Pairings: James Potter x Fem!Reader, (James Potter x Lily Evans)
Summary: On the eve of James Potter’s wedding, an old flame ignites in the shadows of a dingy pub. Fueled by rage, regret, and lust, you let him take you apart one last time. It’s not love. It’s war. And you make sure he carries the bruises down the aisle.
Warnings: Hate Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Infidelity / Cheating, Morally Grey Characters, Rough Sex / Domination, Emotional Manipulation, Toxic Dynamics / Codependency, Angst / Emotional Hurt, Unprotected Sex, Possessiveness / Jealousy, Mentions of War Aftermath, Vulgar Language, No Aftercare / Cold Ending, Post-Hogwarts, Post-War.
Words: 1.4K
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The pub air clung to you, thick with the stench of cheap firewhisky and stale regret. It was a place for lost causes and broken things, and you fit right the fuck in. You threw back the last of your drink, the amber liquid burning a satisfying path down your throat. Tomorrow, James Potter would say his vows. Tomorrow, he’d belong to her forever.
The door creaked open, slicing a bar of dim light across the sticky floor. You didn’t need to look up. You felt him. The air shifted, charged with a familiar, hated electricity.
He slid onto the stool beside you, his auror robes smelling of rain and night air. “Fancy finding you here.”
“Fuck off, Potter.” Your voice was flat, a dull blade. “Shouldn’t you be polishing your halo? Or your bride?”
He laughed, a low, rough sound that grated against your nerves. “You’re drinking alone the night before my wedding. Seems a bit pathetic, even for you.”
You finally turned your head. His hair was a mess, his glasses slightly askew. The perfect golden boy looked… frayed. Good. “I’m celebrating. The Wizarding World’s most insufferable prig is finally taking himself off the market. It’s a public service.”
His gaze dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. The heat in his look was unmistakable, and it made something ugly and possessive coil in your stomach. “You’ve always been a fucking liar.”
“And you’ve always been a fucking coward.”
That did it. His hand shot out, fingers closing like a vice around your wrist. The contact was a jolt, a violent spark that travelled straight up your arm. “You think I don’t know why you’re really here?”
“I’m here for the piss-poor whisky.” You tried to pull away, but his grip tightened.
“You’re here for this.” He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that was all for you. “You’ve always been here for this. This fucked-up thing between us that you pretend to hate.”
He was right, and you hated him for it. You hated the way your body responded to his proximity, the way your breath caught seeing the frustrated desire in his eyes. This wasn’t about love. It was a war, and this was the final, brutal battle.
“Take me upstairs, Potter,” you hissed, the words tasting like ash and sin. “Or fuck off back to your perfect little witch.”
He didn’t speak. He just stood, pulling you up with him, his grip unrelenting. He tossed a handful of galleons on the bar and dragged you toward the rickety staircase in the back, past curious and disapproving stares that he ignored completely.
The room upstairs was a dismal box: a narrow bed, a single candle flickering on a bedside table, peeling wallpaper. He slammed the door shut, the sound final. He crowded you against it, his body a hard, warm line against yours.
“You want to pretend this is about hate?” he murmured, his lips a hair's breadth from yours. His breath smelled of mint and firewhisky. “Then let’s hate each other.”
His mouth crashed down on yours. It wasn’t a kiss of love or tenderness; it was a conquest. A punishment. His tongue forced its way past your lips, claiming, demanding. You bit his lower lip, not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to make him groan, a raw, hungry sound that vibrated through your entire body. Good. You wanted to mark him. You wanted to ruin him.
You clawed at his robes, pushing them from his shoulders. He did the same, his fingers fumbling with the buttons of your blouse until the fabric gave way. His hands were on you then, rough and impatient, palming your breasts through the lace of your bra. He pinched a nipple through the fabric, the sharp burst of pleasure-pain making you arch into him.
“Is this what you wanted?” he growled against your neck, his teeth scraping the sensitive skin there. “You wanted me to come find you? To do this?”
“I wanted you to admit it,” you gasped as his mouth found your breast, his tongue laving a wet circle over the peak before he took it into his mouth, sucking hard. Your head fell back against the door with a dull thud. “I wanted you to admit you’re just as fucked up as I am.”
He ripped the rest of your clothes away, his eyes dark and furious as they raked over your naked body. You did the same to him, pushing his trousers and pants down. His cock sprang free, thick and hard and already leaking. It was a vicious-looking thing, veined and curved slightly upward, the head a flushed, dark red. You wrapped your hand around it, squeezing just to hear him hiss.
He pushed you backward onto the bed, following you down, his weight pinning you. He didn’t bother with foreplay. There was no time for gentle exploration. This was a crash, a collision. He positioned himself at your entrance, and you were already soaked, your slickness coating his length as he pressed against you.
“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice ragged.
You opened your eyes, meeting his furious, lust-blown gaze.
“What would your wife think?” you taunted, your voice trembling as he pushed the broad head of his cock inside, stretching you, filling you in one excruciatingly slow, perfect inch.
A muscle feathered in his jaw.
He drove the rest of the way into you, a single, brutal thrust that stole the air from your lungs. You cried out, a broken sound, as he buried himself to the hilt. You were so fucking full, stretched taut around him. He felt bigger than you remembered, every vein and ridge a distinct torture.
He didn’t wait for you to adjust. He set a punishing rhythm, pulling out almost all the way before slamming back in, the force of it shaking the rickety bed frame. Each thrust was an accusation, each grunt from his lips a confession. You met him thrust for thrust, your nails digging into the hard muscles of his back, scoring red lines down his skin. You hoped they scarred. You hoped Lily Evans had to see them tomorrow.
“You feel that?” he grunted, his hips pistoning into you. “You feel how fucking tight you are for me? Like you were made for this. For my fucking cock.”
“It’s just a fuck, Potter,” you moaned, the lie tasting weak even to you as he angled his hips, hitting a spot deep inside that made you see stars. Your vaginal walls clenched around him, pulsing, trying to milk him.
“Liar,” he snarled, gripping your hips tighter, his fingers leaving bruises. “You love this. You love taking what’s hers.” He lowered his head, his mouth finding yours again in a sloppy, wet kiss. “Come for me. I want to feel you come all over my cock.”
The command, the raw need in his voice, undid you. Your orgasm ripped through you without warning, a violent, shuddering wave that clenched every muscle in your body. You screamed into his mouth, your back arching off the bed as your cunt spasmed around his length, drenching him in your release.
The sensation of your tight, fluttering channel pushing him over the edge. His rhythm shattered. His thrusts became wild, uncontrolled. He buried his face in your neck, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he came.
You felt it, every fucking pulse. The hot, sudden flood of his release painting your deepest parts. His cock twitched inside you, pumping jet after jet of his cum deep into your womb. It was a claiming. A violation. The most intimate thing you’d ever shared, and it was built on a foundation of pure spite. You could feel the wet heat of it, a profound, internal warmth spreading through you as his hips stuttered against yours, emptying himself completely.
He collapsed on top of you, his body heavy and slick with sweat. The only sounds were your ragged breaths and the pop of the candle wick. His spend began to seep out of you, a warm trickle against your thigh.
He shifted his weight, pulling out of you with a soft, wet sound. He looked down at where your bodies had been joined, at the evidence of what you’d done, smeared across your skin and his. His expression was unreadable.
He opened his mouth to speak, but you cut him off, your voice hoarse.
Summary: You surprise Harry at work with lunch and a very short skirt.
Warnings: Public sex, Office setting, Dirty talk, Control kink, Desk sex, Post-Hogwarts, Dominant Harry, Mild risk of being caught.
Words: 1.2K
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The stale, paper-scented air of the Ministry’s Record Retention wing was so thick you could taste it, a flavour of dust and forgotten bureaucracy. You found him exactly where you knew he would be, buried in a canyon of towering file shelves. Harry Potter, the man who saved the wizarding world, looked utterly defeated by a mountain of parchment on a rickety wooden desk.
His tie was loose, his hair even more of a wild mess than usual, and his shoulders were slumped with a tension you could feel from the doorway. He didn’t even look up, his quill scratching furiously.
“Told Robards I wasn’t to be disturbed,” he muttered, his voice a low, tired growl.
You let the heavy door thud shut. The sound finally made him glance up, irritation sharp in his green eyes. It melted away the second he saw you, replaced by a flicker of heat that had nothing to do with the stuffy room.
“You also told me to bring you lunch,” you said, holding up a paper-wrapped sandwich. “You forget to eat when you’re like this.”
“Like what?” he asked, though his gaze wasn’t on the food. It was tracing the line of your body, from your heels, up your legs, to the hem of that deliberately short skirt you’d chosen.
“Like a man trying to solve the world’s problems single-handedly before dinner.” You placed the sandwich on the one clear corner of the desk and leaned forward, your palms flat on the wood, giving him an unobstructed view down your blouse. “You need a distraction, Harry.”
His jaw tightened. His eyes darkened. Fuck, that look did things to you, unravelling you from the inside out. He stood up so slowly it was a threat, the chair legs scraping against the stone floor. He didn’t touch you. Not yet. He just walked to the door, and you heard the definitive, heavy click of the lock.
The sound was a promise.
He turned, and the man who had been drowning in paperwork was gone. In his place was him. The one who knew exactly what he wanted. He crossed the room in three long strides, his hand snaking out to sweep the entire pile of files from the desk. They fluttered to the floor in a chaotic rain of paper, a testament to how badly he needed this. Needed you.
“Turn around,” he commanded, his voice rough, stripping away the last of his professional veneer.
You obeyed, your pulse a frantic drum against your ribs. The cool, scarred wood of the desk met your palms as you bent over it. The hem of your skirt rode up, the cool air a shock against the bare skin of your thighs, your arse. You heard the clink of his belt buckle, the rasp of his zip, and then his body was covering yours, his chest warm and solid against your back.
His mouth was at your ear, his breath hot. “You walked in here looking like this, knowing what it would do to me. Knowing I’d fucking lose my mind.”
“Yes,” you breathed, the word barely audible.
One hand splayed across your stomach, holding you firmly in place against the desk. The other hooked into the flimsy lace of your knickers and pulled, not tearing them, just yanking them down to your knees in one sharp, efficient movement. The exposure was dizzying.
“The door isn’t silenced,” he growled, his lips grazing the shell of your ear. “You make a sound louder than a whisper, and I stop. Understand? You stay quiet for me.”
A thrill, sharp and electric, shot through you. Fuck. The risk of it, the sheer audacity. You managed a jerky nod.
He didn’t make you wait. There was no gentle exploring, no soft caress. He was as pent-up and desperate as you were. You felt the thick, blunt tip of his cock nudge against you, already slick with your own wanting. He was hot and hard and right there.
With a single, powerful thrust, he filled you completely, sheathing himself inside you to the hilt. A choked gasp caught in your throat, your nails digging into the wood grain. Oh god. The stretch was perfect, a breathtaking fullness that punched the air from your lungs. He stayed there for a moment, buried deep, both of you utterly still, the only sound your ragged breathing and the distant, muffled echo of footsteps passing the door.
“So fucking wet for me,” he muttered into your hair, his voice thick with a filthy sort of wonder. “You’re absolutely soaked. Did you think about this? When you put this little skirt on? Did you think about me fucking you over this desk?”
“Yes,” you whispered, the word trembling out of you.
“Good.”
He began to move then, a slow, punishing rhythm that was all power and control. Each withdrawal was a near-torturous emptiness, each drive back in a reclaiming, a possession. His grip on your hip was iron, his other hand still pinning your abdomen to the desk, holding you exactly where he wanted you. The desk creaked a steady, rhythmic protest with every one of his thrusts.
You bit down on your lip, the taste of copper sharp on your tongue, trying to stifle the moans that threatened to break free. Every sound was a violation of his rule, and the terrifying, thrilling thought of him stopping, of leaving you aching and empty, kept you silent. Pleasure coiled, tight and urgent, deep in your belly. You could feel the sweat-dampened cotton of his shirt against your back, hear the soft, ragged grunts he made with each movement. The world narrowed to this: the smell of him, of sweat and cheap Ministry soap, the feel of his relentless pace, the stifled, desperate sounds of your joining.
His pace began to falter, his thrusts growing more erratic, more frantic. Fuck, he was close. The hand on your stomach slid down, his fingers finding that perfect, aching spot between your legs. The contact was electric, a direct circuit to the core of the pleasure building inside you.
“Come for me,” he ordered, his voice a raw, husky command against your ear as his fingers worked you in tight, perfect circles. “Come around my cock. Right now. Do it quietly.”
It was the permission, the order, the exquisite friction of him inside you and his skilled fingers on you that shattered your control. Your climax ripped through you, a silent, seismic wave of pleasure that turned your bones to liquid and your vision to white static. Your internal muscles clenched around him, a rhythmic, pulsing squeeze that dragged a guttural groan from his throat.
He fucked you through it, his own control breaking. With three final, deep, grinding thrusts, he followed you over the edge, spilling himself inside you with a sharp, choked-off cry that he muffled against your shoulder. His body went rigid against yours, then heavy, as the last waves of his release shuddered through him.
For a long moment, there was only the sound of your laboured breathing, slowly returning to normal. The distant hum of the Ministry continued, oblivious. He stayed buried within you, his weight a comforting press, his forehead resting between your shoulder blades.
Finally, he softened and slipped out of you. His hand, surprisingly gentle now, smoothed your skirt back down. He turned you around to face him. His face was flushed, his eyes still blazing with a satisfied, possessive fire. He didn’t speak. He just looked at you, his gaze tracing your kiss-swollen lips, your flushed cheeks, as if memorising the sight.
Pairings: Bodyguard!James Potter x Bodyguard!Sirius Black x Bodyguard!Remus Lupin x Fem!Reader
Summary: Assigned three bodyguards after a kidnapping attempt, you rebel against their rules and sneak out. When they catch you, the punishment is harsh, humiliating—and unbearably hot.
Warnings: spanking kink, brat taming, soft dom!James/Sirius/Remus, D/s poly dynamic, discipline kink, punishment (consensual, non-sexual), over-the-lap spanking, praise & pain, reader is a spoiled brat, humiliation kink (light), pet names (baby, good girl, etc.), modern non-magical au, bodyguard!marauders, rich!reader
Words: 850
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You knew the second you saw them—leaning against the sleek black car, arms folded, expressions carved from stone—that you were in trouble.
Not “they’ll yell a bit and then forgive you” trouble.
Not even “you’re grounded for a week” trouble.
No, this was “Remus has his sleeves rolled up and James is cracking his knuckles while Sirius looks like he’s picturing you over his lap” trouble.
Which was ridiculous, because you were twenty-one, not some wayward teen.
Still, your strappy heels clicked with less confidence as you descended the party steps, and the cool autumn air did little to soothe the heat crawling up your neck.
“Get in,” James said. His voice was even, calm. That was the worst sign of all.
You opened your mouth. Closed it.
Got in the car.
They don’t speak the whole ride home. That alone is punishment. Sirius drums his fingers against the window like he’s keeping himself from exploding. Remus sits stiff beside you, jaw clenched. James drives with the same terrifying calmness he always uses when he’s past fury and into something colder.
You’re not used to cold from them. You’re used to warm—too warm, three smothering bodies and far too many hands that dote and discipline in equal measure. They spoil you, they always do. James brings you iced coffee in the morning. Sirius helps pick your outfits. Remus reads to you when you can’t sleep.
But tonight, it seems, you’ve crossed the line even their spoiling can’t erase.
When the front door slams shut behind you, you try for a laugh.
“I mean, you’ve gotta admit—I looked hot tonight.”
Silence.
Then James turns to you slowly, eyes sharp behind his glasses. “You could’ve been killed tonight.”
Sirius tosses your purse on the counter with a thud. “Or taken. Again.”
Remus walks up behind you, hands settling on your shoulders. Not to comfort. To hold you in place.
“You think we’re here to entertain you?” he murmurs. “You think we’re just eye candy for your amusement?”
Your throat tightens. “No. I—”
James steps forward, invading your space. “You were told. No unapproved events. And you lied.”
You hate how your stomach flips. How the fire of guilt burns under your skin… and how shamefully hot it makes you to be the center of their attention like this.
“I’m sorry,” you mumble.
“You’re sorry,” Sirius mocks, sauntering over. “No, sweetheart. You’re sorry when you knock over a drink. You’re bratty when you sneak out in a micro-skirt and ignore your security protocols.”
“I was safe!” you snap.
James raises a brow. “That skirt had you one bent-over-couch away from a crime scene.”
That earns a chuckle from Sirius. Even Remus smirks. But then his grip on your shoulders tightens just slightly.
“You wanted to act like a brat?” James says, tone dropping low. “Fine. We’ll treat you like one.”
Your heart leaps straight into your throat.
“Upstairs,” Remus says, already steering you toward the hall. “Skirt stays on.”
Your legs are jelly. Your mouth, dry. You half-expect them to change their minds—but they don’t.
The bedroom is dim, lit by soft amber lamps. Your knees hit the bed before you can second-guess it, and Remus is guiding you down, across his lap. He sits at the edge of the mattress, one strong arm curling around your waist, the other sliding your skirt up your hips in one humiliating sweep.
“Oh look,” Sirius purrs from behind you. “She wore the pink one. Our favorite.”
Your thong is barely a strip of lace. You let out a mortified squeak and try to twist, but Remus simply holds you tighter.
“Mm-mm,” he hums. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it, baby?”
James stands in front of you, tilting your chin up so you’re forced to meet his gaze.
“Count for us.”
“What—?”
The first smack lands before you can finish. Hard, perfect, right on the curve of your ass.
“One,” you gasp.
Another. This one from Sirius, you think, based on the way it stings sharper.
“Two.”
Remus is steady, patient, taking his time with each spank, alternating cheeks, letting the heat build until you’re squirming and gasping and clutching at the sheets.
They take turns, all three of them—James brushing your hair out of your face, Sirius whispering filthy praise in your ear while his palm punishes your skin, Remus anchoring you against his thigh, murmuring soft, cruel nothings about how pretty you look when you’re ashamed.
“Such a spoiled little thing,” Sirius says. “Too rich to follow rules.”
“Maybe next time she’ll remember who she belongs to,” Remus adds, giving you a particularly sharp slap.
By the time you reach twenty, your voice is breathless. Your thighs are trembling. Your eyes are wet, but not from pain. Not really.
“You still think you don’t need us?” James asks, leaning down so his nose brushes yours.
You shake your head frantically. “No. I need you.”
“Good girl,” Sirius praises, brushing his hand over your heated skin.
Summary: Unloved at home, hunted at school, you found solace in poison and books — until Tom Riddle made you his. His soft words rot you sweeter than venom. You kill without question. He rewards you with praise. And when he says you’re perfect, you believe him. Because you want to be.
Warnings: praise kink, dom/sub dynamics, soft!dom tom, manipulative tom, muggleborn!reader, slytherin!reader, loner!reader, unpopular!reader, naive!reader, dark!au (Tom wins), morally grey!reader, post-mission reward sex, emotionally dependent reader, weaponized praise, toxic dynamics, reader kills for him, filthy smut, corruption kink, power imbalance, trauma background, emotionally manipulative behavior, manipulation disguised as romance.
Words: 3.5K
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The weight of the crystal vial in your pocket felt heavier than lead, a cold, dense counterpoint to the frantic rhythm of your heart. You kept your chin high, your posture rigid, the way he’d taught you. The walk through the Ministry’s opulently grim corridors was a gauntlet, but the whispers that usually followed you like a shroud were conspicuously absent today. They knew. They’d heard. And they were afraid.
It was a new sensation. You rather liked it.
The door to his private study swung open before your knuckles could graze the dark wood. He stood there, a silhouette against the firelight, his expression unreadable. For a paralyzing second, you feared you had failed some unspoken test. Then, the corners of his mouth curved into something that wasn't quite a smile, but was infinitely more satisfying.
"Come in," Tom Riddle said, his voice a low, smooth command that vibrated right through your bones.
You stepped into the warmth, the door clicking shut with an air of finality. The room smelled of old books, polished oak, and him—that clean, sharp scent of ozone and power.
He didn't ask. He simply extended a hand, palm up. Your fingers trembled only slightly as you placed the empty vial into his waiting hand. His skin was warm. He never seemed to feel the cold.
He examined the glass, holding it up to the firelight. It was pristine. No trace of the honey-coloured, scentless poison that had, just hours before, stopped the heart of a prominent Wizengamot member who had dared to speak against the new regime.
"A flawless execution," he remarked, his tone clinical, analytical. He finally looked at you, and his dark eyes seemed to drink in the sight of you, from your hastily smoothed hair to the slight tremor you were trying so hard to suppress. "They found him at his desk. They believe it was a sudden, but natural, failing of the heart. They suspect nothing."
A breath you didn't realize you’d been holding escaped your lips. It wasn’t relief. It was something hotter, sharper. A need for validation that coiled deep in your stomach.
He placed the vial on his desk with a soft click and turned his full attention to you. He moved closer, and you had to tilt your head back to maintain eye contact. He was so close you could see the flecks of deeper crimson within the dark brown of his irises.
"You were perfect," he murmured, his gaze tracing the line of your cheek, the curve of your lip. "Precise. Unseen. Absolutely faultless."
The words sank into your skin, warming you from the inside out, a stark contrast to the cold dread of the mission. This was what you did it for. Not for the cause, not for the power it would grant you. For this. For the honeyed warmth of his approval.
His fingers came up, not to strike or to shove, but to gently tilt your chin up further. His touch was feather-light, yet it felt like a brand. "You followed every instruction. You didn't hesitate. You didn't doubt."
"Never," you whispered, the word tasting like a sacred vow on your tongue. "I never doubt you, Tom."
A real smile, then. A slow, devastating thing that made your knees feel unreliable. "I know."
His other hand came up to cradle your face, his thumb stroking a slow, hypnotic arc along your jawline. His eyes searched yours, seeing everything—the lonely, bookish girl from the Slytherin dungeons, the desperate need for a single kind word, the terrifying aptitude for brewing death. He saw it all, and he did not look away. He approved.
"You are my most valuable instrument," he whispered, his voice dropping to an intimate caress. His face was inches from yours now, his breath warm against your lips. "My brilliant, deadly girl."
And then he closed the distance.
His kiss wasn't demanding. It was a reward. A slow, deliberate claiming of the devotion you so freely offered. His lips were softer than you ever imagined they could be, moving against yours with a practiced, devastating skill. It was a kiss that spoke of possession and praise in equal measure, and you melted into it, a soft, yielding sound escaping your throat.
His arms encircled you, pulling you flush against the hard planes of his body. One hand slid from your face into your hair, twisting gently in the strands, not enough to hurt, but enough to make you achingly aware of his control. The other splayed across the small of your back, pressing you even closer.
You could feel the evidence of his own reaction, the hard ridge of his arousal against your stomach, and a fresh, liquid heat bloomed low in your belly. You gasped against his mouth, and he took the opportunity to deepen the kiss, his tongue sweeping in to taste you, to conquer. He tasted of dark magic and mint, an intoxicating combination that made your head spin.
When he finally broke for air, you were trembling in earnest, clinging to the front of his robes to stay upright. Your lips felt swollen, sensitized. He rested his forehead against yours, his breathing a fraction less even than usual.
"Look at you," he murmured, his voice a dark, velvety rumble that went straight through you. "Trembling for me. So beautiful like this. So obedient."
He peppered soft, biting kisses along your jaw, down the column of your throat, and you let your head fall back with a sigh. His teeth grazed the sensitive skin where your pulse hammered, and you jolted in his arms.
"Tom..."
"Shhh," he soothed, his lips returning to yours for a brief, searing moment. "I have you. I always have you."
