meg ⋆ ˚｡⋆୨୧˚ @megwritesriddles - Tumblr Blog

Like a heatwave, burning in my heart ༊*·˚

18+ MDNI !!!

Pairing: Tom Riddle x Fem! Reader / You

Summary: After graduating, Riddle has kept to himself, but during a heatwave, he is lured back into the pureblood sphere and confronted with you once more. Your relationship never was simple. And why do pureblood events always seem to lead to discussions of marriage?

Tags: Blowjob, P in V, Unprotected sex, Light Dom/Sub, Dom!Riddle, Good girl, Princess, Brat taming, Sort of established relationship (it's complicated), FWBs, Arranged marriage, Pureblood culture, Pureblood!Reader, Mild angst/arguments, Riddle in love as much as he is capable of, Mentions of alcohol, Dialogue-heavy.

Word count: 6k

all fandom masterlist | hp masterlist | read it on ao3

Authors note: I wrote this like maybe two months ago and have been waiting to post it during a heat wave for maximum immersion but the heat hasn't quite reached my country until now so... this fic went a completely different direction than I was planning it to originally... Hope you like it anyway mwah ( ◕◡◕)っ ♡

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The summer sun beat down in a way scarcely anyone alive could remember it doing before. Humidity made the air wobble in the distance, a thin film of moisture clinging to every surface the outdoor air could reach, Tom Riddle's skin included. He would really rather be anywhere else than here, sitting in the unforgiving heat and forced to listen to the sounds of the wizarding world's most eligible bachelors and bachelorettes in their sun-soaked mania, shouting, laughing, jumping into the pool in the hopes of impressing the opposite sex. Since graduating from Hogwarts, Riddle had experienced almost an entire blissful year without the heirs to various pureblood fortunes bugging him. For appearances' sake, he had hung around the rich, pompous assholes his whole school career, trying his best to fit in and tolerate their raucous behaviour for the sake of farming crucial career connections. Moving to Knockturn Alley, away from the wizarding world's high society, had been a reprieve. Yet, when Evan Rosier invites you somewhere, you are a fool to turn him down, especially when you might need his wealth and connections in the near future. And even the great imperturbable Tom Riddle cannot resist the siren song of pool access, free food and drink, and a place to stay that isn't his cramped, overheated Knockturn Alley flat during the hottest days of the year. Riddle figured he should actually be rather relieved he was invited, given his recent disappearance from the pureblood scene, without any real family connections to keep him invited to any events that may have taken place over the last year. It meant that he was not yet forgotten, which would be useful when the time came. Just another reason that he had forced himself here against his better judgement. He wished more and more that he hadn't, with each cannonball another guest did into the pool, leading droplets of chlorinated water to fly over onto Riddle, where he sat on a sunlounger, even though he had picked this one specifically for being the furthest from the pool. The book he had brought with him to read was ruined. Rosier had drunkenly promised to replace it, but Riddle highly doubted it was a vow that would be remembered enough to be honoured once the alcohol wore off. If only this had been an intimate affair, rather than seemingly every young pureblood from age eighteen to twenty-five having been invited. However, Riddle had to admit to himself that had the occasion been more intimate, his invitation likely would have never come. He needed this, at least to remind these young, undeservedly powerful people that he existed.

A voice cuts through his agitated thoughts. He's been blocking out the sounds of shrieking and laughter for the past hour, so the fact that a voice has been able to pass through his mental barriers is abnormal. Even more so as it isn't a shout, a shriek or a holler, but rather a calm sound. Something in his body recognises the tone before his brain fully can. Squinting against the sun, Riddle's eyes slide from their focus on the leaves of a nearby tree to the edge of the pool in front of him. There you are, your arms crossed and resting against the warm stone at the edge of the pool, your lower body still submerged in the cool water, your wet hair clinging to your shoulders and back. Though you are also squinting from the harsh light, Riddle spies a familiar playful smile on your face.

