had to be gentle, romantic even, and you were the only person in the world for whom he was willing to pretend. Besides, he had a plan for tonight that he couldn’t ruin by acting too early. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ear, looking down at you.

“The door is locked, darling, no one can get in, we are safe, get yourself ready for bed,” he murmurs in his best attempt at reassurance. His hand trails featherlight to the necklace at your neck, then withdraws. He’d been touchier these last few weeks, getting you gradually used to him, so you don’t flinch despite the intimate touch, merely nodding nervously and heading into the attached toilet. You unpack your small bag, brushing your teeth, washing your face and securing your hair before changing into your nightgown. You blush as you look at yourself in the mirror. You had intentionally packed your shortest nightgown, but now that you were actually here with Riddle, your confidence was faltering. Still, you had nothing else with you, so you crept out into his room and slid into the bed shyly. Riddle’s eyes fix on you curiously, the necklace around your neck running hot as he looks at you. Still trying not to frighten you, he slowly heads into the bathroom, getting himself ready for bed. As he brushes his teeth, he hears distant thunder, smirking to himself. He knew you were quite jumpy, especially lately, so this would give him the perfect opportunity to make you feel safe and secure. 

Once he joins you in the bed once more, you’re already trembling nervously, jumping at each thunder clap, convinced it was someone trying to break down the door, despite knowing better. He laughs at you, softly, the mocking not detectable over your intense nerves, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close, pleased when you immediately curl into his chest. 

“I’m scared,” you squeak, balling your hands into the soft material of his night shirt. He tuts gently.

“I see that, darling, you’re shaking like a little leaf,” he says, rubbing your back slightly. “But I won’t let any harm come to you, ever,” he assures, a dark current running through his voice. You whimper as thunder booms once more, hiding your face in his shoulder. Riddle feels his patience thinning slightly. You were a highly intelligent witch, yet you were so afraid of thunder, even when he had sworn to you that you’d be safe. “Do you hear me?” he asks slowly, trying not to let his annoyance show. He grabs your chin, tilting your head so you’re forced to meet his eye. “No harm will come to you so long as you’re with me, I swear to you, you have no reason to fear, do you hear me?” You nod nervously. Riddle huffs. “Words.”

“Yes… I hear you,” you stammer, clinging to him. His hand drops from your chin, fiddling with your necklace. It’s strange that he cannot feel his own touch on it, yet he is still drawn to the object all the time. “But what about–” you begin.

“No, you are safe with me,” he whispers through his teeth. “Now stop trembling, it’s ridiculous,” Riddle spots from the drop in your expression that he wasn’t meant to say that. He takes a deep breath; he isn’t well practised in this compassion thing, but he’s performing it the best he can. “I just mean that I don’t want you to feel frightened, darling,” he says as softly as he can, pressing a kiss to your hair. This seems to placate you a little. He rubs your side gently, feeling the shape of your body beneath his hand. The feeling of arousal from earlier wakes up within him as he touches your body freely for the first time. And you aren’t stopping him, just looking up at him as he touches you, your trembling subsiding and changing shape into excitement. He can sense it too, and he figures it's time for him to act. “Let me relax you, show you there’s nothing to worry about when I’m around,” he husks, pressing his lips to your temple, just needing to feel your bare flesh beneath his lips somehow. His hand sneaks down to your thigh, settling below the hem of your nightgown. “Would you like that?” When you nod, he huffs. “Words,” he repeats, his voice tight. 

“Yes,” you whisper, shy and apologetic, trying to focus on his hand caressing your thigh rather than the sound of thunder. 

“Was that so hard?” he tuts, pushing up the hem of your nightgown, his other arm still wrapped firmly around your waist. His hand seeks out the warmth between your legs, pressing against you through the fabric of your underwear. You jolt, not having expected things to escalate so quickly “Focus on me,” he reminds you harshly as your eyes flick to the window at a flash of lightning, rubbing against you forcefully, making you whimper. Your head spins at how fast this has escalated. Riddle’s hand spreads your thighs forcefully, then returns to rubbing at you over your underwear, his fingers swirling over the spot that makes your whole body twitch. You look up at him, not wanting him to tell you off again. His eyes are dark as he looks down at you, full of something you can’t place. As he removes your underwear, you try to lean up and kiss him, but he pulls away, shaking his head. “Not yet, darling,” he chastises, pushing your underwear down to pool at your ankles and returning his hand between your legs, rubbing at your now bare skin. He can feel the sticky arousal pooling as he rubs at your clit roughly yet pleasurably. You whimper softly at the feeling, embarrassment decorating your cheeks, yet you don’t want him to stop. Your necklace feels hot against your skin, your head spinning as Riddle begins to speak once more. “Doesn’t that feel nice? Your body certainly likes it… Only I can make you feel this way,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear, breath washing over the side of your neck.