His hands began to move, one sliding down to cup your backside, pulling you even more firmly against him, drawing a ragged gasp from your lungs. The other hand slipped between you, his long, elegant fingers making quick work of the buttons on your robes. The heavy fabric slid from your shoulders, pooling on the floor at your feet with a whisper, leaving you in just your thin silk blouse and skirt.
The cool air of the study hit your skin, but you didn't feel cold. You felt on fire. His gaze was hot, Heavy. Possessive. He traced the neckline of your blouse, a single finger dipping beneath the fabric to brush against the upper curve of your breast. Your breathing shallowed, every nerve ending alight.
"Such a good girl for me," he whispered, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, his voice dropping to that hypnotic, intimate register that was for you and you alone. "My good girl."
The words unspooled something deep within you. A desperate, aching need you hadn't even known was there until he’d first unearthed it in the Slytherin common room. You would level cities for this. You would burn the world to ashes to hear him say it again.
His fingers found the top button of your blouse. They paused there, not pushing, not demanding. Just waiting. His eyes locked with yours, a question and a command all in one.
Your voice was hardly more than a breath, raw with want. "Please."
“Please,” he echoes, his voice a low, velvety hum that vibrates deep in your core. “Such a polite, perfect thing.”
The first button gives way. Then the second. The fine silk of your blouse whispers apart, revealing the lace-edged camisole beneath. His knuckles brush the heated skin of your sternum, and a full-body shudder wracks you. You can feel the cold, polished wood of his desk through your skirt, a stark contrast to the inferno he’s stoking inside you.
“You crave my approval more than air, don’t you, my dear?” he murmurs, his gaze locked on the path his fingers are carving down your torso. He isn’t asking. He’s stating a fact, one he forged himself. “You would do anything… be anything… to feel my pride settle in your veins.” His hands slide to your waist, gripping firmly, and in one fluid, powerful motion, he lifts you and sets you down atop the wide, solid desk. Parchment rustles beneath you. An inkwell wobbles precariously.
He steps between your legs, his own robes brushing against your stockings. The intimacy of the position is dizzying. You are spread before him, perched on the altar of his power, and he is the high priest. His hands glide up your outer thighs, pushing the fabric of your skirt up until it pools around your hips. The cool air of the study kisses the bare skin of your legs.
His eyes are black fire, drinking in the sight of you exposed like this. Your heart is a wild, caged bird beating against your ribs.
“You want to know how pleased I am with you?” he asks, his voice dropping to that hypnotic register that is yours alone. He leans in, his lips a hair’s breadth from yours. “You want to feel the depth of my gratitude for your… flawless work?”
You can only manage a desperate, jerky nod. Your fingers clutch at the edge of the desk, the wood solid and real beneath your grip.
“Then let me show you.”
His hands slide under your thighs, his grip firm and unyielding. He pulls you forward, right to the edge of the desk, and pushes your legs apart, wider, until you are utterly open to him. A moan, half-protest, half-plea, catches in your throat. The vulnerability is terrifying. Exhilarating.
He lowers himself to his knees.
The sight is enough to short-circuit your thoughts. Tom Riddle. On his knees. For you. The most powerful wizard in a generation, brought to this posture of worship before you. But you are not the deity here. You are the sacrifice. The offering. And he is about to devour you.
He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your knickers. His eyes never leave yours, holding you captive as he slowly, so slowly, draws the delicate fabric down your legs. He lets them drop to the floor, a forgotten scrap of lace.
You are completely bare to him now. The firelight gilds the inside of your thighs, and you watch, mesmerized and mortified, as his gaze travels over every intimate inch of you. His expression is one of rapt, intense study, as if he is committing the most intricate and deadly new potion to memory. He sees the slick evidence of your arousal, the faint, betraying tremor in your muscles.
“Look at you,” he breathes, the words a hot caress against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh. His hands smooth up your legs, spreading you just a fraction wider. “So beautiful. So ready for me. All for a few kind words. My brilliantly responsive girl.”
He leans in. You stop breathing.
The first touch of his tongue is not what you expected. It is not tentative. It is a long, slow, deliberate lick from your entrance all the way up to the aching, sensitive apex of your sex. It’s a claim. A branding.
A shattered, guttural sound is torn from your throat. Your head falls back, eyes squeezing shut as sensation, pure and white-hot, obliterates every coherent thought. Your back arches off the desk, but his hands on your thighs are iron clamps, holding you in place for his feast.
He does it again. And again. Each broad, flat stroke of his tongue is a masterclass in torture. He explores you with a scholar’s precision, learning what makes you jerk, what makes you cry out, what makes your hips twitch with a mind of their own. He drinks from you like a man dying of thirst, his mouth hot and hungry and impossibly skilled.
“That’s it,” he murmurs against your flesh, the vibration shooting through you like a lightning strike. His tongue circles the slick, swollen centre of your pleasure, a lazy, maddening orbit. “Let me hear you. Let me taste how much you love my praise.”
He doesn’t just use his tongue. He uses his lips, sucking gently. He uses the very tip of his tongue, flicking over that one exquisitely sensitive spot until you are clawing at the desk, your knuckles white. He presses open-mouthed kisses to your inner thighs, biting just hard enough to make you gasp before soothing the spot with his tongue.
You are unraveling. Coming apart at the seams under the relentless, worshipful assault of his mouth. The world has narrowed to this desk, to the scent of your own arousal and his clean, dark scent, to the wet, filthy, glorious sounds his mouth is making against you.
“You taste like victory,” he growls, his voice thick and muffled against you. He pushes your legs up, bending you almost in half, exposing you even more. He drives his tongue inside you, a shallow, fucking motion that has you seeing stars. “You taste like power. My power. Everything you are… is mine.”
His words are a weapon, each one striking the exact same chord of desperate need within you. You are so close. The coil of pleasure in your gut is wound impossibly tight, a spring about to snap. You are panting, pleading, a broken litany of his name and half-formed words.
He redoubles his efforts, his mouth locking onto you with a fierce, possessive suction. His tongue works that perfect, devastating rhythm, and you can feel yourself spiraling, falling, the first tremors of a cataclysm beginning to shake you apart.
His voice is a dark promise against your wet, heated skin.
His mouth abandons you with a wet, final sound that echoes in the deafening quiet of the study. The loss of that heat, that devastating pressure, is a physical ache. You groan, a raw, pathetic sound, your body still taut as a bowstring, teetering on the very edge of release. Not enough. It wasn’t enough.
You feel empty. Bereft.
Cool air replaces the warmth of his mouth, and you force your eyes open, your vision blurry with unshed tears of frustration. Tom is rising from his knees, his movement fluid and powerful, like a great predator uncoiling. There is a dark, slick gleam on his chin. His eyes are utterly black, pupils swallowing the deep brown of his irises. He doesn’t look like a man who has just been brought to his knees. He looks like a king surveying his conquest.
His hands are on you again before you can plead, his grip firm on your hips. He lifts you from the edge of the desk as if you weigh nothing, your body pliant and weak from his earlier attentions. He turns you with an effortless twist, pressing your front down against the cold, polished oak. The forgotten parchment crackles beneath your cheek. The scent of ink and old paper fills your nose, grounding you in the stark reality of where you are: bent over the desk of the most dangerous wizard in the world.
“You took that so beautifully,” he murmurs, his voice a low, approving rumble that vibrates through your spine. One hand splays across the small of your back, pressing down, keeping you in place. The other works at the fastenings of his own robes. You hear the soft rustle of fabric, the quiet clink of a belt, and then the unmistakable sound of his trousers being pushed down. Your heart hammers against the hard wood of the desk.
You feel the heavy, hot weight of his cock against the back of your thigh. It’s smoother than you imagined, the skin like heated silk stretched over an impossible, rigid density. He rocks his hips, and the blunt, slick head of him slides through your wetness, coating himself in you. The sensation is electric, a promise of what’s to come. A broken sob escapes your lips.
“So wet for me,” he praises, his voice thick with a dark, possessive pleasure. “All that slick, gorgeous proof of how much you want this. How much you need my cock inside you.” He pushes forward, just a fraction, just enough for the tip to press against your entrance. You jerk, a involuntary spasm of anticipation seizing your entire body. You are stretched, sensitive, aching.
“Please, Tom,” you whimper, the words muffled by the desk. “Please, I need—”
“I know what you need,” he cuts you off, his tone leaving no room for argument. His hand leaves your back, and you feel his fingers curl around the base of his cock, guiding himself. “You need to be filled. You need to be claimed. You need to remember who you belong to with every fucking thrust.”
He doesn’t ease into you. He drives forward in one long, smooth, devastating motion.
The world fractures.
A choked cry is ripped from your throat as he sheathes himself to the hilt inside you. The stretch is immense, a burning, perfect fullness that steals the air from your lungs. You are stretched around him, every nerve ending screaming with the sensation of being so utterly, completely taken. He holds himself there, buried deep, his body pressed flush against your backside, and you feel the faint tremor that runs through his own frame. Even he is not entirely immune.
“Fuck,” he hisses, the curse a raw, guttural sound of pure pleasure. His hands clamp onto your hips, his fingers digging into your flesh with a possessiveness that borders on pain. “Look at you. Taking all of me. Your perfect, greedy cunt squeezing my cock like it was made for it.”
He pulls back, almost all the way out, the drag a delicious, agonizing friction that makes you see stars. Then he slams back into you.
The rhythm he sets is relentless. It is not tender. It is not gentle. It is a furious, pounding pace designed to overwhelm, to dominate, to brand you from the inside out. Each deep, driving thrust jars your entire body, pushing you forward on the desk. The wood is cool against your flushed cheek, a stark contrast to the inferno he’s stoking within you.
His grip on your hips is iron, holding you in place for his use, controlling the angle and depth of every brutal, perfect stroke. The sound is obscene—the wet, rhythmic slap of his skin against yours, his low, ragged grunts, your own hitched, desperate moans.
“That’s it,” he growls, his voice strained with the effort of his thrusts. “Take it. Take every fucking inch. You wanted my praise? This is my praise. This is my gratitude. Feel it.”
You do. You feel all of it. The pleasure is a coiled serpent in your gut, tightening with every deep, penetrating drive of his hips. The frustration from his denied climax is gone, replaced by a mounting, terrifying wave that threatens to shatter you completely. You are nothing but a vessel for his pleasure, a thing of skin and sensation and desperate, clawing need.
He leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his mouth finding your ear. His breath is hot and ragged. “You are mine,” he snarls, the words a violent, possessive whisper that goes straight to your core. “Your cunning is mine. Your brilliance is mine. This tight, perfect little cunt is mine. Say it.”
You can’t form words. You can only moan, a high, keening sound of utter surrender.
He fucks you harder, deeper, his pace becoming punishing. “Say it.”
“Yours!” you cry out, the admission torn from you. “I’m yours, Tom! Only yours!”
“Good girl,” he purrs, the approval in his voice a sharper, more potent drug than any sensation. It unlocks something deep within you. The coil snaps.
Your orgasm crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave, violent and all-consuming. Your vision whites out. Your internal muscles clench around him in a frantic, rhythmic pulse, milking his cock, and you scream, the sound swallowed by the wood of the desk. You shake apart, completely unraveling under the force of it, held together only by the bruising grip of his hands on your hips and the relentless, pounding rhythm of his thrusts.
He groans, a deep, satisfaction sound, as your climax ripples around him. “Yes,” he rasps, his own control fraying. “That’s it. Squeeze my cock just like that. Milk me dry, you perfect fucking thing.”
His movements become jerky, erratic. He drives into you once, twice, three more times with a feral, desperate intensity. Then he stills, buried to the hilt, and you feel the hot, pulsing rush of his own release flooding you. He grinds himself against you, as deep as he can possibly go, making sure every last drop is spent inside you. A long, low groan is wrenched from his throat, a sound of pure, unadulterated victory.
For a long moment, there is only the sound of your ragged, mingled breathing. The study air, once cool, is now thick and humid with the scent of sex and sweat and power. You feel boneless, wrecked, completely and utterly claimed.
He stays inside you, softened but still present, his weight a heavy, comforting pressure on your back. His lips find the sweat-damped skin of your shoulder, placing a soft, almost tender kiss there.
“Exquisite,” he whispers, the word a reverent murmur against your skin. “You are truly”.
Pairings: James Potter x Fem!Reader (main) | Remus Lupin x Reader | Sirius Black x Reader
Summary: James sees the way his best friends look at you. He understands—you’re sweet, oblivious, and his. So he lets them watch, lets them touch. Just this once. Because no matter how desperate they are, you’ll never belong to anyone but him.
Warnings: established relationship, slytherin!reader, marauders era, smut (no penetration), sharing / voyeurism, praise kink, fingering, soft corruption, innocent!reader, oblivious!reader, whipped & possessive james potter, morally grey james, jealous!sirius and remus, soft degradation, touch kink, tension, james being too smart for his own good, reader being adored and overwhelmed,
Words: 1.5K
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James Potter wasn’t half as stupid as he liked people to believe.
Oh, he played the part well—grinning like a golden retriever with a wand, Quidditch hair always messy, tie askew, laughter loud and eyes brighter than they had any right to be. But under all that was calculation, precision. You didn’t become Head Boy by charm alone, and you didn’t keep your place as top of Advanced Charms by luck.
No, James Potter was a genius. And unfortunately for his best mates, he was also deeply, hopelessly in love with you.
You, his sweet Slytherin.
You, who had a smile like summer and hands that curled into the sleeves of your jumper when you were nervous.
You, who couldn’t tell when someone was flirting if it danced naked in front of you with mistletoe between its teeth.
It made James insane. It made Sirius worse. And it made Remus the most dangerous of them all, because he was subtle. Quiet in his hunger. Patient.
Which is how James found himself seated on his bed, you tucked between his legs, your back to his chest as you flipped through his Potions notes like the perfect little academic you were, none the wiser to the looks being exchanged across the room.
Sirius sprawled on his bed across from you, pretending to read a Quidditch magazine but turning one page every six minutes.
Remus was curled up near the headboard, book forgotten in his lap, knuckle resting against his mouth as he watched. Always watching.
James could feel the tension like electricity between them. They were pretending not to stare, pretending not to breathe too deep when you laughed. And you—well. You were blissfully unaware. Clueless. You wriggled closer into James’ lap when the castle draughts caught your ankles, completely oblivious to the way Sirius shifted and Remus exhaled like he was in pain.
James grinned, lips brushing your ear.
“Y’cold, love?”
“A bit,” you murmured, smiling. “You’re warm though.”
“I’ll always be warm for you,” he murmured, hand smoothing over your bare thigh where your skirt had ridden up. “Always.”
You didn’t even flinch. Just leaned back into him, trusting, safe. So trusting. So sweet.
James’ fingers lingered.
Sirius’ magazine crinkled in his hands.
Remus didn’t even blink.
Oh, they noticed now.
Good.
His hand slid a little higher, fingertips ghosting over the edge of your knickers beneath your skirt. You inhaled, body going still, but not pulling away. He pressed a kiss behind your ear, then said low and slow, “Let me take care of you, sweetheart. Just relax for me.”
You blinked down at the notes, confused, flushed. “But… the others—”
“They don’t mind,” James interrupted, smiling darkly. “Do you, lads?”
Sirius made a strangled sound.
Remus said nothing.
James smirked.
You made a soft noise when his fingers dipped beneath the waistband, gentle and slow, teasing along your folds with reverence. “James…”
“Shh, love. Just wanna make you feel good. You’ve been working so hard for me, haven’t you?” His lips grazed your jaw, his voice soft and full of syrupy praise. “So clever. So sweet. My perfect girl.”
You whimpered when his fingers circled your clit, feather-light. You didn’t even register Sirius sitting up straighter or Remus shifting forward on the mattress. James did. He saw everything.
“That’s it,” James whispered. “Y’don’t have to do anything, just let me spoil you.”
Your head tipped back on his shoulder, lips parted, eyes fluttering as his fingers grew more insistent—still slow, but pressing, knowing exactly how to touch you. You gasped softly when he slid one finger lower, circling your entrance but not pushing in, just… teasing.
“Feels good?” he murmured.
You nodded rapidly.
“She’s so responsive,” James said, louder now, dragging a second finger through your slick with wicked satisfaction. “So wet already. You should see her, lads. She’s dripping just from a little praise.”
You stiffened in his arms, blinking in realization, trying to sit up—but James was quicker, arm wrapping around your middle, holding you in place with gentle strength. “No, no, none of that, love,” he soothed, dragging those same fingers over your clit until you whimpered. “They already know. They’ve known. I’ve seen how they look at you.”
You glanced at Sirius—his jaw was clenched, hands white-knuckled on the edge of the bed. Remus looked wrecked, his book now forgotten on the floor, eyes burning gold under the dim lights.
“I’m just sharing, darling,” James said, smug and low, sliding one finger into you. Your walls clenched down, and you moaned in surprise. “Just letting them look while I touch. They’ve wanted to for so long. Haven’t you?”
Sirius swallowed.
Remus licked his lips.
James curled the finger slowly inside you and you cried out, face burning, but you didn’t tell him to stop. Of course you didn’t. You liked being praised. You liked being touched. James knew you better than anyone else.
His mouth grazed your temple. “Such a good girl for me. Taking my fingers so well. D’you want to come, sweetheart?”
You whimpered, nodding against his shoulder.
James smiled.
“Then come for me. Right here, in my lap, with my best mates watching—because you’re mine. And I want to show you off.”
“I—James, I—”
“You can. You want to be good for me, don’t you? My clever, kind little Slytherin.”
Your walls fluttered again at the praise. He added a second finger and your hips jerked helplessly forward.
James chuckled, low and soft.
“She doesn’t even realize what she does to people. Fuck. Look at her. Look how she reacts to a little kindness.”
You tried to hide your face, but he guided your head back and tilted your chin upward.
“Let them see how pretty you are when you come.”
Your eyes met Sirius’s, then Remus’s. And that was it.
The orgasm hit fast and hot. You gasped his name, body jerking in his lap as you clenched around his fingers. James held you tight, murmuring in your ear.
“That’s it. Good girl. That’s my good girl. So proud of you.”
You slumped against him, trembling and dazed, as he eased his fingers from you, coated in slick. He brought them to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low groan.
Sirius made a strangled sound. He looked desperate.
Remus exhaled through his nose, slow and silent.
James smirked.
“She’s amazing, isn’t she?” he asked, arms wrapped tightly around your waist. “So fucking good. And she doesn’t even know how much you both want her.”
You blinked up at him, still panting, still flushed. “James… what was that?”
“That,” he said, brushing hair from your cheek, “was me being generous.”
There was a pause thick with tension.
Then James looked across the room and said calmly, “You can touch her, if you want.”
The silence shattered.
You went still in his arms.
Sirius’s eyes widened. Remus straightened.
James kissed your cheek and murmured, “Only her thighs. Maybe her waist. Nothing else.”
He tilted your face toward him and kissed you slowly. “Because she’s still mine.”
You trembled in his lap, too soft to move, too stunned to speak.
Sirius stood and crossed the room. His hand hovered over your thigh, hesitant. James nodded once.
Sirius touched you gently. His hand slid over your skin, reverent and slow.
“She’s so soft,” he whispered.
James smiled. “Of course she is. She’s perfect.”
Remus moved forward as well, his fingers brushing the back of your calf, feather-light. “She’s warm,” he said softly.
You whimpered, your head resting on James’s shoulder, overwhelmed and breathless. James shifted behind you, guiding your legs a little wider.
“Be gentle. She’s still sensitive.”
Sirius’s hand slid a bit higher. “You’re not real, sweetheart. Can’t be.”
Remus traced the edge of your knickers, fingers near but not touching where James had been. Your body reacted anyway, hips twitching under the attention.
James watched them both with dark satisfaction.
“You’ll never fuck her,” he said, calm and steady. “You’ll never have her like I do. But I’ll let you look. Just this once.”
You turned your face into his neck, hiding from their eyes. James only pulled you tighter.
“She’s mine,” he said again, louder this time. “But look how pretty she is when she’s worshipped.”
“Please… gods, Hagrid… I don’t think I can take any more…” You gasp the words into the thick, coarse hair of his chest, your entire body trembling from the aftershocks that still ripple through you. Your cunt is impossibly full, stretched to its absolute limit around the massive, impossibly thick girth of his cock, which remains buried deep inside you, not even fully sheathed.
A low, rumbling sound, more felt than heard, vibrates through his chest and into your own. “Yer doin’ so good, sweet thing. So good for me.”
His voice is a gentle avalanche. The sheer tenderness in it makes you clench around him instinctively, drawing a sharp, hissing groan from him that seems to shake the very foundations of his small hut. One of his hands, bigger than your entire back, strokes slowly from your shoulder down to the curve of your ass, his touch impossibly careful. The other hand is beneath you, his enormous fingers laced tightly with yours, a tender anchor in the overwhelming sea of sensation.
It started with a shared bottle of Firewhisky by the hearth, a thank you for helping him tend a sickly Hippogriff foal. The conversation had strayed, meandering from creatures to more personal comforts, to the way you’d always watch his hands, wondering what such power would feel like on your skin.
“Y’aren’t scared?” he’d rumbled, his dark eyes soft in the firelight.
“Not of you,” you’d whispered. “Never of you.”
That was all the invitation his cautious heart needed.
Now, laid out on the expansive stretch of his bed, you are dwarfed by him. His cock, a monstrous, beautiful thing you’d only glimpsed with wide-eyed, hungry awe, had given you pause. But he’d been so patient, so excruciatingly gentle, working you open with his thick, calloused fingers and a murmured litany of praise until you were begging for it.
“I need it. All of it, Hagrid. I need to feel you fucking ruin me.”
He’d pushed in slowly, an endless, stretching, burning invasion that tipped into pure, mind-numbing pleasure. And now here you are, stuffed so completely you can see the faint, distinct bulge of him distorting the flat plane of your lower belly with every slight shift he makes.
“Look at that,” he murmurs, his voice thick with awe. He releases your hand to splay his palm over your stomach, his thumb gently stroking the swollen curve where his body lives inside yours. “See what yeh do to me? See what I’m doin’ to you? Fuck…”
The obscenity in his gentle voice sends a fresh jolt of heat straight to your core. You writhe under him, the movement making you acutely aware of every throbbing inch of him. “Don’t stop,” you beg, your own voice a broken thing. “I want to feel you come. I want to feel you pump your fucking load so deep inside me I taste it.”
A growl rips from his throat, and any last vestige of his famed gentleness shatters. He shifts, pulling his hips back just an inch before driving forward. The world whites out. This is what you wanted. His thrusts become purposeful, powerful pistons of his hips that jar your entire body, slamming you up the bed with their force. The wet, filthy sound of your cunt taking him, over and over, fills the hut, mingling with your choked screams and his guttural grunts.
“This cunt,” he snarls, his breath hot against your ear. “This perfect, tight, fuckin’ cunt was made for me. Gonna breed it. Gonna fill yeh up ‘til yeh’re drippin’ with me.”
His words are the final key. Your climax detonates without warning, a raw, seismic event that wrings a gush of fluid from you that has nothing to do with his own release. It soaks his thrusting cock, his thick thighs, the furs beneath you. You scream, your back arching violently as you squirt around his pounding length, the sensations so intense they border on pain.
He fucks you through it, his rhythm growing frantic, losing its pace. With a roar that seems to shake the dust from the rafters, he rams himself to the hilt and holds there. You feel the hot, pulsing eruption of his cum directly inside you, a torrent of heat that seems to have no end, painting your deepest, most intimate parts. The bulge in your stomach seems to swell further, a visible proof of his immense, finishing release.
He collapses carefully onto his side and takes you with him, keeping himself buried to the root. You are a trembling, boneless mess, your forehead resting against his chest, drool smearing on the hair there from your slack jaw. His spent cock twitches inside your oversensitive cunt, each throb a reminder of the sheer volume of seed he’s deposited.