"The life of the party, like always, Riddle," you tease, tilting your head away from the sun to better observe him. He's tense, more tense than anyone else here, no doubt. Sober then, you presume. His shoulders are squared, even as he attempts to sit back against the lounger in a relaxed manner, his hands half-fisted at his sides. A white linen short-sleeve covers his upper body, clinging to his skin in places where the sweat is just too much, the top few buttons popped in a look that is nothing like Riddle. An unavoidable evil given the weather. Still, he is much more covered than any of the other men around. His hair is wavier than usual from the humidity, yet still perfect as ever, only sticking to his skin slightly at his temples. A sheen of sweat glistens on every part of exposed skin he has. When he first arrived, he had been wiping it away in an attempt to look unaffected by the heat, but the action had eventually proved itself pointless, though under your gaze, he felt the urge to reach for his handkerchief once again. He nods calmly in acknowledgement of you, hating the fact he's actively having to fight down a smile in return. "Surprised you're here," you muse. You hadn't seen him since the party Nott hosted the week of graduation.

"I'm surprised myself," he grumbles quietly, watching as Lawrence Avery runs up to the other end of the pool and dives in without any regard for the splash he makes. People around him laugh and cheer; Riddle merely wrinkles his nose in a subtle sneer, quickly fixing his expression when he hears you giggle at his disdain. You always used to taunt him, tell him he looked like a disgruntled kitten when he scrunched his nose like that. He's glad you abstain from mentioning it now, his temper is already fragile from the heat. As you lift yourself out of the pool, his eyes cannot help but stray to your body, the way your swimming costume clings, the droplets that tumble their way down your smooth skin. He reaches for his iced lemon water, which is no longer home to any ice, and takes a sip to hide the quirk of his lip as you saunter over and seat yourself on the sun lounger beside his like you own it. You might as well. He watches you stretch out, wringing out your hair onto the warm stone below. In this heat, the wet patch will evaporate in a matter of minutes. Once he sets his drink back down on the glass table between your sun loungers, you reach for it and help yourself to a sip without his permission. You are the only person in the world he would allow to do such a thing unhexed, and by the look on your face, he understands that this is exactly why you have done it. A test. He's passed.

"The things you do for appearances," you tut, shaking your head. "Am I to understand you haven't been for a dip?"

"And torture myself further? I would only contemplate swimming if there were about three dozen fewer people wasting space in the pool," he scoffs, eyes skimming the large crowd in the pool before returning to you as you stir his drink by the straw. "At least I have the appearances justification, what is your excuse for being here?" he challenges, reaching for his drink, which you hand to him, maintaining fierce eye contact as he takes a sip.

"Believe it or not, I'm still expected to maintain appearances even with the family connections… and anyway, all my friends are here," you nod toward a group of girls in the pool. He remembers well that you used to hang around with those same girls at Hogwarts. He hums in understanding; he supposes you were right, and either way, you did not really need an excuse to be here. The two of you had just always liked looking down on the rest of the pureblood troop, so much so that he sometimes forgot you were actually one of them. At least by blood. The air between you goes quiet, both of you watching the debauchery taking place in the pool for a moment. Riddle's shoulders are still squared, and you can't help but wonder what has him so on edge. You know better than to ask directly. "So… what have you been up to since Hogwarts? I haven't seen your mugshot in the Prophet yet, so it can't be anything too exciting," you joke, smiling triumphantly when his lip quirks in amusement.

"Perhaps I am just good at avoiding the Aurors," he suggests, keeping his tone neutral.

"I don't doubt it," you chuckle, settling back in your lounger and closing your eyes to block out the sun that is still unreasonably harsh, especially for the late hour. With your eyes now closed, Riddle allows himself to observe you, his eyes gliding down your body and back to your face. Your hair is already drying slightly. He's unsure how he's managed to go so long without looking at you.

"I've merely been focusing on my internship at Borgin and Burkes, how about you?" he clarifies, not sure why he's concerned about you getting the wrong idea. You heave a dramatic sigh, which has him arching a brow.

"My parents are trying to marry me off, of course," you huff. Riddle's arched brow transformed into a deep scowl. He knew arranged marriages were a large part of pureblood culture, but once again, he had forgotten that it would therefore affect you. To him, you had always been above it all, everything.

