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.✦ ݁˖ EYES ON ME.

.✦ SUMMARY: Tom has sworn to protect his little brother from women like you—but ends up falling into the trap himself when your punishment becomes his demise ;)

.✦ WARNINGS: MATURE CONTENT. revenge hate sex. slight exhibitionism. Tom is jealous but doesn't want to admit it. rough sex, little to no prep, degradation, slight slut shaming? choking, face slapping (m rec MUHAHA), tearing instead of taking off clothes, unprotected p in v, creampie, no aftercare, Tommy is obsessed with our pussy us :333

.✦ AUTHOR'S NOTE: yall know the phrase "missionary so we can keep arguing" ??? beccause that's them. lol.

wordcount: 3,1k

This. Exactly this is why you loathe Astronomy lessons.

You cross your arms over your chest tighter, hurrying along the dark and eerily quiet corridors, cursing yourself for not taking a warmer jacket with you. Although spring is slowly but surely starting up here in the far north of the country, you currently find yourself in that strange transitioning phase, where afternoons are pleasantly warm, hot even, while nights are bone-chillingly cold.

Astronomy classes typically start at 21:00 and end two hours later—catching the last few weak sunrays painting the horizon a bright, saturated orange as well as the starry night sky, sometimes accentuated by polar lights.

And while these definitely are the highlights of your lessons, it doesn’t quite change the fact that the walk back, especially in cold, dark weather, is as much unpleasant as terrifying.

The size of the castle does not help, either. Your walk to your dorm takes around 10-15 minutes surely and spans across half the castle. It leads you past the Great Hall, countless portraits of famous witches and wizards, the kitchens, and classrooms.

If you weren’t so caught up in your thoughts and regrets about signing up for Astronomy in the first place, you might’ve noticed the shift in the air around you. How the torches’ flames dim slightly as you turn the corner, how the owls’ hoots from the Owlery a few hundred metres away fade into the tranquillity of the night.

Instead, you shake your head at a comment your professor made this night, eyebrows pinched together in annoyance. He could’ve just cancelled the lesson for bad weather—but instead, he insisted, only to then be a nuisance when students couldn’t make out constellations.

If you weren’t so damn inattentive, you might’ve been able to draw your wand in time when a door to your right flies open, one strong arm circling your waist, the other clamping over your mouth as you’re pulled into a classroom before you can even react properly.

Might’ve been, you think, but when notes of sandalwood and myrrh flood your senses, that small chance dissolves into nothingness.

What could he possibly want from you this late?

He lets go of you when he’s put a sufficient amount of distance between you and the door and spins you around to face him.

Moonlight is drowning in from outside, the only source of light in the classroom besides a few candles—still, the resentment edged into his features is as evident as ever, and your mind races through all scenarios where you may have insulted Slughorn’s favourite boy.

And yet, you cannot recall such a moment. You are smart enough to keep distance between him and yourself, even though you sometimes would do nothing rather than smack him across his stupidly handsome face. There's no word in the whole English language to describe the sheer audacity of this man—starting with the way he treats his friends and ending with his perfect-student act in class.

Sometimes, you wonder if you are the only one seeing right through the facade he puts up. And even if you can’t quite place it, beneath said facade shimmers nothing good. That, you are sure of—and one of the many reasons why you prefer staying away from trouble rather than giving him that deserved slap across his cheek he is practically begging for.

“Mattheo,” he says, lowly. Nothing else. No explanation, just his brother’s name.

What about him? You nearly ask, but then it dawns upon you.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Over the years, Tom Riddle has acquired many titles. Prefect, Head Boy, top student, but most of all, protective older brother.

And you may or may not have gotten involved with the younger of the Riddles. Involved as in... hooked up with.

In your defence, you were quite drunk. More than usual. And those pretty brown curls, those freaking gorgeous doe-eyes—they led straight to your demise. Mattheo asked so sweetly too—how was your drunk self supposed to abstain from that?