His big hand finds yours again, his calloused fingers weaving between yours and squeezing. A silent promise. A final, thick pulse of his cum makes you jerk against him, a weak, overwhelmed sound catching in your throat.
“Hagrid…” you slur, your senses completely overloaded.
“I know, sweet thing,” he rumbles, his voice back to that soft, earth-shaking gentleness. He nuzzles the top of your head. “I know.” He’s still inside you, and he makes no move to pull out. The warmth of him, the feeling of being so utterly claimed and filled, is everything.
“Don’t… move…” you manage to whisper. “Just… stay…”
Pairings: Fred Weasley x Fem!Reader, George Weasley x Fem!Reader
Summary: You made the mistake of telling the twins you were curious about being tied up. Now you’re tied to their bedpost, completely at their mercy.
Warnings: NSFW / SMUT, Bondage (rope restraints), Edging / Orgasm Denial, Overstimulation, Degradation kink (light to moderate), Praise kink, Oral (f!receiving), Squirting, Light spit kink (implied), teasing, Dom!Fred & Dom!George, Sub!Reader, Rough language, Use of “slut,” “fucktoy,” etc. Reader begging / crying from overstimulation, Fred is not merciful, George is worse, No actual penetration but plenty of tongue-fucking.
Words: 4.1K
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You really should have kept your mouth shut.
One offhand comment, was all it had taken…
It started, as most things with them did, with a joke.
You had been sprawled across one of the armchairs in the Gryffindor common room, pretending to study while the twins toyed with each other across from you — flicking Bertie Bott’s Beans at each other’s heads and whispering Merlin-knows-what back and forth, always a breath away from being thrown out again.
It was late. Most of the Tower was asleep. And you were tired — too tired to be careful with your words.
“I think it would be fun,” you’d said, half-buried in your Charms textbook, voice casual. “Being tied up. If it’s done right.”
There had been a beat of silence.
Then two identical smirks.
“Oh?” Fred had purred, eyes gleaming with interest.
“Define ‘done right,’” George added, leaning forward, far too interested for someone supposedly studying.
“Because we happen to be very thorough,” George said, and their twin gazes locked onto yours with something far more dangerous than teasing.
That was three nights ago.
And now, you’re here — spread out on their bed like some gift-wrapped treat, trembling under their matching grins.
“You look so fucking pretty like this, you know that?” Fred’s voice is a low, wicked hum against the shell of your ear, his warm breath sending a jolt straight to your core. “All trussed up and waiting for us. Looks like our little experiment is a success.
Your wrists are bound securely to the ornate bedpost with soft, spell-strengthened silk — a parting gift from one of their more adventurous product testers, they said. The initial thrill of restraint has melted into something deeper, something hungrier. You’re stretched out on the crimson duvet, bare and trembling, completely at their mercy. Your chest rises and falls with shaky, shallow breaths.
George kneels at the foot of the bed, his copper hair disheveled and his green eyes fixed on every tremor that ripples through your body. His grin is pure sin. “Told you she’d love it, Fred.”
“You were right, George,” Fred murmurs, his chest a wall of heat against your back, his voice smug and slow. “Our clever, curious little friend.” He chuckles — low, dark, and vibrating straight through your spine. “We’re just being good friends, darling. Granting wishes.”
A single calloused finger, George’s, traces up your inner thigh, feather-light and agonizing. You twitch beneath the touch, a small, broken sound catching in your throat. The satin of your knickers is already soaked and they know. You can feel it in the way George smirks.
“Shhh,” he coos, voice thick with amusement. “We’ve got you. We’re just going to explore that little curiosity of yours. Every last filthy inch of it.”
Fred’s lips find the soft skin just below your ear. He doesn’t kiss you. He claims you, hot and open-mouthed, his tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat. “Gods, you smell good,” he groans. “All nerves and need. Is that for us? This sweet, dripping cunt…” His hand slides around your hip and presses flat against your lower belly. “All ours, isn’t it?”
Your head falls back against his shoulder, a breathy whimper escaping. Words feel impossible.
“Ah, ah. Use your words, gorgeous,” George drawls, voice lazy but sharp. His finger slips beneath the elastic of your knickers. Not inside, not quite. Just resting there, maddening and still. “Is this pretty pussy ours to play with?”
“Yes,” you whisper, almost too soft.
“Yes, what?” Fred snaps, lips still brushing your skin as his hand slides up to your breast, teasing.
A shiver racks through you. “Yes, it’s yours.”
“That’s our girl,” George praises, his voice turning soft, briefly, before it darkens again. “Let’s see what we’re working with.”
In one fluid motion, he hooks his fingers in your knickers and pulls them down your legs, tossing the damp scrap of fabric aside. The cold air hits your soaked folds and you gasp, legs parting instinctively under his guiding hands.
Fred’s hand tightens on your stomach, holding you firmly in place. “Look at that,” he breathes. “Absolutely fucking pristine. And already soaking. Were you thinking about this? Our hands? Our cocks?”
You barely get the breath to answer before George leans in — and instead of touching you, he blows. A cool stream of air ghosts over your clit, and your back arches violently, a raw moan spilling out of you.
“So responsive,” he hums, and then, finally he licks you.
It’s slow, broad, deliberate. His tongue drags up your center like he’s savoring every second. Your hips jerk, but Fred holds you down with practiced ease.
“None of that,” Fred chides, biting your earlobe. “You don’t get to move. You feel. That’s your only job tonight. Our pretty little fuck-toy.” His voice drops, filthier. “And playthings don’t get to come until we say so.”
George’s mouth is ravenous now, eating you like he’s been starved, tongue circling your clit before plunging deep into your heat. The wet, obscene sounds make your cheeks burn, but you can’t look away — not with Fred whispering filth into your ear, and not with George’s hands pinning your thighs open like you’re nothing but a meal.
One of George’s hands slides up to your breast, pinching your nipple with a roughness that makes you cry out. Fred’s hand joins his, twisting and rolling the other until you’re keening — a desperate, incoherent thing.
“You take it so well,” Fred growls. “Our greedy little slut. Listen to those noises. You love this. You love being our toy.”
You do. Gods, you do. You’re moaning openly now, their names tangled in your throat with every gasping breath. That pressure in your belly is coiling fast, sharp and terrifying — your thighs are shaking, your vision blurring.
And then… they stop.
George pulls away with a wet pop. Fred lifts his hands. You sob, a broken little sound, tugging uselessly at your restraints as the edge slips cruelly away.
Fred laughs, rich and low. “Ah, ah, ah. What did we say?”
George crawls up your body, face glistening with your arousal, and kisses you hard. You taste yourself on his tongue — sharp and musky and yours. It’s a mark, a brand, and when he pulls back, his eyes burn with something possessive.
“You feel that ache?” he murmurs. “That emptiness? That’s us. We own that now.”
Behind you, Fred shifts. You hear the soft rustle of his clothing — a belt, a zipper and then the blunt heat of his cock is sliding through your folds, coating himself in your wetness without pushing in.
He grinds his length against your clit, slow and cruel, and you sob.
“You want this cock to fill you up?” he growls, voice wrecked. “Want me to split open that needy cunt and fuck you until you’re crying?”
“Yes, Fred,” you gasp. “Please.”
“Please what?” he snaps, but he doesn’t stop — the slow, devastating rub of his cockhead over your clit continues, dragging more slick from your desperate cunt.
“Please fuck me,” you cry, voice raw.
He stills. Presses the tip right at your entrance — not in, not yet — just enough pressure to make you ache.
George watches, hand wrapped around his cock, stroking slowly, his eyes fixed on your face.
Fred leans close to your ear and whispers, “Not yet.”
Not yet.
The words hang in the air like a curse, like a sentence you can’t escape. Every nerve in your body screams in protest as Fred holds perfectly, torturously still — the hot, blunt head of his cock pressed flush against your soaked, aching entrance. It’s a promise. A threat. A denial that cuts deep.
Your throat tightens around a sob, and just as it starts to climb its way up, a brand new wave of sensation crashes over you. George’s mouth, hot and hungry, closing over your other nipple with sudden, searing precision. His tongue circles the peak in slow, merciless rings, lashing the sensitive bud until your spine arches off the bed, the silken cuffs biting hard into your wrists.
“Oh—god—George,” you moan, the sound wrenched from somewhere deeper than your lungs.
He doesn’t answer with words. Just a low hum of satisfaction, vibrating through your chest, as his teeth graze your nipple. Just enough to make your thighs clench, before his tongue smooths the sting away. His free hand slides up to cup your other breast, kneading it with possessive pressure, thumb flicking across your already-raw skin.
You’re trapped between them, pinned like prey, your body no longer your own. Your world narrows to the twin points of torment: George’s burning mouth on your breast, and Fred’s unmoving cock at your entrance, heavy and hot and just there. Refusing you.
Fred leans in, his voice brushing your ear like velvet and filth. “Look at me, darling,” he growls, his tone dark and indulgent. “Look at that greedy little cunt. Dripping all over my cock, and still begging for more.”
You can’t help it. Your hips jerk, desperate to pull him inside, to end this unbearable ache. But he only laughs, low and cruel, pressing you down harder with a palm to your belly.
“You’d let him suck on your pretty tits all night, wouldn’t you?” he whispers. “Let me use this sweet, twitching hole ‘til you can’t think straight. Just a fuckdoll for the two of us.”
His words sear through you, filthy and glorious, pooling heat low in your gut. Another involuntary thrust, another cruel denial. Fred still doesn’t move, just stays at your entrance, letting you feel how close you could be.
George lifts his head, nipple glistening, the cool air a slap to the wetness he’s left behind. He kisses his way up your sternum, nipping along your collarbone until he reaches your mouth. His eyes burn into yours, wild and hungry and his kiss is nothing like the soft ones you remember. This one takes.
It starts tender, your lips part instinctively but the moment his tongue slides into your mouth, it deepens into something possessive. Dirty. Claiming. He tastes like firewhisky and you and the promise of everything.
You melt into him, letting him control the rhythm, the depth, the need. His fingers cradle your jaw, holding you steady for his slow, consuming exploration. Your toes curl. The ache in your cunt sharpens to pain.
When he pulls back, his forehead rests against yours, both of you gasping. “You have no idea how long we’ve wanted to hear you beg for us,” he murmurs, voice shredded with need.
Then Fred moves but not how you need. Not yet.
He drags the head of his cock through your folds, gathering your slick, smearing it over your clit with slow, calculated strokes. His pace is maddening — just enough friction to light your nerves on fire, never enough to let you fall.
A strangled sound escapes your throat, not a moan, not a sob, just something raw.
“Such a pretty, desperate mess,” Fred growls, grinding against you without giving you an inch. “Our clever little friend… reduced to a drooling, cock-drunk slut on our bed.”
His voice drops lower, filthier. “You were made for this. Made to be used. Made to be shared.”
Shame should burn. But it doesn’t. Not with the way your cunt clenches around nothing. Not with the way your body begs to be filled.
“Yes,” you whimper. “Please, Fred… George… fuck—please—”
You don’t even know what you’re asking for anymore. Just that you need. More. Relief. Pressure. Anything.
George’s fingers dip between your thighs, collecting the mess between your legs. When he brings them to your lips, you open without hesitation, sucking them clean.
“Taste yourself,” he orders.
And you do. You taste like sex and surrender, and the obscenity of it pushes you deeper into the haze. Fred groans above you.
“Good girl,” he purrs. “Our good, filthy little girl.”
Then his hips shift again — faster this time — grinding slow circles over your clit, his cock dragging against you just right. The pressure builds, sharp and fast, the edge racing toward you.
Your mouth falls open, your legs tremble.
“That’s it,” George whispers, mouth against your ear. “Let go for us. Come all over his cock. Show us what a good little fucktoy you are.”
You’re going to. You can feel it. Everything in you coils, tight and blinding…
And Fred pulls away.
Completely.
The pressure vanishes. Your orgasm dies mid-birth, yanked cruelly from you. A ragged, helpless scream tears out of your throat — part frustration, part devastation, all need.
Fred laughs. “I told you. Not until we’re done.”
He moves down the bed. You can’t even stop the trembling. Your thighs are shaking, your wrists sore, your whole body a live wire of denial.
And then his mouth is on you.
He licks a broad stripe from your aching entrance all the way to your clit, slow and wet and thorough, and you scream. Not a moan. A scream. Your body bucks against the ropes, instincts overriding logic.
George grabs your hips, pinning you in place. “Hold still, love,” he growls, his voice shaking. “He’s just getting started. And you’re going to take every fucking second of it.”
Fred groans into your cunt, tongue lapping with greedy precision, and you sob because you’re not sure if you’re going to survive it…
But you want to.
Fred’s mouth is a brand, searing heat and wet hunger, and it makes your entire world shrink to the space between your thighs. Your back arches off the bed, a desperate, involuntary act that’s instantly stopped by George’s strong hands pinning your hips to the mattress.
“I said hold still” George growls into your ear, his voice a low, rumbling command that rakes down your spine. His breath is warm against your flushed skin. “You’re going to take every fucking second of it”
And you do. Fred’s tongue isn’t just tasting you. He’s claiming you. He plunges in deep, a thick, wicked muscle fucking into your cunt with a rhythm that’s brutal and perfect all at once. The sound is obscene, wet and slapping and slick, and it echoes in the quiet room like a dark melody, undercut by your own broken whimpers.
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
He thrusts his tongue deep, then curls it upward, and you cry out as stars burst behind your eyelids. His nose presses against your clit with maddening pressure, not enough, never enough. Your whole body is a live wire, every nerve frayed and burning, the need for release clawing at you, begging.
“Look at that” George murmurs, his lips brushing your ear. “Look how deep he’s fucking you with his tongue. You’re dripping all over his face, you filthy girl. You love this. You love being used like this”
His voice is molten filth, soaked in praise and cruelty all at once. It burns you from the inside out. All you can do is moan, thrashing your head against the pillow as your wrists strain against the cuffs. The cold bite of the metal only intensifies the inferno consuming you.
Then Fred pulls back.
The sudden absence of his mouth is another kind of torture. Cool air kisses your soaked, swollen cunt. A sob catches in your throat and slips out before you can stop it.
“Please” you whisper, broken and wrecked.
Fred chuckles against your inner thigh. Low. Dark. Cruel.
“Please what, you desperate thing? Use your words”
But you can’t. You can’t even think. He doesn’t wait.
His tongue flattens against your folds, dragging a broad, lazy stripe from your dripping entrance up to your clit, where his lips close around it with a tight, relentless suction.
You scream.
The sound tears out of your throat, jagged and wild, as your heels dig into the small of his back, trying to pull him closer. His tongue flicks your clit in rapid, brutal bursts, and the suction is perfect. Precise. Unbearable.
Oh god. You are right there. So close. So full. So ready.
And just as the first tremors of your climax threaten to rip through you, Fred pulls away again.
The denial hits like a physical slap. A wounded, animal sound escapes your chest. Your whole body trembles with the force of the orgasm that never comes, the ache of it so deep it leaves you dizzy and hollow.
Fred lifts his head. His chin is slick, glistening with you. His green eyes are blown wide with lust and satisfaction.
“Not yet” he says, voice gravel rough. “You don’t come until we say you can. You’re ours to play with”
Tears prick at your eyes. The ache in your core is a violent, exquisite agony.
Then George’s fingers replace his brother’s mouth.
Not his cock. Not his tongue. Just his fingers. Teasing. Feather-light.
They circle your clit without pressure, without urgency. Just the barest ghost of contact. Your breath stutters. Your hips twitch. Your body jolts from the tease.
“You’re so wet for us” George whispers, dragging his other hand up to your chest, where he rolls your nipple between his fingers. “Your perfect, tight little cunt is soaked, can’t take much more can you?Wanna come so bad, don’t you?”
His fingers brush your clit again. Just barely. Again. Again.
You whimper, straining against the cuffs. Begging for pressure. For anything.
Fred watches you fall apart with a feral grin, unbuttoning his trousers slowly, lazily.
“She’s so close, Georgie. Look at her. She’s shaking. She’s going to break”
“She will” George says, his voice low and certain. His fingers finally press down, but instead of slow circles, he rubs side to side in a tight, relentless rhythm that punches the air from your lungs.
Fred dives back in. His tongue plunges into you, deep and hungry, licking and fucking you with wild abandon while George works your clit like a man possessed. The pressure is instant. White-hot. All-consuming.
You can’t breathe. You can’t speak.
The room is filled with the slick sounds of your cunt, Fred’s groans, George’s low commands, your choked cries. It is overwhelming. It is perfect.
Fred growls into your cunt. His voice is muffled but you hear every filthy word.
“Let us hear you. Beg for it”
George’s pace doesn’t slow. His fingers are a blur. “You were born for this, you perfect slut. Born to be stretched and used by us. Now come on. Fuck yourself on his tongue. Do it. Come all over his fucking face”
That’s all it takes.
You explode.
The orgasm hits you like a tidal wave. Your body locks up, rigid and trembling, a silent scream caught in your throat before it rips free. Your vision whites out. Pleasure burns through you, wave after wave, pure and devastating. You gush against Fred’s mouth, and he doesn’t move, doesn’t stop. He drinks you down, groaning into your cunt as you convulse beneath him.
You sob. Shaking. Wrung out. Every nerve raw and alive. The climax is so strong it leaves your body jerking helplessly in their hands.
But George’s fingers don’t stop.
They slow. They soften. But they keep going. Circling. Stroking. Teasing your overstimulated clit with unbearable precision.
You whimper. Try to twist away. Try to escape the sensitivity, the way your body jerks violently with each tiny motion.
Fred finally lifts his head. His lips and chin shine with your release. He wipes his mouth on the back of his hand and looks at you like a man who has claimed something sacred.
“Beautiful”
And then George leans in, voice low and dark at your ear, his breath hot and steady.
Summary: You tease Sirius too far. Bratty, mouthy, touching him under the dinner table. When he finally gets you alone, he puts you over his knee and reminds you who you belong to. By the time he’s finished, you’re crying into the sheets, begging to come.
Warnings: Smut (18+ only, MINORS DNI), Modern Mob Boss!Sirius, Fem!Reader, sub!reader, Bratty behavior & brat taming, Orgasm denial (multiple times), Overstimulation, Spanking (hand), Crying (pleasure/overstimulation), Wrist restraints (belt), Power play / soft dom x bratty sub dynamic, Praise kink, Daddy kink, Slight degradation, Filthy talk & possessive language.
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The clink of silverware against porcelain doesn’t mask the way your heel trails up Sirius Black’s thigh.
Not when his hand is resting on your knee under the table. Not when his jaw tics the moment your foot—encased in sheer black tights and fuck-me heels—presses between his legs.
“Don’t” he warns lowly, voice thick with a velvet danger that doesn’t match the polished hum of the high-end restaurant around you.
You smile sweetly and take another sip of red wine. “Something wrong, daddy?”
His knuckles tighten around the fork. You know that look. Sharp jaw clenched, tongue pressing into his cheek. His rings glint under the soft amber light as he places his silverware down, a deliberate act of restraint.
You just lean forward, cleavage peeking in the slinky black slip dress he picked out for you earlier that night, and slide your foot higher.
“Be good,” he growls, not looking at you.
You’re not. Of course not.
Because being bad gets you what you want, gets you him like this. On edge. Breathing hard. Holding it together by a thread.
“Don’t wanna be good,” you murmur, leaning into his ear, voice barely a breath. “Want you to ruin me later.”
He doesn’t answer.
But he does grip your thigh hard enough to bruise.
You smirk behind your glass.
Sirius Black is London’s quiet storm. Always in control, always dressed in sharp black tailored suits and a shadow of five o’clock stubble. Tattoos inked up both arms, full sleeves, creeping onto his hands and neck. No one dares question his authority, and those who have… aren’t around to regret it.
But when it comes to you, he’s just a little bit feral. And you love it.
Dinner tonight had been a rare gathering with associates—Russian Bratva, Irish syndicates, the silent partners. You’re seated beside him like the good little trophy girl everyone assumes you are. His darling. His doll.
They don’t see the fire under the gloss. The way you bite. Push.
But Sirius does.
So when the dessert comes and you’re already on your second glass of wine, hand sneaking onto his lap with the wicked innocence of a girl who doesn’t know better, he snaps his gaze to yours with a threat like smoke.
“I told you,” he says quietly, deadly calm. “Don’t act out in front of people.”
You pop a cherry from the tiramisu into your mouth and say, “What are they gonna do? Spank me?”
He lets out a sharp breath.
That’s when you know: you’ve crossed the line. You don’t stop, though.
Your fingers curl around the bulge under his slacks. You squeeze once, just enough to make him stiffen. Just enough to tempt fate.
And then you smile. “Oops.”
His laugh is hollow. Dangerous. His arm snakes around the back of your chair, lips brushing your temple as he leans in.
“Get in the car,” he says darkly. “Now.”
The ride back is silent.
You think he won’t do anything. That maybe the mob boss mask will stay on. That he’ll pour himself a drink, light a cigarette, and cool off while pretending you didn’t just grope him in front of his business rivals.
You’re wrong.
The second the penthouse door clicks shut behind you. You’re shoved against it with a gasp, his hand wrapped around your throat, not tight, just possessive.
“Upstairs. Now.”
You blink. “Why?”
He just cocks a brow. “You wanna play dumb, too?”
Your thighs clench involuntarily.
“Sirius…”
“Say it right.”
You bite your lip. “Daddy…”
He drags his hand down your body, slow and deliberate, before landing a harsh slap on your ass that makes you yelp.
“Upstairs. Last warning.”
His bedroom is dark, warm, and masculine—leather, wood, rich tones of sandalwood and smoke clinging to the air.
You’re halfway through unzipping your dress when he catches your wrist mid-motion.
“Did I say you could undress?”
“No, but—”
“You don’t touch unless I say.”
His voice is cold. So cold your stomach flips.
You pout, tilting your chin up defiantly. “Thought you liked when I touched you, daddy.”
He studies you. A cruel, amused glint in his silver eyes.
“I do,” he says, backing you toward the bed. “But tonight? You’re gonna earn that privilege.”
He sits down on the edge of the mattress and spreads his legs.
“Over my knee.”
Your heart skips.
“What?”
He doesn’t repeat it. Just sits there, sleeves rolled up, tattoos on full display, rings gleaming, looking like sin incarnate.
“Now.”
You hesitate.
Then obey.
You drape yourself across his lap, palms bracing on the mattress. The cold air kisses your thighs as he lifts your dress up, baring your ass, no panties.
“Of course not,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Fucking brat.”
You wiggle your hips. “You love it.”
And that’s the final straw.
The first slap lands hard. Sharp, echoing through the room.
You jolt. “Fuck!”
Another. Then another. His hand cracks across your ass in steady, punishing rhythm, each one harder than the last.
“You think you can tease me like that in public?” SLAP.
“Touch me under the fucking table?” SLAP.
“Call me daddy like a good little girl—then act like a whore?” SLAP.
Tears sting your eyes. Your thighs press together.
He smooths a hand over the reddened skin, then spanks again, twice. You cry out, hips jerking.
“Say you’re sorry.”
“I—” You gasp. “I’m sorry, daddy.”
“Say why.”
“I—Because I was a brat—ah!”
He lands another.
“Because I embarrassed you because I touched you without permission!”
“That’s right,” he growls, his palm landing on the inside of your thigh now. Teasing. Just barely grazing where you’re soaked. “And now?”
You sniffle. “Now I’m gonna be good.”
“Are you?”
You nod fast.
But he doesn’t move to flip you over or pull you onto his cock like he usually would. No.
He keeps you bent over his lap, face in the sheets.
Then reaches for the drawer.
You hear it before you see it. The low whir of the vibrator.