“It feels nice,” you choke out in response, squirming a little, unable to believe how quickly you allowed him to do this. Sure, you’d been attracted to him a long time, but you had been so scared just earlier, and now your body was begging for him, like you were under the influence of something, something deeply desperate. 

“That’s a good girl,” he hums, immensely pleased with your compliance. He withdraws his hand for a moment, making you whine, looking up at him in confusion. Riddle grabs his wand from the nightstand, mumbling a few quiet words. You only get a split-second to wonder what he’s cast when you feel a soft buzzing against your clit. Your body jolts in surprise, but the feeling simply follows, making you gasp for breath. Riddle pulls down your squirming hips harshly, holding you in place as his other hand returns between your legs, two of his fingers beginning to ease inside of you without much warning. You gasp, your hips trying to thrash but being unable, the vibrating not faltering for a second. “That’s it, doesn’t that feel good?” he coos, watching his fingers disappear within you with a dark satisfaction. You are most certainly his now. You can’t respond with anything but a breathless whine, the onslaught of sensations barely letting you breathe. You feel your brain turning to mush, no longer able to form cohesive thoughts beyond his fingers pumping in and out of you and the ceaseless vibration on your most sensitive spot. Trying to ground yourself, your nails dig into his arm, a drawn-out moan of his name leaving your lips, legs closing around his arm as his fingers begin to pump faster. 

You feel yourself teetering on the precipice, not having the presence of mind to let Riddle know. Your eyes roll back, your toes curling, and your lips parting in a silent shout as the waves of pleasure go through you. You feel dizzy, your hips trying once more to withdraw from the sensations, yet being physically unable. Riddle's lips brush your ear. 

“Shhh, shhh, you’re a strong girl, I know you can handle it,” he comforts mockingly, continuing to work you through the waves of pleasure, yet not stopping even as they subside. Your whole body shakes, unable to handle the sensations, even as a warm, syrupy feeling lingers in the pit of your stomach. His fingers press against a soft spot deep within you, making you jolt. You hadn’t realised the sensations could get even more intense. You want to tell him to slow down, but something keeps you quiet, makes you lean into him instead of away and makes you feel warm when he bites your neck to leave a mark. Your mind is hazy from the vibrations, and he knows it. “You’re safe with me,” he whispers in your ear, his voice rough. “You can’t trust anyone but me. I’m all you need,” he grunts, curling his fingers against that spongy spot once more. “You don’t need anyone else, you belong with me and me alone,” he hisses, biting your neck once more. “Say it, you belong to me,” he urges, growling in annoyance when you only whimper. “Say. It.” he demands harshly, his hand on your hips slipping up into your hair, pulling it so you’re forced to look up at him. 

“I belong to you,” you choke out, squirming, too hazy to register his words properly, but vulnerable enough to digest them, just as he wants you. 

“That you do, good girl,” he growls, rewarding you for your declaration by finally pressing his lips to yours, measuredly gentle amid the onslaught of sensation between your legs. You try to follow him as he pulls away, and he tuts at you. “Only if you say it again,”

“I belong to you,” you moan, desperate for his gentleness, needing him as close as possible. He smirks, pleased that he’s got you. He grants you another gentle kiss, and another and another as you repeat your words over and over. He doesn’t tire of hearing it, especially with that desperation in your voice. His kisses, soft yet burning hot, push you to the edge once more, your hand balling into his pyjama shirt in an attempt to ground yourself again, but it’s no use. The pleasure makes you dizzy all over again, pleading with him against his lips. Your body collapses against the bed heavily; you hadn’t even realised that you’d tensed yourself off of it chasing Riddle’s lips, breathless and oversensitive. Riddle reaches for his wand, ending the vibrating spell, satisfied that you’ve been subjected to his charms enough for the night. You lay there beside him, still clearly out of sorts. He smirks down at you, rubbing your thigh as if to comfort you. 