It was just a one-time thing. Or, well, if you count the other two times it has happened after that—a three-time thing, perhaps.

You decide not to tell him that. “That’s none of your business, Riddle. He’s an adult and very well capable of making his own decisions.”

He scoffs with his signature condescending tone and shakes his head.

“Perhaps if he didn’t go after someone like you. But he can’t seem to keep his hands off women who are clearly bad for him.”

Bad for him? Someone like you? Who on earth does he think he is?

“Someone like me? What is that supposed to imply?” you ask exasperatedly, crossing your arms over your chest when a breeze sends a shiver down your spine.

Tom’s eyes drop to the now strained buttons of your blouse, a muscle ticking in his jaw before his eyes return to yours.

“You have quite the reputation regarding... that.”

“And you, you, Riddle—” you laugh in disbelief, closing the distance between the both of you, poking his chest with your index finger. “You’ve got quite the reputation for being an absolute asshole, which you’ve just proved right once again—contrary to me, because I don’t have said reputation.”

You don’t miss the flame lighting up behind his guarded eyes when your skin touches the fabric of his shirt. For a long moment, silence falls between you two, and your hand drops to your side again, swallowing the lump which has built in your throat.

You are too close. So close, you see how his jaw clenches and unclenches, how the crease between his brows fades. So close, if you shut your eyes and breathed in, you’d find yourself in a dark forest after rain—intoxicatingly good, but also just as dangerous.

Did he bathe himself in perfume?

Before you get to say anything else, a hand wraps around your throat. Firmly, but not enough to hurt or stop you from gasping. Tom walks you backwards until you’re pressed up against one of the tables, trapped between his body, taller and broader than your own, and the oak currently biting into your skin.

“You’ve quite the mouth on you. Careful, sweetheart. I wouldn’t want to do anything I might regret later.”

His thumb brushes along the side of your neck then, his eyes—a darker brown than his brother’s—following. The touch of his bare skin on yours efficiently short-circuits your mind. You shouldn’t let him do this. You should ridicule him and flee to the sanctuary of your dorm—but something in his voice makes you curious. Makes you stay—right there, a breath away from him, your pulse hammering beneath his fingers on your neck.

“Is there anything mighty Tom Riddle could possibly regret? Here I thought you live a regret and carefree life. Guess I was wrong.”

His grip on your throat tightens the slightest bit. “Oh, there are plenty. Though I will make sure I won’t regret staying up late for this.”

You raise a brow at him. “Riddle missing out on his beauty sleep for me? The greatest tragedy of the 21st century, for sure.”

“Quiet,” he snaps, his hand leaving your throat. Tom places them on the back of your thighs instead, lifting you up to sit on the edge of the table. “You’ve said and done enough.”

Enough? You were just getting started. A warm-up, you could say.

You never thought arguing with him could be this much fun—especially when it riles him up to the point he gets fucking hard from it.

Because no, you haven’t quite missed the tent in his trousers, which was poking into your hips until a few seconds ago. How could you have? It was scarily evident. Knowing that you have this effect on him, a guy who you’ve never seen leave a party alongside a girl, is more satisfying than you’d like to admit.

He makes quick work of his belt, and that, on the other hand, is something you did not expect—not from him, at least.

It’s not only the fact he initiated this—but time and place. A classroom, of all places. Anyone could hear you. Prefects on duty, professors walking past. It was dangerous. Reckless. So unlike him, you wonder whether someone slipped him a potion during dinner.

Good that you don’t necessarily mind reckless.

He steps between your thighs, wrenching them apart.

“Someone could walk in, Riddle. You are insane,” you scold, though not entirely sincere, eyes darting between the unlocked door and him.

He flips up your skirt in response.

“Knowing you, you would most definitely enjoy that, slut.”

The retaliatory insult sits on the tip of your tongue but never makes it past your lips. His eyes are focused on the wet spot soaking through the cotton of your panties. His thumb presses down on it, tracing it upwards until he finds your clit, and you moan in response, meeting his touch.