You twist to glance back, eyes wide. “Daddy—”
He grabs your chin, dragging you up just enough to whisper in your ear:
“You don’t get to come tonight, baby.”
Your blood goes cold. Then hot.
“What—no—please—”
“Ah-ah. You want to act like a spoiled little slut in public?”
He pushes the vibrator against your soaked pussy. You cry out.
“You’re gonna learn what it feels like to beg.”
The vibrator hums mercilessly between your legs, pressed tight to your clit, and Sirius hasn’t said a word in over a minute.
You’re gasping now—writhing on his lap, dress bunched around your waist, thighs twitching from the relentless buzz and your aching need.
“Daddy, please—please let me come—”
“No.”
His tone is flat. Controlled.
And it wrecks you.
“I’ve been—been good—”
A scoff. “Good?” He finally moves the toy back—just an inch. Just enough to make you sob from the loss of friction. “You call that good?”
“I’m sorry—I’m sorry—fuck—”
His hand rests on your lower back, keeping you pinned across his lap as you grind helplessly into nothing. His voice is a low rasp now, thick with something darker.
“You humiliated me in front of every man in that room tonight.”
Your breath hitches.
“You touched me like a needy little whore under the table, then looked me in the eye and dared me to do something about it.” His fingers brush your inner thigh—then grip it hard. “So now I am.”
You whimper into the sheets. “I wanted you—I just wanted you to touch me—”
“You wanted to make me angry.”
He shifts, spreading your legs wider. His ringed hand drags the toy through your soaked folds again, slow and lazy, ignoring your swollen clit entirely.
“Wanted to push me, get my attention,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to be good. So don’t beg for it now.”
Your hips jerk. “I—daddy, I need it, please—”
“Oh, you’ll get it,” he says. “After I break that brat streak right out of you.”
He flips you suddenly, one hand hooked under your waist, and tosses you onto the mattress like a rag doll. Your chest heaves as you scramble onto your elbows, mascara smudged and thighs shaking.
Sirius stands at the edge of the bed.
Black dress shirt unbuttoned to reveal the ink curling over his chest. His belt comes undone with a slow, deliberate hiss. The buckle clinks. Then drops.
You watch him. Panting, dripping, desperate.
“Color?” he asks.
“Green,” you breathe instantly. “So green, daddy.”
He smirks. “Good girl.”
The praise hits you harder than the spankings.
You want more of it. Crave it. Would get on your knees and beg for it.
You almost do.
But he’s already climbing over you, belt in one hand, the other forcing your wrists above your head as he straddles your waist.
The look in his eyes is wild.
“Since you like teasing in front of people so much,” he murmurs, “let’s see how loud you get.”
He binds your wrists to the headboard with his belt, tugging it tight so you can’t move.
You arch into him. “Daddy—please—”
“Still don’t get to come.”
“What?” You’re sobbing already, hips searching for friction. “Please, I’ll be good, I’ll be so good—”
“I know, baby.” His hand slides down your stomach, slow and heavy. “But you don’t get to come because you want to.”
His fingers drag through your wetness again, and you let out a strangled moan.
“You come when I say. You come when I decide you’ve earned it.”
His lips brush your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “You wanted daddy to ruin you tonight, didn’t you?”
You nod frantically. “Yes—yes—please, ruin me—”
“That’s what I thought.”
He doesn’t go easy.
He makes you take two fingers, then three. Spreads them in you until you’re choking on your own moans, head thrashing against the headboard.
He eats you out like a man starved, dragging his tongue over your clit until you’re close. Right there and then stopping. Every. Single. Time.
“Not yet.”
“Daddy, I’ll cry—”
“That’s it, baby,” he rasps, voice almost sweet. “Cry for daddy.”
And you do.
Tears stream down your cheeks. You’re a mess, slick, ruined, begging and broken open but it’s only when you say the words he wants that he finally changes.
“Please let me come, daddy,” you sob. “I’ll be your good girl. I’ll never tease again—I swear—just please, please let me come.”
His mouth finds yours.
Messy. Hungry. Tongue licking into you like he owns you—and god, he does.
He tears his pants open and thrusts into you in one punishing stroke.
You scream.
He doesn’t stop.
The sound of skin slapping echoes through the room as he fucks you into the mattress.
“Such a fucking mouthy little brat,” he groans. “Had to take my cock to shut you up, huh?”
“Yes—yes, daddy—”
He grabs your hips and drives into you harder, faster, deeper, until your breath is just a series of broken cries.
“You gonna come now?”
“Please—please—I’ll do anything—”
“Then come.”
It crashes over you.
White-hot. Shattering. You scream his name, your body convulsing around him, and he doesn’t stop, fucks you through it, lets you ride it out until you’re limp under him.
Then he pulls out, flips you over, and shoves back in from behind, one hand yanking your head back by the hair.
“You think I’m done with you?”
“Daddy—!”
“Not until you’re crying into the sheets.”
He takes you again, rough and hard, cock slamming into you until your vision blurs and your arms give out.
You sob against the mattress, screaming when the overstimulation hits.
“That’s it, baby. Take it.”
He grips your hips so hard you’ll bruise.
“You want to be ruined? That’s what you get.”
You break again.
Another orgasm rips through you. Then another.
You’re not sure how many. You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t feel anything but Sirius inside you, around you, claiming every inch.
He finally slows.
Then stops.
You’re shaking, still sobbing softly into the sheets when he leans over and unties your wrists, then flips you gently onto your back.
His voice is low now. Gentle.
“Breathe, baby.”
You do.
And when you look up, he’s already got your face in his hands. Thumbs brushing away the tears, gaze soft and sweet despite the wreckage he’s left in your body.
“There she is,” he murmurs. “That’s my good girl.”
You sniffle. “I was bad…”
He kisses your forehead. “Not anymore.”
Then your nose. Then your lips.
“You earned it, baby.”
You melt.
He lays you on his chest, wraps the sheets around you, and holds you like something precious.
Summary: You finally break up with James Potter. It takes months to prepare yourself, even longer to admit that the relationship that once felt like home has quietly turned into something suffocating. James is sweet, steady, and impossibly kind, or at least that’s how he seems. When he offers you one last night together for “closure,” you agree. You shouldn’t.
Warnings: Break‑up sex, forced pregnancy/breeding (reader believes she’s on birth control), manipulation, dub‑con due to emotional power imbalance, emotionally abusive relationship, possessive/morally grey James, reader’s insecurity, pregnancy, full smut (oral, penetration, creampie), James is deeply unhinged but in love™️, toxic relationship, soft dom vibes masking morally grey intentions.
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You don’t even know how to begin.
The words feel foreign, heavy, too sharp for your mouth. It doesn’t matter how many times you rehearsed them in the mirror of the guest bathroom. Your secret bathroom, the one James never uses, where you started hiding pieces of yourself months ago. Every sentence you practiced there falls to pieces the moment he walks in through the front door, suit jacket folded over one arm, hair wind-ruffled, shirt untucked in the way he knows you like.
Because James is always beautiful. Even when he’s wrong. Even when he’s cruel.
“Hey, baby,” he says, stepping inside like he hasn’t already taken up every inch of this home. His tone is casual, warm. His eyes flick to you immediately, like they always do, and a little smile creeps onto his lips. “You didn’t tell me you’d be home early. I’d’ve picked up that wine you like.”
You want to cry and scream and run, but all you do is smile—watery and pathetic—because you’ve never been good at saying no to James Potter.
And he knows it.
He peels off his tie, walks over, and presses a kiss to the top of your head. His lips linger longer than they should. You flinch.
That’s when he knows something is wrong. He calls out your name worriedly.
You inhale. Exhale. Your fingers knot themselves into the hem of your sweater like they’re bracing for impact.
“I want to break up.”
You say it quietly, like the volume might soften the blow. Like shrinking the words will shrink the damage.
Silence.
James doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe. He just watches you.
You try not to shake. Try to look composed. But your chest is already tightening, your throat dry, and the longer the silence stretches on, the more you want to take it all back.
“I just—It’s not working anymore,” you mumble. “It hasn’t been for a while, and I—James, I need space. I need to figure out who I am without you. I—”
“You’re serious?”
His voice is low. Confused. Hurt, maybe. But not angry.
You nod.
Another silence. This one feels worse than the first.
He drags a hand through his hair, mouth pulling tight. For a moment, he looks stunned, like this is the first time he’s considered the possibility of losing you. Like it doesn’t even make sense to him.
“But… why?” he finally asks, blinking. “I don’t understand. Is it something I did? Did someone say something?”
That question makes your stomach lurch.
Because yes. A lot of people said a lot of things. But none of them mattered until recently.
You met James two years ago. He walked into your life like a fairytale. Expensive watch, clean shoes, charming smile. The kind of man who made the world bend around him. A man who made you feel seen.
Remus introduced you. He worked at the little bookstore down the street from your flat, and you’d gotten close over shared literary rants and quiet weekday shifts. You trusted him. So when Remus mentioned his old school friend—said his name like it meant something—you listened.
“I think you’d really get on,” Remus said one slow Tuesday, leaning across the counter. “He’s not like the rest of them.”
You hadn’t been convinced. James Potter came from old money. Legacy wealth. A surname that carried weight and whispered expectations. He’d gone to boarding school with Remus, one of those ivy-covered castles tucked into the countryside. The kind with oil paintings in every hallway and trust funds gifted at birth. You assumed he’d be pompous or condescending.
But he wasn’t.
James smiled when you shook his hand at the café Remus picked for your first meeting. He listened when you talked. Asked questions. Made you feel like your opinions were the most interesting things in the world. Not once did he mention where he came from. Not once did he make you feel small.
So when he asked for your number at the end of the night, you gave it to him. When he texted you the next morning, you smiled. When he invited you out again, you said yes.
It felt natural. Easy.
A few months later, you were sleeping over most nights. A few months after that, you were living in his condo. Big windows, sleek furniture, views of the city. He said it made sense. That you were already always there. That you made it feel like home.
And you were happy.
For a while.
It started small.
He bought you a dress.
“You’d look so good in this,” he said, pressing the shopping bag into your hands. And you had looked good. It fit perfectly. He always knew your size. It was sweet. Thoughtful. You wore it to dinner that night.
Then another dress came. And another. And then a whole row of blouses and skirts and coats began appearing in your shared closet. Slowly, your old clothes started disappearing.
You told yourself it was fine. He had better taste than you anyway. It didn’t matter.
Then he started commenting on your friends. Mostly the guys.
“Barty’s always flirting with you. I don’t like how he looks at you.”
Or—
“Sirius is reckless. You don’t need to be around people like that.”
You argued once. Just once.
But James was so good at making you feel like you were wrong.
“I’m just looking out for you,” he said. “I know people like them. I grew up with them. They don’t want to see you happy. Not like I do.”
So you pulled away. First from Barty, then Sirius, then all of them.
Except Remus. James never minded Remus.
You told yourself it was compromise. Relationships were about compromise. He was just protective. It was love. That’s what it looked like, right?
Then came the parties. His parties. His friends. His people.
You didn’t have much in common with them, but they welcomed you—when James was watching. When he wasn’t, you felt like a museum piece they were politely tolerating. Their smiles were too polished. Their compliments too rehearsed. Their judgment too subtle to name.
When you brought it up to James, he laughed.
“You’re just nervous,” he said. “They like you. You’re overthinking it.”
That became a theme.
You’re overthinking it.
You’re being sensitive.
You’re making a big deal out of nothing.
So you stopped talking. Stopped noticing. Stopped caring.
Until one of your old friends—someone from high school you’d secretly kept texting—called you crying one night. Her boyfriend had cheated. You stayed on the phone for two hours, comforting her.
James walked in, saw the call still ongoing, and frowned.
“You didn’t ask me if it was okay to stay on the phone this late.”
It wasn’t even midnight.
You tried to explain, but he kissed you instead. Slow. Apologetic. Whispered that he just missed you. That he just wanted time with you.
You felt guilty for even picking up the call in the first place.
But something cracked that night.
You sat in the bathroom after he fell asleep, staring at yourself in the mirror. Trying to find the version of you that used to laugh loud. The version who said no. Who didn’t ask permission to live her own life.
It took months.
Months of texting your friend behind James’ back. Months of saving up some money from your freelance gigs. Months of lying awake beside him, pretending the weight in your chest wasn’t fear.
You planned your escape like it was a prison break.
And then today came.
“I don’t want to do this anymore,” you say again, stronger this time. “I can’t keep pretending like everything’s okay.”
James leans back against the kitchen counter. He still hasn’t raised his voice. Still hasn’t said anything cruel.
He just stares.
Then, slowly, he exhales.
“…Okay.”
Your head snaps up. “What?”
“I said okay,” he repeats. Calm. Controlled. “If that’s what you want.”
You blink. You hadn’t expected it to be this easy. Not from him. You feel off balance. Unsteady.
“You’ll let me go?”
His eyes narrow slightly. “I never owned you, Y/N.”
That feels like a lie, but you let it slide.
“So, that’s it?” you ask.
James tilts his head.
“On one condition.”
Your stomach drops. “What?”
“One night,” he says. “One last night. Just us. You and me. Like it used to be.”
You freeze.
“I don’t—James—”
“Just for closure,” he adds. “If you still want to leave afterward, I won’t stop you. I promise.”
You should say no.
You should push him away and leave.
But James knows how to look at you. Knows how to soften his eyes. How to bend his words just right. His voice is honey-slick and low, curling into the air like a promise. You feel yourself crumbling.
You tell yourself it’s harmless. One night won’t change anything.
You need closure anyway. Right?
“…Okay.”
He smiles.
And for the first time in a long time, that smile terrifies you.
The bedroom looks the same, but everything feels different.
You sit at the edge of the bed like a guest in someone else’s house. The sheets are cool beneath your legs, crisp from the laundry James had done earlier that afternoon. He had folded your clothes too, carefully, as if nothing was unraveling. As if this weren’t the last night you would be here.
He stands across from you, fingers loosening the buttons on his shirt one by one. You watch his hands, slow and deliberate, and hate how your thighs press together on instinct.
Because you still want him.
Even after everything, even with the decision made, you still want James Potter like an ache in your ribs.
“Still okay?” he asks softly.
You nod, throat too tight to speak.
He kneels between your legs, palms skimming up your thighs, and dips his head to press a kiss just above your knee.
“We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to,” he murmurs, mouth moving over skin like silk. “Just tell me if you want to stop.”
“Don’t stop,” you whisper.
He undresses you slowly. Reverently. Like unwrapping a secret. Kisses your collarbone, your shoulder, the swell of your chest. When his fingers hook into your panties, he looks up, eyes dark.
“Still okay?”
You nod again.
He slides them down your legs, kisses your inner thigh, then lets out a soft, pleased sound when he parts your legs and sees how wet you are.
“God,” he murmurs. “I haven’t even touched you properly yet.”
He leans in and licks a slow, deliberate stripe through your folds, groaning at the taste.
You gasp, fingers curling into the sheets.
He eats you like he’s starving. Soft and slow at first, tongue dipping inside you before sliding up to circle your clit, firm and unrelenting. He sucks gently, then harder when your hips start to twitch beneath him. His hands slide under your thighs to keep you spread open, to hold you exactly where he wants you.
“Oh my God, James.”
He hums in response, sending vibrations through your core.
You’re panting now, the heat building too fast, too intense.
“I’m gonna… James, I’m…”
You cry out when you come, thighs clamping around his head, hips bucking helplessly. He doesn’t stop. He keeps licking through it, gentle now, drawing every last spasm from you until your body goes boneless.
When he finally pulls away, his mouth is slick and his eyes are molten.
You’re still shaking when he climbs up your body and kisses you, letting you taste yourself on his tongue.
“You’re perfect,” he whispers. “You always were.”
“…Do you want me to get a condom?”
He pauses.
And that pause lasts a beat too long.
Then he kisses you again, softer this time.
“You’re still on birth control, yeah?”
You nod, hazy, breathless. “Of course. I’ve been on it for months.”
Something flickers in his eyes.
“Then no,” he says gently, rocking his hips against you. “I want to feel you. Just this once. The way we used to.”
You don’t argue.
You let him guide himself between your legs and push in slow, so slow, until he’s fully buried inside you.
You moan.
You forgot how full he makes you feel. How thick he is. How easily he stretches you open and fills every inch.
His forehead presses to yours. He breathes hard, holding still.
“Jesus, baby… I missed this.”
He starts to move. Slow, deliberate thrusts. Not rough. Not fast. Just deep. Intimate.
He holds your hands above your head and kisses your jaw, your cheek, your throat.
“You feel so good,” he groans. “Like you were made for me.”
He moves faster, hips slapping into yours, his grip tightening around your wrists.
You cry out when he hits that spot inside you, again and again, relentless. Your legs wrap around his waist before you can stop yourself, pulling him deeper.
He kisses your mouth, breath ragged. “Come for me again,” he pants. “Want to feel you squeeze me.”
And you do.
It slams into you, hard and fast, stealing the breath from your lungs. You sob his name into his mouth as you shudder around him, and that’s all it takes.
James buries himself deep and groans, hips twitching as he spills inside you.
Hot and thick.
You should have told him to pull out.
But it doesn’t matter. You’re on the pill.
You remind yourself of that as he slowly pulls out and collapses beside you, still panting. You feel his release leaking out of you onto the sheets and try not to think about it.
He kisses your temple and whispers, “Still with me?”
You nod.
But you’re not sure if it’s true.
Later, after you’ve both caught your breath, James doesn’t let go.
He curls around you like he used to, one hand stroking your back, the other resting possessively over your stomach.
“You’re quiet,” he murmurs.
“I’m just… tired,” you whisper.
“Mm.” He kisses your shoulder. “Do you regret it?”
You pause.
Then shake your head. “No.”
It’s not a lie. But it doesn’t feel like the truth, either.
And when he gets hard again a little while later, he doesn’t ask permission.
He just pushes back inside and moves slowly, deeply, whispering things like mine and made for me and gonna keep you forever.
And again, he finishes inside you.
You tell yourself it’s the last time.
You tell yourself it’s fine.
You’re on birth control.
You’re sure.
Aren’t you?
It has been two months since you left James Potter.
Two months of cheap furniture and mismatched mugs. Two months of silence and freedom and the slow, awkward process of relearning who you are when no one is looking.
The first weeks were hard. You didn’t know what to do with all the space. You’d wake up expecting his arm around your waist, his breath in your hair. You’d catch yourself reaching for your phone to text him.
But you stayed away.
Until the nausea started.
At first you blamed stress. Moving. Work. Anything else. But then your period didn’t come. And then it didn’t come again. And then the test you bought from the pharmacy down the block flashed two pink lines at you like a verdict.
You’re not supposed to be pregnant. You’ve been on birth control for months. You never missed a pill. You were careful.
But you are pregnant.
And James Potter is the father.
Telling him feels like the only responsible thing to do.
Even now, even after everything, you’re not the type to hide something like this. He deserves to know.
James meets you in the lobby of his company’s headquarters. He is dressed down compared to usual. Open collar, sleeves rolled up. When his eyes land on you, something flickers behind them. Not surprise. Something else.
He calls your name softly, like your name is still a prayer. “You’re here.”
You nod. “We need to talk.”
“I’m pregnant,” you say in the conference room, no preamble. No softening.
James blinks.
Then exhales through his nose, slow and measured. “…Okay.”
“You’re not surprised,” you say slowly.
James tilts his head. “Should I be?”
“I was on birth control,” you snap. “This isn’t supposed to happen.”
“Birth control isn’t perfect,” he replies gently. “You know that.”
“I don’t know what to do,” you whisper.
James steps closer. “You don’t have to figure it out alone.”
“James…”
“I mean it.” His voice is low, steady. “You’re carrying my child. Let me be here for you. Let me help you. Whatever you need.”
Your throat tightens. “We’re not together anymore.”
“We could be,” he says simply.
“I don’t know if I can trust you.”
He nods like he understands. Like he’s patient.
“That’s okay,” he murmurs. “You don’t have to trust me right away. Just let me be near you. Let me help. Let me show you.”
“You don’t have to decide anything today,” he says. “Just come home with me tonight. We’ll talk. That’s all.”
You stare at him, trembling.
It’s wrong. You know it’s wrong. You can feel the hook of his voice sliding back into you, the way it always has. But you’re scared. You’re overwhelmed. And you’re pregnant.
And James is right here, steady and warm and unshaken.
You nod.
“…Okay.”
His smile blooms slow, radiant. He squeezes your hand once and presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering there just long enough to make you close your eyes.
“You’re not alone,” he whispers again.
You don’t know that two months before you left, James Potter started switching out your birth control pills with identical-looking vitamins. That he had noticed you pulling away and convinced himself he could fix it. That when his charm didn’t work, when his gifts didn’t work, when his soft voice and patient hands didn’t work, he decided on something else.
You don’t know that your pregnancy wasn’t an accident.
You don’t know that as he leads you out of the conference room, fingers laced through yours, his chest feels lighter than it has in months.
Summary: You’re a new Herbology professor; Tom Riddle is your brightest student. When he asks for private tutoring, you can’t say no. In hindsight you should have known better.
You should have known better than to trust Tom Riddle.
You weren’t an idiot, not really but in hindsight, you’ve never felt quite so naïve. Not until now, not until your cheek was pressed into his pillow, breathing in the sharp, crisp scent of cedarwood and ink and something distinctly him, your robes bunched around your waist, knickers torn and hanging uselessly off one ankle.
You squeeze your eyes shut and try not to moan again when he sinks deeper inside you.
It’s filthy. Wrong. He’s your student.
But Merlin, the way he fucks you, it’s like he’s been planning it for years.
He doesn’t groan or whimper like the boys you remember from your youth. No, Tom makes this soft, low noise in the back of his throat—somewhere between a hum and a growl—as he drives his hips forward again, burying himself in your soaked cunt like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
“Such a pretty little thing,” he murmurs. “And so stupid.”
Your breath hitches.
Stupid. Yes. You feel it now.
Because you believed him when he said he needed help. Tom Riddle, Head Boy, top of every class, sought-after apprentice to Slughorn. He’d shown up at your office door on a rainy Friday evening, books clutched in his long fingers, tie slightly loosened.
“I’m sorry to bother you, Professor,” he had said, eyes cast down like he was embarrassed. “It’s just… I’m struggling in Herbology.”
You’d blinked at him, confused. “You’re top of the class, Mr. Riddle.”
He gave a shy little smile. “Because I memorize, not because I understand. And I want to understand it. Properly. Like you do.”
You’d melted at that. Flattered. Of course you agreed. Of course you said yes. He seemed so sincere.
And now your wrists are pinned behind your back by one of his large hands, his other gripping your hip tightly as he snaps into you with ruthless, punishing rhythm. You cry out, shocked at how wet you still are, how deep he gets, how your body reacts despite your better judgment.
Despite everything.
“Please,” you gasp, unsure what you’re begging for. Mercy? More?
He leans over you, lips brushing the shell of your ear.
“Don’t play innocent with me now, Professor,” he purrs, rolling his hips in a slow, delicious thrust that makes your thighs tremble. “You wanted this.”
You shake your head weakly. “No—I didn’t—”
“You let me into your office alone. Week after week.” He presses a kiss to your temple, mockingly sweet. “You blushed every time I looked at you too long. You stammered when I called you ‘miss.’”
His teeth graze your jaw. “You were asking for it.”
Your chest heaves. Your cunt clenches around him, traitorously.
He notices.
“Oh,” he breathes, delighted. “You liked that, didn’t you?”
You try to wriggle away but his hand tightens around your wrists and he drags your hips back, slamming into you again.
“You knew what you were doing. Taking me into that greenhouse,” he continues. “Getting dirt on your pretty little skirts. Bending over to show me how to trim fluxweed, like you didn’t know your arse was in my face the whole time.”