"Marrying you off would be… such a waste," he bemoaned, unable to mask his disapproval, his eyes straying to the pool once more, observing your selection of suitors. All idiots, none deserving of somebody like you. No doubt you would throw yourself from a window if you were stuck married to somebody like Avery or Rosier, he knew you that well. What a waste of a talented mind. And a pretty face. And a great body. "Tell your parents you refuse," he demands, leaning closer, straightening himself up so he can look down at your sun-flushed face. You smile and shake your head lightly.

"You're preaching to the choir here, but it doesn't work like that. I cannot simply refuse to marry," you wipe some sweat from your brow. Riddle scoffs.

"Of course you can, simply say you won't, threaten them if you must." This statement has your eyes snapping open, finding his. The frustration is clear on his face, but so is the conviction.

"Threaten them? Riddle, they're my parents!" you protest, sitting up to stare straight at him now. "And anyway, I've been waiting for a specific proposal before trying to outright refuse," you trail off, adjusting the strap of your swimming costume at your shoulder. "I suppose that has been in vain."

Riddle catches your implication immediately, even though the idea takes him by surprise. Had you been waiting for him to make an offer to your parents? It was not something the two of you had ever discussed, yet you said you'd been waiting for it, not merely hoping. Going through his memories of your various conversations over the years, he tries to recall something he might have said that would have given you this impression. He comes up empty. Sure, the two of you had… something going on, it was plain to see, and had he been a regular pureblood heir, it may have made a lot of sense to anticipate a proposal, but he wasn't, and you of all people knew that well. Frankly, even if he had wanted to offer marriage, he had completely forgotten that it was a pureblood custom currently taking place. Certainly, he'd rather you be with him than with someone like Carrow, who was currently downing an alcoholic beverage while in the pool without a care for whether it all got into his mouth, but marriage? No. Never. Well, not on such short notice anyway.

"Of course you can threaten them." His voice is tight, his eyes glued on the house elf scrambling to make everybody's drinks. He can feel your face fall further. Even without exact words, you both know he has just rejected you. For a weak moment, he wants to take it back. He fortifies once more at your voice.

"You don't have parents, Riddle, you do not understand the duty a pureblood has for their family," you spit. He had anticipated you going low, but the statement still stung. You knew his family history; you were one of the only people who truly did. You knew how badly he wished he was like everyone else here, even if he tried to act above it all. The two of you go quiet for a long moment. Riddle does not wish to apologise for rejecting you, but he knows you won't apologise either. He rolls his shoulders, trying fruitlessly to release some tension from his body. The weight of your gaze presses into the nape of his neck until he's forced to speak from the sheer pressure. No one else had this effect on him.

"Even if you married somebody more… intelligent, the expectation would still be that you stayed at home and popped out heirs, which is a waste of your skills, you know that," he tried to placate you without apologising, but he could already hear you rolling your eyes.

"I have no choice, the only agency I have is to request somebody I tolerate, which was a waste of time, evidently," you grumble and rub your face in frustration. What had you been thinking? That Riddle would reveal he was planning a romantic proposal and had been saving for your dowry. You knew him better than that, but perhaps you'd hoped that he liked you enough to save you from your misery. Of course, he wouldn't; it would require a sacrifice from him. He sacrificed nothing for anybody but himself. You close your eyes and take a few deep breaths. It's not his fault. If you had the choice not to get married, you would take it, and he has even less desire for romance than you do. He has big plans, you know that. You hated it when you were reminded of the fact that deep down, you were a romantic, an optimist. Even more so when you remembered who exactly it was that this optimism had senselessly latched itself onto. Foolish girl, Riddle had used to tease you when you'd leave your essays for the last minute. He was right. "I can't believe that I missed you."

"Missed me? You didn't even write me," he counters, finally turning to look at you once more, eyes still thin from the sun.

"Neither did you," you counter, running your fingers through your damp hair, shaking it out in his direction, not caring if droplets splashed onto him. In fact, at this moment you would rather relish it.