He pulls away. “You get wet from just this? From arguing?”

You grin up at him. “Only when I am winning.”

Instead of asking you to lift your hips so he can slide your panties off, he hooks his fingers beneath the damp fabric, ripping it along the middle with a sharp tearing sound.

Those were expensive, you want to tell him, but his hand clamps over your mouth instead. “I would’ve considered going easy on you. If you weren’t such a goddamn brat who doesn’t know when it’s better to shut up, that is.”

Your eyebrows pinch together, because how could they not? It’s him who pulled you into this classroom just to what? To fuck you because you dared to have sex with his brother? Even if you tried making sense of it, you doubt you’d succeed.

But for now, for now you are curious whether he is bluffing or if he actually knows what he’s doing—and the answer, you find just a moment later.

His trousers are left to pool around his ankles, and he takes one last step forwards—groaning lowly as he coats himself in your slick. Tom doesn’t prepare you any more than a few bumps against your aching clit. Doesn’t use his fingers to work you open and get you to relax your muscles and give in to pleasure.

Instead, he nudges against your entrance and pushes inside. Not slowly, either. With one mean, sharp thrust, he splits you open around him, hands on your hips keeping you in your place. The sting is overwhelming at first, blinding. Your scream is muffled by his hand over your lips, and he stills for a moment—giving you enough time to stop him if you so wished.

When you don’t, your thighs closing around his lower body, he has the answer he needs. And though your vision is blurry with unshed tears, you feel the smirk on his lips. The satisfaction radiating off him is sickening, and thoughts about smacking it away return.

“So fucking tight. If you can’t take it, just say so. I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“How considerate of you, Riddle.” you murmur with a fake smile, meeting his gaze. “I am not backing down, though. Now show me what you’ve got before I change my mind.”

He eases your legs apart, keeping them spread wide for him as he sets a rhythm. Fast, deep, unrelenting. His hips slam against your own with a loud smacking sound which echoes off the walls and—you are quite certain—can be heard from outside just as clearly.

God, perhaps that ego of his is rightfully as massive as it is.

His hand leaves your mouth and instead wraps around your throat again, more tightly this time. Your eyes flutter close, losing yourself in the feeling of him so close, so deep. Tomorrow will be soon enough to hate yourself for this. Now, now, you want to feel. Feel as he fucks his hatred into you.

But Tom—Tom isn’t quite happy with that. He wants to see you. Wants to see your eyes roll to the back of your head as he stuffs you full over and over again, wants to see you tear up each time he thrusts deep enough to brush against your cervix. He wants you to focus on him during it all.

“Eyes on me,” he rasps, voice low and thick with resentment. He grasps your chin and tilts your face towards his. “Look at me when I fuck you.”

You obey. And you hate that you do. You hate that he walks around the castle like he owns it. You hate that he’s making you feel like this.

Most of all, you hate that he always gets to have his way.

Your fingertips tickle with want, and what you do next isn't entirely thought through.

“I hate you, Riddle.” you whisper, eyes glaring up at him just as he wanted. And then, in one swift motion, your palm connects with his cheek, a loud SMACK! reverberating between you two.

His head stays turned to the side, and you clench your hand into a fist, dropping it to your side.

Damn, that hurt—but also, fuck, that felt amazing.

Tom stills his movements, buried all the way inside your velvety walls, his tip nudging uncomfortably against your already-sore cervix. You can’t say you’re not scared of what comes next. Did you hurt his ego? Will he stop? Will he—and you much preferred this option—do the same to you?

You could’ve frozen time, thought about every possible outcome for days, perhaps weeks, and what comes next wouldn’t have crossed your mind in that time. It wouldn’t have crossed your mind at all, not in a thousand years.