You whimper as he thrusts deeper, harder. Each word is punctuated by the slap of his hips against yours, the obscene wet sound of your bodies meeting over and over again.
“You were practically begging me to ruin you.”
You don’t know whether to sob or come.
Because part of you did want it. Still does.
You just hadn’t thought it would feel like this, like your body no longer belongs to you, like your thoughts are slipping, unraveling under the pressure of his cock pounding into you with precision, with purpose, with ownership.
His hand slides between your legs and you jolt when he finds your clit, already swollen and desperate. He rubs slow, lazy circles, and you arch against him with a ragged cry.
“Tell me,” he whispers against your ear, “who’s fucking you like this?”
You swallow around the moan threatening your throat. “Y-You.”
“Say my name.”
You hesitate and he stops, completely.
Still buried inside you, still holding you down, but motionless.
Your body screams for friction, for more. You squirm, whimpering in frustration.
“Tom,” you finally pant. “Tom, please—”
He hums again, pleased, and starts moving.
“Good girl.”
You clench at the praise and he laughs. Low and wicked.
“Oh, you really are easy, aren’t you?”
You don’t respond. You can’t.
All you can do is let him fuck you. Harder now, rougher, like he’s trying to etch himself into your memory, into your body. His hand is still between your legs, and your release is building again, sharper this time, impossible to ignore.
“You going to come for me again?” he murmurs, lips brushing your spine.
You try to hold it back. You don’t want to give him the satisfaction.
But when he angles his hips and hits that spot inside you. The one you didn’t even know existed. You shatter with a strangled cry, your entire body trembling as waves of pleasure roll through you.
He groans low and spills inside you moments later, grip tightening on your wrists as he thrusts deep one final time, cock twitching inside your fluttering walls.
Silence stretches between you, heavy and sticky.
You’re still panting, cheek pressed into the cool sheets, your body spent and aching, leaking onto his bed.
And then he releases your wrists.
For a moment, you think maybe he’s done.
But then he leans down and presses a slow, reverent kiss to the base of your spine.
You flinch. Not from fear but from confusion.
“You’re mine now,” he whispers. “You know that, don’t you?”
Your heart stutters.
You roll onto your side slowly, eyes wide, lips parted. “Tom…”
Summary: At a forbidden masquerade in Malfoy Manor, you’re hunted, stripped, and used by masked members of the Knights of Walpurgis. Unknowingly fulfilling a prophecy, you’re taken in every way—your body a vessel, a ritual.
Warnings: Noncon/dubcon themes, multiple partners, every hole filled, degradation, multiple orgasms, masked/anonymous sex, ritualistic undertones, no safewords, gangbang,
Words: 2.1k
⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆
The invitation arrived on black parchment, sealed in silver wax bearing no crest—only a symbol: a twisted serpent curled around a rose, its thorns glistening like teeth.
You weren’t sure who sent it. No name, only the place.
There’d been whispers, of course. Of elite gatherings behind ancient doors. Purebloods hiding in shadows, men of power clinging to the ashes of a war they refused to accept as lost. Still, curiosity was a vice. And you’d always had a taste for danger.
The moment you step past the wrought iron gates, something shifts. The air is thick with enchantment, an old, pulsing magic, heavy as blood in your mouth. The gravel crunches beneath your heels as you approach the towering manor, cloaked in black ivy and moonlight.
You wear a deep red gown, satin clinging to every curve, your face hidden behind a delicate lace mask. Your fingers tremble only slightly as you raise a hand to knock.
But the doors open before you touch them.
No butler. No greeting.
Only darkness and the scent of smoke, wine, and something feral.
You step inside.
The doors slam behind you.
Music drips from the walls—low, slow, haunting strings. Candles hover mid-air in twisted candelabras, their flames silver instead of gold. The ballroom stretches impossibly wide, the chandeliers hung with crystal charms that glitter like stardust.
And they’re already watching you.
Men in masks.
Dozens of them.
Each face obscured by finely crafted masks. Obsidian and onyx, silver and serpentine green, shaped like wolves, dragons, wraiths, and things with no name. None of them speak. But you can feel them, eyes behind metal and velvet. Searing through your gown. Your skin.
A chill races down your spine.
You’re not supposed to be here.
A step backward. And then…
“Don’t.”
A voice. Deep, regal, amused.
You turn, but the mask staring back at you is faceless, blank silver, smooth as a mirror. Tall. Cold. A presence carved from authority.
He doesn’t touch you. He doesn’t need to.
“Do you know where you are, little one?”
Your mouth opens. You’re not sure what you planned to say.
“Yes,” you lie.
He hums. A slow, dangerous sound.
“She thinks she’s clever,” says another voice, off to your left. Velvet-soft and lined with cruelty.
Another man steps into view, his mask a snarling hound, silver teeth bared. He tilts his head, studying you like prey.
“No mark. No sponsor. She’s unclaimed.”
“She’s the one,” a fourth voice murmurs. This one deeper, quieter. Almost reverent.
“She’s real.”
The silver mask stiffens.
“She came on her own.”
“As foretold.”
As prophesied.
The room goes still.
You feel it like a curse: their attention, sharpening. Masked heads turning. Magic shifting.
One by one, they begin to circle.
“She doesn’t know,” someone whispers.
“She should,” says another. “Let’s show her what it means to belong to the Dark.”
Your heart slams in your chest.
You turn to run.
They let you.
You sprint through a corridor of endless mirrors, the red of your dress a streak of defiance. Your heels echo against marble. Laughter trails behind you—low, amused, dark.
They are not chasing you.
They are herding you.
Every corridor twists deeper. Every door opens to more silence, more masks waiting in the dark. You pass through a velvet-curtained hall where the air tastes of wine and sweat. Someone steps from the shadows and brushes your waist, not holding, just grazing. The touch burns.
You whirl. No one there.
Just a mirror.
Just your reflection.
But your mask… is gone.
Your breath catches.
You hadn’t taken it off. No one touched it. No hands, no spell you noticed. And yet, there you are, reflected with your face bare, vulnerable, exposed under the dim silver glow.
You blink…
And now your reflection is smiling.
You’re not.
A shiver crawls down your spine.
A door creaks behind you.
You run again.
The manor transforms as you move. Corridors stretch, then narrow, doors vanish behind you. Magic is alive here. Feral, intelligent. And the Knights are moving with it.
The first one appears before you like smoke, stepping through a doorway you could have sworn was a wall. He’s tall, broad-shouldered, clad in black with a long cloak that sweeps the floor. His mask is carved like a snarling beast, horned and ancient.
He says nothing.
Just watches.
Then he lifts his hand, two fingers, beckoning.
You freeze.
His magic rolls toward you like heat.
You shake your head and stumble backward, breath ragged.
A laugh follows.
Low, deep, cruel.
From behind.
You turn, too slow.
A gloved hand catches your throat, slams you back against the wall. Not hard, not yet, but firm enough to make your thighs clench.
This mask is sleeker. Silver edged with black. His voice is velvet-lined command:
“Are you frightened, little prophecy?”
You swallow.
“No.”
Another lie.
He leans closer. “You will be.”
Your dress is the first thing to go.
Not torn—removed.
Each Knight that steps from the shadows touches only part of you. Fingers on your shoulder. A slow drag of a glove down your spine. A firm grip on your waist as you stumble through an archway.
They peel you like fruit, reverent and ruthless all at once.
By the time you reach the grand library, you’re in nothing but heels and a shred of dignity. Skin glowing in candlelight. Breathless. Disoriented.
A circle of them awaits.
Seven masks.
Each one more terrifying than the last.
You recognize the silver serpent—that must be Lucius.
The horned one again, Lestrange, maybe. And there, in the back, standing utterly still: a mask smooth and featureless, like a god that doesn’t need expression to inspire fear.
Tom.
You know it’s him.
Every part of you knows.
“You ran well,” the hound-masked one murmurs. Avery, perhaps, circling you like a wolf. “But you’re cornered now, little witch.”
“She’s trembling,” Nott hums, stepping behind you. His gloves are gone, his hands are cold, sliding along your hips. “Do you feel that? She wants this.”
You gasp as his fingers part your thighs. Not inside. Just there. Just… waiting.
“She doesn’t even deny it.”
They close in.
You can’t count how many hands. Can’t tell who’s who anymore.
Someone grabs your chin, forcing you to look up.
“Eyes open,” the voice commands—Tom’s, you know it. “You’ll watch what you become.”
They didn’t strip you bare just to tease. They make a spectacle of it.
You’re lifted, placed on a long chaise like an offering. Legs spread, hands bound in soft black silk above your head. Your breath comes in sharp, shallow pulls as a masked man steps forward.
The dragon mask.
Rosier.
He kneels between your thighs without a word.
His fingers dig into your hips as his mouth claims you—no warning, no mercy. Heat, wetness, obscene noise—he devours you like he’s starving, tongue dragging over your clit in firm, calculated strokes. He moans into you, and the sound vibrates straight through your core.
You cry out.
The others chuckle.
“She’s loud already.”
“Ripe for us.”
The shame only makes it worse. Makes it better.
Your back arches as Rosier sucks hard, fingers spreading you wider. You can feel their eyes. Feel the weight of it.
Judging.
Owning.
Loving your ruin.
You cum too fast—your body buckling, walls clenching. You sob through it, but they don’t stop.
Hands keep you down.
Mouth still on you.
Another orgasm rips through you. And another.
“Look at her fall apart,” someone murmurs.
When Rosier pulls back, his lips are slick, mask still perfectly in place.
You’re lifted up momentarily so someone can slide underneath you.
Your chest to chest, face buried into his neck.
Then someone’s cock, thick, hot and demanding rubs along your entrance.
“Let’s show her what it means,” the voice rasps. Lucius, you think. “To belong to the Dark.”
The tip of his cock presses against your dripping entrance. He doesn’t thrust.
He slides in.
Slowly.
Too slowly. Too deep.
You choke on a cry, your hips jerking. He doesn’t allow it. One hand tightens around your waist, the other presses down between your shoulder blades, forcing your body against him more.
“Stay still,” he murmurs, voice like ice over fire. “Let them watch you take me.”
You’re so full.
He doesn’t stop until he bottoms out.
You whimper, tears prickling at the corners of your eyes. Not from pain, not quite but from the sheer force of being filled. Of knowing this is only the beginning.
Another masked figure steps into view.
Avery.
You recognize the mask, sharp angles, cruel mouth, obsidian black.
His cock is already out.
Already hard.
He grips your jaw, forcing your head up.
“No hiding now, little witch.”
He doesn’t wait.
He slides into your mouth with one slow, taunting push, inch after inch, until your lips are stretched around him, your throat tight and burning.
You gag, but he just groans.
“Fuck. She shudders when she chokes. She likes it.”
Lucius starts moving underneath you—deep, brutal thrusts that make your whole body rock. Every time his hips slap against your ass, Avery fucks forward into your mouth, syncing their rhythm.
You are caught.
Used.
Filled.
One of the Knights reaches beneath you, spreading your thighs further. Fingers slide between your folds, circling your clit, pinching cruelly until your muffled cries vibrate around Avery’s cock.
“You’re dripping,” Nott says behind his mask, amused. “So greedy.”
He slaps your clit.
You jolt, nearly choking again.
Cheers rise from the others.
“She’s crying.”
“She’s close.”
Another masked man stands behind you, Lestrange, perhaps. You can feel him watching, feel his fingers spreading your ass. Something slick coats you, oil, magic, you’re not sure.
And then another cock nudges at your untouched entrance.
No.
You tense.
They don’t stop.
They never stop.
Lestrange breaches you with agonizing care, easing inside inch by inch as Lucius still fucks your pussy and Avery owns your throat. You are stretched beyond reason—full in every hole. Your body trembles violently, tears dripping from your chin onto Avery’s thighs.
And yet—you’re wetter than ever.
You’re burning for it.
They know.
Tom steps forward. You know it’s him by the weight of his magic. He doesn’t touch you. Not yet. Just watches.
“She was born for this,” he murmurs, voice like prophecy. “The body made to bind us.”
Lucius growls, thrusting harder.
Lestrange holds your hips tight, pounding into your ass now, deep and brutal.
Avery groans as you gag around him, tears soaking your cheeks.
You are nothing but sensation.
Nothing but theirs.
Your orgasm hits like thunder—violent, devastating, so deep it rips a scream from your throat, even around Avery’s cock. Your whole body shudders, clenches. It doesn’t stop.
They don’t let it.
Every thrust pushes you further.
Every hole is filled.
You are used like a vessel, a ritual, as one by one, they take their pleasure.
Avery cums first, groaning as he spills down your throat. You gag, swallow instinctively, tears streaking your face.
Lucius is next, hips jerking as he fills your pussy, thick warmth spilling deep inside.
Lestrange finishes with a grunt, his grip bruising as he slams into your ass one last time, groaning as he empties himself into you.
You collapse when but they don’t let you rest.
You are lifted, body limp, legs shaking.
They pass you between them like a sacred offering.
Nott takes you on your back, watching your face twist with overstimulation. Mulciber fucks your throat next, rougher than Avery. Rosier returns to your cunt, fingers pulling it open, watching the way Lucius’ cum leaks out.
“Messy little prophecy,” he sneers.
You can’t speak.
Can barely think.
And still—still—you want.
You burn.
You beg.
Finally, Tom steps forward.
The room falls silent.
The others step back, reverent.
His mask is pure white. Smooth. Featureless.
He lifts you onto an altar-like table, arms trembling as he runs gloved fingers down your ruined body.
“You’ve taken them all,” he murmurs. “Filled by every Knight. Marked. Claimed.”
You nod weakly.
He lowers himself between your thighs. He doesn’t rush. His mouth worships, tongue slow, deliberate, tongue circling your clit until you’re thrashing.
When he finally enters you, it’s like your body breaks apart.
You scream.
You sob.
You shatter.
He fucks you through every aftershock, murmuring ancient words you can’t understand, something old, something binding.
And when he comes inside you, it’s not just pleasure.
Summary: Sent to Malfoy Manor, you’ve always been Uncle Lucius’s favourite. Now that you’re of age, his attention turns darker
Warnings: Incest / Uncle–Niece Dynamic, Power Imbalance / Manipulation, Corruption Kink, Virgin / Innocence Kink, Dark / Taboo Themes, Innocent Reader, Age Gap.
Words: ?
⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆ ⋆♱✮♱⋆
You have always known that Lucius Malfoy favored you.
It was in the way his hand lingered at the small of your back a beat longer than necessary when he guided you through the marble halls of Malfoy Manor. In the way his eyes cut to you across the dinner table whenever you laughed. In the way his voice turned low and warm when he spoke your name.
You told yourself it was because you were his niece, and he was proud of you. That was what everyone thought. That was what you let yourself believe.
Until now.
Tonight the manor feels even bigger than usual. The portraits watch as you descend the staircase in a borrowed nightgown — sheer, fluttering against your thighs — to get a glass of water. You’ve only been living here a few weeks since your parents went abroad, and you’re still learning the layout.
The hallway outside his study is dim, lit by a single candelabra. You pause at the door because it’s ajar. Candlelight spills out in a golden pool.
“Come in,” his voice calls, smooth as velvet.
Your heart stutters. He must have heard you.
You step inside. The study smells of sandalwood and parchment. He’s seated behind his massive mahogany desk, robes loosened, silver hair falling forward. He looks nothing like a guardian. He looks like temptation dressed in silk.
“Couldn’t sleep?” he asks, eyes flicking down the line of your nightgown. His lips curve faintly. “You’re restless.”
You nod, clutching your glass tighter. “I didn’t mean to disturb you.”
He gestures to the chair opposite his desk. “Sit.”
You obey.
The fire pops. He leans back in his chair, studying you like a puzzle. “You’ve grown up,” he says finally, voice low. “When did that happen?”
“I—” Your throat goes dry. “I don’t know.”
“Yes you do.” His gaze sharpens. “You’re not a child anymore. You’re a young woman. And you must know how beautiful you’ve become.”
Heat creeps up your neck. You drop your eyes. “Uncle Lucius…”
“Lucius,” he corrects softly. “We’re past titles, aren’t we?”
Your stomach twists. You nod without meaning to.
He stands, rounding the desk with a predator’s grace until he’s standing behind your chair. You feel his hands settle lightly on your shoulders. The scent of his cologne wraps around you, heady and expensive. He leans down, mouth near your ear.
“You’ve always been my favorite,” he murmurs. “You know that, don’t you?”
“I…” You swallow hard. “Yes.”
His fingers drift from your shoulders to the bare skin of your arms, then down to where the thin fabric of your nightgown begins. He tuts softly.
“Such a dangerous little thing to wear,” he says. “Do you know what you’re doing to me?”
You tremble. “No.”
He chuckles, low and dark. “Then let me show you.”
He takes your hand, guiding you up out of the chair. For a moment, you think he’ll stop, that this is a test. But then he’s steering you toward the desk, turning you gently to face him, his fingers at your chin, tilting your head up.
“Look at me,” he says.
You do. His eyes are molten silver.
“You’re still untouched, aren’t you?” he asks quietly. “No one’s spoiled you yet.”
You can’t speak, but he sees the answer in your eyes. His thumb strokes your lower lip.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Then I get to teach you.”
Your breath hitches. He smiles faintly.
“Don’t be afraid, little one. You’ll like what I do to you. You’ll learn to crave it.”
He kisses you then — slow at first, tasting, testing — before deepening it, his tongue sliding against yours, coaxing a whimper from your throat. His hand glides down to your lower back, pressing you closer until you’re flush against him.
“You taste like sin,” he says against your mouth. “And you have no idea what that does to me.”
His mouth drifts to your neck, open-mouthed kisses trailing down your collarbone. You clutch at his robes, feeling dizzy.
“I’ve been patient,” he murmurs. “But seeing you like this—” His fingers skim the edge of your nightgown, sliding higher. “Sheer little thing. Did you wear it for me?”
“No,” you whisper.
He smiles against your throat. “Liar.”
His hands slide lower, cupping your hips, pressing you gently back against the desk until the edge bites into the backs of your thighs. His voice drops to a growl.
“You’re going to earn your inheritance tonight, sweetheart.”
He lifts you easily onto the desk. Parchment and quills scatter to the floor. You gasp as he parts your knees with a flick of his wrist, stepping between them, one hand still caressing your jaw.
“Still so innocent,” he says. “Still so sweet. I’m going to ruin that sweetness bit by bit until you can’t even say my name without shaking.”
His mouth finds yours again, more insistent now. His other hand drifts up your thigh, fingers brushing just high enough to make you tremble.
“Tell me you want this,” he murmurs. “Say it.”
“I… I want this,” you breathe.
“That’s my girl,” he whispers.
He presses a kiss just below your ear. “Let me taste you. Let me make you mine.”
His other hand slid from your back to your ass, gripping you through the flimsy silk, pulling you hard against the solid ridge of his cock straining against his tailored trousers. A sharp gasp escaped you, your own body betraying you with a sudden, hot pulse between your legs.
“Now,” he murmured, his breath hot against your ear.
“Let’s see what you’re made of.” His fingers hooked into the strap of your gown. Rrrrip.
The delicate fabric gave way, slithering down your body to pool at your feet, leaving you utterly exposed. You shivered, crossing your arms over your chest.
“None of that,” he commanded, his voice sharp. He forced your hands down to your sides, his eyes raking over your naked form.
“Fuck, look at you. Those perfect little tits, that innocent little cunt. It’s been driving me mad.” He spun you around, bending you over the polished surface of his mahogany desk. Parchment scattered, a heavy inkwell tipping over with a thunk. You could see your own wide, frightened eyes reflected in the dark wood. “Lucius, please—”
“Please what?” he growled, his body pressing against your back, pinning you. One hand fisted in your hair, the other hiking up his robes.
You heard the slick sound of his belt unbuckling, the shhhclick of the clasp, the rough zip of his fly. “Please fuck you?” he hissed. “Please ruin this tight little virgin cunt for anyone else?” His cock, thick and veined and terrifying, slid between your thighs, the hot, hard length of it smearing your slickness against your skin.
You whimpered, a mixture of fear and a dark, unwelcome thrill coiling in your belly.
“That’s it,” he coaxed, his voice dropping to a filthy whisper. “Be a good girl for your Uncle. You want to earn your keep, don’t you?” He notched the head of his cock at your entrance, and you bit your lip, bracing.
“Won’t fit” you whimper out, shaking your head against the cold wooden desk. You’re sure of it, no matter how wet you can feel you are, with no prep there’s no way it’s going in without hurting.
You heard Lucius let out a low chuckle from behind you. “Then we’ll just have to make it fit, won’t we sweetheart”.
“No—“ you start before being cut off, as with one brutal, possessive thrust, he sheathed himself inside you.
“Fuck, you’re so fucking tight,” He groans out, hands gripping your hips tightly.
The burn was immediate and intense, a white-hot that made you cry out, your nails scratching the desk. He didn’t pause, didn’t give you a moment to adjust. He just started fucking you, hard and deep, his hips slamming into your ass with a wet, rhythmic slap.
Your hands scramble against the desk for something to hold onto, as Lucius ruthlessly pounds into you, forcing against the desk. You can feel something warm running down your thighs, you don’t need reach down to feel it or even look at it to know what it is. Blood.
“Please,” you whine out helplessly, the burn between your legs making your sentence vanish as quickly as it started.
Lucius doesn’t stop, he shows no intention of stopping.
“Keep whining like a common whore and you’ll wake up the whole house,” he leans down, clothed chest flushed against your back as he whispered into your ear.
“Or is that what you want? Huh? Your aunt to find you on my cock moaning? Draco to watch as I make a woman out of you?”
It’s filthy and you should like it but it makes your cunt clench around him. You shake your head bring one of your hands up from griping against the edge of the desk, to cover your mouth.
“That’s it doesn’t hurt so much any more, huh? Princess, squeezing my cock nice and tight at the thought of being caught” his hands bracket the sides of your head as he continues to pound into you.
He was right it didn’t hurt anymore not really, the pain was like a throbbing undertone more than anything. However, you couldn’t admit that, you wouldn’t but before you could continue to deny it you weren’t already coming on his cock.
Your cunt spasmed around him as a scream died down against your hand. Lucius’ groaned deeply into your ear at the sensation.
“Good girl, let’s see how many more you can give me. After all, you’ve got to earn your inheritance darling.”
Summary: You’ve spent two weeks avoiding the Marauders after what happened during that Charms project, burning with embarrassment and overwhelmed by what you let them do. But when you’re dragged to the Gryffindor Quidditch kickoff party and find yourself alone with Remus again, curiosity and insecurity push you to ask for more. You want to be good for them. You want to learn. And Remus, despite his restraint, can’t say no to you, especially not when you’re on your knees, begging.
Warnings: Explicit sexual content / Oral sex (reader giving), Smut / NSFW, Polyamory / Poly!Marauders, Light voyeurism / exhibitionism, Guidance kink, Praise kink, Light teasing / dirty talk, Reader is a virgin / inexperienced, Alcohol use, Reader is tipsy/intoxicated (consent is discussed and reaffirmed), Mild dominance/submission dynamics.
Two weeks.
Two entire weeks since the night that still lived in your head like a fever dream. Two weeks of awkwardly avoiding eye contact in hallways, strategically turning corners before they could spot you, and ducking into the nearest classroom whenever you heard James Potter’s unmistakable laugh.
Not that it was difficult. Despite the heat and softness and sheer intensity of that evening, the Marauders didn’t make a move to follow up. A few glances in passing — James’ brows quirking when you turned bright red near the Charms corridor, Sirius flashing that maddening smirk when he caught you dropping your quill during class — but they didn’t reach out. No note. No winks. No secret invitations back to the dorm.
Maybe they didn’t care.
Maybe it was just another chaotic Marauder escapade, forgettable.