"Well, I never claimed to miss you," he smirks, earning a glare from you, which he accepts greedily, knowing that if you were truly angry, hexes would be flying. He leans closer, reaching out to gently cup your jaw, pleased when, despite the venomous look, you let his thumb caress your cheek. "I did miss you, princess," he whispers, placating you, but unable to stop himself from using the nickname you so hated just to make sure he wasn't being too vulnerable. "You know you're my favourite," he punctuates his words with a gentle squeeze before withdrawing his hand. Your gaze turns back to the pool, but you hate to admit that you do feel a little better for Riddle having said that. Grumbling, you help yourself to his lemon water again. The silence stretches on and on. Oppressive. Unhappy. Eventually, Rosier announces that the house elves have finished preparing dinner and for everyone to come help themselves. A table has been laid out a little way away from the pool, full of salads, grilled meats and vegetables. People begin to pull themselves out of the pool and migrate toward the table and the surrounding seating. Despite his hunger, Riddle doesn't yet move, wanting to avoid the worst of the crowd. You rise to stand as your friends climb the pool steps, intending to join them to eat. "Darling," you stop at the sound of his voice. "Don't be a stranger," he murmurs smoothly. "You are the only tolerable thing in this manor." His words give you pause. You want to be angry, but on the other hand, you know you've been naive. You stand there motionless, watching as your friends pause at the edge of the crowd and look around for you, chewing your lip.

"What room are you staying in?" you finally ask, your voice quiet. You can hear the smirk in his tone as he responds.

"Room seven, second floor, east wing. I'll be expecting you," he reaches out, squeezing your wrist in- what only in Riddle's world could count as- an affectionate gesture.

You amble off, reuniting with your friends, who, of course, have many questions about your discussion with Riddle. Purposely avoiding revealing that you'd discussed marriage with him, you herd your friends toward the food table. The hour is already late, but hardly anyone notices as the sun is still bright and eager. The atmosphere has mellowed slightly, but drinks still flow freely, and exaggerated laughter fills the air. Sitting at a table with your friends, you feel eyes on you. You know it's Riddle without having to look; he's always had a particular weight about his gaze, one you've grown rather familiar with. Really, he would be an awful husband. He was doing you a favour in his own way.

Your evening is spent watching the other pureblood boys, trying to deduce who would be the lesser of a dozen or so evils. A few had already presented themselves hopefully to your parents, but you weren't convinced by any of them as of yet. At a snail's pace, the sun began to set, though the temperature did not seem to want to abate. You indulged in a few drinks, enjoying the puddings that the house elves had slowly brought out as the main course dwindled. Riddle's gaze had ceased a little while ago, and you hadn't seen any sign of him since. Perhaps he had already retired to bed; he certainly gave the impression at no point today that he was enjoying any of the festivities. If he was trying to sleep, you weren't sure if you should bother him; the few times you had happened to wake him over the years, he had always been rather cranky. Though in this heat, you could not imagine anybody sleeping, let alone Riddle, who presumably was partially cold-blooded by virtue of his Slytherin heritage.

You allowed another hour to pass, perhaps longer; it wasn't like you were monitoring a clock while chatting with friends and watching the boys show off. Unbeknownst to you, Riddle was growing impatient in his room. He could hear cheering and laughter from his cracked-open window, but could not see the goings on in the back garden. As ridiculous as he knew it was, he couldn't help conjuring up images of you lip-locked with one of those rich imbeciles. Before he'd left, he had seen you, observing them, assessing those men the way he might assess an artefact that came through Borgin and Burkes. Calculating and impersonal. Perhaps you had made your choice and were getting it over and done with. The thought made him deeply uneasy, more so than he would have expected.

A telltale feeling of prodding at the corners of your mind alerts you to Riddle's impatience. You know he isn't actually trying to read your mind; he knows you have well-manned mental defences, he's merely begging for your attention in his usual arrogant way. As much as you want to make him wait, suffer for a moment, you are growing bored with the peacocking display in front of you. Excusing yourself for bed, you head inside. The respite from the heat is only mild and rather temporary as you head further into the manor. House elves skitter out of your way as you look for an indication as to which way is east. Riddle's prodding returns like a persistent headache, and you wish you could tell him to shut up. You fortify your defences, hoping he gets the hint. Clearly, he takes this as you ignoring him, because the prodding only intensifies. He could be such a drama queen.