His head dips, and at the same time he uses his grip around your neck to pull you upwards. Tom breathes in, a mere inch from your lips—once, twice, his dark eyes staring at yours so intensely, the room around you starts spinning—and then, his lips collide with yours.

It’s messy, rough, uncoordinated—as it has been. He steals your breath away, but you don’t complain. His other hand finds your blouse, again, ripping instead of opening, one button after another popping off, leaving your chest bare for him.

Only when his lungs too run out of oxygen does he part from you, a whole new expression written over his face.

I hate you, but I can’t get enough either.

Tom seems to realise what the latter may mean, and God, if he was rough before, he is feral now.

His cock pistons into you at a pace you have a hard time keeping up with, every thrust making the table squeak and sending your hips backwards—so harshly, he has to pull you back multiple times.

“This is what you wanted? Getting fucked like a slut? Don't even bother answering. We both know.”

You shriek when he angles his thrusts just right, gripping his forearm. “Riddle— Tom, I—”

He looks at you, taking in the mess he’s made of you. Torn blouse and panties, mascara smeared, whining and moaning so sweetly beneath him. This is so much better than he imagined it to be.

Similar thoughts cross your mind. Beads of sweat on his temples, one dark curl hanging loosely over his forehead. He breathes heavily, fingers digging into the soft flesh of your thighs. He looks gorgeous like this—even more so than usual. Human, almost. With real feelings. Fuck.

His thumb finds your swollen clit, briefly—pulling away before it starts feeling good. He scoffs when you whine at the loss.

“You thought I’d allow you to come? Pathetic. Think again.”

You want to argue with him, beg, if you really have to—but he pushes you down onto the surface of the table, leaning over you—an angle which allows him deeper, and that, he uses to his advantage.

Low grunts and groans begin spilling from his kiss-swollen lips, and with a few more deep thrusts, he spills himself inside you, painting your walls white with his release.

Tom stays there while he catches his breath—buried deep, keeping you full of him for a moment longer.

When he does finally withdraw, you hiss at the friction—God, you aren’t looking forward to the walk back to your dorm.

Tom doesn’t speak a word while he dresses himself. Only when he is about to exit the classroom does he turn around one last time, a small, satisfied smirk tugging on the corner of his lips when he realises you haven’t moved, thighs slick with your combined arousal.

“Don’t come near him—us—again,” he says, keeping his tone as strict as he could—though failing. “Trust me, I will know.”

・・・

You are glad it’s the weekend, because for the last two days, after returning to your dorm, you haven’t moved much. Your whole body aches, and a part of you wishes you smacked him twice instead of just once.

With your latest read in your hand, you prepare yourself for bed—though sleeping has been rather difficult when all you can think about is him. How he felt inside you, how pretty he looked when his guard was down.

A few minutes later, a sharp knock on your window startles you. The bed just got warm, and you sigh deeply as you swing your legs over the edge and cross the room to the window.

Who in their right mind sends an owl this late?

You open the window, a chilly breeze greeting you. Taking the letter from your owl, you pet her, and she flies off into the darkness of the night again. You sink onto the chair at your work desk, studying the envelope.

The seal looks familiar, and yet you can’t quite place it—only when you open it do you recognise the handwriting.

It’s Tom’s—and the content makes you huff a laugh.

Tuesday, after Herbology. The classroom I use for tutoring. Don't be late, or I’ll make sure you won’t be able to walk for another three days.

You cringe at the thought of him seeing you limp to the Great Hall for breakfast and quickly shove that thought away. Most importantly, he reached out to you. After just two days, he’s the one breaking his own rule.

You sensed it was a lie back when he told you to stay away. It didn’t come with the usual authority, with the finality you’d expect from him.

A smirk spreads across your face, slow and sweet realisation dawning on you.

You got both Riddle brothers addicted to you—and your pussy.

A/N pt 2: THREESOME WHEN WHEN WHEN????

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

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@glowingatdawn @whimpurrin @cb97s-babyygirl @averielilyrose

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