But then… why did you still feel it?
Why did you still remember the way Remus had looked at you like you were something breakable? Why did your stomach still twist at the memory of Sirius’ voice murmuring good girl? Why did James’ low laugh echo in your head when you dared to let your hand wander in the dark of your dorm bed?
You’d made it out of that room fully clothed, dignity somewhat still intact, top marks on your Charms assignment and yet, part of you felt permanently undone.
It was almost enough to make you skip the Gryffindor Quidditch party entirely.
Almost.
“Come on,” your best friend, Amara, groaned dramatically, pulling at your sleeve like an impatient child. “You promised! I’ve already picked out our outfits. You’re not backing out now.”
“I didn’t promise,” you muttered, arms folded over your chest. “I said I’d think about it.”
“And thinking about it counts,” Amara chirped, already dragging you toward your wardrobe. “It’s the Gryffindor kickoff party. You never come to these things. You need to socialize. Mingle. Let your hair down. You’ve been wound tighter than Filch’s cat since midterms.”
You gave her a deadpan stare. “Because some people have trauma.”
Amara raised a brow. “You mean because three hot Gryffindors turned you into a whimpering mess and then ghosted you?”
“Amara, I told you about that in confidence!”
She held up her hands in mock surrender. “Fine, fine. I won’t bring it up. But you’re still coming. And you’re wearing this.”
You blinked down at the outfit she shoved into your arms.
“Absolutely not.”
—
Which is exactly how you found yourself standing in the middle of the Gryffindor common room twenty minutes later in a black leather skirt that hit mid-thigh and white fitted top. You’d paired it with sheer tights and a cardigan you had no intention of taking off.
The music was loud, the fire blazing, and the space was packed, filled with laughing students, flying bottles of firewhisky, and enchanted banners reading “Gryffindor for the Cup!”
Amara, traitor that she was, abandoned you almost immediately for some Ravenclaw she’d been flirting with in Herbology.
You hovered awkwardly near the drinks table, trying to decide whether butterbeer would calm your nerves or ruin your already queasy stomach, until you hear a too familiar voice come from behind you.
“Well, well, well… look who finally left the library.”
Your heart leapt.
You turned slowly and came face-to-face with Sirius Black, his dark hair tied back loosely, shirt unbuttoned just enough to make you forget how to breathe. Remus was beside him, golden in the firelight, curls soft and eyes watchful. And James… James was already pouring drinks, eyes flicking to you with a familiar glint.
You swallowed.
“Didn’t think you were the party type,” Sirius said, leaning against the table beside you. “Let me guess. Your friend dragged you?”
You nodded mutely.
“Smart girl,” James said, handing you a cup with something amber inside. “You look—”
“—very much like you don’t belong here,” Remus finished gently, lips twitching. “You alright?”
You nod before looking down at the cup in your hand hesitantly, then take a tentative sip.
They circled you like they had that night, not quite caging you in but close. Protective. Familiar. Infuriatingly confident.
You opened your mouth to say something, maybe to ask how they’d been, maybe to come up with an excuse to flee but Sirius got there first.
“So.” His smirk deepened. “Did you put what we taught you to use?”
Your entire face went hot.
Remus coughed into his cup. James let out a bark of laughter.
“I—what?” you sputtered.
“Oh, come on,” Sirius drawled. “Don’t tell me you didn’t try anything. All that hands-on instruction…”
“I—well—I mean—”
“So that’s a yes,” James grinned.
You could have melted through the floor.
“I didn’t say that!”
“But you didn’t not say it,” Sirius teased.
For a moment the boys go very, very still. James’s grin goes lopsided with pleased pride, Sirius’s eyes flash wicked and warm, and Remus’s hand tightens silently on his water glass, as if to anchor himself.
Remus, ever the softest of them, reached out and brushed his knuckles against yours. “We’re only teasing. Mostly.”
James handed you another drink.
“Here,” he said. “This one’s sweeter. Less burn.”
You took it. Mostly because your hands needed something to do. And also because your mouth was too busy betraying you to form proper words.
You end up tasting everything. “Tasting” is Sirius’s word, not yours—“she’s sampling,” he says conspiratorially to someone who asks if you’re drunk yet, as if you’re a rare wine—and by the time you’ve sipped a half-dozen colours your head has taken on a soft, buoyant quality, like the charmed snitches are hovering inside it.
The conversation, somehow, gets worse. Or better. Or both.
“Oi, what were the boys saying earlier?” Sirius asked suddenly, glancing toward the other side of the room where a group of Gryffindors were laughing loudly. “Something about who’s the best at giving head?”
“Oh Merlin,” you muttered, wishing you could disappear.
James barked a laugh. “Yeah—Davies swears by Agatha Bones, but I’m pretty sure he’s just trying to impress her.”
“Is that a thing?” you blurted before you could stop yourself. “People talk about that?”
Sirius turned back to you, looking both amused and intrigued. “You mean to tell me you’ve never given anyone a—”
“No!” you said quickly, horrified. “Oh my God, no—”
“Obviously, why am I even asking, you haven’t done anything” Sirius said, grinning wider. “You are utterly inexperienced.”
“Stop talking,” you begged, hiding your face in your hands.
James leaned in, voice low and warm. “Nothing to be ashamed of, love.”
“Actually,” Sirius said, fake-pouting, “it’s sort of a crime. You’ve got such a pretty mouth.”
Remus made a strangled sound beside him. “Pads.”
“What?” Sirius shrugged. “I’m just stating facts.”
You, meanwhile, were deeply aware that this was the most attention you’d gotten all year and it was over something you’d never done. Worse, you couldn’t even deny it.
“I’m not—I mean—I don’t really…” you trailed off, entirely out of your depth.
“She’s drunk,” Remus said finally, voice firm as he met the others’ eyes. “Ease up.”
They did. Instantly.
Sirius held up his hands. “Fine, fine. Just teasing.”
James nudged you gently. “You okay?”
You nodded—barely.
You were warm and dizzy and painfully aware of how close they all were. Your legs were pressed to Sirius’s. James had his knee against yours. And Remus… Remus was watching you like he knew every single thought spinning in your head.
“You don’t have to be embarrassed,” he said, voice low. “Not about anything. Least of all that.”
“But it’s…” you floundered, searching for the right word. “It’s… weird. Talking about that.”
“Not weird,” James said with a grin. “Just new.”
“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” Sirius teased, just as a girl in red grabbed him by the scarf and whispered something in his ear. He smirked, winked at you, and let himself be pulled away.
A few minutes later, James was dragged off by a group of Gryffindor boys—no doubt to act out his Quidditch glory in vivid, hand-waving detail. For when they win the cup, that is.
And then it was just you and Remus.
The room suddenly felt too loud, too hot. You leaned into the arm of the couch, blinking.
“Feeling alright?” Remus asked, his voice quieter, gentler.
“A little dizzy,” you admitted.
“Want to lie down?”
You hesitated.
“Our dorm’s empty. You can crash there.”
You nodded slowly.
—
Remus helped you up without comment, one hand steady at the small of your back as he guided you through the crowd. The climb to the dormitory was quieter, your head spinning more from his nearness than the alcohol. When he opened the door and let you inside, you were immediately hit with the familiar scent of him, woodsy, warm and comforting.
Remus motioned to his bed. “Sit. Rest. I’ll get you water.”
You sank into his mattress, sighing into the softness of it, your cardigan slipping off your shoulders. It smelled like him, cedarwood and something faintly spicy. Familiar. Safe.
He returned with a glass and sat beside you, legs brushing.
“You really okay?”
You nodded. “Just… light.”
“That’s the alcohol.”
You giggled softly. “Feels like flying.”
Remus smiled, but there was concern behind it. “You’re not used to drinking, are you?”
You shook your head. “Not really.”
He passed you the water. “Drink this.”
You obeyed, a little too eagerly, spilling a drop that ran down your chin. Remus caught it with his thumb, brushing it away carefully, his touch lingering at the corner of your mouth.
Your eyes met. Something shifted.
The moment stretched, quiet and charged, your breath caught behind your teeth.
You didn’t mean to say it. Not really. But it slipped out before you could stop it.
“Can I try?”
His brows furrowed. “Try…?”
You swallowed. “A blowjob.”
Remus choked on air. “Wh-what?”
Your cheeks burned, but the words were already tumbling out. “I’m curious, I want to try.”
Remus looked utterly floored. “You’re drunk.”
“Not that drunk,” you argued, sitting up straighter. “I know what I’m saying.”
“You’re tipsy, love,” he said, gently, trying to keep his voice even. “This isn’t exactly the kind of thing you do on a whim.”
“I know,” you insisted. “I want to try. I want to know what I’m doing.”
His expression cracked—just slightly.
“Please,” you whispered, desperate. “Let me try. Just once. You don’t even have to do anything. I’ll stop if it’s weird, if you really don’t like it. I just… I want to know what it’s like. And I trust you.”
That did him in.
He exhaled, long and slow. His fingers brushed your jaw, down your neck, like he couldn’t believe you were real.
His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing your temple. “Okay. Come here.”
You knelt down in between his legs, heart pounding so hard it echoed in your ears.
Remus sat on the edge of his bed, feet firmly planted on the floor and legs spread slightly, watching you with a mix of awe and restraint. He looked like he didn’t quite believe this was happening.
Your fingers trembled slightly as they moved to the waistband of his trousers.
“Here,” he said gently, helping you undo the button and slide the zip.
You reached inside, fingers brushing warm, soft skin, until you pulled him free.
You froze.
He was… bigger than expected. Thick, flushed at the tip, already halfway hard just from the anticipation. Your mouth went dry.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
You nodded, swallowing hard.
You leaned in slowly, hesitating, then pressed a kiss to the tip.
He sucked in a breath.
You did it again, slightly firmer this time, lips wrapping around the head gently.
He groaned, head tipping back ever so slightly.
“Just like that,” he murmured. “Nice and slow.”
You tried. Took more of him in, careful with your teeth, awkward at first, your jaw adjusting to the unfamiliar stretch. Your hand wrapped around the base instinctively.
You bobbed your head, licking, sucking, cheeks hollowing, trying what felt logical, what felt right because you weren’t entirely sure what you were doing.
Remus’s hand slid into your hair, not guiding, just resting there. His touch was steady, grounding.
“Fuck,” he muttered. “You’re… fuck, you’re doing so good.”
That praise lit something inside you. You tried harder. Moved faster. Let your tongue swirl around the underside just like—
The door creaked open.
You froze.
“Oh. Oh.”
It was James.
Closely followed by Sirius, who stopped short at the sight of you on your knees in between Remus’s legs, your lips still parted around him, face flushed and mouth slick.
“Fucking hell,” Sirius breathed, grin blooming across his face. “I leave for fifteen minutes and I miss this?”
James leaned against the doorframe, brow raised, gaze sweeping over the scene before settling on you.
Remus let out a groan that was half frustration, half arousal. “Bloody hell, could you knock?”
“Didn’t realize I needed to,” James said, chuckling. “Looks like the party’s moved.”
You pulled off quickly, wiping your mouth, completely and utterly mortified.
You looked up at him, breathing fast. “I—I didn’t hear you come in.”
“Clearly,” James said with a grin, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.
Sirius, of course, doesn’t wait for permission.
He slides down beside you on the floor, all knees and confidence and warm fingers that move straight to your hair, curling through the strands like he’s done it a hundred times before.
“No need to run, sweetheart,” he murmured in your ear. “Don’t let us stop you. Looked like you were doing a damn good job.”
Your face burned hotter.
James had sprawled across Remus’s bed behind him, grinning lazily. “Honestly, I’m impressed. You looked like a bloody angel down there. Who knew our sweet little Hufflepuff could be so… wicked?”
“I wasn’t— I mean, it’s not like that—”
“Oh, but it is,” Sirius said, tilting your chin gently so you had to look at him. “You’re curious. Nothing wrong with that.”
“I didn’t mean for—this isn’t—”
Remus leaned forward, voice low. “Do you want them to leave?”
You blinked, startled by the question. You looked between the three of them. Sirius’s palm was still warm on your spine, his voice honeyed and coaxing. James was watching with a strange sort of interest, his head tilted, gaze surprisingly gentle beneath the teasing.
And Remus… looked wrecked. Soft-eyed and flushed, his arousal no longer just a physical response but a full-body ache made worse by the sudden halt.
You swallowed.
“…No.”
Sirius’s smirk widened. “Atta girl.”
James whistled. “Color me intrigued.”
“Didn’t peg you for a fast learner,” Sirius murmurs, voice low, amused. “But look at you. On your knees already, and so fucking eager.”
Your cheeks burn, but you don’t pull away. Not from him. Not from this.
You’re still kneeling in between Remus’s legs, whose hand is fisted tightly in the blankets behind him. His eyes are dark, chest rising and falling a little too fast. But he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t tell them to stop. Just watches you with something raw and soft in his gaze.
“She was doing well,” James says from the bed, his voice thick with pride. “But there’s room for improvement.”
Sirius’s fingers trail down to your jaw, guiding your gaze to him.
“You want to do it right, yeah?” he asks gently. “You want to be good for him.”
You nod. The desire throbs low in your belly.
“Then let’s start slow,” Sirius says, leaning closer. “Open your mouth for me, love.”
You obey before you even register the words. Lips parting, breath shaky.
He brings two fingers to your mouth — long, ringed, and already warm from where they’d been resting against your skin.
“Wet them,” he says softly. “Just like you would him.”
Your lips close around his fingers, your tongue automatically sliding along the pads. He lets out a hiss.
“Fuck. That’s it. Just like that.”
James shifts above you on the bed, gaze locked on your mouth. “Watch your teeth, sweetheart. They’re sharp little things. Be gentle.”
Sirius starts to move his fingers in and out of your mouth, slow at first, then deeper, until your lips are stretched and spit’s starting to gather at the corners.
“Use your tongue,” he coaches, voice dark. “Swirl it. Like you’re tasting something sweet.”
You moan around him without meaning to.
Remus groans from the bed. “Jesus.”
Sirius grins. “Think you’re ready to try again?”
You nod, a little dazed.
“Good girl.”
You shift back toward Remus, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand before wrapping your fingers gently around the base of him again. He’s fully hard now — flushed, thick, twitching slightly under your touch.
“Start slow,” James reminds you. “Use your hands for what you can’t fit in your mouth. Spit is your friend.”
You try to remember all of it.
You lean in, tongue flicking out to tease the head first — soft, tentative licks that earn a low hiss from Remus.
Then you take him into your mouth, inch by inch, using your hand to stroke the rest as you suck.
Above you, James groans. “That’s it. Just like that.”
“Good girl,” Sirius echoes, one hand still playing with your curls. “So fucking pretty like this.”
You find a rhythm — sucking, stroking, swirling your tongue around the underside. Every now and then you look up through your lashes, and the sounds that earns you are sinful.
Remus is panting now, one hand fisted in the sheet, the other still buried in your hair.
“Fuck, darling,” he rasps. “You feel… incredible.”
You whimper around him, encouraged, and bob your head a little faster.
“Careful,” James warns gently. “Ease up near the tip. Sensitive there.”
“That’s perfect, love,” Sirius murmured from behind you, running a hand down your back. “Look at her—fuck, look at her.”
“Doing so well,” James added, voice tighter now, eyes hooded as he watched your lips glide down Remus’s cock.
You fell into a rhythm—tongue, lips, hand—remembering everything they said. You hollowed your cheeks, let your saliva build, let yourself get messy.
Your jaw started to ache, but you didn’t stop.
You wanted this.
You wanted to be good for them.
You moaned softly around Remus just to see what it would do to him, and his hips bucked up instinctively.
“Fuck—” he gasped, head falling back. “She’s—Merlin, she’s too good.”
Sirius chuckled darkly. “She just wants to please you, Moons.”
You did. More than anything.
Every whimper you dragged from him felt like a reward. Every twitch of his thighs, every gasp of your name.
You were just starting to bob your head faster when his hand suddenly tangled in your hair—not pulling, just gripping.
“Wait,” he breathed. “You can stop—I’m close—”
But you didn’t stop.
You glanced up at him with wide, teary eyes, mouth full, hand still stroking.
“Fuck—fuck, sweetheart—”
Your jaw ached now. The muscles in your cheeks were burning. But you didn’t stop.
You just kept going.
Remus was unraveling.
You could feel it in the way his thighs tensed beneath your hands, in the way his breath caught high in his chest, in the desperate little noises slipping from his parted lips.
“Fuck, sweetheart,” he gasped, hand tightening in your hair. “I’m—shit—I’m gonna—”
He tried to tug you back.
Gentle. Careful. A warning more than a command.
But you didn’t let him.
You just kept going—mouth warm and slick, hand stroking what your lips couldn’t reach, tongue tracing along the vein on the underside of him like you remembered Sirius saying.
“Wait—fuck, wait—” Remus groaned, hips jerking once, then twice—before his entire body shuddered, his voice breaking on your name. “I’m coming—fuck—”
And then—
Hot. Sharp. Unexpected.
You hadn’t really thought this far ahead, too lost in the way he tasted, the praise humming around you, the way James and Sirius were watching you like you were something holy.
You’d meant to pull back. Truly.
But then Remus came—hard and messy and all at once—and you reflexively swallowed, startled by the sudden flood of it hitting the back of your throat.
The sound he made was wrecked. Like nothing you’d ever heard from him before.
You pulled off, coughing once, tears springing to your eyes from the force of it—but still holding his cock gently in your hand, lips spit-slick and red.
“Shit,” Remus breathed, chest heaving as he tried to sit up. “Did I—are you okay?”
You nodded quickly, voice lost for a moment.
You sniffed, trying to catch your breath. “Didn’t mean to—swallow.”
James chuckled from the bed, eyes full of warmth and something like awe. “Could’ve fooled me.”
“Fuck,” Remus murmured again, reaching down to help you up. “Come here—please.”
You let him pull you into his lap, arms curling around your waist protectively as he pressed a kiss to your temple.
“Did so good,” he whispered, voice still hoarse. “So fucking good, love. That was—Christ.”
You felt dazed.
Exhausted. Achy. A little sticky.
But more than anything, you felt proud.
Sirius tugged your cardigan up over your shoulders again, covering you gently, while James handed over a napkin from his nightstand and a half-empty bottle of water.
You drank greedily.
“I’m sorry if that was—too much,” Remus said softly, still holding you close. “I tried to pull you off.”
“I didn’t want to stop,” you said, voice small. “I liked it.”
He exhaled slowly, forehead resting against yours.
“You’re sure you’re alright?” he murmured. “You were crying a little.”
“I’m fine,” you said, already curling closer to him. “Just… overwhelmed.”
“Understandably,” James muttered with a grin, though it was softer than his usual teasing. “Pretty sure you’ve short-circuited Moony’s brain.”
You tucked your face against Remus’s neck, letting yourself be held. Sirius reached over and carded his fingers through your curls again, gentler now, soothing.
“Did so well, sweetheart,” he murmured. “Really. You’ve got no idea how fucking gorgeous you looked.”
“Never seen Remus lose it like that,” James added. “You’ve got talent.”
Remus groaned. “Alright, enough.”
You giggled quietly.
It was strange, the way laughter could still bloom in the aftermath of something so intimate, so exposing.
But it felt good. Safe. Warm.
Like you were… theirs.
Remus let you rest against him, pulling the blanket down from the head of the bed and tucking it around your shoulders. Your jaw still ached, but his hand stroked along your back in slow, comforting arcs, lulling you into a softer kind of daze.
“I didn’t expect you to…” you began quietly.
“To what?”
“Let me.”
Remus hummed. “I didn’t plan on it either.”
You glanced up at him. “Why did you?”
He studied you for a moment, fingers brushing your cheekbone.
“Because you asked,” he said. “Because you wanted it.”
Your lips parted, breath catching just slightly.
“And because,” he added, pressing a kiss to your hair, “I would’ve given you anything in that moment.”
Your heart thudded.
James gave a long, dramatic sigh. “If you two start whispering love poetry I might genuinely be sick.”
“Jealousy doesn’t suit you, Potter,” Remus murmured, not even looking up.
Sirius chuckled, reaching over to nudge your shoulder. “You feeling more confident now, sweetheart?”
You hesitated.
Then: “I think so.”
“Good,” Sirius said. “Because it’s my turn next time.”
You flushed scarlet.
Remus laughed softly, burying his face in your hair. “Merlin help me.”
Summary: In the underworld of 1900s London, feared mob boss Tom Riddle rules the East End with a brutal hand. But when the blood dries and the city quiets, he always finds his way to you—his favorite indulgence in a brothel full of painted smiles. You’re naive, streetwise, and far too willing, but when he visits after a deal gone bloody, you begin to realize that you’re more than just his favorite stress relief. You are his little dove.
Words: 6.0k
Warnings: Explicit sexual content: oral sex (f. and m. receiving), penetrative sex, light choking, mild degradation/praise kink, D/s dynamic. Power imbalance. Age gap. Non-magical AU, set in 1900s London.
You always knew when he was coming.
It wasn’t the bell above the brothel’s front door, it never rang for men like him. It wasn’t footsteps or voices; the girls never spoke when he passed by, too afraid, too reverent. No, it was something else entirely, something that settled in your bones before he even arrived.
A shift in the air. A sudden hush, like the city itself knew the devil was near.
Tonight was no different.
You were halfway through brushing your hair when the candle on your vanity flickered. The dull murmur of conversation downstairs stopped so abruptly it startled you. Then came the steps, slow and deliberate, across the creaky wooden floor of the hallway. Heavy boots, polished but blood-worn.
Your heart gave a little flutter. Not fear, not quite. Anticipation. Stupid, girlish anticipation.
You were twenty-one years old, no longer a child, but sometimes it felt like you still played pretend. Painted face, corseted waist, soft thighs for sale in the red-light underworld of London. You’d been working at Madame Lysa’s for nearly three years now, but Tom Riddle wasn’t like the other men who came through your door. Most bought time. Tom bought obedience. Devotion. Silence.
And you gave it to him gladly.
A knock. Just once. You stood, smoothing your hands over your silk dressing robe. Pale blue, his favorite color on you. The doorknob turned. He didn’t wait for you to answer. He never did.
Tom Riddle stepped into your room like he owned it. Because in many ways, he did.
“Little dove,” he said in that low, refined voice, the kind that didn’t belong in the East End. The kind that sent a shiver straight down your spine.
You dipped your head, lips curling in something like a smile. “You’re early, Mr. Riddle.”
He closed the door behind him with a soft click. There was blood on his shirt sleeve. You tried not to stare.
“Am I?” he murmured. “Did I interrupt something?”
“Just brushing my hair.”
He glanced at the brush on your vanity, then at you, as if deciding whether you were telling the truth. Of course, you were. You always told him the truth. Or at least, the version of it he wanted to hear.
He looked tired tonight, not that you’d ever dare say so. There was a tension in his shoulders he usually kept buried beneath his tailored coats and half-lidded charm. His dark curls were wind-tousled, the collar of his black coat turned up against the cold. He smelled of smoke and violence.
You loved that smell.
“Take off your robe,” he said.
No pleasantries, no requests. He never asked.
You loosened the sash at your waist, letting the robe slip from your shoulders. Beneath, you wore a soft white chemise trimmed in lace. Your nipples peaked beneath the fabric from the chill and maybe, just maybe, from the way he was looking at you. Like he might devour you if he was only slightly less tired.
Tom sat down in your vanity chair, unbuttoning the cuffs of his blood-stained shirt with steady fingers. He didn’t look at you as he spoke. “Come here.”
You crossed the room barefoot, knees soft, steps silent. Like a good girl. Like his girl.
He tugged you into his lap without ceremony, strong arms circling your waist. His hands were cool against your bare thighs as he guided you to straddle him. The chemise bunched around your hips.