Once you've found your way to the east wing and climbed the stairs to the second floor, the prodding stops abruptly. A door down the corridor swings open; he'd only stopped pestering you because he'd heard you coming. He greets you at the door with a measured expression that has you rolling your eyes.

"You know, for someone who doesn't want to marry me, you're rather clingy," you tease, letting yourself in and lying on his bed. He watches you keenly.

"Clingy? How so?" he inquires with deceptive calm. In response, you merely prod at his mind like he had been doing to you a few times until it shows on his face that he gets your point. "I simply wanted to remind you that you were expected here."

"I might have been getting it on with my future husband," you taunt, watching his shoulders square and his jaw tick. It's deeply satisfying, but it also stirs in your lower belly.

"That's what I was worried about," he hisses quietly, approaching you so smoothly it's as if he's floating. You wouldn't be surprised if he'd taught himself to do so. It was probably only a matter of months.

"Worried? Why? You have no claim over me," you retaliate, unable to keep the pleased smirk from your face. You loved it when he got jealous. Which was surprisingly often considering the air of casualness he always tried his best to inject into your interactions. He fixes you with a withering look that only widens your smile.

"I know you are upset, but do not act like you weren't holding out for my proposal a mere few hours ago." He climbs onto the bed, positioning himself over you. "We are special to each other," he husks, his eyes boring into yours with an intensity that is unfamiliar to you, despite the intensity Riddle had already shown you over the years. His head drops to your throat, peppering a few kisses, not caring about the sheen of sweat on your skin, biting and sucking the skin into his mouth, set on leaving a mark. You try to ignore the way your pulse jumps as his teeth sink softly into your skin, irritated that he no doubt can feel as much as his lips skim the hollow of your throat now. He knows exactly which bits to bite and which ones to kiss. He's had plenty of practice with you, as much as the two of you don't ever discuss it. You're able to wriggle your arms out from under him, pushing him onto the other side of the bed, coming up to hover over him. He sighs, knowing you're actually annoyed and not just teasing. His hands move up, cupping your shoulders, then trailing up your neck to your jaw. "You can't marry anyone else; you'd be miserable and I— I… would be miserable," he begins, rubbing his thumbs against your flushed cheeks. Heat? Arousal? Anger? Probably a little bit of all three.

"I told you, I have no choice about this," you spit. "I would love to simply decide not to like you can."

"Darling… you sprung this all on me—"

"Well, excuse me for thinking you might have thought about it, considering it's all I've heard about the past year!" you burst out, cutting him off. Riddle's jaw ticks in frustration, one hand moving from your jaw to cover your mouth.

"Listen to me," he growls. "You sprung this on me, but—" he emphasises as he feels your mouth trying to move beneath his palm, tightening his grip on you in a warning to stay quiet and listen. Be a good girl, he'd sometimes tease, now he seemed to mean it. "I have given it some thought, considered what it would be like to attend your wedding to somebody else and… I have concluded that my only option is to marry you."

"How romantic," you grumble, your voice heavily muffled against his hand. He can still make out your words, rolling his eyes. A deep breath, he tries to steady himself to say something he never thought he would.

"It's my only choice because you belong to me." his eyes stray to the window, unable to meet yours. "Because I love you, in my own way," he coughs, as if the words almost made him gag. He said them anyway, hoping you realise he means it, because he isn't sure he will ever be able to say it again. Silence. It stretches on and on as you stare down at him, bewildered. Love? Even when you had been expecting a proposal, you had not been expecting love, merely a practical agreement for both of you. A gentle bite to his palm lets him know to move his hand. He still cannot look at you. You open your mouth to speak, but words fail you. He's done to you what you did to him earlier, sprung this on you. Whether you love him in return or not doesn't matter; you had not been prepared for this conversation and find yourself unable to say it back, even as the feeling begins to bloom in your chest. The years of sitting in the corner together, sharing a secret world, above all the rest. The occasional hookup that was never discussed because it didn't have to be. Being the only one allowed to know him. You cannot speak, and Riddle cannot look at you. What a mess.