“Alright, my darling?” he asks, knowing that he had just completely overwhelmed you. That had been his intention, and it seemed to have worked like he’d hoped, as you curl into him once more, seeking safety and comfort. He wraps his arms around you, holding you close and letting you feel protected. He was sure he would only have to do this a few more times until you would be ready to hear about his plans for you in the future. You might even be ready now, but it was better to be safe than sorry, and anyway, next time he was going to fuck you properly, have his way with you like he really wants. For that, you had to be ready. He feels you touch your necklace, and it sends a pleasant jolt through him. “What’s got you fiddling?” he asks gently.

“Just felt compelled to touch it,” you shrug, your voice hoarse and weak. He presses a kiss to your forehead. He feels the gentle, warm caresses deep in his soul.

“Touch it all you like, darling, it’s yours after all.”

︶⊹︶︶୨୧︶︶⊹︶

hey you! want to get tagged in my work when it comes out? click here! (˵ •̀ ᴗ - ˵ ) ✧

day 6. outdoor sex. masterlist link

Anywhere, any time, any place. Any position. 

After dating Tom for a few months, you’d learned to always half-expect him to pull you into a closet or behind a statue even if you were running late to class. You could probably safely say there wasn’t a place in Hogwarts you and him hadn’t done it. 

Of course, you had your favourites. You preferred his dorm, since he was a prefect and got his own single room, while he preferred the spiral staircase in the West Wing of the castle. 

And he also liked it outside. 

Oh yes, he loved it outside. There, you could scream as loud as possible and he didn’t have to worry about keeping a hand over your mouth. There, he could take you on the ground and relish the way you looked afterwards, all dirty and grimy and covered in his cum. 

He’d become particular to doing it at the most inopportune moments, though you really didn’t mind. 

Everyone knew Tom Riddle didn’t attend Quidditch games. No, while everyone was cheering on their house teams in the stands, he was in the library or studying in his dorm. So when he started attending them only to leave halfway through, it caught your attention. 

He hadn’t told you the first time he did it. You just noticed him from your seat in the crowd that he was sitting near you– close enough for you to notice him, but just far enough away he had an easy exit. He hadn’t told you he’d be coming, and it was so odd you kept your eye on him the entire time until he suddenly disappeared during a mad chase for the Snitch. 

You muttered an excuse to your friends and followed him. 

You’d left the pitch, looking around for him as you made your way to the castle, when all of a sudden a hand had grabbed you and pulled you towards the Forbidden Forest. 

The second you were safely out of sight, his mouth was on yours.

Hot and insistent, his mouth dragged down your body while his hands made a mess of you. Your fingers curled in his hair, clenching it until he groaned. The first time you came he didn’t stop moving his fingers until you forced him up to you, yanking his mouth against yours and kissing him until your lips burned. 

The second time you came he kissed you afterwards just as hard as you had last time, making you taste your own release while he threw his belt down on the ground. 

The third time was by far your favourite, feeling his hips knock against yours as he sucked his way down your neck. 

Afterwards you dropped down onto your knees, feeling the sticks and dirt press against your skin as you took him into your mouth, hearing him grunt and smack the tree he was leaning against until he filled your mouth. 

He pulled you up after he caught his breath, wiping your mouth and brushing your hair back. 

“We should get back to the Quidditch game,” he said, pulling a few leaves off of your shoulder. 

“Don’t you want to go back to your dorm instead?” you offered, to which he narrowed his eyes. 

“If you want to continue this… why not take your skirt off again?”

“Right here?” you smiled. 

“Right here,” he agreed, pulling you against him again.

You both swore black and blue that it was going to be a one-time thing, or at least – that’s what you remember agreeing to between moans as your teeth sunk into his bed sheets. Head down, ass up, skin pluming the daintiest and most humiliating shades of ever-red crimson. It was rough, it was raw, it was brute.

Tom had been walking towards the Astronomy Tower one night to break up a party after curfew – you had been walking back to your dorm tipsy and high as anything. You smiled – he scowled. You twirled a strand of hair around your fingertips – he adjusted his tie. You licked your lips – his eyes dropped to follow. You whispered that he looked stressed – he agreed with a sigh that held no weight. You offered yourself up to be used – he took advantage of the opportunity exactly as you’d expected he would.

Fifteen minutes. The whole thing lasted for a little more than fifteen minutes and by the end of it, your legs could barely carry you back to your own dorm, but hey – it was exactly what you had expected from him; nothing more, nothing less.

The perfect transaction – Tom got his release, you got your pussy ruined, no strings attached, no feelings, just heat, fuck, peace.