There was a knife sheathed under his coat—there always was. You could feel the press of it against your outer thigh, steel biting through layers of fabric. Another reminder: Tom Riddle was dangerous. A killer. The leader of the Knights of Walpurgis; London’s most feared underground syndicate. Extortion, smuggling, murder… his fingerprints were on it all.
But with you, he was something else. Not gentle. Never gentle. But controlled. Focused. Like you were a vice he allowed himself to indulge in moderation.
His hands slid up your spine, over the nape of your neck, tangling in your hair. “You look pretty tonight.”
Your cheeks warmed at the compliment, absurdly. “Thank you.”
He tugged your head back gently by the hair. “No, dove. Say it properly.”
Your lips parted. “Thank you, Mr. Riddle.”
That earned you a faint smile. One that didn’t reach his eyes.
You never asked where he’d been. Not even when he showed up with knuckles split or blood on his collar. You weren’t foolish. That was the secret to surviving men like him: know when to open your mouth, and when to keep it shut.
His eyes swept over your face, your throat, the swell of your breasts beneath the thin chemise. You could feel yourself growing warm, damp even, just from his gaze. You liked being looked at like that. It made you feel wanted, devoured, ruined.
“I had to kill a man tonight,” Tom said casually, brushing a strand of hair from your cheek. “He made the mistake of thinking I was an idiot.”
Your lashes fluttered. You swallowed hard.
“Are you scared?” he asked.
You met his gaze. “No.”
That was the truth. If anything, the thought of him walking in here after killing someone made your pulse race in the most wicked way.
“You should be,” he whispered, leaning in, lips grazing the shell of your ear. “I’m not a good man, dove.”
“I know,” you breathed.
His hand slid between your thighs then, fingers ghosting up over your core. You sucked in a soft gasp. His fingers came away damp.
“Sweet little thing,” he murmured. “Wet already. Were you waiting for me?”
“Yes, Mr. Riddle.”
He exhaled through his nose, lips pressed against your neck. You felt the flicker of tongue, the scrape of teeth. He bit—not hard, but enough to make you squeak. His hand settled around your throat.
“You always say yes,” he said darkly.
You nodded in his grip.
And it was true. You did always say yes. Not because he paid you (though he always did, more than any of the other men), but because you wanted to. Because you craved his touch the way other women craved pearls and pastries. Because being beneath him made you feel important. Desired. His.
“You’re not scared of me,” he mused aloud, almost to himself. “You should be.”
Your fingers curled into the lapels of his coat. “Maybe I like being scared.”
That made something shift in his eyes, dark amusement, hunger, something deeper.
He stood suddenly, lifting you with him as though you weighed nothing. You let out a surprised yelp as he tossed you onto the bed. You scrambled up the mattress, heart thudding, heat pooling between your legs. He peeled off his coat, then his shirt, baring pale skin and a lean, muscular torso marred by scars you never asked about.
“Hands above your head,” he said, voice like velvet dipped in sin.
You obeyed instantly, fingers curling into the wrought-iron headboard. The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he climbed over you, one knee between your thighs. His fingers pushed the chemise up higher, exposing your belly, your breasts.
You arched your back, wordless and wanting.
“Such a pretty thing,” he said, voice rougher now. “All mine.”
Your thighs squeezed together instinctively, and he chuckled, actually chuckled.
It wasn’t often Tom Riddle laughed. That was for people with lighter hearts. You weren’t sure he even had one. But sometimes, with you, he made sounds that felt like they could be called joy. Sometimes.
He bent to press his mouth between your breasts, slow and deliberate. His hands gripped your thighs, spreading them apart, settling between them like it was his rightful place.
And you let him.
Of course you did.
Because he was your favorite.
Because he chose you.
And because even if Tom Riddle was the devil; cruel, violent and damned, you were starting to think you wouldn’t mind burning for him.
Tom didn’t speak again for a long while.
He just looked at you. Let his gaze trail over your body like a slow drag of a cigarette. One hand trailed down your side, the pads of his fingers tracing your ribs, your hip, then curling beneath the swell of your thigh. He touched you like he owned you. Like he had the right.
And he did.
At least, in here. At least, in this room.
He dipped his head and pressed a kiss just below your navel, cold lips, soft pressure. You shivered. His tongue followed next, hot and slow and deliberate, tracing the seam of your stomach.
You squirmed.
“Still,” he said without looking up.
You froze.
He shifted, dragging you closer with a firm grip beneath your knees, hooking one leg over his shoulder with practiced ease. Your chemise was bunched around your waist now, lace bunched and forgotten, your body spread and bare for him. It wasn’t the first time he’d seen you like this. But it always felt like the first time. The way he looked at you—like hunger personified—made your chest tighten.
“You have no idea,” he murmured, kissing the inside of your thigh, “how often I think about this.”
You inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut.
Tom had a way of making you feel more naked with words than with touch.
“You mean when you’re strangling men in alleys?”
He chuckled. Actually chuckled.
“There, she is,” he murmured, kissing higher. “My sharp-tongued little dove.”
Your breath caught when he finally pressed his mouth to you. Just once. A kiss between your legs, like it was holy. Then he licked; long, slow, deliberate.
Your hips jerked.
“Tom—”
His hands dug into your thighs, holding you in place. “You’re going to be quiet, dove. Understood?”
You whimpered, but nodded. “Yes, Mr. Riddle.”
“That’s better.”
Then his mouth was on you again, and this time he didn’t stop.
Tongue and lips and teeth, like worship and desecration in equal measure. He took his time, dragging the flat of his tongue over your folds, sucking softly at your clit until you nearly sobbed. Then slowing down again, just to feel you tremble. It wasn’t rushed. There was no hurried frenzy, no frantic mess of lust. No, Tom Riddle savored you. Tasted you. Like wine. Like sin.
Your fingers curled tight into the bedsheets.
He worked you open with his tongue, dipping inside you then circling back up, coaxing little whines from your throat. He liked to play with your edge, bring you close, pull you back, repeat until your thighs trembled uncontrollably.
“Please,” you gasped once, high and needy, before you could stop yourself.
He pulled away only to fix you with a dark glare.
“What did I just say?”
You bit your lip. “To be quiet.”
“And yet—”
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, chest heaving.
He kissed your inner thigh, wet and mocking. “You will be.”
Then he dove back in.
You came hard minutes later, thighs clamped around his head, hips grinding into his mouth despite your best efforts to behave. He let you. Didn’t stop until you were twitching, breathless, his tongue still working you through it as if your orgasm belonged to him—a gift he was determined to keep unwrapping.
When he pulled away, his lips and chin were slick with you. He wiped them with the back of his hand like it was nothing. Just another part of the evening.
You were still panting when he crawled up your body and kissed your jaw, your throat, the corner of your mouth. His breath was hot, sharp. The scent of you still on him.
“Good girl,” he murmured, trailing a finger down your cheek. “So sweet.”
You turned to kiss him, but he pulled back.
Your brow furrowed. He saw it. Smirked.
“You want to kiss me after I’ve been between your legs?”
Your face flushed. “Yes.”
That seemed to amuse him. He pressed a kiss to your mouth, slow, claiming, deliberate.
It was the first time he had kissed you that night.
You whimpered into it, wrapping your arms around his neck as your body arched against his. His tongue swept into your mouth, tasting, teasing. He kissed like a man who didn’t kiss often. Like it was a luxury.
When he pulled away, your lips were kiss-bruised and wet.
Then his voice dropped to a whisper. “Now. On your knees.”
Your pulse skipped.
You moved slowly, limbs still shaky. He stepped back, watching you with heavy eyes as you slid off the bed and sank to your knees on the rug, bare thighs folded beneath you, hands in your lap.
You looked up at him.
Tom was already unbuckling his belt.
“You know what to do.”
You nodded once, then reached up to unbutton his trousers. His cock was already hard when you freed it from his briefs, thick and flushed at the tip. He was bigger than most, but you knew him well enough by now. You knew the weight of him, the way he liked it—slow first, teasing, before you took him deeper.
But tonight felt different. He was… on edge. His hand twitched slightly where it hung at his side. Tension in his jaw. A storm beneath the surface.
You pressed a kiss to the tip first, soft and slow. Then ran your tongue along the underside of the shaft. A small reward for his patience. Then another kiss, lower, just above the base. You could feel his thigh flex beside your cheek.
“Don’t tease me,” he warned lowly.
So you didn’t.
You wrapped your lips around him, taking the tip into your mouth, sucking softly before slowly easing down further. He groaned. A low, rough sound that made you feel electric. One hand slid into your hair, not forceful yet, but present. Possessive.
You bobbed your head slowly, working your tongue around him. He was hot and heavy on your tongue, the taste of him sharp and musky.
“Fuck—” he whispered, voice cracking just slightly. “Look at you.”
You did.
You looked up at him through your lashes, lips stretched around his cock, spit beginning to drip from the corners of your mouth. His eyes darkened. His hand tightened in your hair.
You hollowed your cheeks, sucked a little harder.
“Take more,” he growled. “You can.”
And you tried. You always did for him.
You took him deeper, your throat tightening, gagging just slightly before pulling back. Saliva coated your lips, your chin. He cursed under his breath and grabbed your chin, thumb dragging over your bottom lip.
“You’re filthy,” he murmured. “You like this too much.”
You nodded, eyes wide, desperate to please.
“Condom,” you managed to say, breathless.
His brow ticked in approval. “You remember.”
Tom reached into his coat pocket. Of course he carried them. Of course he’d planned this. He always did.
He rolled the condom on himself with the same clinical precision he used to handle knives and coins. But he didn’t push you away once it was on. No. He let you keep going.
And you did. You sucked him off through latex, ignoring the rubber taste, letting him fuck your mouth slow and deep until his head tipped back and his breath hitched.
He didn’t come. Not yet. He wouldn’t let himself.
When he pulled out, your mouth was aching, lips swollen, jaw sore.
He looked down at you like you were his favorite artwork. Something ruined and sacred. Something only he got to touch.
“You’re going to lie back for me now,” he said, voice hoarse. “I’m not done with you.”
Your breath caught.
“I thought you—”
“I said I’m not done, dove.”
You shivered.
He kissed your forehead softly. It was the gentlest thing he’d done all night. Then he lifted you into bed again.
And that was when you realised, Tom Riddle wasn’t here for stress relief.
He was here because he needed something only you gave him.
Control. Worship. A place to rest.
The bed creaked softly as he set you back against the sheets, your body pliant in his hands. The room smelled of him now—cigarettes, leather, sweat, sex—and you were drowning in it, in him.
Tom Riddle loomed above you like judgment itself, shirtless, cock hard and sheathed, eyes black with hunger. Controlled. Always so controlled. You had never seen him lose composure, not even when he killed a man for lying about coin.
But tonight… tonight there was something close to unhinged simmering just under his skin.
You could feel it in the way he looked at you. Not with lust alone but with claim.
“Spread your legs for me,” he said quietly.
You obeyed instantly. Your thighs fell open, sore already from his mouth, and you felt the cool air kiss your soaked center. His eyes dropped there. His jaw twitched.
“Look at you. Wet and wide open,” he muttered, running his fingers down your inner thigh. “You need to be fucked, don’t you?”
You nodded. “Yes, Mr. Riddle.”
He hummed approvingly and ran the tip of his condom-covered cock through your folds, dragging slowly through your slick. You whimpered at the friction.
But he didn’t push in.
Not yet.
He stared down at your body like a man standing at the edge of a cliff, teetering. And you knew that if he stepped forward, there would be no going back.
“You’ll take it slow,” he said more to himself than to you. “You’ll behave.”
You blinked up at him. “Always.”
That seemed to break whatever restraint was holding him back. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to your mouth—rougher this time, less polished. You tasted the edge of obsession there, and it made your heart race.
Then he rolled his hips forward, and finally—finally—he slid inside.
You gasped. Not from pain, but the stretch. Tom wasn’t gentle about it. He went slow, yes, but with purpose. Like he was staking something. Carving his presence into you.
“Fucking tight,” he ground out, halfway in, his hands braced beside your head. “Of course you are.”
You clawed at the sheets, breath caught in your throat. He eased in deeper, inch by inch, filling you until you could feel him in your stomach. Your walls clenched around him involuntarily.
“You feel me, dove?” he whispered against your cheek. “Right here—” He dragged a hand down your belly, pressing over your lower abdomen.
You moaned.
He started to move then, slow, deep strokes that made you keen. The sound of your slick, the heavy slide of him inside you, filled the air alongside your ragged breaths.
Tom groaned above you. His head fell to your neck.
“You always take me so well,” he said, almost reverent. “Like your cunt was made for me.”
You could barely speak. Your body was tight and trembling, every thrust sending sparks through your spine. You wrapped your legs around his waist and clung to him, dizzy and hot.
And still he didn’t speed up. He kept the pace torturously slow. Measured. Intentional.
“Tom—”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. “What is it, little dove?”
“I— I need more.”
He tilted his head. “More?”
You nodded, pupils blown. “Harder. Please.”
He smirked.
“Say it properly.”
“Please, Mr. Riddle. I want you to fuck me harder.”
That did it.
The switch flipped.
He growled low in his throat and snapped his hips forward, harder now, faster, grinding deep. You cried out, fingers scrambling for purchase on his back. His cock hit places inside you that made your vision blur. Your body shook.
One of his hands slid to your throat.
Not squeezing. Just resting there.
“You’re mine,” he hissed against your jaw. “This body, this cunt, all of it. Mine.”
“Yes—” you gasped, “yes, yes, all yours—”
He fucked you harder now, deeper, rocking the bed beneath you with each sharp thrust. Your orgasm built fast, fire curling in your gut.
“Don’t come yet,” he growled.
You whimpered, fighting it.
“I said—don’t.”
You sobbed his name, body convulsing, nails digging into his shoulder.
“You’re going to hold it like a good girl. And when I say you can come, you will. You’ll come around my cock like you’re grateful for it.”
You bit your lip so hard it almost bled.
His hand tightened just slightly on your throat.
“Are you grateful?”
“Yes, Mr. Riddle—so grateful, I—”
“Then prove it.”
He slammed into you again, deeper, grinding against your clit with every drag of his hips. You were shaking now, wrung out with pleasure. The orgasm pulsed just below the surface, threatening to crest.
You held it. Barely.
Tom leaned in close, lips brushing your ear.
“Now.”
You shattered.
You screamed his name as you came, your body seizing around him, walls clenching tight as waves of pleasure surged through you. Your back arched off the bed. You sobbed. You trembled. And still he fucked you through it, chasing his own release.
He came with a grunt, cock twitching inside you, his body going still, trembling with restraint as he poured into the condom.
For a long moment, the only sound in the room was your heavy breathing. Then the creak of the bed as he pulled out.
You whimpered at the loss.
Tom reached for a handkerchief from his discarded coat and cleaned you gently—too gently for a man like him. He peeled off the condom, knotted it, tossed it into the small waste bin near your dresser.
Then silence.
His eyes traced over your spent body, legs still trembling, thighs glistening with sweat. You looked ruined.
You looked perfect.
“Come here,” he said.
You were already in his arms before he finished the sentence. He lay back against the headboard, dragging you into his chest. Your face tucked under his jaw, your limbs tangled with his. He stroked your back slowly. It felt like the first true softness of the night.
And maybe the only softness Tom Riddle ever allowed himself.
“Is it true?” you whispered after a moment.
He didn’t speak, but you felt his brows lift.
“What you said. That I’m yours.”
There was a long pause.
Then: “Don’t ask me that, dove.”
“Why not?”
His jaw flexed.
“Because I don’t share,” he said finally. “And I don’t lie.”
You didn’t ask again.
Instead, you lay against his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart.
You thought of the blood on his cuffs, the look in his eyes when he slid inside you, the ache between your thighs that felt like something claimed.
You thought of the way he touched you like you were his only softness.
His only vice.
His little dove.
And you realized: if you were his, truly his… you might never be free again.
Summary: After a slow, sensual dinner, James invites you back to his apartment, where the chemistry builds into a kiss that leaves you trembling. He doesn’t take you—but he does take something else.
Words: 4.5k
Warnings:
Explicit sexual tension, heavy sexual content (non-penetrative), Power imbalance, D/s dynamic, praise kink, Panty kink / scent kink, Virgin / inexperienced reader, Age gap
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The peonies keep opening through the night, fat fists loosening into pale pink palms as if they’ve decided to trust your small, messy flat. You sleep with them on the sill like witnesses. In the morning, you make tea and set your laptop on the wobbly table, hands slick even before the Roselock Society meeting window pops open.
“Good morning,” says the woman on your screen—sleek bob, tortoiseshell frames, a crisp blouse that probably costs more than your rent. She’s already introduced herself in the email as Clara Hargreaves, Roselock Legal. Her accent is the kind that makes receptionists stand up a little straighter. “Can you hear me?”
“Y-yes.” You tuck a curl behind your ear and try to sit up like a person who belongs to a white, uncluttered world. “Thank you for… for meeting with me.”
“Of course,” Clara says, pleasant but efficient. “Today’s purpose is to review the contract together, ensure you understand each clause, and confirm you’re signing without duress. If anything feels off, we adjust or we pause. Understood?”
You swallow. “Understood.”
She shares her screen. The document blooms on yours, black serif text on a soft rose header: Roselock Society Patronage Agreement — Prospect Tier 1. Your alias in the top right corner, the patron’s name hidden behind a tidy J.P. The initials make your stomach catch even though you already know his name now. Seeing the letters like that makes the whole thing more real, as if he’s looking over your shoulder, warm and watchful.
Clara scrolls. “Section One: Parties. You—Prospect, hereafter Companion—and Patron, hereafter Patron. Section Two: Term. Six months initial duration, review at three months. Either party may terminate with two weeks’ notice, barring breach of safety clauses.”
You nod, trying to follow the rhythm of legalese the way you learned to follow hymns, let the cadence carry you until the words stick. “Okay.”
“Section Three: Exclusivity. Companion agrees to exclusivity with Patron for the duration of the contract”—Clara pauses, eyes lifting—“which means no other romantic or sexual arrangements, paid or otherwise. Social friendships are permitted; we encourage you to maintain your personal network.”
“So I can still… have a life.” You mumble.
“Correct. Your life continues. Section Four: Discretion. Both parties commit to non-disclosure: identities, personal details, and any business information are confidential. You will not discuss Patron’s identity or particulars with media, on social platforms, or with acquaintances beyond your designated support network.”
Clara smiles before continuing. “Section Five: Availability. Meet at least twice weekly where feasible; once weekly minimum when Patron’s workload is high. Either party may request additional time with reasonable notice. Heats and ruts: Companion commits to spending heats with Patron; Patron commits to providing safe accommodation and medical support during those periods if you choose.”
“If I choose,” you repeat quickly. “It says that?”
Clara highlights the line. “If you choose. You may opt out of heat stays up to 24 hours before onset without penalty. You may also set specific rules for heat care. We can add them now or at the three-month review.”
You have to unclench your jaw. “Can we add that I want… consent reaffirmed, like… verbally? Even if I’m… not all there?”
“Absolutely.” She types. During heat stays, verbal consent will be requested and respected; prior agreements are not substitutes for in-the-moment consent. The words land on the document like a boundary you can see. Your shoulders drop half an inch.
“Section Six: Conduct.” Clara’s tone turns precise, as if she’s measuring each word. “Patron values order. He asks for punctuality, responsiveness, and privacy. In exchange, he promises no physical harm, no sexual coercion, no public displays without your permission, and no interference with your friendships or family.”
You nod along because all of it sounds fair almost too good to be true.
“Section Seven: Financial Arrangements.” Clara continues. “Patron will: one, settle all existing debts listed in your intake file immediately upon execution of the contract; two, assume responsibility for your mother’s private medical care, including transfer to the St. Bride Oncology Centre and medications, paid directly to providers; three, fund a monthly allowance of”—she reads the figure; your ears ring—“transferred on the first business day of each month into the separate account we helped you set up yesterday; four, cover the lease of a one-bedroom apartment in Marylebone in your name, with utilities; five, provide a driver when needed. He may send gifts; you are never obligated to accept.”
Your mouth is dry. You stare at the number again, then at your own name next to Marylebone like a spell gone right. “I—um. That’s—”
“A lot,” Clara says, with a small laugh that sounds like she remembers being human. “Which is why we make sure you have control. You keep your existing account too, if you wish.”
“Thank you,” you whisper, because it feels like someone thought of all the potential ways that this could go wrong.
“Section Eight: Health.” She runs through regular checkups, STI testing (optional, but encouraged), scent allergy notes, heat-suppressant consent (you decline and she ticks a box). “Last: Termination clauses, conflict resolution, and a non-disparagement clause that binds both of you.” She leans closer to the camera. “Questions?”
You read, lips moving, until the words stop swirling. Hundreds of small pieces of safety, all with your name on them. “It says he can set wardrobe preferences for events…?”
“Yes,” Clara says, “but he cannot demand permanent changes to your appearance. If he requests something that makes you uncomfortable, you decline. You may also submit receipts for clothing purchased for his events; he’s agreed to reimburse.”
“Right.” You’re thinking of the pink ribbon, of the way his shoulders eased when you said you’d let him order. “And… is it normal that there’s so much about not asking questions about his life?”
Clara holds your gaze. “Some patrons require more privacy. We vet them so that privacy doesn’t equal danger. If that clause makes you uneasy, we can adjust—or we can walk away.”
You think of peonies and soup and a driver who smelled like nothing. You think of your mother in a quiet ward under proper lighting. Uneasy is a luxury you don’t have. “I can live with it.”
“Then,” Clara says, “we sign. I’ll send you the DocuSign link. Read through once more and initial where indicated.”
Your cursor shakes as you scroll. You initial each page, sign your alias with a flourish you don’t feel, and click Execute. Clara countersigns on behalf of Roselock; a green banner blossoms: Fully Executed.
“Congratulations,” Clara says, and the word doesn’t sound flippant. “Your handler will confirm transfers within the hour. We’ll text you the Marylebone address and driver pickup time for your mother’s appointment on Wednesday. If you need anything at all, use the Roselock app or call me.”
The window closes. You sit alone in your small kitchen with your laptop humming and the peonies nodding as if to say you did it. You check your bank app because part of you doesn’t believe money can move through the world with your name on it.
Notifications explode. Debt settled: £— QuickFox Finance. Debt settled: £— CreditCo. Balance: £0.00. You scroll, dizzy, as if you’re watching zeros slide into place on someone else’s account. Your chest feels like it’s been wrapped and cut free. Debt-free. You’ve never seen those words near your name.
Another notification: Incoming transfer: £—— (Roselock Stipend — J.P.). You don’t try to count the zeros aloud. You just press your palms to your mouth and laugh, a wild, unpretty sound. The word means something new now.
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Wednesday tastes like peppermint gum and hope. Albert arrives five minutes early, as always, and escorts you and your mum, warm in a soft cardigan Roselock had delivered, to St. Bride Oncology Centre, all pale oak and calming art. The consultant is a woman with a kind mouth and eyes that don’t look away. Dr. Malik explains the treatment plan in understandable English instead of magic incantations. “We can start next week,” she says. “Your mother’s file has already been transferred. Whoever arranged this was very efficient.”
You want to say an alpha who smells like smoke and winter; you say, “A friend,” because it’s true in the way that matters today.
They move your mother that afternoon to a private room on a quiet floor where the sheets are crisp and a nurse named Eve laughs at your terrible jokes. Your mother wakes enough to squeeze your fingers and look around, bemused. “Fancy,” she whispers, and you bite your lip hard enough to taste iron so you don’t sob.
When you arrive back at your building, Albert doesn’t pull up outside your old flat. He takes a right, then a left, and stops in front of a new place with white stone and curved windows, a tree-lined street you’ve only ever walked down to stare at expensive cakes. The concierge smiles like he’s seen you in magazines. “Welcome.” He hands you a packet with your name on it; keys, fobs, a letter from the letting agent.