Without other solutions, you elect to speak one of the secret languages you and Riddle have. Shifting downward, your lips connect with the now mostly dry material of his linen shirt. Just a peck, but it's enough for Riddle's body to react, jolting slightly in surprise. Still, he is too unsure to look at you, trying to relax his body as you begin trailing gentle kisses down his chest, toward his abdomen. The first kiss that hits bare skin, where his shirt has ridden up slightly, causes another jolt that Riddle tries his best to tamp down. Your hand slides up to find the button of his dark linen shorts, toying with it a little and waiting to see if he has anything to say, looking up at his handsome face through your lashes. Riddle remains quiet, though there is an obvious tension to him, his eyes glued on the ornate ceiling as if the mouldings are more interesting than what you're up to. The shyness isn't like him, you know he just needs a moment. The Riddle you know when you're alone together isn't shy; he's all-consuming, but you can't help but feel a little honoured to see him like this. He's calculated about his veneer, few people alive could likely attest to seeing Tom Riddle unsure. Slowly, you slip the button from its hole and work the trousers down enough to reveal his boxers. He's not hard yet, but he is clearly stirring awake, so you continue the kisses at the waistband of his boxers, warming him up. It works a charm, likely the anticipation more than anything else, as he hardens and swells before your eyes. Little by little, you move down the waistband of his underwear, continuing to pepper kisses just above it. You feel him against your jaw, warm and insistent. As you move to press kisses to his length through his boxers, Riddle finally finds his voice.

"Must you tease me?" he grumbles, finally looking down to meet your eyeline, trying to hide how affected he is by the way you're looking up at him. "This is the worst possible time you could choose to be a brat."

"Be careful what you say, or I'll really start being a brat," you counter, gently biting the skin below his belly button.

"Then you'll get what's coming to you," he promises, and you can't help the smile that breaks out against his skin. He looks away, but can't fully hide that he, too, is smiling. You decide to play nice, for now, and resume what you were doing. Your hand finds him through his underwear, applying a gentle pressure as you continue your teasing kisses. He can't help but sigh, his hips shifting slightly against your hand. He'd missed you terribly. Why hadn't he written to you over the last year? Just to maintain some flimsy act that he didn't care for you? No matter what happened now, he wouldn't make that mistake again. He'd write to you until you got a restraining order. Until you had him imprisoned. Then he'd write from prison too.

He feels himself twitch as you finally free him from the confines of his boxers, and then his brain goes blissfully blank. All he can focus on is the wet warmth of your mouth as it wraps around him. Only his tip at first, but it's enough to draw a deep groan from him. Your tongue laves over him with precision, swirling and flicking, tasting the slight saltiness of his pre-cum as it arrives. Riddle's body vibrates with deep grunts of pleasure, only growing louder as you relax your jaw and accept him in a little deeper. His hand threads gently into your hair, pulling slightly as he knows you like it. The hum of approval you let out only serves to heighten his pleasure, the vibration very pleasant.

"What a good girl for me," he groans as your hand, which had merely been holding the base of him until now, begins to move up and down his length as your head bobs over him. You take him as deep as you can with each descent, using your hand to attend to the rest, eyes meeting his as he looked down to watch you. Keeping your eyes on his, you flutter your lashes, pulling off of him for a moment to lewdly lick at him like an ice cream for just a moment before resuming your previous actions, reminding yourself to breathe through your nose. The display, though only brief, clearly affected him very much, making him twitch and groan. You felt his grip on your hair tighten slightly as you took him even deeper this time, causing yourself to gag slightly. He did not push you further down, just pulled you up a bit, helping guide you into a depth and rhythm that worked, his eyes threatening to slip shut from the pleasure. He fought the urge, wanting to take you in. "You look so gorgeous like that, princess," he husks, not noticing the nickname had slipped out. He makes a noise of disapproval as you pull off, your hand stilling at the same time, looking up at him with dark thunderstorm eyes. He grumbles. "What?"