Or well.. it should have been the perfect transaction. For that to of occurred though, what happened behind closed doors between the two of you was meant to just be a one time thing, a one night stand, a hook up, a fling, wham bam thank you Merlin.

And yeah – it was… almost two years ago now.

Fast forward from 5th year to 7th year and this bizarre ‘agreement’ had warped into an inexplainable courtship. Not that there was romance involved – hell no, you’d both deny it if ever called out on it, but after the second, third and fourth time, you figured that this unconventional intimacy was maybe, a little more than either of you had expected.

You began keeping a journal, documenting for your own amusement every intimate meet up – how long it latest, Tom’s likes and dislikes, how he responded to pet names, what got him into a feral mood, what made him snap, the places, the risk factor, if you ever kissed, the number of times you’d orgasmed.

Two years. 24 months. 104 weeks. 730 days. 17,532 hours. That’s how long it took to get to fuck 500. Not that you were counting… ha, joking, you most definitely were.

Tonight was different. Not in what you were doing; the sex was always the same - but in the way it felt. Usually, it was just heat, release, a ruthless hunger. Tonight, it was… charged. Electric. Almost sacred rather than you just being used.

The two of you hadn’t planned on meeting up tonight. Tom was meant to be attending a Slug Club dinner and you had planned on going out to Hogsmeade for drinks with the girls, but on the way to your respective arrangements, the two of you had passed by one another in a quiet corridor – a daring look exchanged, a curl of lips, a cheeky wink - - and next thing you knew it, you had your back pressed hard against his bed, fingers tangled into his hair, his mouth swallowing your whimpers, hips rocking in unison as his touch which dragged along your waist felt lighter, almost sacred.

This was the first time that the two of you had been completely undressed. Fully exposed. Usually, it was just your panties shoved to the side or Tom’s shirt still left on. The gold glow from flickering candlelight painted the most intricate of shadows across his body, highlighting the scars on his chest you’d always noticed but never knew whether to ask about while at the same time washing over you to subtly highlight the delicacy of your curves.

“Baby..”

Just that word – oh so innocuous, so dangerous - made Tom snap his gaze up, dark eyes glinting with both irritation and hunger. His hand wrapped around your throat, both to restrain and claim you. The thrusts slowed, then paused; leaving your cunt a playground for him, just teasing, before his eyes devoured yours.

“…fuck 500.”

Tom’s smirk cracked into something forbidden, something sinful. His breathing hitched as he drank you in. Delicious.

Liar.

“Wondered how long it would take you to mention it.”

“Oh, so you’ve been keeping track now have you, Tommy?”

“Me? Never.”

Biting your lip, heat blossomed beneath your teeth, rolling into a soft, involuntary whimper.

“Make it special?”

The word slipped out before your mind could stop it. Special. Ha! The idea made you want to both laugh and shiver. Perhaps repent. Riddle intimacy wasn’t special. It was contractual. Obligational. Intimacy was sex. Sex was utility, necessity, indulgence. Romance? Not a Riddle’s style. Or at least that’s what he’d constantly remind you.

Yet Tom’s laugh – an unfamiliar, warm, throaty sound, dragged you in. Forehead resting to forehead, his hand found one of your own, fingers entwined, he pinned you down, burying his face into the crook of your neck.

“Stay the night.”

The thrusts began again and you swore you had just seen stars; your body beginning to explode around him.

The burn of his cock as it dragged between your folds and slammed back in to fill you to the hilt caused your pussy to clench at hearing that word. You must have been fucking dreaming, otherwise – perhaps the Slytherin headboy currently above you who had been using you for nothing but his own pleasure since fuck one had become…

“Excu--.”

“Stay.”

Maybe he was sick? Perhaps now was the time to ask if he could get you out of that detention Dumbledore had given you for being tardy to class 3 weeks running. Ohh, maybe you could get him to moan your name? Maybe you could get him to fess up that he liked your company more than just physically? Maybe – Maybe.

Soft?

Needy?

Tender?

Almost… human.

You were pulled from your daydream as he nipped rather playfully at your collarbone and peppered kisses up along your neck, across your jaw and pressed one ever so softly to your lips.

“Stay the night”, Tom confirmed exactly what he had meant with words and tone that were absolutely deliberate. You smiled; so did he. His big brow doe eyes were fucking entrancing. “..but in the morning, I want the best blowjob you’ve ever given a guy in your life.”

Thanks Tom.

Thanks for ruining the lustful fantasy you’d fallen within.