The lift smells clean. Your floors are high enough to see rooftops huddled like old women. The apartment door opens on a space that feels like a dream you were too practical to have: a living room with huge windows, a small balcony with a wrought-iron rail and prim little chairs, a kitchen with marble and a coffee machine that intimidates you. The bedroom is soft grey with a bed that swallows you whole and a wardrobe that actually has hangers. In the bathroom, the towels are big and new and the water pressure could wash a lion.
You stand in the middle of the living room and wobble because it feels like standing on a ship. Then you check the cupboards: groceries already stocked—pasta, olive oil, tins of tomatoes, bag of flour, chocolate. Fresh fruit in a bowl. A bouquet of white roses and a card: Make it yours. —J
You press the card to your chest and walk from room to room because you can. You open the window and let the London air rush in; bus exhaust, bakeries, rain waiting. You cry for a minute, quiet, relieved tears that don’t taste like despair. You text James before you overthink it.
You: I’ve moved my mum into the new hospital. The new place is… beautiful. Thank you.
Three dots appear. Disappear.
James: Good. Are they treating her properly?
You: Yes. Dr. Malik is kind. They explained everything.
James: How’s the new flat?
You turn and look at your reflection in the black window—small, flushed, ribbon on your wrist.
You: It feels unreal. There’s a balcony. And a coffee machine I’m scared of.
James: I’ll teach you.
You smile, unwillingly.
You: Do you… drink a lot of coffee?
James: More than is decent. Eat dinner. I sent something.
Ten minutes later the bell rings and a courier carries in boxes: food packed neatly, labels written in the same tidy hand from before. Chicken with lemon. Potato gratin. Green beans with almonds. Chocolate mousse. You let the oven warm the kitchen and put on music low, a playlist Amelia made you once called Good Things Happen. You sit on the rug and eat until your shoulders drop and your eyes feel heavy.
The next morning your phone pings: Incoming transfer: monthly stipend. You open the bank app and the number takes up the whole screen. For a second you think there’s been a mistake. For the first time your balance looks like the sums on debt letters, except the minus sign isn’t there. You freeze, thumb hovering above Transfer because instinct says send it to the wolves and there are no wolves left to feed.
You don’t know how to spend it. You text Amelia: Help. I have money and I’m afraid of it.
She replies immediately. First purchase: a pretty robe. Second: good pillows. Third: savings. Keep a separate account. I’ll come over Saturday and we’ll organize your life. Proud of you. 🩷🩷🩷
James texts you in little drips you never expected from a man like him. In the mornings: Did you sleep? In the afternoons: What did you eat for lunch. In the evening: What are you reading. He doesn’t pry; he doesn’t not pry. Sometimes he sends photos from the city; wet pavement, a fox in a mews garden, a sky the color of bruised peaches. Sometimes it’s a single word. Sweet? you’ll write when the chocolate arrives with your name on it. Very, he’ll answer. A courier turns up with a delicate bracelet, white gold with a tiny opal that flashes pink when it catches light. Another day, it’s a glossy box of chocolates from a place you’ve only walked past to smell. Another, a paperback you mentioned in passing. It feels like being circled by a warm, watchful animal: present, patient, patient, there.
You meet Amelia for brunch at a Notting Hill café that looks like it’s been lacquered in blush. She’s in a floral dress and diamonds like dew. “Tell me everything,” she demands, cutting into a stack of pancakes as tall as your hope.
You tell her about Clara and contracts, about Dr. Malik’s kind voice, about the new flat and the coffee machine you’re still avoiding. You tell her about James’s texts, how they’re ordinary and somehow not, how he’s managed to ask about your whole week without giving you a single personal detail you didn’t already have.
“Oooh,” Amelia says, delighted. “A sphinx.”
“A what?”
“A riddle-man.” She waves her fork. “He makes you talk so he doesn’t have to. Don’t take it personal; it’s a power thing. Or maybe an I’m doing something ilegal thing… Anyway men like James, men who control city blocks by lifting a finger, they never go into detail about themselves. If he’s not offering, don’t fish.”
“I wasn’t going to,” you protest.
“You were,” she sings. “And listen, darling, two pieces of advice. One: never volunteer information someone didn’t ask for. Let him work for the bits that matter. Two: keep your boundaries sharp but your tone soft. Men like him want obedience, power, as if they don’t already have enough. Fair enough, but they respect a line drawn with a smile. You can say ‘no’ like it’s a bouquet.” She grins.
You laugh, then sober. “I’m… scared sometimes. Not of him. Of me. Of liking it.”
“You’re allowed to like good treatment,” Amelia says, suddenly fierce. “Being cared for isn’t a sin.” She squeezes your hand. “Call me if he makes your stomach go cold. Otherwise… let yourself have nice things.”
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That afternoon a small box arrives at your door. Amelia again. Inside: satin robe, cream-colored, with a ribbon tie, and a note: For floating around your rich-girl kitchen. —A
Later in the week, your phone rings with a number you now recognize. You answer before it reaches the second buzz. “Hi.”
“Hello, little omega.” James’s voice slides into your ear like warmth. “How busy are you Friday?”
You glance at your calendar, which is mostly medical appointments and half-written shopping lists. “Not very.”
“Dinner?” he asks. “I’ll send the car at seven.”
“Okay.” You wet your lips. “Twice a week, right?”
He chuckles. “At least. But I’m selfish.”
You stare at the ceiling to stop your heartbeat from trying to escape. “Okay.”
“Wear what you like,” he says easily.
You hang up and stare at your wardrobe, a thin row of clothes that definitely don’t suit the occasion. The money in your account makes you shy. You buy shoes and groceries; you send a box of pastries to the nurses. But a dress feels… necessary. You make an appointment with a boutique Amelia suggests, with quiet, patient saleswomen.
You pick a white dress because it feels like breathing and because there’s something satisfying about wearing light next to a man who smells like winter smoke. The dress is a midi-length column of silk crepe, soft but structured, with a square neckline that frames your collarbones and the faintest lace edging along the straps. The back dips into a modest V. It skims your waist and flares a little over your hips, moving when you breathe, whispering when you walk. It makes your dark skin glow as if you swallowed a candle. The saleswoman brings a pair of low white slingback heels that don’t make you wobble and a tiny pearl drop for your ear.
At home, you take your time. You blow your curls into soft spirals and pin one side back with a mother-of-pearl clip so the shape of your neck shows. You do your makeup with a light hand: a wash of champagne shadow, a subtle flick of liner, dewy skin and a soft pink gloss you press into your mouth until it looks like you’ve just tasted strawberries. The satin robe makes you feel like a movie star as you move from mirror to window to mirror again.
Amelia calls as you’re debating perfume. “Don’t drown yourself in it,” she warns. “Let him scent you. Wear something clean and faint, veil the edges.”
You dab a touch of white tea at your wrists and behind your knees. When you stand up, your reflection looks like newer version of you, still shy, still yourself, just… brighter. You slip on the underwear Amelia bullied you into buying over the phone, the first nice set you’ve ever owned: white lace, barely there, thin band at the hip. You blush at your own mirror and then roll your eyes at yourself.
The car arrives at seven sharp. Albert nods, opens the door, and you slide into the quiet leather world where the city glides by like a film set. Outside the Mayfair restaurant—the kind with a brass nameplate and staff who know your name before you say it—you glimpse two men in dark coats standing a comfortable distance down the street. They aren’t looking at you. They seem to be interested in the way the night has arranged itself. You don’t need Albert to tell you they’re with James. They melt away when you glance twice, practicing invisibility like a profession.
The hostess smiles. “Mr. Potter is waiting.”
The name skates straight through you. Mr. Potter. That was the first time you had heard his last name. You step into a room where the air is butter and French, and there he is at a corner table, back to the wall, line of sight to the door, as if instinct and training both hate surprises. He rises when he sees you. His eyes do a small, private thing that makes your stomach dip. “You clean up like a miracle.”
You smile, shy but not small.
He laughs under his breath as he rounds the table to pull out your chair. “Sit, little omega.” He says near your ear.
Champagne arrives; you don’t argue. He orders without consulting the menu as if the chef is inside his head. “We’ll start with oysters,” he says, then glances at you. “Unless you hate them.”
“I’ve never had one.”
“Then we’ll fix that.” His mouth curves. “Turbot for you. And duck for me. Two of the potato gratin. Extra bread.”
You could argue you don’t need extra bread. You don’t. You like the way he thinks ahead to your plate being empty and the comfort of butter ready to be torn. You let him order.
He leads the conversation as smoothly as he ordered. “How’s Marylebone?” he asks, and you tell him about the view, the balcony, the neighbor’s cat that stares through your window like it’s assessing your soul.
“You can change anything you don’t like,” James says, almost offhand. “Paint the walls. Replace the sofa. Lose the coffee machine if it frightens you.”
“It does,” you admit. “But I’m making friends with it.”
“Good girl,” he says, not to belittle, simply to praise, and then his jaw softens. “And your mother?”
“Dr. Malik’s team is… they make space. She smiled yesterday. Properly.” You say, and a lump rises in your throat you didn’t invite.
He nods as if he expected nothing less. “I’m glad.”
It’s so easy, falling into the warmth of his attention that you almost don’t notice what’s missing until dessert. You’ve told him about the concierge who knows your name and more about the coffee machine you’ve named Harold; about the French film you watched with subtitles last night and the book you’ve started where the heroine bakes pies. He’s given you opinions on pastry and a tip about how to make Harold behave. He’s asked about your week with a kindness that feels unfeigned. He has, you realize slowly, said almost nothing about himself beyond preferences: likes duck, likes bread, likes seeing you dressed nicely for him.
When the tarte Tatin arrives, caramel bright and sticky, you realize he has again, effortlessly, moved through the hour without offering a single piece of personal history. You think of Clara’s clause. You think of Amelia’s “sphinx.” You picture asking and watch the way his eyes would shutter. You decide not to. You cut a neat square of apple and eat it like you have all the time in the world.
When the bill evaporates and the maître d’ bows as if you’ve done something grand, James offers you his arm and you take it because he knows exactly how to guide you through rooms without making you feel led. Outside, the night smells like rain and taxis. The two men in coats are now across the road, studying a lamppost. James glances at them once, then at you. “Would you like to continue the night?” he asks, voice casual, underpinned with heat. “Have a drink somewhere quieter.”
Your stomach flips. You know what quieter means. “At… your place?”
“My apartment,” he clarifies. “Yes.”
You shift your weight, toes within your slingbacks. “I don’t… James, I don’t know what you expect,” you say, honesty rushing out before you can smooth it. “I haven’t… I’ve never…”
He reads the pause correctly. Something like tenderness moves through his face so fast you’d miss it if you were anyone else. “Little omega,” he says softly, “I expect exactly what you want to give. Nothing else. There is no clock on this. We’ll go at your pace or not at all.” He tips his head. “No hurry.”
The part of you that only knows men from the estate and their impatient hands goes very, very quiet. The part that is made of warm wax softens toward the heat. “Okay,” you whisper, and you’re surprised by your own certainty. “A drink would be nice.”
His car is waiting. The men in coats vanish so completely you almost doubt they were there. You drive along the Thames, lights painting the water gold. He takes you to a glass tower near Vauxhall, chic and discreet, the kind of building that tries to pretend London is a different city. The lift is keyed; the penthouse opens onto a space that smells like cedar and newness. You step into a living room that looks like a magazine photo: slate sofa, white rug, a low table with nothing on it, floor-to-ceiling windows framing the river like a piece of art. There’s almost nothing personal; no photos, no clutter, not even the offhand mess of a man’s jacket on a chair.
“Make yourself at home,” he says, which is ironic because no one could live here long enough to make it anything but immaculate. You think, fleetingly, that home for him might be somewhere else. Brown leather and family noise, perhaps, somewhere private he isn’t offering. You don’t ask. You toe off your shoes by the window and walk the soft rug to feel it under your feet.
He goes to a low bar and pours two glasses—one white wine, one water. He brings both and lets you choose; you take the wine because you want your hands occupied. He settles on the sofa and waits until you do too, not too close. The silence is thick and not awkward.
“It’s beautiful,” you say finally. “But it looks… new.”
He huffs a laugh. “I don’t get here often.” A small truth, tossed like a coin.
“You’re very busy,” you say, because he’s managed to make you talk about everything but him and you won’t break your own rules.
“Sometimes.” He tips his glass toward you. “Tell me something else about you.”
You do. You talk about books and birds you’ve seen in the plane trees outside your window, about how Marylebone smells like pastries and posh shampoo. He listens like a religion. He doesn’t interrupt except to coax more, a fingertip under a stream of water, guiding.
At some point, you turn towards him without thinking. Your knee brushes his thigh and your breath trips; his eyes drop to your mouth and then return to your eyes with deliberate slowness. He leans in half an inch to breathe you in, just scenting, the briefest kiss with his nose at the curve of your neck where your scent gland pulses. A spark zings through you. Your scent unfurls without your permission, a soft bloom of vanilla and pear and clean skin that says you’re safe, you’re curious, you’re beginning to want.
He inhales once, restrained, like a man looking at water after a long drought and taking a polite sip. You can smell him up close now—smoke, spice, a hint of something resinous, like cedar sap. It threads into you, pulls you forward. He leans in a fraction more, his mouth stopping just short of yours. Close enough to feel his breath, to see the darker ring around his brown irises, to count the gold flecks in them.
“Tell me no,” he murmurs, voice low, as his breath fans across your lips. He’s so close, you could count his lashes if your brain wasn’t already fogging.
You don’t. You don’t want to.
So instead of saying anything, you tilt your chin up and meet him halfway. That’s all he needs. He closes the distance, mouth brushing against yours in a kiss that starts so gentle it borders on reverent.
His lips are plush; warm and soft and sure, coaxing rather than claiming, yet somehow still impossibly dominant. It’s not a peck. It’s not hesitant. He’s kissing you like a man who knows exactly what he wants and exactly how to get it without ever raising his voice.
The first slide of his mouth is slow, savouring. Like he’s tasting something forbidden he’s waited far too long to touch. And then his hand finds your jaw, large and firm, tilting your head just slightly so he can deepen the angle. His other hand slides over your hip, fingers grazing the dip of your waist in a touch that feels possessive without needing to hold tight.
His tongue flicks against your bottom lip and you gasp, soft and instinctive, and he takes that moment to slip inside.
Heat spills down your spine like warm honey. You arch closer without thinking, hands fisting in the front of his shirt for balance as his mouth claims you properly. He groans, low and dark, vibrating straight through your ribs. The sound isn’t loud, but it makes your thighs clench and your breath stutter.
He kisses like he knows the effect he’s having. Like he wants to feel you fall apart slowly, one shiver, one sigh, one melted thought at a time.
His tongue slides against yours, smooth and teasing, licking into your mouth with a rhythm that shouldn’t be this obscene but is. Every pass has intention, every stroke coaxing a moan from your throat that he drinks down like wine.
And then his hand moves lower, gripping your waist and pulling you into his lap like you weigh nothing. You end up straddling him, silk dress pooling around your thighs, your bare knees framing the hard line of his hips. You feel the distinct pressure of his arousal through his trousers, thick and unforgiving beneath you—and your breath catches on a high-pitched whimper that you don’t even recognize as yours.
His lips break from yours with a slick sound, your shared breath catching between your mouths.
“You feel that, don’t you?” he mutters, voice rougher now, barely leashed. His nose brushes your jaw. “That’s what you do to me.”
You nod, trembling. You can’t look at him. But you can’t stop either. You’re soaking through your panties—those thin, pretty lace ones Amelia insisted on—and the pressure of his lap beneath you is almost unbearable. Every slight movement sends friction exactly where you need it. And he knows. Of course he knows. You know he can smell your arousal, you’re practically dripping with it.
His scent is heavier now, richer, darker. The clean spice of him thickening with the unmistakable musk of want. The kind that makes your stomach tighten and your skin feel too tight. The kind that fills the room with an invisible current that has your thighs quivering from sheer tension.
James brushes a strand of hair from your face, tucking it behind your ear as he looks at you.
“Look at me, little omega.”
You do. Eyes glassy. Breath coming in shaky little pulls.
“You’re soaked, aren’t you?”
You make a noise of protest, humiliated, but he only smiles; slow and smug and hungry.
“It’s alright,” he murmurs, his voice dragging over your skin like velvet. “You smell so fucking sweet right now I could eat you through this dress.”
Your legs squeeze tighter around him involuntarily.
He doesn’t touch where you’re wet. Doesn’t grind you down into his lap even though you know you’re both desperate for it. He just holds your hips still, presses another kiss to your open mouth, teeth catching your bottom lip this time biting down just hard enough to make you moan.
His tongue follows immediately, soothing, teasing, coaxing more. He kisses you until your toes curl in your shoes, until your fingers are clawing gently at his shoulders and your breath is just short of panting.
When he finally pulls back again, he stares at you for a long moment, breathing heavy. His eyes are dark now. Gone is the calm alpha with clever words and careful restraint. For a second, he looks feral. Like a man battling instincts he’s learned to leash with terrifying control.
“You’re not ready yet,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “But when you are. Fuck, you’re going to ruin me.”
Your thighs tremble at that. Your whole body is hot and trembling and empty and needing.
But all he does is kiss your throat once, just beneath your jaw and whispers, voice dark and low and filthy:
“May I ask you for a gift?”
Your head is spinning, lips swollen and damp from the kiss, breath unsteady. “A gift?” you echo, dazed. “I—I didn’t bring anything, I didn’t know—”
His laugh is soft, rich, and entirely unfair. The kind of sound you feel in the pit of your stomach.
“Not flowers,” he says, eyes half-lidded and dangerous. “Nothing you need to wrap.”
You blink up at him, frowning. “Then what?”
He slides one broad palm over your thigh, heat trailing in its wake as it glides beneath the hem of your dress. The touch is smooth, patient, reverent even but there’s intent behind it, a confidence that makes your pulse skitter.
When his hand reaches the curve of your ass, his fingers curl in and hook under the delicate lace band of your panties, that thin, white pair Amelia had bullied you into wearing.
James leans in, lips brushing your ear, voice no longer polite but possessive and husky.
“These. I want them.”
Your breath catches. It punches from your lungs in a flustered gasp, heat flooding your cheeks so fast it’s dizzying.
“Y-you want my underwear?” you whisper, shocked.
His fingers toy with the waistband, tugging gently, suggestive without force. “I want what you’ve been soaking through since I kissed you. I want the scent of you between my fingers for the rest of the fucking night. Is that a problem?”
You can’t breathe. You can’t think. Your panties are undeniably wet, soaked, actually. You’re sitting on his lap with your slick pressed right against his cock, and you know he can smell it. You know your scent’s been perfuming the air.
You flush, thighs instinctively squeezing together, like that’ll hide it. It doesn’t.
“I don’t know why you’d want them,” you murmur, flustered and fidgeting. “They’re ruined.”
His smile is wolfish. He looks like he wants to take a bite out of you just for saying that.
“Exactly why I want them,” he growls. “Because I made them that way.”
Your thighs clench again. You feel yourself pulse, helpless and turned on beyond reason. The shame only sharpens it.
He waits, watching your face, letting you choose. He doesn’t push, just tugs lightly on the waistband again.
“Can I have them?”
You nod, cheeks burning. “Okay,” you whisper, voice barely there.
“Good girl.”
The praise sends another roll of heat through you, and you obey the silent command in his gaze. Slowly, awkwardly, you lift your hips and let him guide the damp lace down.
His fingers slide underneath the thin band, moving with careful, sinful ease. The fabric peels away from your skin with the sticky pull of wet cotton, making you whimper from sheer embarrassment. You feel the cool air hit your soaked heat, feel how open and bare you are under the skirt of your dress now.
He pulls the panties down past your knees, then your ankles, handling you like something expensive and breakable. When he holds them up, inspecting the white lace turned dark with arousal, you want the floor to open up and swallow you whole.
“Oh my God,” you mutter, covering your face.
James chuckles lowly, spinning the ruined panties around his fingers once before bringing them up to his nose.
You watch as he inhales. Deeply.
And then his eyes darken in a way that makes your skin flush and your belly twist.
“Fucking hell,” he mutters, as if you’ve just knocked the breath from his lungs.
The sight is filthy. Obscene in a way you didn’t know was possible.
He doesn’t hide it, doesn’t try to pretend he’s unaffected. He looks genuinely wrecked, like the scent of you has just unraveled something primal. His jaw clenches as he tucks the soaked panties into the inner pocket of his blazer, close to his chest.
As if they’re something valuable.
He smooths your dress back down over your bare thighs and presses one last kiss to your temple, murmuring, “I’ll think of you every time I smell them.”
Your breath stutters. You can’t speak. You’re so aroused it’s painful. Your body is still trembling from his kisses, now with nothing between your slick thighs except air and the ghost of his hands.
You’re certain your blush could power the city. “This is—this is mortifying.”
“It’s delicious,” he counters mildly, and then he kisses your mouth again, quick and tender, as if to tell your embarrassment to hush. He doesn’t try to slide his hand where you’re aching; he keeps it primly on your waist, thumb smoothing calming arcs into your side. When he pulls back, he’s breathing a little harder. So are you.
He looks at your mouth once more like he’s making a choice, then leans in to put his lips against your ear. “I’m going to send you home now,” he murmurs.
You blink, stupid and wrecked. “What?”
“You heard me.” He smiles, not at your expense, loving the power of the moment he’s created. “Go home, little omega.”
“But—” You swallow. “I thought you’d…”
The corner of his mouth curves. “Take you apart on my sofa?” he supplies, lazy. “I could. I won’t. Not tonight.” His eyes flick down your body, heat respectful, possessive in a way that doesn’t feel like a trap. “I like knowing you’ll ride home remembering me. I’m not in a hurry. The first time we do this, you’ll be ready, and I’ll have hours.”
Your body does a stupid, traitorous flutter. You hate him a little for it. You love that you can afford to.
He helps you off his lap like a gentleman. Your knees are a little shaky; your dress slides back down your thighs obligingly, preserving dignity. He fetches your shoes and kneels—kneels—to guide your foot into the slingback strap. The gesture is obscene and chivalrous at once and makes something low in you clench.
He walks you to the lift with his hand on the small of your back and presses a kiss to your temple in the mirrored box while your face goes pink. The men in coats are nowhere, as if conjured only when needed. The car is at the curb; Albert opens the door and looks at nothing.
James leans on the open door, eyes tracing your face as if to memorize which kisses put which colors there. “Text me when you’re in,” he says. “Eat something sweet.”
“My underwear—” You stop yourself, mortified all over again.
“Is mine,” he says, gentle and smug. “Good night.”
The car glides into the city. You sit there bare under silk, thighs pressed together, your own scent making your head swim, and you press your lips to your knuckles to keep from laughing or crying. You’re not sure which you want more. You’re turned on enough to ache, flustered enough to want to climb into your own skin and zip it up, confused enough to almost text Amelia and ask if this is normal. Mostly you’re wondering about the thing he didn’t do. Men you’ve known would have taken encouragement like a starting gun. James stopped.
Outside, London glitters like it wants to be forgiven. You watch your reflection in the window, a woman in white, hair glossy, mouth kiss-bitten.
When Albert pulls up to your building and hands you out, the night air cools the heat on your skin. The concierge nods. You take the lift up alone, heart thudding, and press your palm to your door until you can breathe.
In the quiet of your new flat, you stand on the balcony and let the river air kiss your legs. Your phone buzzes.
James: Home?
You: Yes.
A beat.
James: Sweet?
You look down at yourself, at the dress that hides and reveals, at your bare thighs under silk, at your hands that won’t stop shaking, and then you type.