"Princess," you repeat with annoyance, pushing yourself up to sit back on your haunches. Riddle groans.

"Don't be a brat, you know I mean it affectionately." He sits up, grabbing your upper arm and dragging you toward him. He presses his forehead to yours. "It just slipped out."

"And you just slipped out of my mouth," you counter. Riddle twitches at the memory of the sensation.

"You're such a little brat," he hisses. "I'm giving you one chance to go back to what you were doing like a good girl," he says, studying your expression as you shake your head in defiance. "I warned you, princess," he purrs, quickly rolling the two of you over so he's above you. "I'm going to have to punish you, princess. I wonder if that's exactly what you wanted," he smirks, his hands moving to peel you out of your long-dry swimming costume. He spreads your legs roughly, smirking at the sight of your glistening folds. "Turned on from sucking my cock, huh? You are a good girl, even though you try to pretend not to be." He holds you down by your arms, although your protests are hardly real, slight wriggling in an act of trying to escape, when really you're spreading your legs wider for him. He ruts against you once. Twice. Before he angles himself to catch on your entrance. He wants to push right in, but he hasn't been with you for a while, so he forces himself to slide in a little slower. The whine you let out rewards his decision greatly. Even though you've taken him a few times before, there is a noticeable stretch. Your back arches off the bed for a moment as he fills you up, settling snugly inside of you. He continues to hold you down, his hips beginning to roll, withdrawing from you halfway and thrusting back inside harshly, dragging purposely against your walls. He revels in your needy whining, concluding that this is what you were really hoping for when you went down on him. As much as he liked your mouth around his cock, this was better by far. He keeps up his harsh pace, one hand slipping between the two of you to find your clit and rub at it with conviction to ease the feeling of his rough thrusts. Your eyes are scrunched shut, head thrown back against the pillows, and your moans are rapidly increasing in volume as he grows rougher and rougher with you. How had he ever given this up? "Good girl, taking me so well, where's that smart mouth now, huh?" he taunts between groans of his own, offering you a particularly deep stroke when you open your mouth to retort in order to shut you up. You whine, but don't bother trying to talk again, the sensations clouding your mind. He was always so good at this, made to fit inside you, made to please you. He felt the same about you, all his, made for his pleasure. "Tell me, princess, that you belong to me," he growls. You resist, keeping your mouth shut for a while, but with each subsequent thrust, each circle against your clit, you find yourself more willing to answer. "Who does this greedy little cunt belong to?" he asks again, his own voice faltering, but you can barely notice over the sound of your own moans and the slap of wet skin against skin.

"You," you whimper after a few more futile moments of resistance. "I belong to you." Riddle's lips crash to yours; the kiss is all tongue and teeth, harsh and uncoordinated, but filled with unbridled passion. A few more frenzied thrusts and you're falling apart, shouting out your pleasure for anybody to hear, unable to care in the throes of passion. Your back arches, your cunt pulsing, milking Riddle for all that he has. He grunts loudly against your lips, holding you down on the bed as his orgasm overtakes him, emptying thick ropes of cum deep inside of you, like it's his birthright to do so. You're hardly complaining, chest heaving with the aftershocks, burying your face into Riddle's neck.

The two of you had slept together before, but it had never been so intense. Both trembling with aftershocks long after the movement had ceased. Riddle lies on top of you, catching his breath, feeling almost dizzy. He knows it's more than the physical act this time, although that had been amazing by itself. He shifts slightly off you, accepting you into his arms as you settle as if to sleep. Despite the heat in the room, you're both pressed as close together as possible, his cock still inside of you, not able to fully soften. His thoughts are elsewhere, however, as he remembers his earlier confession and your lack of response. Hesitating, but looking down to see you resting like a pleased housecat against his chest, he decides to take your actions as affirmation of similar feelings. You want to marry him after all. He would have to rethink his future a little, but he found himself willing to, for you and only you. Leaning over you carefully, he dug around his bag by the bedside until his hand brushed against something radiating dark magic. His hand closed around exactly what he'd been looking for, Marvolo Gaunt's ring. Something told him it would fit you perfectly, and, somehow, it did.

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